Читать книгу: «The Bridal Quest», страница 2

“And your hair!” Maura went on relentlessly. “Heaven knows it is a trifle…unruly.” She frowned at Irene’s curling mass of dark golden hair, pulled back ruthlessly into a knot. “But the color is quite nice, really. And your lashes are long and luckily brown, not fair, so that you do not have that hairless look that one sees in some blondes.”

“Why, thank you, Maura,” Irene murmured drily. “Your compliments overwhelm me.”

Maura shrugged. “I am simply saying that you could make yourself look much more attractive if you would just try a little. Why, one would think that you are trying to drive men away rather than attract them.”

“Perhaps I am.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then Miss Cantwell let out a nervous titter. “Lady Irene! One might almost suppose you are serious.”

Irene did not bother to respond to the woman’s remark. Miss Cantwell would never understand, any more than any of the other women present, that Irene truly did not want to marry. Marriage was the goal of every woman’s life, as far as they were concerned. The pursuit of a husband was the focal point of a woman’s coming out—and of every Season thereafter, until she finally managed to snag one.

Marriage-minded mothers mapped out campaigns for their daughters like war-hardened generals. Skirmishes were played out on the fields of ballrooms, opera boxes and open-air carriage rides through Hyde Park, and the weapons of choice were frocks, curls, flirtatious glances over the top of one’s fan and—most lethal of all—gossip. Victory lay in snapping up an eligible bachelor, and few considered the years that lay ahead after the all-important ring was placed upon their finger.

No doubt Miss Cantwell and her mother were in the midst of that vital fray now. They would assume that any protestations Irene made were simply sour grapes for having lost that battle herself, for being a twenty-five-year-old spinster with no prospects other than living with her family for the rest of her life.

Irene sighed. She did not envy Miss Cantwell the marriage she hoped for. But she did wish that she could muster more equanimity to face the future she would have because she would not marry.

Maura leaned forward and laid her hand on Irene’s arm, smiling sweetly. “Now, dear, do not sigh. ’Tis not so bad. We shall find you a husband yet. Perhaps we should pay a visit to Lady Haughston.”

Irene grimaced, irritated that she had given Maura any glimpse of her discontent by sighing. “Don’t be absurd,” she told her crisply. “I told you, I am not seeking a husband. And if I were, I would not ask some silly butterfly like Francesca Haughston to help me.”

She stood up, too annoyed to worry about her bad manners. “Excuse me, ladies. I fear I have something of a headache.”

Then she turned and strode out of the room without waiting for a reply.

A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among Lady Wyngate and her friends, Francesca Haughston sat in the sitting room that was her favorite spot in the house, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the formal drawing room, and decorated in a sunny yellow that seemed to catch every stray ray of sun that flowed in through the west-facing windows. It was a pleasant place, furnished with pieces that, if a trifle shabby, were comfortable and dear to her. It was the room she used most, particularly in the fall and winter, for it was warmer than the other rooms, and it was cheaper to keep a fire here than in the larger drawing room. Of course, the fire was not of importance now, as it was the middle of August, but it was still the room she chose whenever she was alone.

Since the Season was over and many of the ton had returned to their country seats, she had few visitors these days, only her closest friends. As a consequence, the formal withdrawing room was kept closed, and Francesca spent her time here.

She was seated at the small secretary beside the windows, her accounts ledger open before her. She had been poring over the figures, but the pencil now lay in the trough between the pages, and she was gazing out at the small side garden, where the roses were putting up a last colorful show before autumn arrived.

Her problem, as always, was money—rather, a lack of it. Her late husband had been a profligate spender and unwise investor, and when he had died a few years ago, he had left her with little but her fashionable clothes and her jewelry. His estate, of course, had been entailed, passing to his cousin so that she no longer had a home except in London, a house that Andrew himself had purchased and had been able to bequeath to her. She had closed off all of one wing in an effort to economize, and had, with regret, let many of the servants go, keeping only a skeleton staff. She had also greatly curtailed her spending.

Even so, Francesca barely managed to scrape by. The easiest and most obvious way by which she could become wealthy—marrying again—she had rejected out of hand. She would have to be in much worse condition than she had yet fallen into to be willing to embark on that path once more.

