by Dorothy Mack
“God bless you and keep you, Jason.” Lady Pendleston reached up on tiptoe to press her lips against the smoothly shaven cheek of her nephew, turning her head so he wouldn’t see the foolish tears that had sprung to her eyes.
She stood by the door until the sound of his footsteps was no longer audible. Even then she did not resume her stitchery immediately, but wandered over to the mantelpiece, where her fingers absently caressed the lovely curves and convolutions of a rose quartz statuette representing the Chinese goddess Kuan Yin. Her thoughts were still with the man who had just left and the scene recently enacted. They weren’t comfortable thoughts.
Jason was her closest relative and, after her husband’s death, the person who meant most to her in the world. Marcus had been a dear boy too, but, as his father’s heir, he took precedence with their paternal parent. She had tried to restore the balance by favouring the younger son. Besides, Jason’s high-couraged determination had always appealed to her. Also, his vulnerability spoke to a heart that had long smarted with shame for a sister’s complete lack of maternal feeling. Forced into a loveless marriage for worldly gain, her older sister had taken her revenge on her parents and husband by an unceasing show of coldness and indifference to the products of the unhappy union. She had amused herself with a string of flirtations — to give the kindest connotation to her behaviour — that had only ended with her death when the boys were in their early teens.
It should not have been a shock to hear Jason’s caustic comments on marriage just now. His family life had been entirely lacking in parental or connubial affection, but she had hoped that the example of her own happy union might have gone a long way toward neutralizing his natural reaction. She replaced the statuette on the mantel and turned back to her seat, absentmindedly blowing her nose as she settled once more onto the damask cushions. Her head went back against the curved headrest and her lids came down, enabling her to fix a picture of Jason’s expression before her mind’s eye.
It wasn’t so much what he had said but the fact of his trying to soften it for her that was most disturbing. He hadn’t wished her to discern how deeply ingrained was his antipathy to marriage, and perhaps toward women in general. He didn’t question her love for him and returned it sincerely, but obviously her quasi-maternal affection hadn’t been enough to prevent the development of this inclination toward misogyny.
It didn’t help matters that females had been on the catch for him for years and that the often-unprincipled pursuit had intensified since his brother’s estates and titles had descended to him. There were times when she could blush for her whole sex! The natural desire to achieve a happy marriage and perpetuate the species had been perverted by a society that measured everything in terms of material possessions. She had been guilty herself of inquiring into Miss Hardwicke’s dowry just now, she recalled with a twinge of shame. It was almost an automatic reaction in the world in which they dwelled.
But she at least knew it was possible to forge a union of hearts and minds that could keep the concerns of the world at a distance. She desperately wanted such a marriage for Jason. A woman who sincerely loved him could wean him away from his bitter philosophy, could replace it with a less jaundiced view of married life. Was the beautiful Miss Hardwicke the person to achieve this for Jason? Her knowledge of celebrated beauties of past seasons gave Lady Pendleston little scope for optimism in this regard. In her experience, beauties had too great a passion for their own persons to spare any for their mates.
A truly loving heart could sometimes command love in return, however. She’d had to simulate a coughing fit to prevent herself from asking Jason if he loved Miss Hardwicke. Not only did she not wish to force his confidence or push him into a lie, but some cowardly streak in her wished passionately to remain in ignorance of the true situation so she could continue to wish him well in his quest.
You didn’t ask because you don’t believe he has any real feeling for this girl, a little voice whispered in her unwilling ear. Lady Pendleston’s lips tightened and her fingers reached for her embroidery, but the persistent voice refused to be silenced. Jason might be dazzled by the girl’s looks, he had readily admitted as much, but her lifelong knowledge of his character told her she would have recognized the existence of love in him. Never mind that he would scorn to wear his heart on his sleeve; she was firmly persuaded he would have been incapable of concealing such a potential source of joy from her. No words would have been necessary to convey it to her understanding. Unhappily, she had received no such unspoken message from her nephew, and she resumed her sewing with a heightened sense of uneasiness about his future.
