How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Read online

  Francis couldn’t help but notice the look of despair on the sisters’ faces. He decided that it was time to jump to their rescue. “Aunt Genevieve, I really don’t think that . . .”

  “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Francis,” Genevieve remarked. “But I really don’t give a rat’s bottom for what you think right now. If these ladies are to attract the proper attention, then it’s imperative that they show themselves off to their best advantage. Some ample bosoms are what we need—mark my word.”

  A shocked silence followed.

  It was Beatrice who eventually spoke. “I know that you have our best intentions at heart, my lady, but we didn’t come here in search of husbands. And even if we did, I would certainly hope that they’d be drawn to our character rather than our looks.”

  “Humpf . . . it’s no wonder that you haven’t married yet.” Genevieve waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. There will be plenty of time for us to work out a strategy. Now, Parker . . . I will leave it to you to speak to cook. I’m off to bed for the evening.”

  “But it’s only five o’clock,” Francis put in. “Won’t you join us for dinner?”

  “No, no . . . I’ll take my dinner in my room—Parker will bring up a tray for me, won’t you, Parker?”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Parker replied.

  Sweeping past all of them, her cane thumping loudly as she went, Genevieve climbed the staircase and disappeared out of sight.

  “She’s rather forthright, is she not?” Beatrice eventually remarked.

  “My apologies,” Francis muttered. “I hope you didn’t take too great offense.”

  “Not at all,” Claire exclaimed. “We love eccentric relations—is that not so, Emily?”

  Emily gave her sister a sharp look of warning before turning to Francis. “I think your aunt is absolutely charming,” she said. “I have no doubt we’ll get along splendidly with one another.”

  “Good.” His tone was curt, but the flicker of appreciation in his eyes did not go unnoticed. It was gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

  “Not to rush you, sir,” Parker interjected. “But perhaps we ought to follow her ladyship’s advice—I asked cook to prepare a snack in time for your arrival. This way, if you please.”

  They all followed the butler into the parlor, where some cucumber sandwiches, cut neatly into triangles, had been carefully piled onto a couple of plates.

  “It isn’t much,” Parker told them with an apologetic smile. “But there really isn’t long until dinner. This is just to tide you over.”

  “Thank you, Parker,” Francis told him. “You made the right decision.” Then, pausing for a moment, he turned to halt the retreating butler. “We shall be ready for dinner at seven.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Parker then ducked through the door and vanished in order to take the guests’ bags to their prospective rooms.

  Beatrice picked up a sandwich and took a small bite out of one corner as she wandered over to the bay window together with Francis. “Thank you once again for hosting us,” she said as she looked out over the garden. “It really is most kind of you.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I merely thought it might help.”

  “I’m sure it shall,” Beatrice assured him as she glanced toward Emily. “We were very worried about her, you know. We still are.”

  For a while they stood there, side by side, taking in the view of the rhododendrons that were in full bloom throughout the garden.

  “I hope you will not take offense to what I am about to tell you,” he suddenly told her in a muted tone. Beatrice said nothing. She merely waited for him to continue as she dusted her hands free of crumbs with her napkin.

  “I intend for the three of you to enjoy your stay here,” he explained. “You shall be my guests at the theatre and at all of the balls that you wish to attend; Jonathan will show you the invitations tomorrow so that you may begin your selection.

  “However, it’s a few years since you’ve attended such formal events. I don’t believe that Claire ever has, seeing as she’s only eighteen, and I daresay, neither has Emily. Am I correct?”

  Beatrice gave a small smile. “Yes, you are.”

  “But I’m sure that you must have,” he continued with a frown as he turned his head to look at her directly. “Then you know that you shall require new gowns.” A pained look flashed across her face. “I’m sorry, Beatrice, but you know that I’m right. But,” he continued, his tone lightening. “You must not worry about the expense. I will see to it that you are adequately dressed.”

  Her eyes shot up at him. “We cannot possibly allow you to . . .” Her voice had initially risen, but she instantly dropped it to a low whisper as her eyes darted frantically across at where Emily and Claire were sitting.

  She was too proud to accept so much, he thought. He was adamant about wanting to do it, however, so he played the one card that he knew would work. “It was my aunt’s suggestion, actually. She believes it will help Emily.” He paused momentarily before continuing. “If we take her out to some extravagant events and let her be seen, she will soon have a long line of suitors following in her wake. Even if it turns out that she isn’t interested in any of them, it will at least take her mind off Adrian. He’s lost to her forever and it’s important that she sees that there are plenty of other options available to her. But you will all need to fit the part. Thus, you will need a decent wardrobe. Consider it a favor.”

  Biting down on her bottom lip, he saw that she wished to say yes. And yet she hesitated. He understood her completely; she’d always managed to keep her sisters dressed and fed without ever asking for help from anyone.

  Taking a deep breath, he decided to play his second card. “You have to forget about your pride for a moment, Beatrice,” he told her. Her eyes narrowed into a frown as she opened her mouth to protest, but he plowed on. “Think of what is in your sisters’ best interest. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for them—the chance to find the eligible husbands that I know you’ve always hoped for them to marry. You have to let me help you.”