There was a noise at the door, and she turned her head. Her personal maid, Maisie, stood there, looking uncertain. Francesca smiled and gestured to her to enter.

“My lady, I did not wish to disturb you, but the butcher’s man is here again, and he has been most insistent. Cook says he refuses to sell her any more meat until she pays her account.”

“Of course. Yes.” Francesca opened the slender drawer of the writing table and took out a coin purse. She pulled a gold coin from it and held it out to the girl. “This should be enough to hold him off.”

Maisie took the coin but continued to stand there, looking worried. “I could take something to sell for you, if you want. Maybe that bracelet.”

Over the years since her husband’s death, in order to survive, Francesca had sold off much of her jewelry and a number of other valuable items. It was Maisie who had taken such things to the jeweler’s or the silversmith. Of all the people in the world, it was Maisie who knew her best and whom she trusted the most. Only a few years older than Francesca, Maisie had been her maid since she married Lord Haughston, and had been with her through every up and down. Maisie alone never suggested to Francesca that she ease her situation by accepting one of her many suitors.

For the past few years, Francesca had ingeniously supported herself by bringing out young girls and helping them find husbands on the marriage mart. Faced with the harsh reality that she was running out of items to sell or pawn and that there was little opportunity for a woman such as herself to earn her way other than to marry or to sell her virtue, she had sat down and assessed her skills. There was one thing at which she was an expert: attracting suitors.

She had, of course, some natural advantages in that area. Her figure was elegantly slender, her hair a guinea gold, and her large eyes were a vivid dark blue. But there had always been a great deal more to Francesca’s success in the social world than her physical attributes. Just as her family’s long and respected lineage could only place her in the upper reaches of society, not make her a leading light of the ton, so, too, could her looks account for only a portion of her appeal.

Francesca had style. She had personality. She knew how to smile to make the dimple flash in her cheek, how to look at a man over her fan in a way that made his pulse speed up, or to gaze up at him in a manner designed to make the hardest heart melt. Quick of wit, she could engage in conversation on almost any topic and bring a smile to almost any lips. She knew how to dress for every occasion, and, moreover, she had an unerring sense of color and cut that rarely steered her wrong. Social occasions were her natural milieu, and she not only gave memorable parties, but she could enliven even the dullest gathering.

All her life she had helped her friends with questions of style and taste, and when she had guided the daughter of one of her late husband’s relatives through the treacherous social waters of a Season and been rewarded by a gift of a large silver epergne from the girl’s grateful parents, she had seen a way to maintain her style of living without really appearing to engage in that object of horror to English aristocrats: gainful employment.

She had pawned the silver epergne she was given, and paid her servants and many of her household bills with it. Then she had proceeded to maneuver herself into the path of mothers with marriageable daughters, especially those whose daughters had not really “taken.” A suggestion here, an offer there, and soon she had a steady stream of young girls whom she helped to turn out and find an eligible husband.

Her most recent project had been the result of a wager with the Duke of Rochford. The duke had promised her a bracelet if she won, against Francesca’s promise to pay a visit with him to his rather terrifying great-aunt Odelia. It had been absurd, and she had entered into it only because Rochford had goaded her. However, to Francesca’s surprise, the whole thing had resulted in Francesca’s own brother falling in love with and marrying Miss Constance Woodley. It had scarcely been what Francesca had envisioned, but it had turned out in the end to be something much better.

The duke had given her the bracelet, as well—a circlet of perfect deep-blue sapphires linked together by sparkling diamonds. The bracelet lay upstairs in the bottom compartment of her jewelry box, next to a set of sapphire earrings, given to her long ago and never sold.

Francesca looked up at her maid, who was watching her shrewdly. Francesca shook her head. “No, I won’t sell it just yet. One must keep something in reserve, after all.”

Maisie said only, “Yes, my lady,” in a noncommittal tone as she tucked the coin into her pocket and turned to leave the room. At the door, the girl paused and cast a last, considering look at her employer before she went out into the hall.

Francesca saw the glance. She knew the maid was curious, but Maisie was not one to pry, and, in any case, Francesca had no answer for her, really. The bracelet, and Rochford, were topics best left alone.