CHAPTER 2
The elderly man behind the littered desk looked up in annoyance at a knock on the door, the permanent lines of irritation deepening in his seamed cheeks.
“Who’s there?”
A young woman with golden-brown hair drawn smoothly back from an oval face paused in the doorway. “May I come in for a moment, Uncle? Though I don’t wish to disturb you if you are very busy.”
“You’ve already disturbed my concentration, so you may as well come in and do the thing thoroughly,” grunted the man, throwing down his pen. Tone and words were scarcely welcoming, but anyone well acquainted with Lord Brestwick would have recognized that the piercing stare he bent on the young woman crossing the Axminster rug toward him contained tolerance, if not outright approval.
Cleone, who knew him very well indeed, took heart as she approached a big leather chair angled toward the desk. She clucked in dismay at its condition and proceeded to wipe its surface with her handkerchief. She transferred the pile of books on the seat to a corner of the desk before settling into its capacious depths with a little rustle of skirts. Her dispassionate gaze swept the debris covering every square inch of the enormous desk.
“Uncle, you really must allow the maids in to straighten out this room. One can scarcely breathe for the dust.”
The old man cackled with sardonic humour. “Affronts your sense of order, does it, girl? You’ve got the petty soul of a housekeeper.”
Amusement lighted the dark eyes regarding him steadily. “I realize yours is above such mundane matters, sir, but you will be much more comfortable working in here when the mess has been reduced,” she coaxed. “I solemnly promise no other hands than mine shall touch your desk.”
“Keep them out till after I’ve gone through the quarter’s reports. I’ll be finished by the end of the week.”
“Tomorrow,” she said firmly. “We’ll do it early in the morning. You shall not be inconvenienced at all.”
The earl made a guttural sound that could have signalled assent. “I’ll hold you responsible if anything gets misplaced,” he warned.
Cleone nodded and removed a letter from the pocket of her blue chintz gown. “You are aware, are you not, that Isabella and the girls will be coming home tomorrow?” she began.
“Home is it?” he snorted. “This is my home, or it was used to be before my son Jack got himself yoked to a woman of fashion, one that must needs live as high as a coach horse until her extravagance drove them to a beggar’s end.”
Not by the faintest twitch of an eyelid did Cleone react to this mendacious reconstruction of past events. “You have done your duty by your son’s memory in generously opening up your house to his family,” she assured him.
“Aye, and for my pains I’m inflicted with a houseful of squalling, rag-mannered brats.”
“Your grandchildren are certainly high-spirited as befits the good stock from which they spring,” declared Miss Latham, pouring oil on troubled waters. “Their manners will improve with age and training. Certainly Emerald is a pretty-behaved girl that any man would be pleased to claim as his granddaughter.”
The earl backed down a peg. “The girl is well enough, pretty as a picture, of course — there’s not her equal in ten counties — though I don’t approve of these simpering missish airs they breed into females nowadays. That brother of hers is a horse of another c
olour, however: a poor-spirited creature, half-flash and half-foolish like the rest of these young gudgeons today who think they know more than men who have lived three times longer, sounding off on every subject under the sun when all they really know is how to spend other people’s money.”
“Philip is quite young and raw yet,” Cleone put in hastily, hoping to deflect the signs of rising choler appearing on her aged relative’s features, “but we are wandering from the point of my visit.” She tapped the sheet in her hand. “Isabella writes that they will be arriving from London tomorrow.”
“If that is what you interrupted me for, you’ve wasted my time to no profit. I knew to the day when the lease expired on that house I hired at an extortionate rate so that my granddaughter could be fired off in the style her mother deemed necessary to the catching of a rich husband. I knew they’d be traipsing back here tomorrow unless that ninnyhammer Jack married planned to pay for their next meal herself. Six months in London at my expense, and where, I ask you, is the rich husband?” Lord Brestwick fixed fierce old eyes on his great-niece, who said soothingly, “Emerald received several very flattering and advantageous offers, Uncle.”
