Lady Chelsea Mills–Beckman, always the epitome of grace and charm, launched the thick marble–backed book of sermons directly at the head of her brother, Thomas, as of the past two years the seventeenth Earl of Brean.
Her aim was woefully off, and the tome missed him completely, which did nothing to improve her mood.
His lordship bent down to retrieve the book, inspecting the spine for any hint of damage before closing it and setting it on his desk. He was a man in his early forties, too well fed, and with a pink complexion that always seemed to border on the shiny. He thought himself handsome and brilliant, but was neither. He more closely resembled, Chelsea believed, an expensively dressed pig.
"God's words, Chelsea, delivered through the holy Reverend Francis Flotley himself. 'A woman's role is to obey, and her greatest gift her compliance with the superior wisdom of men. Let her gently be led in her inferior intellect, like the sheep in the field, or else otherwise lose her way and be branded morally bereft, a harlot in heart and soul, and worthy only of the staff.'"
The siblings had been closeted in the study in Portland Place for little more than a quarter–hour on this fine late April morning, and yet this was already the fourth time her brother had quoted from the book of sermons. Which, clearly, had been at least one time too many, as it had prompted the aforementioned action of her ladyship wrenching the book from his hand and sending it winging at him.
"Herd us poor, silly, brainless women, lead us gently by the hand as long as we obey, and beat us with the staff if we refuse to behave like sheep. That's what that means. What a pitiful mouthful of claptrap," Chelsea countered, attempting to control her breathing in her agitation. "You're a parrot, Thomas, mouthing words you've learned but haven't taken the time to understand. And did you ever notice, brother mine, that all of this nonsense is always penned by men? Is that what's next for me? You're going to beat me? As I recall the thing, you were once rather proficient with the whip, and not averse to employing it on someone who could not defend himself."
The earl quickly rose to his feet, open hand raised as if to strike his sister down, but then just as quickly seated himself once more, pasting a truly terrible smile of brotherly indulgence on his pink face.
"Certainly not, Chelsea. But you have just proved the reverend's point," he said, joining his hands in a prayerful attitude. "Women have not the intellect of men, nor do they possess the cerebral restraint necessary to combat rude and obnoxious outbursts. But I will forgive you, for it is just as the reverend has said, again, only delivering God's message as he hears it spoken to him."
"God talks to the man? Well, then, perhaps I should try having a small chat with God myself, and then the next time He talks to the reverend He can tell him to stop trying to rub up against my bosom as he pretends to bless me. That may not do much to enlarge my small intellect, but it might just save the reverend from a sharp kick in the shins."
The earl sighed. "Scurrilous accusations will get you nowhere, Chelsea, and only show your willingness to impugn the reverend's character by spouting baseless charges in order to…in order to get your own way."
"Forgot the rest of the words, did you? I mean it, Thomas, you're a parrot. You're devout by rote, certainly not by inclination."
"We aren't discussing me, we're discussing you."
"Not if I don't want to, and I don't!"
"We've moved beyond what you want, Chelsea. You've had your opportunities. Three Seasons, and you're still unwed, and very near to being on the shelf. Papa was much too indulgent of your fits and starts, and you missed a Season as we mourned his passing, may the merciful Lord rest his soul. Now we are halfway through yet another Season, and you have thus far refused the suits of no fewer than four gentlemen of breeding."
"And one out–and–out fortune hunter who had you entirely hoodwinked," Chelsea reminded him as she paced the carpet in front of the desk, unable to remain still. Her brother had always been stupid. Now he was both stupid and holy, hiding his fears behind this new supposed devotion, and that somehow made it all worse. She believed she'd liked him better when he'd been just stupid.
"Be that as it may, and there is still a question on that head, if you will not choose a husband, it is left to me to select one for you, as I helped do for your sister. You should be immensely flattered that he has taken an interest, most especially as he has firsthand knowledge of your.your proclivity for obtrusive behavior. I can think of no one finer than Reverend Flotley."
