The Husband List
Authors: Janet Evanovich,Dorien Kelly
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CONTENTS
ONE
Close your eyes and think of chocolate cake, Caroline Maxwell told herself. It was the only way she could get through this tedious dress fitting. Even in the advanced year of 1894, an American heiress had certain rules to follow, and allowing herself to be a pincushion for the House of Worth seemed to be one of them. What Caroline really wanted was adventure, independence and to see the world. But she doubted her parents would ever come to their senses enough to set her free.
The seamstress, who accompanied Caroline’s new wardrobe from Worth’s Paris dress shop across the Atlantic to the Maxwell family’s Fifth Avenue residence, wielded another pin. Caroline winced in anticipation.
The angry looking woman already caught skin twice. Maybe her aim was off due to the lingering seasickness that delayed yesterday’s fitting. Or perhaps she was intimidated by the dozens of china figurines Mama had positioned about Caroline’s enormous sitting room. The sense that one was being watched by countless beady little eyes could be unsettling. Not to mention the house itself … With sixty rooms, it, too, could rattle a soul.
“Your measurements have changed,” the Frenchwoman accused.
And then there was that.
“Impossible,” Caroline fibbed.
She glanced at her mother, who kept an eye on affairs from her regal perch atop the massive red velvet and gold-gilt settee that she’d also insisted must be part of Caroline’s quarters. Normally, her mother wouldn’t tolerate such talk from a servant, but Agnes was secretly intimidated by the French, which was why they’d left Paris before the dresses were done. Mama brushed away an imaginary crumb from the fabric of her conservative, high-necked dove gray morning dress and then fussed with the tiny bit of lace at each cuff. Caroline knew she was on her own in the battle of the pins.
The seamstress stepped back on the thick carpet to assess her work. Caroline caught her own reflection in the cheval mirror that was positioned so that Mama could see Caroline in profile. Mr. Worth’s style sense was clearly incomparable.
The low-cut—almost risqué—ivory silk ball gown Caroline wore had been embellished with what felt like pounds of pearls and dark green crystals. Assuming she could bear up under the weight, it would complement her clear complexion and hair as dark as her mother’s. Rumor had it that Mama’s maternal great-grandmother had been a Cherokee princess, which Mama would not confirm.
Worth’s skills had also made Caroline’s slight surplus of curves an asset rather than a detriment. Come the season, she was doomed. She had no idea what she could do to top last year’s anti-marriage efforts. All the same, she intended to escape this year’s marriage market as she had 1893’s: unwed, unpromised, and as independent as she could be. Which, in her opinion, was not saying much.
Caroline released her breath and unclenched clammy palms as another pin met only fabric. And in other sunny news, her mother’s insecurity meant that at least Caroline would not be facing French
ducs
on top of the English dukes Mama kept pushing her to marry.
“
Absolument,
you have gained since your last fitting,” the seamstress said. “And more than a little.”
Caroline answered with a vague smile. It would never do to confess that she’d begun midnight kitchen forays to ease her tight nerves.
“Caroline, have you varied from our agreed-upon menu?” her mother asked. Alarm had made her dark brows arch closer to her perfectly coiffed hair with its beginning threads of silver.
There had been no agreement. There hadn’t even been negotiations, just no outright objection from Caroline. She’d decided long ago that working around her mother was more diplomatic than upsetting her. Easier, too. And since her mother’s eating edict had made Caroline fifty percent a spectator at family meals, she felt she deserved a fat slice of chocolate cake whenever she wished. It wasn’t noon yet, and her mouth watered at the thought of tonight’s pilfered treat. Actually, not so very pilfered, since Cook had caught on to the scheme and now left cake waiting for her.
Mama pursed her lips and scrutinized Caroline more closely. “You must have been straying. You’re looking plumper in the face when Amelia and Helen are still as slim as can be.”
At sixteen, her twin sisters didn’t yet have the avoidance skills Caroline possessed at twenty-one. Or the same ability to hold their tongues under their mother’s inquisition techniques. They
always
confessed.
Caroline kept her silence.
Mama narrowed her eyes.
Caroline widened hers.
Mama cleared her throat, giving warning of a lecture to come.
Caroline did her best to exude an aura of innocence as strong as her mother’s favored gardenia perfume. It must have worked, because Mama heaved a resigned sigh.
“Stand taller,” she ordered. “Shoulders back and chin up.”
Caroline complied, though the gown would be no looser around her waist for the effort. Tonight’s cake would have to be her last for a while. It wasn’t as though she could eat her way to freedom. American heiresses were as popular with unmarried and underfunded English noblemen as chocolate cake was with Caroline.
“If you are to wear a coronet, you must look as though you were born to it,” Mama said. That and “you are this family’s crown jewel” were two of her mother’s favorite things to say. Caroline found both statements as uncomfortable as the corset currently mashing her innards.
