O'Rourke's Heiress Page 4

What a beauty the child had become! If he weren’t nearly old enough to be her father . . . if she weren’t the object of his best friend’s desires . . .

  Beth Brockman’s gown of pristine white muslin was one of the many fashioned for her long-awaited debut. Made with a bell skirt and puffed sleeves the size of melons, the dress made her look rather like a billowing cloud with a golden head, but then he’d never been much of a judge of women’s fashions. All the other females, from belles of the ton to high-flying courtesans, were decking themselves out in the new style. Possibly they were happy to rid themselves of the irony of wearing a fashion set by an enemy. Nonetheless, Jack would rather have seen Beth in the graceful Grecian-style gowns made fashionable by Napoleon’s Empress Josephine. At the moment her fragile blonde beauty looked as if the first puff of wind might blow her away, launching her like some great sailing ship caught on a celestial gust.

  Lord, he was turning fanciful in his old age! Life hadn’t been the same since he’d turned thirty. His position with Tobias Brockman might have a good many dramatic moments, but he never felt as endangered as when young Beth wanted to speak with him in private.

  Eyeing her with a trepidation tinged by the amusement of an indulgent uncle, Jack said, “Out with it, child! What must I do for you this time?”

  “It’s the opera,” Beth declared, amber eyes wide, lower lip quivering. “Terence won’t take me, and when I spoke to Papa, he roared, positively roared. I’ve studied with Signor Capelli for two whole years now—goodness knows I even had to beg for that! The Signor says I have great talent.”

  Jack nodded. There was no question Beth was gifted far beyond what could be expected from a girl of seventeen. Why Terence and Tobias were so set against her going to the opera he could not imagine.

  “I must see Madame Rolande,” Beth cried. “This may be her last season. It’s said she is retiring to a villa in Florence. You must find a way, Jack. Tuesday next. I have to go!”

  Not bothering to hide his wary amusement, Jack studied the only child of Tobias Brockman, the greatest heiress in Britain, recalling other clandestine escapades. He and Terence had smuggled her into the crush viewing Carlton House after Prinny’s famous supper in the summer of 1811. They’d dressed her in boy’s clothing, of course. An outfit which was also used for the Prince Regent’s celebrations after the battle of Vitoria and one of the great victory celebrations in the halcyon summer of 1814. Never, ever, would any of the three of them tell Tobias or Miss Spencer they’d been present that night in August, for they’d been quite near the front of the crowd in St. James Park when the wooden pagoda, packed with fireworks and built on a wooden bridge over the river had exploded, burning or drowning several workers and sending the crowd flying in panic. It had taken fast footwork indeed to get the little Brockman heiress out of the park without injury.

  They’d recovered their nerve for several secret trips to Vauxhall Gardens. Not to mention all the approved social events for the children of London’s wealthy Cits, to which one or the other, or both, were expected to escort the light of Tobias Brockman’s life.

  And now she was about to make the great leap into the ton, climbing the ladder so cunningly constructed by the two men who loved her most. Even though Terence stood back and scowled through it all, unbending in Beth’s presence only on the rare occasions he forgot she was no longer his, Jack felt his friend’s pain. But was powerless to help. Beth, Terence, and Jack—they all belonged to Tobias Brockman. Bought and paid for, cemented in place by the bonds of affection, gratitude, obligation . . . and love.

  Enough! Beth was waiting, and he had no idea what to do. A sinner he might be, but going against Terence’s wishes as well as her father’s . . . Bloody hell, what could be wrong with an evening at the opera? Tobias kept the girl so close . . . her destiny was so bleak. To be married off to the finest title the Brockman empire could buy while Terence suffered, grim-lipped and ever more dour. Jack had gone so far as to accuse him of turning into a Scot. But now he thought of his job, his obligation to Tobias Brockman, his friendship with Terence, his genuine concern for the child who had been saved from being totally spoiled only through the unremitting efforts of Miss Matilda Spencer.

  Finally. Sternly. “I’ll think on it,” Jack promised.

  “Jack!”

