“Well if he can be trusted to stay silent, we can only hope his mother follows suit. And what of Meggie?” Eliza inquired, coming closer to Caroline. “How has she been holding up through all of this?”
“Meggie is doing well. She still helps with Frances on occasion, but she’s returned belowstairs now for the most part.” Caroline sighed. “It’s a relief she was willing to stay on at all. These past few months have not been easy for her.”
“It doesn’t sound as if they’ve been easy for anyone, really,” Eliza replied, pulling her in for a tight hug.
Tears threatened, stinging her eyes, and Caroline blinked furiously to dispel them.
“It really hasn’t,” she said with a scowl. “I couldn’t even arrange an increase in pay for Meggie’s trouble without approval from my parents. They were impossible to reach, as they always are.”
Eliza scoffed and pulled back to view her in sympathy. “Soon, your complaint will be very much the opposite. When do they arrive?”
“Within the next few days. The servants have been working themselves to the bone preparing the house.”
“They must have been enraged when you refused to go to London,” Eliza said with a quirk of her eyebrows. “I can’t imagine anything but fury motivating them to rush back to Hampshire on such short notice.”
“Oh, they were. Enough that they interrupted their happy life just so they could force the issue in person.” She grinned, unable to help it. “I won’t deny that I take great satisfaction in inconveniencing them. And I plan to annoy them a good deal more once they arrive.”
“Take care, friend,” Eliza warned, “I wouldn’t harass them overmuch or you might end up married to some toothless old baron who smells like fish.”
Caroline wrinkled her nose. “Oh, I know of the risks. But I could probably manage to accept such a husband as long as he ignores me most of the time, which he probably would. I also know that it’s useless to worry about who they pair me up with. I won’t have a choice when the time comes.”
“You really believe that?” Eliza asked sadly.
She shrugged. “I really do . . . but no matter. I’ll happily annoy them all. What other joy will I have left at that point?”
“Is there a man who might meet their requirements and please you too? Have you met anyone since our time in London?”
Caroline’s lungs spasmed in agony at the question.
Jonathan was off-limits in more ways than one, but as luck would have it, was the only man she wanted. Shaking her head, she averted her eyes.
“No.”
Eliza crossed to the sideboard to lift a glittering crystal decanter, the caramel-colored liquor catching the light from the windows. Removing the stopper, she leaned her nose over the container and sniffed experimentally. “No one?” she asked, tugging over two glasses with her free hand. “Not even the man Lady Frances seemed to think was so very handsome?”
Caroline winced. Privately, she wished Lady Frances hadn’t been so quick to sing his praises to her friends. She needed to convince them that nothing existed between her and Cartwick. That would be a great deal more difficult if Frances could not keep her mouth closed when it came to their troublesome neighbor.
“I’m not sure who she was talking about, exactly,” she replied, sinking down into her seat, taking a moment to arrange her skirts deliberately across the golden velvet settee. “I’ve started to think that perhaps she is not as selective as she once was.”
Eliza’s brows shot up as the liquor flowed into the tumblers. “I’ve never known your aunt’s tastes to be anything but precise . . . especially when it comes to attractive men,” she added with a snicker.
Caroline laughed too, but hers was a weak and uneasy attempt at sounding normal. “A lot has changed in the past few months, Eliza,” she said, joining her friend at the sideboard with an amused smile. “Have you adopted a drinking habit?” she teased. “Perhaps Lord Evanston really has been a bad influence on you.”
“Oh, he has,” Eliza answered, waggling her eyebrows comically. “But I figured you could probably use this.” She extended a glass in her direction.
“Why?” asked Caroline warily, accepting the offering.
Her friend clinked her glass against Caroline’s and raised it up in a mock toast. “Because if you are truly at the mercy of your parents, something tells me this is going to get worse for you before it gets better. But you need to know that Thomas and I will be here . . . and we will defend you to your parents, and to American neighbors, if need be.” Tipping her glass back, she took a long swallow of the amber liquid.
Caroline glanced away. Sadness and guilt warred relentlessly within her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t be silly . . . thanks are never necessary. Now drink up,” Eliza demanded with a grin. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve got a viscount waiting for me upstairs.”
“Yes, right over here will do. I need room for five clay pots.”
Jonathan hooked his fingers beneath the large stone planter, and with a grunt, he and his head gardener moved it to the side of the pathway. The man shook his head and eyed Cartwick in befuddlement.
“For pineapples?”
“That’s right,” Cartwick answered, brushing a sweaty lock of hair away from his forehead. Too late, he decided to strip off his jacket and drape it over a nearby bench. His shirt was already damp and clinging to his back.
“The pineapples we just removed?”
“Yes,” he replied with some effort, dragging another container out of the way while his gardener viewed him skeptically.
“I thought you said they were ugly plants that served no purpose.”
Cartwick thought he could detect some lingering resentment. After all, the man had argued against their removal quite vehemently. Tossing his head back, Jonathan shot him a humorous scowl as best he could manage, hunched over as he was.
