An Indecent Gambit

Chapter Twenty-Two: Being Fooled

Grace sat upstairs in the small room at the front of the house that Mrs Follet used as a sitting room. It was little more than a nook, really, with four rickety chairs at a rickety table and a wooden bench under the window with its hardness poorly disguised by threadbare cushions. Detritus from other parts of the house collected here: pell-mell mallets, a broken umbrella, a collection of very old magazines, an unfinished embroidery sampler, a frayed deck of cards, and, for some reason, several empty boxes of tooth powder. It was a cold, uncomfortable room, but it had the advantage that Uncle Bernard never set foot in it. He preferred the drawing room, with its greater fire and softer chairs. Over the past week, Grace had sat in here a great deal. It gave her time alone to think, and through the window she could watch James arrive on his daily call and then watch him leave, rejected, a few minutes later.

Today, he was late. It was past noon, and still he had not arrived. Yesterday, he had not come at all, but his absence had been explained when Mrs Redwood came by the house in the evening to give them a fruit cake she had made herself — he was in London for the day.

He would come soon. Perhaps he had slept late after his journey. And when he did...

"He's not coming."

Grace jumped and turned the door. Alice stood there, holding a plate of fruit cake.

"Do you want some?" she asked through a mouthful. "It's quite bad, but it grows on you."

"Fine." Grace got up from the bench and took a slice of cake. "It's all the better if he doesn't come. I don't want to see him."

"Which explains why you watch so devotedly at the window." Alice set the plate down on the table and flipped through the pile of magazines. "June 1818. December 1816. March 1806 — goodness, what queer hats men used to wear." She dropped the magazine and regarded the pell-mell mallets quizzically. "I wonder if we can play pell-mell in mourning?"

"I hate pell-mell."

"Of course you do." Alice took another slice of cake. "I wish I had a lover to scorn. I think I'd be good at it. And it does seem fun."

Grace nibbled at the cake. It tasted overpoweringly of brandy. She put her slice back on the plate. "It's not a game. I wish James would leave me alone."

"I wish he would too," Alice said. "I think you're better off without him. He always was a princock."

Grace coughed. "A what?"

"A princock. The cook says it about the stableboy."

"Which is probably reason enough not to repeat it." Grace tested the cake again and found it no more to her liking. "What does it mean?"

"The stableboy is always cheeking the cook and trying to pinch the scullery maid."

"James isn't like that at all. He's brash, and vain, and downright foolish sometimes, but he's not—" Grace broke off as the doorbell rang. "That must be him. But I won't see him. He must learn that I meant what I said."

Alice raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

A few moments later, footsteps sounded on the stairs and the footman appeared in the doorway.

"Mr Benson to call upon Miss Follet," he announced. "Is Miss Follet at home?"

"Mr... Benson?" A shiver of unease ran down Grace's spine. "I'm not— No, send him up."

Alice looked warily at her. "What's he doing here? You're not scorning two lovers are you?"

"Don't be silly." Grace checked her reflection in the window and flattened a stray lock of hair. "Stay here while he talks to me."