“I know that, girl, and the chit turned ’em all down! I thought she was set to have young Covington, at least that’s what her fool of a mother wrote me a fortnight ago. Wasn’t a two-hundred-year-old title and a respectable fortune good enough for her?”
“I think, sir, from what Isabella writes, that there is a new suitor in the picture at present.”
“She may live to regret not taking the bird in the hand. Only a fool would expect absence to make the heart grow fonder when it’s a case of glands acting up. Much more likely to provide the cure. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“Isabella must agree with you, sir,” said Cleone in an expressionless voice, “because she has invited Emerald’s new suitor here for a short visit.”
“By what right does that woman make free to issue invitations to my house?” thundered Lord Brestwick, growing rigid in his chair. To Cleone’s nervous fancy, his sparse white hair almost stood on end from the force of his passion. “I’m not running a hotel for London bucks. She can damn well uninvite him.”
“Uncle, this man, Lord Altern, has been most particular in his attentions to Emerald, but they have only met a half-dozen times, and that mostly in company. Isabella feels that a week in the country away from the distractions of the London season would provide an unequalled opportunity for them to improve their acquaintance.”
“Let her get her claws into him so deeply he won’t be able to escape, eh?” interrupted the old man, cackling evilly. “Altern, did you say?”
“That is how Isabella referred to him — Lord Altern.”
“So our little Emerald has caught herself a belted earl.” Lord Brestwick’s expression smoothed out. His long fingers stroked his chin meditatively. “When does he come?”
Cleone released a pent-up breath as the first hurdle was safely surmounted. “In two days’ time. We shall have to slaughter a hog, sir.”
“Slaughter a hog!”
She should have led up to it gradually, she realized with compunction. From the pain on her aged relative’s countenance, one would suppose he were the intended victim of the butcher’s knife.
“Yes, Uncle. It is incumbent upon our Sussex hospitality to provide suitable fare for our guest.”
“Is he made of finer clay then, that he cannot eat his mutton with honest country folk?”
“Of course not, sir,” replied Cleone, choosing to take him literally. “Your cook produces a mutton pie fit for the gods, but we must have variety in our menus, and naturally you will wish to give at least one dinner while Lord Altern is with us.”
Now I’ve done it, she thought, biting her lip to hold back a choked laugh. If he goes off in an apoplexy, his death will be on my conscience. She bent her best efforts to soothing and calming her great-uncle, the even tenor of whose life had just suffered a rude upheaval. In her four years living under his roof, she had learned that Lord Brestwick suffered from a congenital disinclination to open his purse except where his own advantage or comfort was concerned.
Cleone had come to Bramble Hall on the death of her mother, prepared to be grateful to her maternal great-uncle for offering her a home. Events soon preserved her from the fate of those poor relations whose lot it was to convey perpetual gratitude for being on the receiving end of grudging charity. She had barely unpacked her few possessions before being made forcibly aware of the constant state of warfare in which Lord Brestwick dwelled with his housekeeper. She had quietly stepped in as an intermediary and, before the first month of her visit had passed, found herself acting as unpaid housekeeper when the earl promptly dismissed his antagonist. Though still startled at the rapidity with which her role had evolved from dependent guest into virtual mistress of a large, poorly run establishment, Cleone had accepted the challenge willingly, hoping that the demands of a new and difficult life would keep her too busy to dwell on her own unhappy state.