  Breathing a deep sigh, she nodded, her eyes flooding with thankfulness as if he’d just pulled her out of a crevasse. A smile crawled across her lips. “All right,” she said as her nod grew more self-assured. “All right, Francis, I accept . . . though I have no idea how I will ever repay you or Lady Genevieve. Thank you.”

  Francis opened his mouth as if to say something just as Claire came over, putting her arm around her sister and resting her head against her shoulder. “What’s the conspiracy about?” she asked as she gave Francis a cheeky smile. He merely drew his eyebrows closer together and held her gaze. “The two of you look as thick as thieves,” she explained as she gave Beatrice a slight pinch. Beatrice shrieked and reeled away from her sister. “Come on then. I’m desperate to know!”

  “Shall we tell her?” Beatrice asked, eyeing Francis.

  “Hmmm, I don’t know if we can trust her,” he said with extreme severity. “What if she gives us away under torture?”

  “You’re quite right,” Beatrice said with a slight giggle, her serious expression beginning to slip. “In fact, I know she’ll crack under torture.”

  “Is that so?” Perhaps we ought to put it to the test.”

  Stuck between them, Claire had no time to escape before Francis held her still and Beatrice fell on her, tickling her until she squealed with laughter and was begging them to stop.

  From her corner, seated on a toffee-colored velvet sofa, Emily regarded the scene with growing interest. For the five minutes or so that it lasted, it was as if she found herself transported back in time. They were all children again, horsing around the way they had once been so used to. They were happy, devoid of any worries or concerns for the future—content to know that they were well taken care of by their parents, who loved them. It was bliss and it was fun and for just a while, Emily forgot.

  The fun drew her in and swallowed her up. She forgot that her parents were
dead, that their cousin had taken everything from them, including their mother’s jewelry collection. In short, he had left them with nothing by which to remember their parents. Most importantly, she managed to forget the pain that came from losing both Kate and Adrian.

  As the hurt and the anger dwindled with each of Claire’s squeals, Emily found herself truly smiling for the first time since Adrian had told her he would marry Kate. Jumping to her feet, she immediately hurried to join in the fun.

  Claire’s eyes grew big when she saw that they were now three against her, except she suddenly heard Beatrice screech. Emily had joined her side, she realized with relief. They were now evenly numbered, though Francis still counted for two in terms of sheer strength.

  Beatrice screamed again as Emily squeezed her sides in a rough tickle. Using her as a shield between themselves and Francis, Claire and Emily both half-hid behind their elder sister, holding on to her firmly so she couldn’t attack them. Their breath came raggedly as they peered out to find Francis coming toward them with a vengeful grin painted upon his face.

  “We’ll have mercy on you if you join our alliance,” Emily whispered in Beatrice’s ear.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “We’ll tickle you until you’re blue in the face.”

  Beatrice gulped as if truly frightened by the prospect, and then nodded her head definitively. “You have a deal.”

  Seeing Beatrice released and the same smug grin on all three faces, Francis halted in his tracks. He began backing away. “Treachery!” he called out as he fled, putting the toffee-colored sofa between them. “Beatrice,” he stammered in an exaggerated tone of disappointment. “How could you? I trusted you!”

  “They made me an offer that I simply couldn’t refuse,” she said with a smirk.

  As Emily and Claire made their way around each side of the sofa, Beatrice guarded any escape route that Francis might contemplate taking.

  “OK,” he said, feigning desperation. “I surrender.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Emily chided him, with a playful twist to her mouth. “You’re not getting off that easily this time.”

  “Oh?” He didn’t smile, but his eyes held a warmth that she had long since forgotten he had in him.

  And then they were upon him, grabbing him by the arms and tackling him to the floor. He probably could have fought them off easily, had he tried, but why ruin the moment for them?

  “Don’t think we don’t remember where your weakness lies, Francis,” Beatrice giggled as she reached for his feet. His eyes grew wary, then truly worried.

  Oh no . . . not my feet.

  He tried to kick them away but it was futile. They’d managed to gain the upper hand.

  Pinning him down, the sisters wasted no time in removing his shoes. Then, showing no mercy whatsoever, they proceeded to tickle him.

  Within seconds Francis was roaring with laughter as tears welled in his eyes. “Do you surrender?” Emily demanded.

  Francis coughed, attempting to stifle yet another laugh, and managed a choked “yes.”

  Helping him to his feet, they handed him back his shoes. He lowered himself onto the sofa, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand as he straightened his jacket and began putting his shoes back on. “Remind me never to take the three of you on again,” he said. “At least not singlehandedly. You’re stronger than I remember.”

  Claire looked most triumphant. “We’re not little girls anymore,” she smirked.

  “I know,” he muttered with a frown. And just like that, all the amusement was unwillingly gone. They had gotten carried away and acted completely inappropriately. He was a grown man and they were women to whom he wasn’t even related. What had he been thinking?

  When he glanced back up, he caught Emily looking at him with a bemused expression, a trace of mischief still in her eyes. She had seen him let down his guard and show that he was capable of something other than a stern glare. And yet, the very fact that she now appeared to see right through him set his forehead in deep furrows. She looked away, but not before he noticed that the glimmer behind her eyes had dulled. Only a hopeless sadness remained.