  He offered Beth his lop-sided smile, the rueful one that said, I know I’m a sinner but don’t push me. Then he chucked her under the chin, walked determinedly toward the door. After peeking out to make sure the hall was empty, Jack exited the music room, silently castigating himself for being both a fool and a coward.

  Terence was waiting in the phaeton, glowering. “And where have you been, boyo?” he demanded, at his most recalcitrant Irish.

  “Allowing Beth to practice her wiles on me,” Jack returned, undisturbed by his friend’s belligerence. Terence had, of course, known perfectly well what had delayed his return.

  “And what is she up to now, may I ask?”

  “You may not.”

  “John Chauncey,” Terence threatened, “the hangman awaits.”

  “You couldn’t get along without me,” Jack declared with confidence. “And who would you have to get up to mischief with, if not for me. Not that you haven’t become nigh as serious as an Evangelical these past few years. But, still and all, we’ve had our moments, have we not?”

  “Don’t change the subject!”

  “She’s a good girl, Terence. None knows that better than you. Allow her to have her little secrets.”

  “Secrets she tells to you!” With a vicious wave to the groom, who let go the horses heads and jumped on behind, Terence set the phaeton in motion, tearing down one side of Cavendish Square as if the devil were after him.

  “It’s nothing,” Jack soothed. “Forget about it.”

  As he wished he could. The demmed chit, as always, was a great deal of trouble.

  Although Terence sometimes fondly referred to his tutor as Spence, Beth had long ago settled on calling her Miss Tildy. After all, someone who was far more mother than governess could not possibly remain “Miss Spencer” through the thirteen years in which she had maintained the delicate balance between strict disciplinarian and loving maiden aunt. And all the while Tobias Brockman glowered in the background, as if never quite certain how this impoverished spinster of impeccable birth found her way into the household of an encroaching Welsh social climber, now firmly ensconced in the heart of the ton.

  Miss Matilda Spencer was all Beth had left when Terence moved out. Not that she didn’t love her papa, but he was that all-powerful figure who labored long hours in his office, and at night frequently hosted supper parties while she and Miss Tildy ate in the schoolroom. Tobias Brockman worked. A shocking way of life, said the ton, scorning those who kept their nation running. Beth had never been able to understand why her dear papa was so determined she enter the ranks of the idle rich.

  Nor had she ever gotten over Terence’s defection. He had been such fun, as well as her beloved friend. For years they’d taken their lessons together, the difference in their ages scarcely noticeable as they raced toward knowledge, gulping great chunks of history, arguing philosophy, fighting to see who could prove a geometry theorem the fastest. Truthfully, Terence always won in mathematics, but Beth never minded. Well, almost never. He was learning to run Papa’s business, and she was proud of him.

  And then he was gone. And Miss Tildy was reminding her that young men grew up, were entitled to have a life of their own. But if Terence’s new friend had been anyone but Jack, Beth could not have borne it. But Jack was . . . well, Jack. Another brother-figure to look up to, worship from a distance. Another safe object for her girlish fantasies. When the two of them took her driving in Hyde Park, the one so dark, the other so light . . . and as differently handsome—one with the face of a dark angel, the other with the chiseled ruggedness of an avenging god—heads turned, eyes flashed with speculation. Admiration. And, in the last few years, not all the looks had been for the
men. She, too, was growing up. Seventeen, almost eighteen, was a very fine age.

  Beth tucked her needle into her embroidery, idly ran her finger over the shades of rose and green silk in the fire screen cover she was creating. Oddly enough, she enjoyed embroidery, for all that Terence had once scorned such a silly female skill. Embroidery was peaceful, and a thing of beauty she could see come to life beneath her fingers. Beth often thought of herself as a captive maiden. The Merchant Princess, the newspapers called her. A sequestered maiden never allowed out without male escort. No wonder she had so much time for embroidery.

  But today her needle seemed to slow and stop of its own accord. There was something she had avoided, a question she’d never asked, possibly because she already knew the answer. Quietly, Beth studied her companion. Gray was creeping into Miss Matilda Spencer’s mouse-brown hair, which she always wore in a proper bun on the back of her head. Her steady diet of fine food at Brockman House had not added more than a few pounds over the years. She was still tall and slim, with a carriage which she asserted had been set for life by walking the rooms of her family home with three books balanced on her head. A torture she, in turn, had inflicted on Beth. Terence, blast his stiff Irish pride, had never needed it.