“I’m starting to wonder what purpose you serve, Campbell,” he said, his breathing labored now with another heave of a large pot. “Now stop talking and help me make room—”
A brilliant square of light danced across the greenhouse as the door opened, and he raised a hand to shade his eyes, blinking into the reflected morning sun. His mother’s pale face stared back, and he released the pot to stand upright.
“Is something wrong?”
Dorothea’s hands were clenched tightly together and she turned to look behind her before responding, almost as if she was worried they would be overheard. “Not exactly. We have a visitor, dear.”
A tremor of excitement raced through him and he cleared his throat. “Do we?” he asked. “Who is it?”
“Well that’s the thing I don’t quite understand,” she said, the dark wings of her brow lowering in confusion. “It’s Baroness Hedridge.”
The thrill he’d experienced just a moment before transformed into a cool rush of displeasure—something not easily achieved in the steamy warmth of the greenhouse. He frowned, slapping his trousers to free the dust from his hands, then reached over to retrieve the jacket he’d just discarded.
“Baroness Hedridge?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Why would she be calling?”
His mother frowned dismally. “That’s a good question. I suppose I shall have to find out.”
“No. I wouldn’t force you to endure such a trial on your own. Let us go and meet her together.”
After shrugging on his jacket, he and Dorothea entered the parlor to greet their unexpected guest who—to his consternation—viewed him in poorly concealed delight. He could only speculate as to why she might take such joy in seeing him here today. The knowledge that Lady Hedridge gossiped at Caroline’s expense rankled him greatly. Still, it would do no good to pick an argument with the woman now, especially since he believed she probably possessed information he might find important.
“My lady,” he said with a bow, choking on the deference required. “I must admit to being surprised by your visit—”
“Pleas
antly, of course,” supplied his conscientious mother.
He smiled thinly. “Of course.”
“Would you care for some tea?”
The blue eyes of the baroness bounced back and forth between them, growing brighter in her amusement. “Why yes,” she replied in a too-cultured voice, sinking down onto the couch amidst the surrounding puff of her mustard-yellow skirts. “I would love to stay for tea.”
His mother rang for tea while Jonathan clenched his teeth in an effort to keep from groaning out loud. The notion of entertaining this woman for any longer than absolutely necessary needled at his already frayed nerves, but he came to stand near the mantel with an expression of absolute politeness.
“What can we do for you, my lady?” asked Dorothea, seating herself in a chair. The question prompted the baroness to sigh in a show of faux distress.
“My goodness, thank you for asking. I actually just came by to bend your ear about a recent development with an acquaintance of yours.” Her glance shifted over to catch Jonathan’s from beneath the dark fringe of her lashes. “Although I suppose Mr. Cartwick may also be interested?”
His insides clenched in anticipation. All he could do was pray that news of Frances’s illness had not been made public . . . for both her and for Caroline’s sake.
He shrugged and laced his fingers together before him. “I suppose we’ll know in a moment.”
Taking his comment as encouragement, she leaned forwards on the couch, the fullness of her skirts rustling with the motion.
“Well,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “it seems the Duke of Pemberton has taken the matter of his daughter’s marriage into his own hands by enlisting the help of a certain personage and her connections.” She smiled in false modesty and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “And I’ve succeeded in putting together a list of three titled suitors who would serve quite well. They have been invited to a special dinner with the duke.”
Dorothea’s mouth actually fell open, while Jonathan somehow managed to retain what he hoped was a neutral facade. She was the first to speak.
“I’m not certain why you would think we’d be interested—”
“Wouldn’t the duke’s daughter be the best judge of which suitors would serve quite well?” he interrupted with an edge to his voice that he couldn’t quite disguise.
The lady’s smile widened and she surveyed their reactions with wolfish eagerness. “She has been afforded multiple opportunities to select a husband over the past few years, and at considerable expense to her parents. But each time she has behaved rather unpredictably, even going so far as to swear off marriage altogether.” She clucked her tongue in censure.
“And why exactly is your help required in such a personal matter?” he asked with a scowl. “Didn’t Lady Caroline endure enough hardship during last year’s season?”
Blast. That final sentence would surely reveal his allegiance, were Lady Hedridge perceptive enough to see it. And she was. He saw the way her eyes had narrowed briefly in that moment. He’d also seen the way his mother’s eyes had flashed over to him in warning.
“Oh, she did,” said the baroness, nodding solemnly. “One could hardly blame her for not wishing to return to London again this year. Still . . . the girl must marry. And since she refuses to make the choice for herself—”
“The girl . . .” Jonathan stared down at the floor, contemplating the amount of disrespect contained in that single phrase. “Is she not the daughter of a duke?”
“The tea is here,” his mother declared in relief, pushing up from her seat to meet the butler as he wheeled in the cart. “That’s fine, Shaw, I have it from here. Do you take sugar, my lady? Cream?”
The butler departed and Dorothea busied herself asking questions and pouring tea, doing her best to keep tensions from boiling over. Oddly, Lady Hedridge was not offended after his terse correction of her. Instead, she stared at him with something like fascination. It was almost as if he was an exotic specimen she’d spied in the depths of an aquarium tank.
You know better. Keep your mouth shut around this woman.