What she really needed to think about was what she was going to do to get by until the next Season began. It was unlikely that she would come upon a mother or father eager to marry a daughter off until next April, when the new social Season would start and there would be debuts at court and a large number of routs, balls and soirees at which parents could show off their nubile young daughters and see what prospective husbands awaited.

There was what was often termed the Little Season, which took place roughly from September to November, during which some of the sophisticates, bored by their sojourn in the country, returned to London to enjoy its entertainments. However, it was not the prime husband-hunting venue that the full Season was; there were far fewer young girls and, indeed, fewer people in general. Francesca knew that it would be unlikely that she could find a prospect to “help” during this time.

And while the payment she had given him would hold the butcher off for a few weeks, there were a number of other creditors who would soon be importuning her, and she hadn’t enough to hold them all off. Perhaps she could come up with a stray silver tray or some such thing to sell; she would have to go up to the attic and dig through all the trunks. Even so, she did not think that one or two small silver pieces would get her through until April.

Of course, she could shut down the house and go to stay at Redfields, where she had grown up. She knew that her brother Dominic and his new wife would welcome her graciously, but she hated to impose upon the newly married pair. They were scarcely back from their honeymoon. It was bad enough that the couple had his parents living in the manor house just down the lane from them. It would be unfair to saddle them with his sister, too.

No, she would spend a month at Redfields at Christmas, no more. She could, she supposed, follow the example of her good friend Sir Lucien, who, on the frequent occasions when he found himself short of funds, always managed to wangle an invitation to this estate or that for a few weeks. Of course, a handsome, entertaining bachelor was a most sought-after guest to round out the numbers of a house party; it always seemed that there were extra women. Besides, she hated having to maneuver someone into inviting her for a visit.

Perhaps it would be better to visit one of her relatives. There was Aunt Lucinda, with her deadly dull daughter, Maribel. They would be happy to have her join them in their Sussex cottage, and after a time there, she could spend a few weeks with Cousin Adelaide, who lived in a large rambling manor house in Norfolk and always welcomed visitors to help her oversee her enormous brood of children.

On the other hand, Francesca decided, it would not hurt to sit down and write to a few friends and mention how deadly dull it was in town now that everyone had left….

She was distracted from her thoughts by the entrance of the parlor maid. “My lady, you have visitors.” She cast an anxious look over her shoulder and turned back to Francesca, saying quickly, “I asked them to let me see if you were at home—”

“Nonsense!” came a booming woman’s voice. “Lady Francesca is always home to me.”

Francesca’s eyes widened. The voice sounded familiar. She rose to her feet, pulled up by a vague but powerful sense of foreboding. That voice…

A tall, stout woman dressed all in purple swept into the room. The style of her clothes was at least ten years out of date. This oddity was no indication of a lack of funds, for it was quite clear that the velvet from which they were sewn was new and expensive, and the hand at work was that of a master. Rather, it was simply proof that Lady Odelia Pencully had ridden roughshod over the desires of some modiste, as she was wont to do over everyone who came into her path.

“Lady Odelia,” Francesca said faintly, stepping forward on leaden feet. “I—What an unexpected pleasure.”

The older woman let out an inelegant snort. “No need to lie, girl. I know you’re scared of me.” Her tone indicated no regret over this fact.

Francesca’s gaze went past Lady Odelia to the man who had followed her down the hall. Tall, with an aristocratic bearing, he was as elegant as he was handsome, from the top of his raven-black hair to the tips of his polished black boots, made by Weston. Not a hair was out of place, and his countenance was politely expressionless, but Francesca could detect the glimmer of devilish amusement in his dark eyes.

“Lord Rochford,” she acknowledged him, her voice cool, with just an overlay of irritation. “How kind of you to bring your aunt to visit me.”

His mouth twitched a little at her words, but his expression remained imperturbable as he executed a politely perfect bow. “Lady Haughston. A pleasure to see you, as always.”

Francesca nodded toward the maid. “Thank you, Emily. If you would bring us some tea…”

The girl left, looking relieved. Lady Odelia strode past Francesca toward the sofa.

As the duke moved forward, Francesca leaned in a little toward him, whispering, “How could you?”

Rochford’s lips curled into a small smile, quickly gone, and he replied in a low voice, “I assure you, I had no choice.”

