Once there, she would have to forget about her writing to concentrate on finding Phoebe a suitable husband. It was just what Mrs. Bates had suggested, and the perfect thing to drag her sister out of the doldrums. Indeed, Phoebe had been begging for a London trip for years.
Unfortunately, Prudence could find little to please herself in the prospective visit, but she pushed her spectacles back into place and smiled at her sister’s happiness, just as she had always done, knowing that when she returned, Wolfinger would be waiting.
Mrs. Bates clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Well, there is no mistaking me this time, Miss Prudence Lancaster. You simply must have a chaperone.”
Prudence sighed. “I am afraid you are right, Mrs. Bates,” she admitted. “I have written my cousin Hugh, and he is most adamant upon the subject.”
Mrs. Bates made one of her odd noises, which managed to sound critical even though she soon voiced her agreement. “I should hope so! It appears that there is at least one Lancaster with some sense.” With that, she settled herself more firmly in her seat, which meant, Prudence noted dismally, that she was preparing herself for a lengthy visit.
As if confirming Prudence’s worst fears, Mrs. Bates took a deep breath and gave her a superior look. “There are all manner of people who prey upon country visitors, and not all of them are easily discerned. If you truly hope to find a proper husband for Phoebe in London, then you simply must appear to be above reproach. Otherwise, you shall surely draw the wrong kind of fellow—shabby genteel, fast, or worse! And I am sure you cannot trust to the gel herself to judge,” she added with a snort.
Prudence opened her mouth to come to her sister’s defense, but then snapped it closed again, being well aware of Phoebe’s blessings—and her flaws. Phoebe had the lion’s share of the family’s beauty, while Prudence possessed the majority of the intelligence. Luckily, their natures seemed well suited to the arrangement, and, having had many years in which to become accustomed to it, they were both contented.
However, Prudence knew well that because she was the oldest, the flightier Phoebe was her responsibility. She could not afford to make any mistakes, especially after her sister had behaved so unwisely with Mr. Penhurst. Despite her own contempt for convention, Prudence was not about to let Phoebe ruin herself by walking out unchaperoned—or worse—in town. And, as much as she loved her sister, Prudence suspected that Phoebe was capable of getting herself in much deeper trouble, if she was allowed free rein.
“Of course, I cannot say much for your judgment, either,” Mrs. Bates commented, scowling at Prudence. “Living alone, when I have warned you against it. And entertaining gentlemen! When I think of that poor Mr. Penhurst coming here, not to mention the Devil Earl himself!”
It was Prudence’s turn to frown. Although she had said nothing of Ravenscar’s visit to the cottage, she had not been able to prevent Mary and Cook and a distraught Phoebe from spreading the news, and Mrs. Bates had made much of it too many times for Prudence to listen again.
“He is not the Devil Earl,” she said simply. “The Devil Earl died nearly two hundred years ago.”
“Humph! Died? Murdered in that ghastly abbey by his very own wife, in payment for his sins!” Mrs. Bates retorted. She shot a disapproving glance out the window toward Wolfinger. Its dark stone gleamed malevolently, as if to spite her. “And now his descendant follows in his footsteps. Bad blood runs true, my girl, make no mistake!”
Prudence put down her cup and placed her hands in her lap, tamping down an unruly urge to toss the cantankerous matron from the cottage. “I hardly see the connection, Mrs. Bates,” she said firmly. “The Devil Earl locked his wife in the tower room for years because she was mad, or so the story goes.”
“Humph! As if he did not drive her to it! Wickedness, excess and madness,” she proclaimed in a ringing voice. “That is the legacy of the Ravenscar earldom.”
“Nonsense,” Prudence replied calmly. “Mr. Penhurst has run off, as young boys do, and will show himself when he is over his sulks. Then everyone will regret maligning Lord Ravenscar.”
Mrs. Bates gasped, obviously outraged by her hostess’s dissent. “Prudence Lancaster! How can you say such a thing? Why, even your own sister knows the boy was murdered!”
“Phoebe’s judgment has been clouded,” Prudence said, without elaborating.
Mrs. Bates pursed her lips in annoyance. “And what of your Lord Ravenscar’s black past, Prudence? Surely, you cannot sit here and defend a man who gained his title under such circumstances? Or have you not heard that this murder was not the first he has committed?”
Since Mrs. Bates had breathlessly related this rumor during an earlier visit, Prudence did not deign to reply, but she did not need to do so. The matron had worked herself into a fine temper, and showed no signs of stopping long enough for Prudence to fit in a word of her own.
“The man killed his own uncle, ran him through to gain the earldom, and now he has done his brother in, too! Mark my words, Prudence, he is a wicked one who will come to a bad end, for all that he casts about London now, as if he has done nothing wrong. He will not be so high-and-mighty for long, with his nose in the air! I have heard that he is finally being shut out of his high circles, as well he should be, the devil.”
Mrs. Bates paused to catch her breath, but Prudence could not have uttered a sound, even if she had wanted to speak. She had stopped breathing when the matron mentioned that Ravenscar was in London.
Her guest forgotten, Prudence gazed up at Wolfinger. Its windows were like sightless black eyes staring back at her silently. While she watched, the sun gleamed off a pane of old glass, and it seemed as if the building itself winked at her in imagined accord. The very air in the neat little cottage seemed to gather and swirl around her like the abbey’s perpetual fog, and she tingled with anticipation while she dared to let herself think the unthinkable—that she might possibly see him again.
Her spectacles slid down her nose, and Prudence moved them back into place with a trembling hand. Really, she was being too silly, she told herself firmly. As Mrs. Bates said, the earl undoubtedly moved in the uppermost social environs, where she would have no chance of meeting him.
“But, there now, I have upset you,” Mrs. Bates said in a mollified tone. “Let us forget that horrid man and be about your business. We must find you a chaperone, young lady!”
Prudence picked up her cup and took a sip of her tea in an effort to steady herself. London was a very big place, with so many people that one individual would be as difficult to find as a needle in a haystack! And yet, there were many public places where two persons might run into one another, she thought, a bit giddily. The gardens at Vauxhall, the various parks, Ackermann’s Repository…the names of famous sites she had only heard about leapt to Prudence’s mind swiftly. Surely, there was a possibility, albeit a small one.
“Of course, I could come with you myself.” Mrs. Bates’s casual comment made Prudence nearly choke, and she put a hand to her throat as she struggled to swallow. “But I have no liking for town—such a nasty, dirty place—nor do I for those who have a tendency to think too well of themselves by half! However, as I have said before, there are respectable ladies who can be employed for just such occasions.”
She smiled slyly, and Prudence forced away thoughts of Ravenscar to give all her attention to her guest. She had often suspected that Mrs. Bates’s sole ambition was to control everyone else, and when the woman looked contented, it surely boded ill for someone, on this occasion most probably herself and Phoebe.
“Once I was apprised of your plans, I took the liberty of writing a very dear friend of mine, who can be counted upon for the very best judgment. And she has sent me a prompt reply,” the matron said.