Clonmere hoped to know her very well. “Why did Falmouth tell me he had only three daughters?”
Was Lady Iris engaged? The thought was unacceptable, for reasons Clonmere wouldn’t examine until he’d been fortified with solitude and a tot of good French brandy.
“I am the earl’s secret weapon,” Lady Iris said. “I am to spy on you, and learn everything about you.”
“Novel approach to spying, announcing the fact in broad daylight where I’m told one must ever exercise discretion.”
“I thought that business about tangling my carriage with Mr. Unbearable’s was a clever touch,” Lady Iris said. “Creative of me, don’t you think?”
Boru craned his neck to sniff the mare’s rump. The mare batted him in the face with her tail.
“Behave,” Clonmere muttered, shortening the reins. “So what secrets would you like to learn? I wet the bed until I was six. My siblings delight in that fact and announce it to all and sundry as often as possible. Formal dinners, fancy dress balls, the more public the better. I endure this stoically, because I will have my revenge by tattling to their children about all manner of peccadillos. I don’t smoke, I do prefer coffee to tea, particularly coffee with a touch of cinnamon in it.”
He’d never told a woman that last tidbit before, though it was hardly intimate.
“And your favorite color?”
That one was easy. “Green, a soft, leafy-trees-in-April green.” The green of your lovely eyes.
“Who is your favorite composer?”
“Robert Burns. I don’t fancy blaring horns and thumping kettle drums. Give me a pair of fiddles in close harmony and a tune I can recall over breakfast. Tell me about your sisters.”
She turned the mare down a less crowded path. “They are lovely young women. They’ve been raised to be gracious hostesses, conscientious wives, and virtuous women. You should esteem all of them greatly.”
This recitation was not grudging at all. To the contrary, Lady Iris offered her summation sternly, and few people ever spoke to Clonmere sternly.
Lady Iris was protective of her family, a fine quality in a prospective duchess.
“Your sisters are Lily, Holly and Hyacinth. Lily being the eldest, the twins two years her junior. Tell me their favorite colors, how they take their tea, their greatest sources of worry.”
Clonmere told himself he really ought to keep an open mind. Lady Iris was impressive, but her younger sisters might be equally so, or even more so. She described them in glowing and loving terms, right down to their respective fears.
“Lily feels very strongly that she must set an example for the twins and never put a foot wrong,” Lady Iris said. “The earl reinforces that fear by finding fault with Lily rather than praising her many virtues.”
“Praise Lily, appreciate her.” Clonmere said.
“Exactly. Hyacinth is torn, as children in the middle can be, between loyalty to Holly, her younger twin, and a natural yearning to have the status Lily can claim as the eldest.”
Lady Iris was the eldest, though she described her siblings as if she were their doting governess rather than their sister.
“So I should reassure Lady Hyacinth, and encourage her to be herself rather than somebody’s sister.”
That earned him a glance, searching, thoughtful, not particularly happy. “Yes, Your Grace. A good insight. Holly has learned to be observant, because she must fortify herself with information before she attempts to compete with the other two. She’s quiet, easily upset, and often overlooked unless she’s dressed exactly as her sister.”
“I should be attentive to Holly.”
“You are perceptive,” Lady Iris said. “One is relieved to reach that conclusion.”
Appreciative, reassuring, attentive, perceptive… Those qualities struck Clonmere as the role of an older brother, an uncle even. Of course, a husband should also have those traits—as should a wife.
“What of joy, Lady Iris? What of humor, passion, and dreams?” What of children?
The companion studied the trees overhead. Boru was trying to sneak his nose closer to the mare’s quarters. Clonmere shortened the reins again, though only a few inches.
“You asked me about their worries, Your Grace. What else would you like to know?”
Clonmere’s siblings would be surprised to learn that he was perceptive, and yet, he did grasp that he could not ask Lady Iris about her own fears and dreams. Instead, he peppered her with queries about her sisters—their favorite desserts, their preferences in terms of pets, the activities they enjoyed in Town and in the country.