“Don’t blame Rochford,” Lady Odelia boomed from her seat on the sofa. “I told him I would come to see you with or without him. I suspect he is here more to try to curtail me than anything else.”

“Dear aunt,” the duke responded. “I would never be so audacious as to curtail you in any way.”

The old lady let out another snort. “You’ll note I said ‘try.’” She cast him a roguish glance.

“Of course.” Rochford inclined his head respectfully toward her.

“Well, sit down, girl,” Lady Odelia commanded Francesca, nodding toward a chair. “Don’t keep the boy on his feet.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Francesca quickly dropped into the nearest chair.

The duke took a place beside his great-aunt on the sofa.

Francesca felt about sixteen again, as she always did in the intimidating Lady Pencully’s presence. She had no doubt that Rochford’s great-aunt had immediately seen her dress for what it was—over four years old and resewn into a more contemporary style—and at the same time had noted that the draperies were faded and that one leg of the table against the wall had a large nick in it.

Francesca forced herself to smile at Odelia. “I must admit, I am rather surprised to see you here. I had heard you no longer traveled into London.”

“Don’t, if I can help it. I’ll be frank with you, girl. Never thought I’d come asking you for help. Flighty thing, I always thought you.”

Francesca’s smile grew even stiffer. “I see.”

The duke stirred a little in his seat. “Aunt—”

“Oh, don’t get your feathers ruffled,” the old lady barked. She cast a glance at Rochford. “Don’t mean I don’t like her. Always had a soft spot for the girl. Not sure why.”

Rochford pressed his lips tightly together to suppress a smile and carefully avoided looking at Francesca’s expression.

“Francesca knows that,” Lady Odelia went on, giving her a nod. “Thing is, I do need your help. I’ve come to beg a favor of you.”

“Of course,” Francesca murmured, her mind skittering anxiously over what no-doubt unpleasant task the woman could have in mind for her.

“The reason I am here…well, I’ll just be plain about it. I am here to find a wife for my great-nephew.”

CHAPTER TWO

THERE WAS A MOMENT of stunned silence in the room after the formidable old woman’s announcement. Francesca gaped at the woman, and her eyes slid involuntarily toward Rochford.

“I…um…” she stammered, feeling a blush rising in her cheeks.

“No, not him!” Lady Odelia exclaimed, and let out a crow of laughter. “Been trying for the best part of fifteen years with this one. Even I have given up hope. No, the Lilles line will have to go down through that foolish Bertrand, if it is to continue at all.” She heaved a sigh at this prospect.

“I’m sorry.” Francesca’s cheeks were thoroughly aflame now. “I didn’t—I am not sure I understand.”

“I’m talking about my sister’s grandson.”

“Oh! I see. I’m not—um, I don’t believe I know your sister, my lady.”

“Pansy,” Lady Odelia said, and sighed. It was clear from her expression that Lady Odelia found her sister lacking. “There were four of us—besides the three children that died in childhood, of course. I was the eldest, and then there was my brother, who, of course, grew up to be the duke. He was Rochford’s grandfather. After him was our sister Mary, and finally, the youngest, Pansy. Pansy married Lord Radbourne. Gladius, his name was. Damned silly name. His mother chose it, and a more foolish woman never lived. But that’s neither here nor there. The problem is Pansy’s grandson, Gideon. Lord Cecil’s son.”

“Oh.” Francesca recognized the name. “Lord Radbourne.”

Lady Odelia nodded. “Aye, you understand me now, I warrant. You’ll have heard the gossip.”

“Well…” Francesca demurred.

“No point trying to deny it. It was all over the ton the last few months.”

Francesca nodded. “Of course.”

Lady Odelia was right. Francesca—along with all the ton and, indeed, much of the rest of London—had heard the gossip. Many years ago, when he was only a lad of four, Gideon Bankes, the heir to the Radbourne title and estate, had been kidnapped, along with his mother. Neither the boy nor his mother was ever seen again. Then, years after he had been long-presumed dead, Gideon Bankes had reappeared.

His reappearance, and his inheritance of the title and estate of the Earl of Radbourne, had been the talk of the town for several weeks. Everyone Francesca knew had had an opinion on the matter—what the suddenly reclaimed heir was like, where he had been all these years and whether he was, in actuality, an imposter. There had been more questions than there were facts, for few people had actually met the new earl, and very few of those had offered any gossip.

