The Discerning Gentleman's Guide

Odd.

At dinner she had appeared so formidable, yet she was in fact so petite. And he was still clasping her hand like an idiot. A monosyllabic idiot. Stiffly he released it and promptly stuffed his own wayward hands behind his back, where they could do no more mischief, and stood racking his brain for something—anything—to say.

Miss Mansfield mirrored his pose and stared briefly at the floor, drawing her plump bottom lip through her teeth as she did so. It made him wonder what she would taste like. When she did look up it was through her lovely long lashes and he could have sworn he saw the faintest tinge of a blush on her cheeks. Alarmingly, he wanted to touch it.

‘I would like to apologise for my tone earlier—at dinner. I can be a little passionate about certain causes, and the plight of the poor is one of them. I did not mean any personal offence.’

Those soulful eyes of hers robbed him of any coherent response. Bennett wanted to accept her apology gracefully. In his head he could see the words that would be perfect for the task and clear the air between them.

I accept your apology, Miss Mansfield. No offence was taken. It is admirable that you take an interest in worthy causes.

Except he was having trouble getting his lips to form the words because they appeared to be strangely preoccupied with latching themselves on to hers.

He really did not quite know what had come over him to be contemplating such an obvious breach of propriety with his aunt’s latest companion. Dukes could not go about kissing young women willy-nilly in their own hallway, or anywhere else for that matter. It simply wasn’t done. So he nodded. Just the once. Stiffly. Like the most uptight and pompous prig and cringed inwardly at his over-starched formality.

‘I have an important speech tomorrow.’ He barked this out with such force that he saw her blink repeatedly as she stared back at him, a little alarmed. He could hardly blame her for that. At certain times in his life he had really wished he had Uncle George’s easy way with people. This was one of those times. She had just tenderly checked his injury, given him tips on how to stop his boots hurting his feet and apologised for her outburst at dinner and all he could manage was almost granite stiffness.

In a last valiant attempt to make amends, Bennett attempted a smile. Once again, his facial muscles did not want to comply and he feared that it appeared to poor Miss Mansfield to be more of a grimace. Then, to his complete horror, Bennett found himself turning briskly on his ridiculously large stockinged feet, his hands still gripped firmly behind him like an admiral inspecting the fleet, before marching up the stairs as fast as he could without breaking into a run. All the while he could feel the discarded hessians mocking him from the hallway below—Perhaps you really should have put us back on?

Chapter Four

The perfect young lady never, ever leaves her chaperon...

Amelia’s bedchamber faced strategically outwards onto Berkeley Square, so it was easy to judge when the coast was clear. Lady Worsted and the Dowager were safely in their carriage bound for Bond Street and would not be home until late afternoon. She had seen Sir George leave a good hour earlier, cutting quite a dash as he walked out of the square, bound for his club. She had not seen him at all today, but she had heard his carriage leave at an ungodly hour, so she presumed that she now had the entire place to herself—give or take about forty servants.

Feeling a bubble of excitement, she hauled her old clothes out of the bottom of her trunk. Finally, she was able to go and visit her old friends at the soup kitchen.

A few minutes later and her transformation was complete. The presentable Miss Amelia Mansfield, gentlewoman’s companion, was gone and plain old Amelia stared back at her from the looking glass. The familiar outfit brought back a whole host of unwelcome memories—hunger, cold, tiredness, hopelessness—but it also gave her strength. She was more than these old clothes, always had been and always would be, but at least now she could use them to help others suffering from the dreadful disease known as poverty.

Judging the back door to be the best exit for a woman who looked like she did, Amelia hurried down the ornate staircase and darted back towards the kitchen. With any luck, nobody would see her.

‘Miss Mansfield?’

Lovett, the butler, appeared out of nowhere and regarded her with open curiosity. There was nothing for it; Amelia had to explain her appearance. Sort of.

‘I am off to do some charitable work with the poor.’

The butler looked her up and down, taking in the shabby grey dress that had been washed once too often, the ratty woollen shawl and the old and scuffed boots. ‘Are you sure? If you go to help them looking like that, they might take pity on you and offer you charity instead.’