Despite Lady Iris’s loyal efforts, Clonmere’s pictures of Lily, Holly, and Hyacinth became a predictable sketches: Dancing, shopping, needlework, watercolors. Light reading—whatever that meant—pianoforte, shopping, the theater. Italian opera, shopping, ices at Gunter’s, the Royal Academy’s art exhibitions, and for variety, another spate of shopping.
Lady Iris was doing her best to present her sisters as perfect duchesses-in-waiting and failing miserably. He listened to her replies not because of what they revealed about her sisters, but because of what they revealed about her.
She was loyal, honest, kind, observant, a very competent whip, and the only one of Falmouth’s daughters Clonmere would even consider offering for.
“John Fallon, you have lost what few wits the Lord endowed you with.” Hattie marched into Falmouth’s study, angrier than she’d ever been with him, which was very angry indeed. “I did not speak out when you dismissed the French tutor, and made Iris responsible for guiding her sisters in a foreign language, because Iris was flattered to have the responsibility. I did not speak out when you refused to purchase Iris’s frocks, because she can make far better dresses than the modistes would. I did not speak out when you encouraged that awful Mr. Harman to pay Iris his addresses.”
The earl remained seated behind his desk, proof that manners had followed chivalry down Mayfair’s jakes.
“Harriet, if you wish to discuss a matter of significance with me, you may make an appointment with Snetten. The press of business does not allow me to humor you at this time.”
Snetten, poor lad, was Falmouth’s secretary and whipping boy. He was frequently the last member of the household to bed, staying up until all hours in the kitchen, copying correspondence for his lordship.
“Snetten was never married to my cousin. Snetten is not the head of this family. Snetten is doubtless daft—witness he accepted employment with you—but I’ll not discuss your ludicrous schemes through an intermediary.”
Hattie knew better than to sit, because then Falmouth would rise, pace around her once or twice while offering pomposities of no relevance whatsoever, and then leave the room.
Falmouth tossed his quill pen to the blotter and heaved up a longsuffering sigh. “Harriet, the girls must marry. Would you have them end up as you have, a poor relation, dependent on the charity of distant family?”
Over the years, Hattie had endured a barrage of such slurs, which were in fact, veiled threats.
“I am not related to you, thank God, but I am the closest thing your daughters have to a respectable chaperone. Toss me out on my ear, and you’ll have to pay for a companion while you explain to polite society why I’m begging in the streets.”
She was tempted to do that. She could sit in Hyde Park with a begging bowl, moaning piteously about Lord Falmouth’s cruelty—though that would reflect poorly on his daughters.
Falmouth whipped out a handkerchief and rubbed a non-existent fingerprint from the ruby glass of the ink well. “Iris is old enough—”
Hattie slapped both palms onto the blotter hard enough to make the earl start. “Precisely. Iris is the eldest. She is also the smartest, the kindest, the most likely to find matches for her sisters, and the least likely to make a ninnyhammer of herself before a duke.”
Falmouth tucked away his handkerchief, folding it deliberately and precisely in a display of controlling behavior that made Hattie want to st
rangle him with his own linen. But then, Falmouth wasn’t very bright. He needed his posturing and drama because they afforded him time to think.
“Clonmere won’t notice Iris. She’s perfectly positioned to do reconnaissance for her sisters, and as you say, she’s loyal. If Clonmere can be matched with Lily, Holly, or Hyacinth, Iris will see it done.”
And typical of his lordship, that one conclusion—Iris will get the job done if anybody could—was as far as his limited intelligence and even more limited paternal sentiment could take him.
“And if Iris cannot effect that miracle? If even her good offices, abetted by my own, can’t present a trio of pretty, timid, empty-headed, ornaments as potential duchesses? What then?”
Falmouth sat back. “Clonmere will honor his father’s promise. He must choose one of the three. He’s not a boy, and his mother is determined he shall wed. I’m presenting him with the solution to a problem, you see. His Grace need not sort through every hat box on Mayfair’s shelves, he need only consider three.”
Dear God, the race would soon die out if this was an example of its leading lights. “A woman is not a piece of millinery, Falmouth.”