And so it had proved. Miss Latham and her great-uncle had soon settled into a comfortable routine. Though not naturally disposed in favour of the gentler sex, Lord Brestwick knew to whom he owed the improvements in his comfort, and while he might be inclined to take her services for granted for the most part, after a time he began to manifest a limited but genuine interest in his accommodating young relative. He discovered to his relief that she possessed fewer of those feminine foibles and mannerisms that drove a sensible man to distraction than did the rest of her sex. She did not fly up into the boughs over housekeeping emergencies or burden his days with displays of feminine sensibilities. She held opinions on the serious matters of life, and those opinions were stated and defended with unemotional logic and a total lack of timidity or deference. And, best of all, unlike most women of his acquaintance, past and present, she did not expect a man to dance attendance on her or supply her with a constant stream of flowery compliments. Nor, in his experience of her, had she ever resorted to a woman’s most unfair weapons — tears and hysterics — to gain her ends. The only time he had ever seen a hint of tears in her dark eyes was when she had thanked him for the unexpected gift of a length of velvet that he had gruffly ordered her to have made up into a dress for herself.
In fact, mused Lord Brestwick as he sat facing the girl who looked back at him with a glimmer of sympathetic understanding in those big eyes of hers, life in West Sussex had jogged along merrily as a marriage bell until that awful day almost two years ago when Jack had gotten himself killed in a hunting accident. The viscount had been perpetually under the hatches all his adult life, and his affairs had reached a critical stage at the time of his death. If they were ever to retrieve anything out of the debacle for young Philip, there was nothing for it but to lease the estate for a time and bring the widow and orphans under his roof to reduce expenses. He couldn’t deny he’d as lief quarter a regiment of volunteers than a pack of ill-mannered brats, but no one could say he hadn’t done right by his own.
There was one thing he’d made abundantly clear, though, right at the onset. When Cleone had come to him prattling about turning over the reins of the household to his daughter-in-law, he’d quickly sent her away with a flea in her ear. It was all one to him if Isabella wanted to call herself his hostess, but by heaven, he would have things his way in his own house, and that meant no tampering with the present housekeeping arrangements. He supposed they had worked it out between them — he hadn’t cared to hear about it just so long as things stayed the way he liked them.
The earl’s winged eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he toyed with the pen on his desk. The housekeeping was the only aspect of his life that hadn’t changed for the worse since his son’s family had descended on him en masse. Five rambunctious grandchildren underfoot and a peagoose for a daughter-in-law — moreover, a peagoose of such exquisite sensibility that she dissolved into vapours if one looked at her cross-eyed — were quite sufficient to cut u
p a man’s peace. It had almost been worth the exorbitant cost of a London season to rid his house of the three females for six months, and as for young Henley, the less he saw of that spoiled mother’s darling until he acquired a little backbone, the better. Perhaps Cambridge could make a man of him by the time he reached his majority.
A movement across the desk brought the earl back to the present. Cleone sat quietly, but she was waiting for permission to set matters in train to receive a houseguest. He rapped the pen sharply on the desk, causing her to jump slightly, and gave in with ill grace.
“I can see it is my unenviable lot in life to be robbed blind for the sake of my relatives’ pleasures. Oh, go ahead, girl, make whatever arrangements you choose to uphold my position. I won’t have it said that Bramble Hall sets an inferior table. But mind you don’t take this as carte blanche to squander my blunt on fripperies like lobster patties and such like.”
“Of course not, Uncle. Very likely Lord Altern will appreciate good plain food prepared with the care and skill that always distinguishes your cook’s efforts. And now I’ll let you get back to your labours while I set about mine.” Cleone rose from her chair with a smile and prepared to leave the room.
Her great-uncle’s voice halted her before she reached the door. “This dinner party you’ve set your heart on — whom do you propose to invite?”
The words were suspiciously innocent. Turning back with a perplexed look, Cleone noted an equal blandness on the eagle features regarding her.
“Why, the rector and Mrs. Lovejoy, of course, and — and —” Her lips remained parted for a second before she closed them, clearly at a loss.
“Perhaps you planned to go out into the byways and drop a net over passing strangers as in the biblical parable of the reluctant wedding guests,” Lord Brestwick suggested, grinning maliciously at the chagrined girl.
Miss Latham made a little gesture with her hand, acknowledging the hit. “I confess, sir, that I had not progressed so far as to prepare a mental guest list. Isabella’s letter just arrived this morning,” she offered in weak defence.