"You open your mouth yet again, Thomas, but it's still Francis Flotley's words that come out of it. I can think of no one worse. I'd rather wed a street sweep than put myself in the power of that religious mountebank. I reach my majority in a few weeks, Thomas, and you cannot order me to marry that.that oily creature. Oh, stop frowning. A mountebank, since you obviously aren't of a superior enough intellect to know, is a person who deceives other people for profit. Sometimes it is by selling false cures, and for the reverend, it is selling false salvation. You really think he has a direct conduit to God? I hear Bedlam is full of those who think God speaks to them. You could ask any one of them to intercede for you without paying them a bent penny, and I can go my own way."
"And where would that be, Chelsea?" Her brother was maintaining his composure, something he had struggled long and hard to do ever since he'd nearly died during a bout with the mumps two years earlier, passed to him by one of Madelyn's wet–nosed brood of brats— It having taken Madelyn a run through a pair of female offspring before she'd succeeded in producing a male heir for her husband, who'd then at long last agreed to leave her alone, so she was free to regain her figure, buy out Bond Street every second fortnight and sleep with any man who wasn't her husband.
At any rate, and Madelyn's disease–spreading offspring to one side, Thomas was devoutly religious now, having promised God all sorts of sacrifices in exchange for rising up from what could have been his deathbed, and it had been the Reverend Francis Flotley who had successfully delivered, and continued to deliver, the earl's messages to God in his name.
Since their father's untimely death and Thomas's own near brush with that final answer to the trial of living, the earl no longer drank strong spirits. He did not gamble. He'd given his mistress her conge and was now, for the first time in their marriage, faithful to his wife—who, Chelsea knew, was none too happy about that turn of events. He wore expensive yet simple black suits with no ornamentation. He did not lose his temper. He read the evening prayers in the drawing room each night at ten and retired at eleven.
And he continued to pour copious amounts of money into the purse of Reverend Flotley, who, Chelsea believed, had decided marrying the earl's younger sister to be a guarantee that the supply of funds would then never be cut off, even if his lordship were ever to suffer a crisis of faith…or meet another lady of negotiable moral standards he might want to set up in a discreet lodging somewhere.
"Where would I be? Are you threatening to toss me into the streets, Thomas?"
He sighed. "I did not wish for it to come to this, but I have sole control over your funds from Mama until you are married. You have a roof over your head because of my generosity. You have bread on your plate and clothes on your back because I am a giving and forgiving man. But more to the point, Francis and I see your immortal soul in danger, Chelsea, thanks to your headstrong and modern ways. I'm afraid you leave me no choice but to make this decision for you. The banns will be called for the first time this Sunday at Brean, and you and the reverend will be wed there at the end of this month."
Chelsea was caught between panic and anger. Anger won. "The devil we will! You think you almost died, and your answer to that is to sacrifice me? I thought it was only your cheeks that got fat—not your entire head. I won't do it, Thomas. I won't. I'd rather reside beneath London Bridge."
The earl opened the book of sermons and lowered his gaze to the page, signaling that the interview was concluded. But he could not conceal that his hands were shaking, and Chelsea knew she had nearly succeeded in rousing his temper past the point the Reverend Flotley had deemed good for her brother's soul. "Not London Bridge at least. We leave for Brean in the morning, where you will be made safe until the ceremony."
Chelsea felt her stomach clench into a knot. He was planning to make her a prisoner until the wedding. "Made safe? Locked up, that's what you mean, don't you? You can't do that, Thomas. Thomas! Look at me! I'm your sister, not your possession. You can't do that."
He turned the page, ignoring her.
She whirled about on her heel and fled the room, her mind alive with bees and possibilities… and filled with one thought in particular, a memory that had been conjured up thanks to Thomas.
When she reached the main foyer she told the footman to order her mare brought round and then raced up the sweep of staircase to change into her riding habit before her brother came to his senses and realized that a prisoner tomorrow, warned of that pending imprisonment, should also be a prisoner today.
"So, I've been lying here thinking, and I've come up with a question for you. Are you ready? Hell and damnation, man, are you even awake?"
There was a mu...