Mama had been about to issue another proclamation—probably about crown jewels—but was distracted by a one-person stampede down the mahogany parquet hallway.
Annie, Caroline’s new personal maid, appeared. Breathless, she took an instant to compose herself. It was hopeless. During her dash, her red curls had sprung free from their tight bun and were now nearly at right angles from the white cap atop her head.
“Mrs. Maxwell, ma’am, O’Brien has asked me to tell you that Mrs. Longhorne is calling,” Annie said.
She thrust out a calling card. She did not, however, have the silver tray that the butler used, so Caroline’s mother pretended not to see it.
Annie waited for a response, then plowed on, either unaware or uncaring of her breach of decorum. “Ma’am, she’s on her way up here now.”
“Really, here?” Agnes asked, rising.
Annie was saved. Mrs. Longhorne venturing to private quarters without invitation was an even greater violation of Mama’s rules than Annie’s slipup.
Mildred Longhorne rushed in, her hands fluttering on either side of her face like two of the finches that Mama kept caged in the conservatory. Her pointy nose was red at the tip and her usually nondescript gray eyes sparkled with excitement. She hadn’t even changed out of the black riding habit she wore for a morning turn about the park, and the knot of early June pansies at one buttonhole looked ready to jump ship.
“Agnes, I have the most exciting news! Lord Bremerton is visiting with friends at Newport this season.”
Caroline’s mother gasped. “Bremerton, the son of Viscount Bellingham, grandson of the Duke of Endsleigh?”
“Yes.”
“He’s married,” Mama said in a dismissive tone.
While Caroline was hardly in love with her mother’s determination to marry her into English nobility, she had to give her credit for an impressive level of study.
“No, no … not that one. He’s dead. There’s a new Bremerton!”
“Dead?” Caroline’s mother repeated. She’d sounded a little gleeful, too.
“Yes, a riding accident, I heard. The younger son has taken the title, and his father is rumored to be in poor health. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Mama walked a circle around Caroline and the seamstress. Apparently content with what she saw, she returned her attention to Mrs. Longhorne.
“He’ll be a duke,” she replied.
“Yes!” her friend cried. “And Caroline will be a duchess!”
Where was a slice of chocolate cake when a girl needed one?
* * *
AT TEN minutes until eight that evening, most of the family sat in the Oriental drawing room awaiting the call to dinner. All they lacked was Caroline’s brother, Edward, who at almost twenty-seven, lived down Fifth Avenue in the lesser mansion the family had left behind when this one had been completed.
“Any time Edward isn’t where he’s promised to be, he’s off with that Jack Culhane,” Mama complained to Caroline’s father.
Caroline hid the smile that seemed to work its way across her face whenever she thought of her brother’s best friend. She could guarantee that wherever they were, Eddie and Jack were having more fun than she was. For as long as she could remember, she’d tried to tag after them with little success. When she’d walk in on their tale-telling, she’d catch just enough to make her more determined to be part of their adventures.
They were all grown now, with Eddie working at Papa’s side, and Jack buying up businesses almost as quickly as his father did. But Caroline’s greatest adventure had been frightening off a handful of dukes last year, and that was before Mama had taken away most of her freedom. She hated to sound ungrateful, because she knew how lucky she was. All the same, she’d trade a steamer trunk packed with Maxwell money for just a few days of living like Jack and Eddie.
“Edward said he’ll be here at eight, and he will be,” Papa replied. “He’s a Maxwell man, which means he’s a man of his word.”
He turned his attention to Caroline, who had been doing her best to blend into the bold orange and green chrysanthemum-patterned brocade of her chair—not an easy job when one was wearing a peacock blue dress.
“Maxwell women, too. Am I right, Pumpkin?” he asked. Pride shone from his craggy features, and from under his thick gray moustache—so startling in contrast to his fading auburn hair—as it moved upward with his smile.
Caroline hesitated. His question was simple enough on the surface, but since just minutes ago her parents had been discussing Lord Bremerton’s visit, she knew what Papa really meant. She searched for a comment positive enough to make her father happy, yet still not an outright promise to lure and marry some Englishman she’d never met. Not when she had someone oh-so-much better in mind.
“Really, Bernard, you must stop calling her that,” Mama said, saving Caroline another diplomatic dance. “It was bad enough that it slipped out at the Astors’ ball last year. Imagine if you said it in front of Bremerton?”
“There’s no mistaking her for a gourd, Agnes,” Papa said. “And you’ll always be my Pumpkin, won’t you, Caroline?”
“Of course I will.” Even from across the sea.
Deep male talk and laughter sounded from outside the room. Jack was here with Eddie. This time Caroline couldn’t stop her smile from appearing. They walked in together with Jack standing inches taller than Eddie, who was of average height. And where Eddie was on the wiry side, Jack looked as though he could take on Calcutta street thieves and win.