His face might be deadpan, but his tone was definitely sarcastic. Even so, for some reason Amelia was certain that she had found herself an ally. ‘Where I am going, people are suspicious of fine clothes.’

‘Then I am not altogether sure that I approve of you going there. Where is this place you can only go dressed like a vagabond?’

She seriously considered lying but already knew that the wily butler would immediately become suspicious and might well send a footman to follow her. ‘Covent Garden.’ It was almost the truth.

One of Lovett’s eyebrows quirked upwards. ‘Who would require your charitable efforts there? The market traders perhaps? Or one of the theatre owners? I doubt the brothels or gaming hells need the help of a gently bred young lady.’ He tapped one foot impatiently and Amelia found herself squirming in the intensity of his gaze.

‘If you must know, I am going to help out in a soup kitchen in the Church of St Giles.’

The butler’s reaction was instantaneous and quite explosive. ‘Seven Dials! The most degenerate slum in the entire city? Are you quite mad, Miss Mansfield? His Grace will hit the roof if he finds out that I allowed you to head to the Rookery!’

‘Please don’t tell the Duke, I beg you. I can assure you that I shall be perfectly safe, Lovett. I know the people there and they know me.’

Unsurprisingly, he did not look convinced. ‘Seven Dials is filled with criminals. Thieves and crooks the lot of them.’

‘Which is exactly why I shall be perfectly safe there, dressed like this,’ she said reasonably. ‘Nobody has anything worth stealing and all of the thieves and crooks go to Mayfair or Bond Street to practise their trade.’

Lovett’s mouth opened to correct her and then closed as he regarded her quietly. ‘I have never thought of it like that. I suppose you might be right—but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you go there alone. Soup or no soup. His Grace will have a fit. You are not to leave the house.’

‘I am a grown woman and it is my afternoon off to spend exactly where I so choose. Like you, I am a servant. I doubt anyone tries to tell you what you can and cannot do in your free time. At least I am using mine for a good cause. It will be much easier for both of us if you keep it to yourself.’

The butler watched her for several seconds and, to her complete surprise, acquiesced immediately. ‘Very well. Just this once I shall keep it between us. But I shall expect you home well before it gets dark or I will tell His Grace and then there will be hell to pay.’

Relieved that he had relented so easily, Amelia beamed at him. ‘Thank you, Lovett. I shall be back by four. I promise.’

‘Will you be coming in through the back door, Miss Mansfield?’ When she nodded he smiled and gestured her to the passageway behind the kitchen. ‘This is the door to the servants’ stairs. Go up two flights and veer left. The third door brings you right out near your bedchamber.’ That confirmed it. He was her ally. Amelia stood on tiptoe and kissed the man on the cheek.

* * *

Seven Dials looked exactly like it had when she had left it a year before. The narrow streets were still filthy, the doss houses and dwellings were still barely fit for the rats to live in and the dank smell of despair permeated everything. As she had predicted, nobody gave her a second glance in her ragged clothes, although one or two did stare at her boots covetously. Boots, even battered ones, were a rarity here.

The only decently built brick edifice was the parish workhouse that dominated Norfolk Street and the sight of it sent an involuntary shiver down Amelia’s spine. Only the truly desperate ventured through those doors and her poor mother had been one of them.

Clutching the small bunch of violets that she had just bought from a street vendor, Amelia marched past the workhouse and turned into the tiny overgrown cemetery lying next to its walls. There were very few headstones here. These were paupers’ graves and all of them were unmarked. Somewhere under the grass were her mother’s remains. She did not know where. There had been no formal burial ceremony for her to attend. Her mother had gone into the ground with all of the other wretched souls who had died in the same week. It had been a cruel and insignificant ending to a lovely young woman who had once been toasted as the most beautiful heiress in Philadelphia.

Amelia placed her tiny posy on the ground and stood for a few moments, allowing all of the memories, both happy and sad, to wash over her. Just once a year she allowed herself to remember the pain. Any more than that and the anger it created threatened to consume her. It was far better to channel that anger constructively, doing good deeds, giving something back, to forget about all of the cruelty and malice that had sent her here in the first place.

