Rules For Being A Mistress. Tamara Lejeune

Benedict said firmly. “I drank my bottle, and now I must suffer for it.” He looked around him in distaste. The dressing room was a six-sided chamber with a mirrored door set into every wall. He had come through the first door. Four of the other doors concealed closets while behind the fifth a steaming Roman-style bathing pool awaited him. Lord Skeldings, apparently, had spared no expense on his Bath home. The bathing chamber was equipped with up-to-date plumbing, with hot water piped in.

      “Cover these mirrors,” Benedict uttered in distaste. The last thing he wanted was six full-length views of his mortal body. He walked through to the bathroom.

      After his bath, he was able to sit next to the fire for a few hours. His entire body ached. For dinner he managed to eat a plate of the injustly famous Bath olivers. The oliver was a dry digestive biscuit developed by Bath’s own celebrated Dr. Oliver. Perhaps they tasted better when washed down with the foul-tasting water on offer in the Pump Room.

      Pickering brought him the Bath papers, neatly folded into small sections, which made it easier for Benedict to manage the flimsy newsprint with his one hand. Ordinarily, he never glanced into the society columns, but, then, ordinarily, he was not on the lookout for a wife. The sooner he got married, the better. Then he could go back to his happy way of life, which did not include reading the society columns.

      He found himself wondering what Miss Cosy might be doing at that moment. Certainly not reading the society columns! Probably, she was enjoying her portion of his thousand pounds. He hoped that her accomplices, whom he imagined to be big, burly men, had not cheated her of her fair share. She had earned it. He did not expect ever to see her again.

      “She’s probably halfway to London by now.” He sighed.

      “Sir?” Engaged in spreading a shawl over his gentleman’s knees, Pickering looked up.

      “I was thinking about the unfortunate young woman who robbed me,” Benedict explained. “She must have been forced by extreme poverty into a life of crime. I have often thought it is a great pity that, outside of marriage, the women of our society have few options in life, other than thievery or, God forbid, prostitution. I would rather she steal from me a little than sell her body to countless men. In her place, I might have done the same.”

      “Oh, sir!” said Pickering, appalled. “Not one of your crusades?”

      Benedict smiled ruefully. “I have but one crusade in Bath, and that is to find a wife.”

      “I have informed myself on the Bath social calendar,” Pickering said eagerly. His interest in who would become Lady Wayborn was, if anything, keener than his master’s. After all, her ladyship would set the tone at Wayborn Hall in the years to come. Pickering hoped she would be kind and beautiful; Sir Benedict would need someone to soften him around the edges. “There is a lecture on the growing threat of Atheism in the Upper Rooms tonight.”

      “God, no,” said Benedict, with unintentional irony. “I couldn’t possibly go out tonight. Besides, such a subject would be highly unlikely to attract marriageable young ladies,” Benedict pointed out. “I believe the most prudent course of action would be to retire early, get a good night’s rest, and begin afresh tomorrow.”

      With his little silver pencil he began circling the names of promising females in the newspaper column on the table before him. Any name prefaced by a “Miss” received an equal share of his attention.

      Chapter 4

      As usual, Lady Dalrymple had positioned herself with a commanding view of the entrance to the Pump Room. “Sir Benedict Wayborn!” she exclaimed, putting up her quizzing glass to inspect the new arrival. “He’ll do for you, Millicent. About three thousand a year.”

      “But, Mama!” her daughter cried in alarm. Recently, Miss Carteret’s spots had cleared up, and a special preparation had carried off the fuzz on her upper lip. She certainly did not intend to throw herself away on a mere baronet, and a one-armed, middle-aged baronet at that.

      “I know, my love,” said the viscountess with a sigh. “Not to mention: he is one of these dreadful reformers. Why, if he had his way, your poor brother would actually have to stand in an election for his seat in Commons. One shudders to think what would become of England if the common man had his way. But I hope I am not so stupid as to turn my nose up at three thousand a year simply because I disagree with the man and everything he stands for!”

      Benedict gazed around the room in dismay. Crotchety-looking, elderly females abounded, but, none of them, it seemed, had brought along a nubile young dogsbody who would jump at the chance to marry anybody kind enough to ask. There were no desperate damsels in brown bombazine casting him hopeful glances. Not even one.

      Mr. King, the master of ceremonies, hurried over to him. Bath was no longer the fashionable resort it had been during the war. Nowadays, the rich and privileged were flocking to the playgrounds of continental Europe, which had been closed to them for so long while the war raged on. It was all Mr. King could do to scrape together a few dozen couples for his cotillions on Thursday. After a few oily pleasantries, he offered to introduce the baronet to anyone he liked.

      “I am looking for a wife,” said Benedict. “Have you got anything under thirty-five?”

      Mr. King had been master of ceremonies in Bath for twenty years. The baronet’s request did not shock him in the least. “You are in luck, Sir Benedict. Lady Dalrymple is in Bath with her amiable daughter, Miss Carteret. If you are indifferent to fortune, perhaps Miss Vaughn can tempt you. She is not a rich young lady, like Miss Carteret, but beauty is not an unworthy dowry, when accompanied by good birth. Do you not agree?”

      “I know of no marriages that fail sooner than those based on the beauty of the lady,” Benedict replied curtly. “We do not marry to please ourselves, Mr. King.”

      “Er, yes. Lady Rose Fitzwilliam has only just arrived in Bath. This young lady is sure to melt your heart, for she joins in one person the virtues of birth, beauty, fortune, and youth.”

      “Only three young ladies of the class?”

      Mr. King forced a smile. “It will be more difficult than the Judgment of Paris.”

      Benedict scowled. “What are the French up to now?”

      Mr. King looked pained. “I was not referring to the events in France, Sir Benedict. You will have a more difficult time, I think, choosing between Miss Carteret, Miss Vaughn, and Lady Rose than Prince Paris had choosing between Venus, Juno, and Minerva.”

      “Ah,” said Benedict. “Present me to Miss Carteret, then.”

      Benedict knew the viscountess slightly, but he had never had the opportunity to meet the amiable daughter. This being the case, he did not know how improved Miss Carteret was. Nor was he aware that her bonnet, an absurd construction with a cylindrical crown and a huge poke, was in the first stare of fashion. The mean little face surrounded by this pink monstrosity reminded him of a garden mole digging its way out of a subterranean den.

      Lady Dalrymple whipped open her large painted fan as the gentlemen approached. “Shoulders back, Millie!” she hissed. “Uncross your eyes! He is not very handsome, perhaps, but he is rich!”

      Almost in the same breath, she swept aside Mr. King’s attempt at an introduction.

      “But Sir Benedict requires no introduction! We are dear old friends. His aunt, Lady Elkins, and I have been bosom bows all our lives.”

      Benedict bowed. “You were missed at the funeral, Lady Dalrymple.”

      “Did she die?” cried Lady Dalrymple, clutching at her daughter’s hand for support. Millicent obligingly rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief, which she applied to her mama’s dry eyes. “Oh, my poor, dear Amelia! Why did no one tell me?”

      “Elinor,” Benedict quietly corrected her.

      Lady Dalrymple was startled out of her lamentations. “I am so distraught I do not know what I am saying,” she exclaimed. “Dear Elinor,