Francesca looked again at the duke. She had seen him here and there, at various parties, over the past few months, but never had he said a word about the recovery of the lost heir. Indeed, she had not even realized that Rochford was in any way connected to the Bankes family. This fact only served to confirm her opinion that the Duke of Rochford was the most tight-lipped gentleman she knew. It was, she thought with a little flash of irritation, quite typical of the man.

“I am sure that what you have heard is mostly wrong,” Lady Odelia remarked. “I might as well tell you the whole of it.”

“Oh, no, I am sure that is not necessary,” Francesca began, torn between curiosity and the strong desire to get Lady Odelia out of her house.

“Nonsense. You need to hear the truth of it.”

“You may as well let her tell it,” Rochford advised Francesca. “You know it will be easier.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Sinclair,” his great-aunt admonished him.

Francesca noted somewhat sourly that Rochford, of course, did not seem at all in awe of the intimidating woman.

“Now,” Lady Odelia went on, “I am sure you don’t remember it, as you were just a child then yourself, but my nephew Cecil’s wife and son were abducted twenty-seven years ago. Frightful business. They received a letter demanding a ransom—a necklace of rubies and diamonds, dreadfully ugly thing, but worth a fortune, of course. It had been in the family for generations. Legend said it was given to them by a grateful Queen Elizabeth when she came to the throne. Cecil gave them what they asked for, but they did not give him back his wife and child. We all assumed both had been killed. Cecil was grief-stricken, but he held out hope that they would somehow, someday, return. Years went by before he remarried. Of course, when he did, he had to go through legal proceedings to have Selene—that was the first countess—declared dead. She had been missing for almost twenty years by then. But still, he did nothing about the boy. I presume he could not bring himself to admit that his child was dead.”

She shrugged and went on. “But then, a year ago, when Cecil himself died, something had to be done. If Gideon was still alive somewhere, then he would be the heir. However, Cecil’s second wife, Teresa, had given him a son, so if Gideon was dead, then Timothy would be the heir. Before we started legal proceedings, I set Rochford to see if he could turn up anything about Gideon.”

Francesca looked over at the duke. “Then…you are the one who found him?”

Rochford shrugged. “I can scarcely claim credit for it. All I did was hire a Runner to investigate the matter. He found Gideon in London. He was going by the name Gideon Cooper, and he had made something of a fortune for himself. Had no idea who he really was.”

“He didn’t remember anything?” Francesca asked in surprise.

“Apparently not—other than his given name, of course. He was only four when he was taken. He can remember nothing before the time when he was a street urchin in London.”

“But someone must have taken him in, cared for him,” Francesca protested. “Did they know nothing about how they came to have him? Where he came from?”

“Nothing,” Lady Odelia declared with disgust. “He says he never had any parents, that he grew up with a bunch of disreputable children in the stews of the East End. Imagine, the son of an earl, a boy with Lilles and Bankes blood flowing through his veins, living hand to mouth in some hovel, consorting with God-knows-what sort of riffraff!” She shook her head, the purple plumes that curled over her unfashionably high hairstyle bobbing wildly with her movements.

“But how did you know that it was Gideon?” Francesca asked curiously. “If he could not even remember, and there is no one around who raised him…”

“Oh, it was he, all right,” Lady Odelia’s tone suggested that she was less than pleased about the fact. “He had the birthmark—a little raspberry-colored blotch beside his left shoulder blade. Gideon had exactly the same mark from the time he was born. Pansy and I both remembered it. Of course, it looks smaller on an adult, but there is no mistaking it. A bit like a lopsided diamond. And, of course, he has the look of the Bankses. The Lilles jaw and hair, as well.”

“I see,” Francesca said somewhat untruthfully. The truth was that while Lady Odelia’s story was certainly interesting, she did not really understand why the woman had told it to her. She hesitated, then said, “I am sure you are quite happy to have him back after all this time.” She looked from Lady Odelia to the duke, but there was nothing in his carefully schooled face that offered any enlightenment to her. She turned back to the older woman. “I’m not sure…that is…well, why do you need my help—or anyone else’s, for that matter—to find a suitable wife for Lord Radbourne? You know everyone. Indeed, you know them better than I.”