  “Tildy?” A few months earlier, when Miss Spencer had declared that Miss Elizabeth Brockman had absorbed all she was able to teach her, the two women had shyly, smilingly, agreed that Beth could address her by the diminutive of her Christian name.

  Matilda Spencer looked up from her copy of Scott’s Guy Mannering. “Yes, my dear?”

  Beth laid her embroidery frame in her lap, clasped her hands tightly together. “Tildy, do you think Papa really means it when he says I must marry a title?”

  “Oh, my dear child!” Matilda’s outburst was brought up short by thirty years of applying as stern a discipline to herself as she did to her pupils. She swallowed hard, blinked the gray eyes not quite hidden behind her gold-rimmed glasses. Guy Mannering slid, unnoticed, onto the brocaded sofa beside her. “Yes, my dear, I fear he does. I am quite certain, however,” Tildy added carefully, “that among all the suitors you are sure to have, you will find one for whom you can develop a sincere affection.” A thought brightened Miss Spencer’s plain features. “Look at the Princess Charlotte. She refused that dreadful Prince of Orange and is now married to her beloved Leopold. I am certain you will find such happiness as well.”

  Beth stared down at the hands clasped over her embroidery. How was happiness possible when she had long since given her heart away? It was almost as if that mysterious organ, stolen at birth, had never been in her keeping. All she could do was make the best of the outer husk of her life which was all she had left to give. “Yes, of course,” she agreed. “Like any royal princess, I shall do my duty. I have learned my lessons well, you see.”

  “Beth . . . if you find you cannot do this thing, you must say so.” Miss Spencer’s fingers were as tightly clasped as Beth’s own. Unrequited love was not unknown to her. “If the idea is so repugnant, you must tell your papa so.”

  “I am infinitely obliged to my papa, Tildy,” Beth replied firmly. I will not deny him his most heartfelt wish.”

  “Obliged?” Miss Spencer echoed faintly.

  Beth reached out, moved aside the battered fire screen for which she was designing a new cover. She was suddenly very cold and needed the warmth offered by the comforting glow in the green marble fireplace. “Do you remember the day we went to Hatchards, the day that awful woman—”

  “I remember.” And how she’d hoped Beth had forgotten.

  “When I got home, I went to my room and thought about it. After a while, I recalled what another woman said earlier, when I wasn’t paying attention. She called us ‘the Brockman bastards.’ I didn’t know what that was, Tildy, so I asked Terence.”

  “And he told you?” Miss Spencer thought thirty years as a governess had immured her to shock. She found it wasn’t so.

  “Yes, he told me. What the word means, and how some bastards have it easier than others. That some are recognized and taken care of and others are not. That his mother was cast out by her family, ignored by the man who fathered him. If Papa hadn’t come along, Terence says he’d probably be dead on the streets of Dublin or rotting in some stinking British jail.

  “Jack’s like me,” Beth added. “His father educated him, gave him a job, never made a secret of who he was. And my papa has done even more for me than Jack’s. He has made me a princess. Through a miracle of connivery I am to be thrust on a society which accepts me only because my father is sinfully wealthy and is served by a man almost as ruthless and single-minded as himself. My papa and my so-called brother wish me to vindicate their success by being able to call me Countess, Marchioness, perhaps even Your Grace, the Duchess. And, my dear Tildy, I will do as they expect because I am obliged. Because I could have been left in the gutter to starve or sold to a brothel—oh, yes, do not look so shocked!—a girl cannot be around two such men—two such bastards—as Terence O’Rourke and Jack Harding and not learn some of the more interesting facts of life.”

  Miss Spencer, seeking safer ground, murmured, “Surely, child . . . surely you feel more than obligation toward your papa.”