Falmouth took out a pen knife—silver handle engraved with his cost of arms—and began slicing at the tip of his quill.
“A woman is not a source of income either, Harriet.” He treated her to a pointed look, which was intended to produce shame and guilt—for having served in his household without pay for years out of simple loyalty to his daughters.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Iris has means, while her sisters don’t. You can’t afford for Iris to waltz off with the duke, because you’ve failed to set aside enough for her sisters.”
An interesting shade of red crept up Falmouth’s neck, and the knife slipped.
“Damn and blast. Now look what you’ve made me do.” He wrapped his free hand around the blood welling from his finger, though the cut was tiny. “Blood won’t wash out. How many times has Crevins told me that? This is your fault, with your foolish female—”
Hattie passed him her handkerchief. “Let the wound bleed for a moment to reduce the probability of infection, then apply steady, direct pressure. You’ll live, Falmouth, more’s the pity.”
He sent her a sullen boy’s rebellious look and wrapped his injured finger with her handkerchief. “If you’ve nothing more to say, please leave before you cause further mishaps. I’m a busy man, and I’ll thank you to trust me to do what’s best for my daughters.”
He was a pathetic man, doing for his daughters what was necessary to maintain his standing before his peers.
“Is Peter gambling again?”
In the space of a breath, Falmouth went from aging, pouty boy, to elderly and overwhelmed father. “Every heir sows wild oats.”
“He’s beggaring you with his stupidity, just as you probably beggared your papa. Set him on a budget, my lord, and enforce the figure the first time he exceeds it. If your own father had done the same with you, you could afford to dower all of your daughters handsomely.”
Falmouth peered at the wound, which was, of course, still seeping blood. “Get out.”
“Steady, direct pressure, Falmouth. The more often you peek, the longer it will bleed.” She barely refrained from adding, you imbecile. Falmouth had always been too full of his own consequence, but the late countess had known how to flatter him, encourage the good in him, and jolly him from his self-inflicted dismals.
The longer Falmouth remained without a countess to manage him, the more arrogant and unpleasant he became.
“I’m leaving,” Harriet said. “I thought you should know that. At the end of this Season, I’ll be removing to my sister’s household in Surrey. Iris will be welcome to join us.”
This announcement was the result of long consideration. If Iris was on hand to limit her sisters’ commercial excesses, keep the staff running smoothly, and mind the earl’s household budget, his lordship would never bear the consequences of his own folly.
“Fine. Abandon the girls when they need you most, turn your back on my years of generosity. I wish you the joy of your dotage.”
Harriet had never liked Falmouth. He was a willfully immature man, and determined to stay that way. His concerns, needs, and wants weren’t his first considerations, they were his only considerations. Every universe had him at its center. With his heir showing signs of adopting the same view of life, the household could only become miserable.
“All of your daughters will be welcome under my roof,” Harriet said, “and we will manage more happily with limited means than you do with all your rents and investments. Poverty of the heart is a worse affliction than poverty of coin.”
Before the earl could fumble out another insult, Harriet left, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Clonmere has a charming smile,” Iris said. “He’s mannerly and attractive.”
Lily’s stabbed at her embroidery hoop. “Does that mean he’s handsome? I’ve seen him across the square, but broad shoulders mean little if a man talks with his mouth full.”
Oh, this was difficult. Iris wanted to gush about the duke—she should gush about the duke—but she also wanted to hoard the details of her encounter for herself.
“He’d never talk with his mouth full,” she said. “He has the natural sense of self-possession that men comfortable in their own skin acquire. He would partner you on the dancefloor, not haul you about. You’d have a conversation, not be consigned to listening adoringly while he talks about his hounds.”
Hyacinth looked up from her lace. “But I listen adoringly so well.”
Holly laughed. “And being hauled about has become a habit. I’m sure I can’t recall the steps of any dance I ever learned.” They exchanged a look that between twins communicated volumes.
“Clonmere’s duchess will be happy in her marriage,” Iris said. “Though she will be challenged as well.”
Lily snipped off her thread. “Because of all the entertaining?”