“It is not finding a suitable woman. It is finding someone who is willing,” Lady Pencully replied.

Francesca stared. “But surely, with his title and property…”

“Lord Radbourne has not been out much in society. No doubt it has been remarked upon,” Lady Odelia said, fixing Francesca with her penetrating gaze.

“Well, um…” Francesca tried to think of a suitable reply.

The truth was, gossip had been rampant regarding the newly found earl’s absence from Society’s rounds. Though he had turned up several months ago, he had not appeared at any parties this Season. Rumors had run the gamut from his suffering from some hideous deformity to his being a criminal to his being utterly mad.

“Don’t knit your brow over how to tell me,” Lady Odelia went on brusquely. “Believe me, I have heard all the stories. He isn’t crook-backed or stunted or covered in boils. Nor is he stark-staring mad. But the truth is…well, he is…quite common.”

Lady Odelia uttered the words in a hushed voice, as though admitting the darkest of secrets, and she squared her shoulders as she gazed at Francesca, waiting for her retort.

“Aunt Odelia, aren’t you being a trifle hard on the man?” Rochford remonstrated. “I think Radbourne’s done quite well for himself, particularly given the circumstances.”

“Yes, if you are talking about making money,” Lady Odelia sniffed. “He has done a good deal of that.” Clearly her great-nephew’s financial success had not met with her approval.

“Scarcely the mark of a gentleman,” she went on flatly. “The truth is, his past is, well, unsavory. I am not aware of the particulars—and, frankly, I do not care to be.” She turned her fierce gaze on Rochford again, then swung back to Francesca. “He lived among the worst sort of people, far from the influence of his family and peers. The result is that he is lacking in the qualities that make up a gentleman. His speech and manners are quite unrefined, and his education is woefully short.”

“Gideon is very well-read, Aunt.” Rochford came to the man’s defense again, but his great-aunt waved away his words.

“Pshaw!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “I am not talking about books, Sinclair. I am talking about his education in the things that count—he cannot dance, and he has no idea how to make polite conversation. The man can barely sit a horse.” She paused to let that horror sink in. “He is much too familiar with the servants and the tenants, yet he scarcely says a word to his family or even the local gentry. Fortunately, we have managed to get him to stay at the Hall most of the time, but now he insists on returning to London.”

“He does have business here,” the duke pointed out mildly.

“And what if someone we know sees him conducting his…business?” Lady Odelia gave a theatrical shudder at the thought.

“Aunt Odelia, I think there is little for anyone to remark upon on seeing a man going into a bank or meeting with his clerks,” Rochford protested, his voice edging into irritation. “Come now, you will make Lady Haughston think that he should be locked up in the attic.”

“Would that I could lock him away,” Lady Odelia retorted.

The duke’s dark brows drew together, and he took a breath before answering her. It occurred to Francesca that she might soon have a battle between these two right here in her sitting room.

“But, Lady Odelia,” she intervened hastily, “I am afraid I still do not quite see what I have to do with all this. How can I introduce him to anyone if he has no interest in Society?”

“She wants you to help her arrange the poor chap’s life for him,” Rochford responded in a biting tone.

Francesca’s eyebrows sailed upward, and she said coolly, “I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t be difficult, Sinclair,” Lady Odelia admonished. “There is no need to snap at Francesca just because you are annoyed with me.”

Rochford’s mouth tightened, and he flashed a hot glance at Francesca, but he bowed his head in polite acquiescence and said, “Of course. Forgive me, Lady Haughston. I meant you no disrespect.”

“Do not worry,” Francesca murmured in a silky tone. “I have learned not to put overmuch importance on what you say.”

She was rewarded by a sardonic look from beneath his brows, but the duke said nothing more.

“It isn’t that I dislike the boy,” Lady Odelia went on, ignoring their exchange. “He is my great-nephew, after all, and I hope it never will be said that I denigrated any of my own blood—although God knows, Bertrand has tested my limits often enough. However, Gideon is a Lilles, at least in part, and it is scarcely his fault that he does not know how to act. So I put my mind to it and came up with a solution.” She paused and looked at Francesca, then announced, “Gideon must marry. And you are just the woman we need.”