Mr. William Beckersley. Age forty-two. Never married, thank the Lord. In possession of a moderate income, a home of his own in Jermyn Street, and a promising career in the House of Commons. Such a man must be in need of a wife. And lo, here was Victoria, in need of an escape...er, husband.
She hovered nearby while he spoke with another gentleman, a colleague perhaps from the direction of the conversation. Mr. Beckersley was of above average height by an inch or two, possessed a full head of light brown hair, and only a slight bulge of belly pushed his grey waistcoat out. Louisa had been forced to introduce Victoria to him a week ago, when he had come to call on Mr. Browne and she, Louisa, had not been quick enough in ushering (shoving) Victoria upstairs and out of sight. Tonight, that fortuitous introduction would serve her well.
“You’ll speak to Taviston then? I feel the duke can be a great help,” Mr. Beckersley said to his colleague, who nodded.
As soon as the other gentleman turned away, Victoria slipped into the spot he’d held and flashed a smile at Mr. Beckersley. “Why, good evening, sir! How do you do?”
The MP recovered his surprise quickly and smiled graciously. “I am well, Miss...”
“Forster, Victoria Forster. Cousin to Mr. Barrett Browne, if you will recall.” Inside, she cringed at the awkwardness of the meeting, but Victoria could no longer worry about such trivialities. She needed to marry. Beckersley needed a wife. He’d mentioned as much to Louisa last week.
“Ah yes, of course. Forgive my faulty memory.”
His politeness struck her, if only for the contrast to the way Louisa treated her. That boded well. “I wondered if I might speak with you about your search for a wife.”
“My...” His brow furrowed. “I’m sure I do not know—”
Victoria stepped nearer. “Please forgive my forwardness, sir. I heard you speaking with Mrs. Browne about your desire to wed. I simply wanted to campaign for the position.” Perhaps he would find the political vocabulary endearing?
“Miss Forster, this is quite unorthodox.”
She shook her head, agreeing. “And yet, I do not think I will disappoint, Mr. Beckersley. I am young, eager to wed, and well-educated in the art of running a household.” Only two of those things were true. She could learn all she needed to know about household management once she was securely married.
His jaw had gone slack. Then his gaze skittered around the room. She was losing him. “All I ask, sir, is that you consider me. I’m certain we would suit.” She would make sure of it.
“Mr. B! How are you this fine evening?” Louisa blew into their sphere, eyes bright and voice loud.
Beckersley once again smiled with grace and bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Browne.”
Louisa tipped her head nearer to him and lowered her voice. “I am so sorry.”
His eyebrows rose. “Ma’am?”
With the slightest gesture, she indicated Victoria. “I’ve asked Mr. Browne to let me leave her home. For her own good, of course. One day some unscrupulous gentleman will take her up on her salacious propositions.” Louisa draped a hand on her throat. “She has no idea what she’s saying, poor dear. Certainly you, though, are wise enough to realize how her words could trap you. I can sense...”
Victoria had heard enough. It was clear from the aghast look on Mr. Beckersley’s face that Louisa had ruined any chance she’d have with him. She turned abruptly, once again looking to escape.
Rrrrippp.
The sickening sound seemed to echo all around Victoria. She stumbled but was able to look down just in time to see Louisa lift her heeled shoe off the hem of Victoria’s dress.
“Oh, do be careful, cousin,” Louisa said, her voice dripping with faux concern.
Victoria gathered up the torn skirt of the horrid green gown and careened toward the nearest exit. Unmindful of everyone and everything, she collided with and then bounced off the back of a dark grey superfine coat. She mumbled an apology to the right shoulder as someone else distracted the occupant of the coat with a greeting. “Ah, Taviston. How do you do this evening, Your Grace?”
With renewed urgency, she steered herself toward the ladies’ withdrawing room. Once inside that sanctuary, she collapsed in a heap on one of the chairs. She would not cry. She never did, no matter what Louisa threw at her. This was the first time her cousin had ever intimated she was a strumpet, however.
Still, she would not cry.
“Miss, does your gown need repairing?” The maid stationed within the room spoke up. “I’m fair handy with a needle.”
Victoria sighed and managed a genuine smile at the kind offer. “Thank you, yes, my skirt has ripped.”
The young maid indicated she should stand, so she rose. Digging in her basket, the girl withdrew a needle and thread. She sat back on her heels, eyeing the gown. “Well, no wonder it’s torn. It’s much too long. I can fix that in a trifle.”
And she did. In a matter of fifteen minutes, the gown was appropriately hemmed, and Victoria could walk freely.
“Thank you so much, Lizzy. You’ve saved me from further embarrassment.” As long as Louisa stayed away from her.