“That too, though a competent staff can handle those obligations. If Clonmere is bringing charm, intelligence, means, honor, a title, and more to the union, then his duchess had better be equipped with charm, intelligence, settlements, dignity, graciousness, and loyalty, at least. You’ll have to make an effort to hold his interest if you expect him to hold yours.”
“I expect him to hold my cloak,” Lily said. “And a lovely cloak it will be too. I fancy a bright blue velvet to bring out my eyes.”
“Be serious,” Hyacinth replied. “Iris is right. The Duchess of Clonmere can’t be a gudgeon. She must be a paragon.”
Holly set aside her book. “I missed the classes in being a paragon. I did watercolors, dancing, deportment, French—until Papa let Monsieur go. I’m not sure I can be a paragon.”
“Of course you can,” Iris said. “For a husband you esteem greatly, you can achieve nearly anything you set out to do.”
That reassurance felt like a betrayal, because Iris should be encouraging her sisters to achieve their dreams for themselves, though their dream was apparently to become Clonmere’s duchess. Iris also felt as if she was betraying the duke, who was more than a trophy stag whose family crest would be mounted on his duchess’s Town coach.
And perhaps, a little bit she was betraying herself.
Cousin Hattie came in carrying Puck, an enormous sloth of a feline. “Brace yourselves, my dears. We’re to have a caller.”
“If that odious Mr. Billings Harman comes around again,” Holly muttered, “I am prostrate with a megrim.”
“I claim the bloody flux,” Hyacinth added. “That leaves a lung fever for you, Lily.”
“I had lung fever last time.”
While Iris had had the longest half hour of her life, dodging Mr. Harman’s innuendos and his hands. Thank heavens Hattie had been steadfastly remarking the time every five minutes.
“The Duke of Clonmere is at our front door,” Hattie said. “He’s brought Mr. Thomas Everhart along, and I’
ve already sent for the tea tray.”
Lily stashed her embroidery hoop into her work basket. “Mr. Everhart? The composer?”
“They’re cousins,” Iris said, not that she’d been studying Debrett’s until midnight or anything. “I’ve danced with Mr. Everhart. He seems very pleasant.”
“Oh, lord, I’m not wearing any lace,” Hyacinth said, examining herself in the mirror over the sideboard.
Holly jostled her aside. “I haven’t a stitch of embroidery on.”
“Bother that,” Lily said, pinching her cheeks and crowding Holly. “My hair is a fright.”
“Your hair is beautiful,” Iris retorted. “If you all rush off to change your dresses or re-do your hair, the duke will be gone before you can rejoin us.” Though for fifteen minutes, Iris wouldn’t have to share him with her sisters.
Disloyal thought.
Disloyal honest thought.
Disloyal, honest, hopeless thought. The sooner Clonmere chose his duchess, the sooner Iris could retire to the country in peace.
The butler, a venerable relic named Sooth, glided into the parlor. “Henning, His Grace of Clonmere, and Mr. Thomas Everhart.”
“Thank you, Sooth,” Iris said, rising. “If you’d see to the tea tray.”
“Lady Iris,” Mr. Everhart said, bowing. “May I present to you my cousin, Henning, Duke of Clonmere. Clonmere, Lady Iris Fallon.”
Further introductions followed, with Iris’s sisters bobbing like blossoms in the breeze, and Clonmere bowing gravely over each proffered hand. This was a necessary step on the way to the altar, of course, and by having his cousin make the introductions, Clonmere was getting off on a very proper foot with Iris’s sisters.
By the time the silver tea service was rolled in, along with a fruit basket, cakes, lemon bread, and a pair of French cheeses, awkwardness had arrived as well.
“Mr. Everhart,” Iris said, “won’t you tell us of your latest composition.”
“Please do,” Lily added. “I thought your airs for the harp inspired.”
Everhart, another dark-haired blue-eyed fellow, though not as tall as the duke, looked pleased. “The harp is a beautiful instrument, and in its quiet grace, it commands attention more effectively than does a brass quintet. I’m working on a piano sonata now, though the slow movement has me rather confounded.”
Dukes by the Dozen Page 21