She had been just eighteen when her mother had died. Despite her best efforts, Amelia had been unable to save her. By then they’d been penniless and destitute. Once her father had secured an annulment, as far as he was concerned they were both dead to him. The seventeen-year marriage might never have happened and he had had no contact with either of them for years. That had destroyed her mother and plunged her into a pit of self-pity and self-recrimination that she was never inclined to claw out of. She had been raised to be a rich man’s wife and had blamed herself for the end of the marriage. ‘If only I could have given him a son, Amelia, then he would still love me.’ From the age of twelve, Amelia had heard those words at least once a day. By the time she’d turned sixteen she had completely lost patience with them.

By then, her mother’s physical health had been deteriorating rapidly too. Amelia had done her best to earn enough to keep a roof over their heads, but as her mother needed more care even that proved to be impossible. The only place that they could turn to for help had been this workhouse, and Amelia had been determined not to go there.

In a last-ditch attempt to get her father to do the right thing, she had trudged through the dark streets to Mayfair in biting rain and sleet to beg for his help. As usual, he’d refused to see her. He no longer had a daughter. How could he have a daughter when he had never been married? When she had kicked up a fuss and refused to leave, two burly footmen were sent to forcibly drag her down the street and threw her face down in an alleyway, warning her never to darken His Lordship’s door again.

One dank, wet February morning a few days later, her desperately ill mother had walked into the building behind her and had never walked out. Consumption had made her poor lungs so weak that pneumonia killed her. Apparently, her last words were words of love for her former husband because, even when things were at their worst, her mother still clung to the hope that he would want her back.

For a while Amelia had drowned in bitterness. Her American grandparents had died shortly before their daughter had married, she had no money, no home and no one to turn to. After a series of low-paid and menial jobs, she had learned how dangerous life for a woman alone truly could be. At least in the workhouse all they had required of her was her work. Out on the streets, her youth, beauty and petite size made her the target of every lecher in London. On numerous occasions she’d barely escaped with her virtue intact.

Those had been the darkest days, until she had realised that being bitter was not going to change anything about her unfortunate situation. These were the cards that life had dealt her; she might not like them, but it was up to her to play her hand as best she could. Rather than simply lament the injustice and remain a victim of it, as her mother had, it would be much more cathartic, and far more useful, to fight against it. Besides, her father did not deserve that sort of power over her. Amelia would forge herself a good life just to spite him.

From that point on, things had improved. Because she was well spoken and able to read, Amelia had managed to get a job in a draper’s shop and earned enough to pay for a room. Then she’d searched for better employment and eventually secured a position at the Minerva Press circulating library in Leadenhall Street. That had been the making of her. The library was not only a place where she could read and learn about all of the causes that interested her, it had proved to be a wonderful place to meet like-minded people. Soon she was attending meetings, supporting worthy causes and following a new path that would help to bring about change for all of the other victims of injustice.

She had loved that job and would still be there to this day had it not been for the unfortunate events of the sixth of March last year. On that fateful day, she had been spotted marching towards Westminster in protest of the Corn Bill, a shocking piece of legislation that increased the price of bread for the poor. What had started as a peaceful rally had quickly deteriorated into a riot. Amelia had barely escaped the mob intact—but once word of her involvement reached her employer he dismissed her on the spot without giving her the right of reply. He did not want a Radical and an agitator sullying the reputation of his establishment and dismissed her without references. When her savings had started to dwindle, and determined not to sink back into the life she had once endured, Amelia had rashly applied for the position of a lady’s companion out of utter desperation.

Maybe it was cowardice, but she never wanted to be that lonely girl in Seven Dials again. The girl who relied on charity and who had lived on her wits. The letter she had written had told the truth, mostly, explaining that she had once been from a good family and did not wish to end up in the gutter. She had not expected to get an interview, and it had taken the last of her money to travel to Bath. Why she had gone, Amelia could not say because she’d been certain that she would not even be allowed past the front door. But Lady Worsted had not only seen her; miraculously, she had given her the job. Now, in an enormous twist of irony, she was right back where she had started her life—in a fancy house in Mayfair. Almost full circle.

