“The chimney in my sitting room is blocked,” was her greeting. “Tell Samuel to send a man over to clear it.” Papa had built Frances a home of her own when he built Perusia, declaring that he couldn’t throw her out but neither could he share a roof with her. Her Ivy Cottage was down the hill, away from the factory.
“Of course.” Bianca stooped to pet Trevor, the fat white bulldog who went everywhere with Frances. As usual, the animal growled low in his throat even as he submitted to her attention. Trevor acted very fierce but was virtually a lapdog, if treated the right way. Bianca scratched between his ears until his bandy little legs quivered and gave way, and Trevor collapsed onto his back and presented his belly for more scratching.
“Trevor,” said Frances sternly. “Get up! No cheese for you.”
Bianca quietly slipped the dog the small piece of cheese she’d concealed in her handkerchief for him. Trevor lapped it silently from her fingers as if in conspiracy to evade Frances’s temper. Having got what he wanted, the dog flipped over onto his feet and waddled off to examine the corner of the settee.
“Has Papa told you about our guest?” Bianca rose to her feet and fluffed her skirts. Papa had decreed they must look their best tonight and she had obeyed. She wore her newest gown, deep burgundy with lace flounces and velvet trim on the stomacher, and had even let her maid tame her hair into smooth curls.
Frances sniffed. “A gentleman, he says! Bosh. A good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well, with his eye on Samuel’s fortune.”
“Oh no, Aunt,” said Bianca somberly, even though she agreed with every word. “Papa likes him very much.”
Frances clucked. “More fool him.”
Cathy came in then. She looked glorious, radiant in a rose-pink brocade gown with silk ribbons, silver combs glinting in her dark hair. But her eyes were red and her mouth was a sad droop. “Good evening, Aunt,” she murmured.
Frances was not really their aunt; she was Samuel’s, the younger sister of his father. In her youth Frances had been considered a handsome girl, but her father’s ambition prevented her from marrying the prosperous farmer she’d fallen in love with. He insisted she wed the man who kept their business accounts, to shore up the fellow’s loyalty to the business. Frances dutifully married the bookkeeper and retaliated by making everyone around her miserable for the next forty years.
Now she looked Cathy up and down. “Are we attending a dinner party or a funeral?”
Cathy gave her a look of reproach. “A dinner party for Papa’s guest. You helped me choose the menu.”
Frances glared and took a sip of her port. She always drank port before dinner, claiming it settled her stomach. Bianca thought it did more to loosen her tongue. “The London rogue.”
A strangled squeak escaped Cathy. She bent her head and fussed with one of the bows on her gown.
“Why do you say so, Aunt?” Bianca was deliberately prodding a hungry bear. Frances hadn’t had anyone to exercise her temper on in weeks. Samuel had been in Liverpool for almost a month and only returned recently, and Cousin Ned, the factory office manager, had learned to avoid her. In Samuel’s absence there had been no guests. Frances considered it beneath her to browbeat servants, and despite her crotchety manner, she cared for both Bianca and Cathy. Mr. St. James was fresh meat, as it were; prime prey.
Now their great-aunt raised her brows. “What other sort is there? London is the font of all vice, my father used to say.” She sipped her port. “I recognized his sort when he was here last. Very sure of himself. Not as clever as he thinks he is. Too handsome by half. I wonder he left London at all, to consort with the ordinary people of Staffordshire.”
“Not ordinary at all,” said a voice from the doorway. They all three turned to see Mr. St. James, blinding in green satin with glittering gold embroidering. He wore his hair neatly queued tonight, and made a very elegant bow. “There are quite extraordinary people here in Staffordshire, judging by the inhabitants of this room alone,” he added gallantly.
Aunt Frances’s shoulders went back and her chin came up—all the better to peer down her nose at him. “What effrontery to say such a thing. We’re hardly acquainted well enough for you to know.”
He smiled. “I could honestly say it based solely on appearances. Mr. Tate did not warn me there would be three lovely ladies at dinner tonight.”
Frances stared at him a moment, gave another sniff for good measure, and turned her back on him. “Have us a touch more, dear.” She held out her glass, and Bianca obediently poured more port. “So why have you come all this way, if you were not eagerly anticipating our company?”
Mr. St. James smiled. He had a deep dimple in one cheek, a very masculine slash that hardly deserved the delicate termdimple. “A man always hopes, madam.”
“More fool you,” muttered Frances. Bianca smiled happily.
“Welcome to Perusia, Mr. St. James.” Pale but poised, Cathy went to greet him. “Won’t you come in? I hope you remember my father’s aunt, Mrs. Bentley, and my sister, Miss Bianca Tate. We are very informal here, with only family tonight.”
“Thank you, Miss Tate.” He bowed beautifully over Cathy’s hand. Bianca grudgingly admitted his manners were perfect. “If you are informal tonight, I vow I would swoon away at the mere sight of your formality. You would outshine any lady in London or Paris.”
“Trevor darling, don’t piddle on our guest’s shoe,” drawled Frances, turning Bianca’s private disgust into glee once more. Mr. St. James looked down with a startled expression at the grumpy bulldog inspecting his shoe, and sidled a step away.
But then he went down on one knee and let Trevor sniff his hand, and—to the astonishment of everyone else in the room—the bulldog sank down and pushed his head up into Mr. St. James’s hand.
“That’s a good boy,” said the man in a deep, rough voice, stroking hard down the dog’s head and back. Trevor’s tongue lolled out of his mouth until he lay down flat and gave a guttural moan of happiness.
Turncoat, thought Bianca in pique. After she’d smuggled him cheese, no less.
Papa came in then, looking quite pleased with himself. “My apologies, St. James. Cathy my dear, have you welcomed our guest?”
“Yes, Papa.”