  “So?” He heard a voice ask. It was Claire. “What’s the big secret?”

  “What big secret?” Francis asked with a grin.

  Claire rolled her eyes as she sighed with exasperation. “Do I need to tickle you again, Francis? Or is it enough if I remind you that you lost. I think I’ve earned the right to know.”

  “Let the poor girl out of her misery, Francis,” Beatrice declared. “Unless of course you want me to tell her.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Go ahead then, tell her.”

  “Very well,” Beatrice said as she straightened her back. “Francis has graciously given us the opportunity to attend the most important balls of the season.” Claire let out a squeal of delight, which Beatrice silenced by raising her hand. “In order for us to do so, however, we must dress appropriately. Francis has generously offered to cover all costs, and I have accepted. So, both you, Claire, and you, Emily, will be making your debuts this season amongst the very elite that society has to offer. It’s a gift that mustn’t be passed up.”

  Her last words were stern, taking on a demanding tone. She held Emily’s gaze as she spoke them, for she knew that her sister would protest with every fiber of her being. Emily was suffering and she wanted space and time in which to do so. She didn’t want to accept what she would surely term “charity” from anyone, least of all from Francis.

  Beatrice understood her sister’s reasoning, of course. But Francis was right. Beatrice had no idea why he was being so helpful and so kind, but she knew that the chance was unlikely to present itself twice. She would have to be firm, she realized, but she was confident that Emily would eventually do as she was asked. She would simply have to tell her younger sister how much this might affect all of them and that she mustn’t say no—if not for her own sake, then for Claire’s.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Attempting to hide his surprise to the best of his abilities, Jonathan regarded his friend and employer hesitantly. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort will be involved? Not to mention the expense . . .” He let out a sigh as he shook his head in bewilderment. “What were you thinking, Francis? Taking three grown women under your wing like that . . . it’s completely out of character.”

  Francis eyed Jonathan suspiciously. “What are you saying? That I’m not capable of being charitable and kind?”

  “I merely . . .”

  “I know what everyone thinks of me, Jonathan,” Francis said, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare try and sugar it over for me. Not you, of all people. It’s what I value most about your friendship—your unfailing honesty and your loyalty. You’re never afraid of saying it as it is . . . I wish more people would be that way.”

  “Very well then,” Jonathan told him firmly. “No, I don’t think you’re capable of being that charitable or kind, unless there’s some reason behind it that I’m unaware of. So . . . what’s your angle, old friend?”

  Slumping down into a brown leather armchair, Francis’s hand caught his chin as he rested his elbow against one of the fat side arms. He let out an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know,” he muttered, glancing across at Jonathan as he spoke.

  Jonathan echoed his sigh and rubbed the brim of his nose between his thumb and his index finger. “Have you had any thoughts as to who might be able, and, more importantly, willing to sponsor them for the duration of the season? Your aunt won’t do—she’s much too old to take on such a strenuous task.”

  “I didn’t think . . .”

  “Clearly!” Jonathan remarked as he let out another exasperated sigh, shaking his head in frustration. It was fortuitous that he and Francis had known each other for as long as they had, or he might have been looking for a new job that very instant. But that wasn’t the case. They were like brothers, so when Jonathan occasionally happened to give Francis hell, it never amounted to anything more t
han friendly banter.

  “Just for the sake of asking,” Jonathan continued with a sudden look of hope upon his face, “is there any chance at all that you might be tempted to tell these women that you’ve had a change of heart?”

  Francis’s expression grew dark. He was a man of his word and he intended to keep it. “None,” he said flatly.

  “I didn’t think so.” Jonathan paused for a moment. Resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair, he arched his fingers below his chin. “So who could sponsor them? Doing it yourself is completely out of the question—I hope I don’t have to explain that much to you.”

  Francis frowned as he ran his fingers over the brim of his glass. Jonathan was right. It would be most unseemly for a gentleman to escort unmarried women about town when he wasn’t even related to them. And while Genevieve would ensure that nobody would frown at the fact that they were his houseguests, Jonathan did make a valid point—he couldn’t expect her to stay out until the early hours of the morning, when even he considered this to be somewhat grueling. But if not her, then who? For Claire and Emily, it would be their coming-out balls. They would need a woman of some degree of social standing to take them under her wing. He had given it some serious thought, and had decided that he had just the right person in mind. He turned his eyes on Jonathan. “Baroness Giddington,” he said.

  Jonathan gave Francis an immediate smile of approval, though it was tinged with a mischievous smirk. “You don’t think she’ll plow them into obscurity? The woman has a lot of presence.”

  “I know what you’re getting at, Jon, and I must admit that I did think about that possibility quite a bit myself.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ve decided that she’s still the best option. She’s a close friend of mine—with no children of her own—who loves to shop. She would jump at the opportunity, turning this into her very own pet project, I can assure you.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you for a minute, old friend. The woman takes great pride in being one of the most talked-about socialites in London. She attends every ball there is, never wearing the same gown more than once. One is truly inclined to pity her poor husband.”