Catherine Palmer - The Courteous Cad (Miss Pickworth)

the
Courteous Cad

Visit Tyndales exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com .

Check out the latest about Catherine Palmer at www.catherinepalmer.com .

TYNDALE and Tyndales quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

The Courteous Cad

Copyright 2009 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved.

Cover illustration copyright 2008 by Cliff Nielsen. All rights reserved.

Author photograph copyright 2000 by Childress Studio. All rights reserved.

Designed by Jessie McGrath

Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

Published in association with the literary agency of Spencerhill Associates, P.O. Box 374, Chatham, NY 12037.

Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible , King James Version.

Scripture quotations in Miss Pickworths Ponderings are taken from the Holy Bible , New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organization, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Palmer, Catherine, date.

The courteous cad / Catherine Palmer.

p. cm. (Miss Pickworth series ; #3)

ISBN 978-0-8423-7555-9 (pbk.)

I. Title.

PS3566.A495C68 2009

813.54dc22

2009027313

Printed in the United States of America

15 14 13 12 11 10 09
7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my husband. I love you.

John 3:16-17

Contents

M Y THANKS to everyone at Tyndale who helped bring Miss Pickworth and her friends to life: Kathy Olson, Ron Beers, and Karen Watson. Also I thank those in design, sales, marketing, public relations, author relations, and all who see my books from manuscript to bookshelf. My gratitude also to Becky Nesbitt and Anne Goldsmith Horch, who now work elsewhere but are certainly not forgotten.

I also thank my husband, Tim Palmer, whose guiding pen is always the first to cross the pages I write. Thank you, honey. Bless you, Andrei and Geoffrey, for loving and supporting good ol mom. May God richly bless you all.

And most of all, thank You, Lord, for holding me by the hand.

Otley, Yorkshire
1817

I shall never marry, Prudence Watson declared to her sister as they crossed a busy Yorkshire street. Men are cads, all of them. They toy with our hearts. Then they brush us aside as if we were no more than a crumb of cake at teatime. A passing fancy. A sweet morsel enjoyed for a moment and soon forgotten.

Enough, Prudence, her sister pleaded. You make me quite hungry, and you know we are late to tea.

Hungry? A glance revealed the twitch of mirth on Marys lips. Prudence frowned. You think me silly.

Dearest Pru, you are silly. Mary raised her wool collar against the cold, misty drizzle. One look at you announces it to all the world. Youre far too curly-haired, pink-cheeked, and blue-eyed to be taken seriously.

I cannot help my cheeks and curls, nor have they anything to do with my resolve to remain unmarried.

But they have everything to do with the throng of eligible men clamoring to fill your dance card at every ball. Your suitors send flowers and ask you to walk in the gardens. On the days you take callers, they stand elbow to elbow in the foyer. It is really too much. Surely one of them must be rewarded with your hand.

No, Prudence vowed. I shall not marry. I intend to follow the example of my friend Betsy.

Elizabeth Fry is long wed and the mother of too many children to count.

But she obeys a calling far higher than matrimony.

Rushing in and out of prisons with blankets and porridge? Is that your friends high calling?

Indeed it is, Mary. Betsy is a crusader. With Gods help, she intends to better the lives of the poor women in Newgate.

Better the lives of soiled doves, pickpockets, and tavern maids? Mary scoffed. I should like to see that.

And so you will, for I have no doubt of Betsys success. I shall succeed, too, when God reveals my mission. I mean to be an advocate for the downtrodden. I shall champion those less fortunate than I.

You are hardly fortunate yourself, Pru. You would do better to marry a rich man and redeem the world by bringing up moral, godly, well-behaved children.

Do not continue to press me on that issue, Mary, I beg you. My mind is set. I have loved and lost. I cannot bear another agony so great.

Do you refer to that man more than twice your age? the Tiverton blacksmith? Mr.... Mr. Walker?

Prudence tried to ignore the disdain in Marys voice. They were nearing the inn at which they had taken lodging in the town of Otley. Their eldest sister, Sarah, had prescribed a tour of the north country, declaring Yorkshires wild beauty the perfect antidote to downtrodden spirits. Thus far, Prudence reflected, the journey had not achieved its aim.

Now, Mary had raised again the subject of great torment to Prudence. It was almost as though she enjoyed mocking her younger sisters passion for a man she could never wed. Whatever anyone thought of him, Prudence decided, she would defend her love with valor and tenacity.

Mr. Walker is a gentleman, she insisted. A gentleman of the first order.

Nonsense, Mary retorted. He has no title, no land, no home, no education, nothing. How can you call him a gentleman?

Of course he has no titlehe is an American! Annoyed, Prudence lifted her skirts as she approached a large puddle in the street. Americans have no peerage. By law, they are all equal.

Equally common. Equally ordinary. Equally low. Mary rolled her eyes. Honestly, Pru, you can do far better than Mr. Walker. Sarah and I hold the opinion that her nephew, Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix, would suit you very well indeed. She writes that he is returned from India much improved from their last acquaintance. Delacroix owns a fine home in London and another in the country. He is wealthy, handsome, and titled. In short, the perfect catch. Leave everything to your sisters, Pru. We shall make it all come about.

You will do nothing of the sort! Delacroix is a foolish, reckless cad. I would not marry him if he were the last man in England.

Annoyed, Prudence stepped onto a narrow plank, a makeshift bridge someone had laid across the puddle. Attempting to steady herself, she did not notice a ragged boy dart from an alleyway. He splashed into the muddy water, snatched the velvet reticule at her waist, and fled.

Oh! she cried out.

The plank tilted. Prudence tipped. Her balance shifted.

In a pouf of white petticoats, she tottered backward until she could do nothing but unceremoniously seat herself in the center of the dirty pool. Mud splattered across her blue cape and pink skirt as she sprawled out, legs askew and one slipper floating in the muck.