Except this time she was not related to the aristocrat who owned the magnificent house. The Duke of Aveley had exceeded her expectations, though. He was every inch the arrogant stuffed shirt she had imagined him to be. Yes, he was unbelievably handsome, there was no denying that, and her pulse did flutter each and every time he regarded her with his intense cobalt stare. Unfortunately, any attraction she had for him had died the moment he’d opened his mouth. Yesterday he had proved himself to be both condescending and emotionless when she had tried to tend to the injury to his head. Despite that, her silly pulse had fluttered out of control the moment she had laid her hands on his perfect golden skin.

Well, perhaps he was not completely devoid of all emotion—he did irritation very well. He had not been even slightly grateful that she had tried to help him and had been highly critical of the fact that he had almost tripped over her. And then, even after she had swallowed a great deal of her pride, at Lady Worsted’s insistence, and apologised to him for her forthrightness, he had looked at her as if she were nothing but a great inconvenience to him. Then he had stomped off without so much as a by-your-leave. She had never met a man so full of his own importance in her entire life!

* * *

Bennett had not had a good day. The debate had been a farce. The majority of those who had taken part had been more determined to shout louder than the next person than to listen to reason. There had been no time for his speech, which was probably a blessed relief because the House had deteriorated into more of a mob than a gathering of educated gentlemen. On days like this, it was a wonder that they ever got any laws passed at all. His head still hurt from all of the noise.

And his feet still hurt because of his unfortunate choice of footwear yesterday. Worse, he was also sporting an impressive swollen bump on his head, which had inspired Lord Liverpool to stare at it and laugh. It was difficult to be taken seriously as a politician when your forehead was protruding and purple. To add insult to injury, a drover’s cart had lost a wheel in the middle of Piccadilly, plunging the early-evening travellers into chaos. It had taken him over an hour already to navigate the mess, and it was getting colder by the second, but at least on horseback he was moving. If he had taken the carriage today as he usually did, he would still be sitting stationary somewhere much further back.

He steered his mount towards the side of the road so that he could pick his way past all of the spilled wooden barrels blocking the road. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young woman who was the spitting image of Miss Mansfield walking briskly along the pavement. He shook his head in annoyance. That woman really had dominated enough of his thoughts since last night, and his dreams too, if he was imagining her to be here.

The problem was, he was still smarting from his incredibly stupid behaviour last night. He really did not know what had come over him. Well, he did, he supposed, if he was being honest with himself. His suppressed anger at her acidic comments over dinner combined with an unexpected dose of raw lust had churned his emotions up and rendered him incapable of normal conversation. Bennett really did not approve of emotions at the best of times and usually kept them all neatly contained inside himself as he had been taught. However, Miss Mansfield was uncommonly pretty. He would even go as far as to say she was the most attractive woman he had collided with in a long time. That, combined with her irritatingly forthright opinions, gentle, caring hands and kissable mouth had scrambled his senses and frazzled his normally sensible mind. Obviously, he had gone far too long without a woman. When was the last time?

Months and months ago, he realised with a jolt. Perhaps just over a year. Good grief! It had been over a year. Since he’d started seriously searching for a wife. He had not expected it to take quite this long to select the right one. No wonder he had such vivid ideas about Miss Mansfield! That could be the only explanation to it all. Such errant thoughts were the very last thing he needed at the moment. There was far too much to do. He made a mental note to redouble his efforts and whittle down the Potential list to just one. Someone his father would have approved of. And he would begin at the Renshaw ball on Saturday night.

Feeling intensely relieved to have sorted the problem out in his head, Bennett finally manoeuvred around the last of the barrels and was able to nudge his horse into a slow trot. Miss Mansfield’s scurrying twin was just ahead of him, hunched into her shawl against the bitter cold. As he came alongside, the woman turned her head towards him and he realised that he was not going mad at all.