  Beth, heedless of her embroidery frame, raced across the room, dropping to her knees before her beloved Tildy. “Of course I love him! I love all of you, that’s the problem. Papa and you, Terence and Jack. You are my life. I know you want nothing but the best for me. And yet . . .” Tears pooled in Beth’s eyes. “And yet, I sometimes wish I were plain Miss Beth Brockman from some cottage in the country. A girl who could believe the happy endings in novels. I want to be courted by some nice young man I’ve known all my life, be married in the village church. I want to raise children who stay on the land, move to the city, travel to far places, become soldiers or men of the church, write novels or create fine paintings. Whatever their hearts desire, wherever their hearts may take them. Tell me, Tildy, is that so terrible? Haven’t I a right to dream of freedom, even though I may never live it?”

  Matilda Spencer thought her heart would break. All these years she’d known how bright they were, these two miraculous children she was educating, raising as her own. She’d seen Terence’s anguish, but not Beth’s. She’d been oblivious to the depths of her charge’s worldly wisdom, the resignation with which she viewed her life. Momentarily, Tildy’s own wisdom faltered. She could only fall back on platitudes. “Just wait, my dear,” she said, placing a loving hand on Beth’s shoulder. “There is someone out there who will love you, as you will come to love him. Someone good and fine, I am certain of it.”

  Beth popped to her feet, the storm swept away, the moment of honesty lost in the pragmatism of a Brockman. She bent to place a kiss on Miss Spencer’s cheek. “Of course,” the Merchant Princess agreed brightly. “With the entire Brockman empire devoted to finding me a titled husband, how can I possibly go wrong?”

  “Jack, dear boy,” boomed an elegant dandy, “ain’t he a bit young for opera dancers?” Smirking, the dandy nodded toward the boy being dragged along behind Jack Harding’s determined strides as he maneuvered his way toward an open space directly in front of the stage at Covent Garden.

  Ignoring the question, Jack thrust the boy into an empty seat, lowered himself down beside him. He leaned in close, hissing into the boy’s ear, “You didn’t hear that!”

  Flashing him a mischievous grin, the boy stifled a too-high-pitched laugh by clapping a hand over his mouth. Amber eyes danced above shapely fingers far too small and finely shaped for a boy. “You think I don’t know about opera dancers?” Beth burbled.

  “I know you shouldn’t! Nor should you be in the pit with this randy bunch of jackasses,” Jack added under his breath. But would she sit far up in the balcony with the masses? Not Elizabeth Brockman. She had to be down front where she could see her idol close up. And that unrepentant sinner John Chauncey Harding had a soft spot as broad as the Thames for this lovely young girl who was a
bout to be served up to the ton like some dessert confection at a banquet. So here they were in the pit, so close to the stage Beth could practically reach out and touch Madame Rolande. But sitting in the midst of young men who had come to ogle the opera dancers and girls in the chorus, to train their quizzing glasses on the women in the boxes—from the most haughty of the ton to those who had come to sell their beauty and their skills to the highest bidder—was not the wisest move he’d ever made. If Terence found out . . .

  Hell and damnation, the bloody Irish bastard would kill him.

  Jack’s grim mood was distracted by the sight of Beth gleefully imitating the rude manners of the young men around her, as she craned her neck in an unabashed gawk at the ornate U-shaped tier of boxes and their equally ornate inhabitants. Well, why not? Wasn’t that why he had brought her? Dressed as a schoolboy, she could look her fill, and no one would censure her for it. Jack leaned close, whispering noble names in her ear. “And that one’s Brummel,” he said. “Take a good look and stay away from him. He and his friends crucified Madame de Staël. They like wit only in themselves, never in a female. And he lives so close to the edge, he can’t afford to take up the daughter of a Cit. Rumor has it, he’s only a step away from being taken up by the bailiffs. So best steer clear.”

  Beth rounded on him, dismayed. She’d dreamed of catching the Beau’s eye, winning his approval. “But I had hoped—”

  “Let it be!” Jack growled as the squeals and squalls of the orchestra tuning up suddenly ceased. The conductor tapped his podium, musicians lifted their heads, waited for his signal. The audience continued its conversations, the cool nods of greeting, the elegant bows, girlish titters, shuffling feet, even rumbles of laughter. Beth turned wide eyes to Jack. “I should have warned you,” he said. “People come to the opera to see and be seen. They pay little attention to what’s on stage.”

  “Except for the opera dancers.”