In an effort to do just that, he crossed his arms and strode casually over to the windows, pretending to gaze outside. It wasn’t proper behavior when receiving a guest, he knew, but it was preferable to what he wished he could do. Kicking her out of his house, for starters.
“So,” his mother said, lowering cautiously back down into her chair, “these men will be attending a dinner . . . by special invitation?”
Jonathan could hear Lady Hedridge stirring her tea, the spoon making numerous noisy revolutions around her china cup before finally clinking to a rest on the saucer. “Yes. The three men will be summoned by very special invitation. I have already ascertained their—in some cases, reluctant—willingness to acquiesce to the match. But each man sees the obvious benefit in aligning with the Duke of Pemberton, even if his daughter would not be what most men would consider an ideal wife.”
His back was still turned but he sensed this woman took great satisfaction at seeing Caroline brought so low, and she was desperately trying to elicit some kind of reaction from him. At the sound of the baroness slurping her tea in what had to be a subversive attempt to annoy the holy hell out of him, Jonathan decided he’d finally heard enough.
“It appears you were wrong, my lady,” he said, abruptly turning from the windows and crossing over to the door. “I don’t find this conversation diverting in the slightest. Allow me to leave so you two may continue your discussion in peace.”
He issued a perfunctory bow in her direction then tossed a sideways glance of apology at his mother, who nodded in both understanding and gratitude. Even if Dorothea had not been aware of his feelings for Lady Caroline—which he was almost certain she was—she knew better than to argue if he felt the sudden need to excuse himself.
In this case, it might be the only thing keeping him from throttling the snake in the mustard-yellow dress whose eyes were following him with nauseating glee.
Chapter Sixteen
A knock at the study door roused Jonathan from his ledgers and he glanced up, thankful for the interruption. The past few days had been nothing but an endless chain of headaches and no manner of distraction, exciting or dull, could assuage the uneasiness Lady Hedridge’s visit had produced.
“Enter,” he called, rubbing a palm restlessly across the back of his neck.
The door opened to reveal his butler, Shaw, a shining salver in his hand. “Pardon the interruption, sir.” He came closer and with a polite incline of his head, extended the tray in his direction. “You have a letter from America.”
Jonathan’s eyebrows raised, and the dull pounding at his temples lessened by an infinitesimal degree. “Do I?”
Retrieving the envelope, he excused Shaw with a brisk nod. Once the door had closed, he sighed and leaned back in his chair, turning over the letter and leaning his elbows upon the polished wooden surface.
Smiling fondly at the familiar handwriting on the envelope, he tore into the worn and battered parchment that had traveled to him all the way across the Atlantic. He raised the leaves up into the golden afternoon light.
Jonathan,
I hope this letter finds both you and Mother well and increasingly at home in your new English estate. It is still difficult to believe that you agreed to all of it—any of it, really—and yet I am surrounded by mounting evidence of your absence each day. Perhaps you will find the chance to voyage back to America, if for no other reason than to share a pint with your brother on occasion.
At any rate, the shipyard is much as you left it. This is due in large part to your fastidious preparations, but I like to think that I’ve done a worthy job of keeping things running smoothly. Graham is still as bullheaded as ever and quick to temper, but he knows how to talk to the builders and I appreciate his passion for the job, even if we don’t always see eye to eye.
Contracts are up and business is good. The only thing missing is you. Father would have
been proud to see the shipyard continuing on, and he would have been prouder still that you set out to carve your own way in life, even if you had to return to England to do it.
Speaking of, I can only imagine how it must irk you to deal with all of those highfalutin society types, especially that one who was such an irritation from the start. Lady Caroline, the spinster daughter of a duke . . . and it’s no wonder she hasn’t married if her initial letters are to be believed. It sounds as if you put her neatly in her place, and I look forwards to hearing about your meeting with the duke. It should nearly be happening by the time you receive this.
I debated whether or not to tell you, but Letitia visited the shipyard last week. She had a ring on her finger but, of course, we’d been expecting that. Although for as happy as she professed to be, she was equally perplexed at finding me in your place, and I’ve never seen someone so shocked as she was when I informed her you now lived halfway around the world. It seems she would have much preferred to rub your nose in her deceit at close range. I am glad you did not give her the chance.
In conclusion, I am well. Damned busy, but otherwise good. I would ask about Mother, but something tells me she is enjoying this little adventure of yours. Her cheerful attitude is an example for us all, but don’t tell her I said that. She might start expecting more of me.
Fond regards,
James
Jonathan ran a finger contemplatively across his lips, then set the letter aside and buried his fingers into his hair. The news of Letitia’s marriage did not bother him, as her initial betrayal had effectively neutralized any of his softer feelings for her. He couldn’t deny the whole sordid affair still smarted, but it was mainly due to pride.
And now that he thought about it, what really bothered him was that his brother believed Jonathan had accepted the entailed estate as a means of escaping his faithless bride-to-be. In actuality, his own reasons for leaving America had not been obvious, even to him. Not at first. But it was a truth that was becoming increasingly clear, like when you squinted to see the landscape once the morning fog had lifted.
Waiting for a Rogue Page 20
