by Ella Quinn
“In about ten minutes. I’ll send a footman with a message.”
“Please do.” Alex still thought it was too bad that he wouldn’t be able to hit one of the idiots.
Lady Huntingdon kept up a steady stream of polite conversation to which he needed to add only a few words here and there until they arrived at a large white house on the river. When the coach stopped two footmen ran down the steps to meet them and escort them to the butler.
“My lady.” He bowed. “My lord. Please follow me. My mistress is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
As they were being announced, Alex saw the two boys. They were younger than he had first thought, somewhere in their mid-teens. Old enough to know better. He greeted their mothers and said, “Eton?” One of them nodded. “Very well.” Standing in front of the young men, hands behind his back, he speared them with a hard look. “You were reckless and incompetent. You could have killed someone the other day. Had it not been for my actions, you probably would have caused, at the very least, serious injury.” One boy sulked and Alex itched to take hold of his ridiculously tied neckcloth and shake him. “Are either of you members of the Monarch Club?”
They shook their heads, but the one who looked guilty instead of offended said, “We want to be. We were practicing.”
He raised a brow. “I was a member, and if you do not write an apology to Lady Dorie, the lady you could have injured or killed”—the sulky boy flinched—“and do exactly what I tell you to do, I shall make sure neither of you is accepted, no matter how excellent your sculling becomes.” Alex was gratified to see the blood drain from their faces. Even the sulky one sat up straight. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“Good. From now on, after you have marked your course, you will post servants in boats along the way to warn others of you and you of obstacles. I know that you don’t believe you could come to serious harm. You are, as yet, too young and stupid.” He paused, allowing that to sink in their thick heads. “I shall leave that to your parents. Although I doubt their attempts will be successful.” Young men generally thought they were immortal or, at the very least, invincible. “Therefore, I shall suggest that they keep the skiffs under lock and key so that you will have to request their use. If I hear of you going out on your own or breaking my rules, you can forget about being admitted to the club.” He turned to Lady Huntingdon. “Do you have anything you wish to add, my lady?”
“Nothing at all, my lord. I believe your strictures and promises are sufficient.” She glanced at the ladies. “We shall be going now.”
“Thank you for coming.” The first lady glared at the boys. “I assure you that the boats will be under lock and key, and guarded.”
“Yes, indeed,” the other lady said faintly. “I never realized how dangerous an activity rowing was.”
Once Alex and Lady Huntingdon were in the coach, she nodded approvingly at him. “That was extremely well done. You struck them exactly where it would hurt the most.”
He chuckled. “Once I knew they attended Eton, it wasn’t hard to surmise the boat club was somehow involved.”
“No, no,” her ladyship said. “I will not allow you to make light of what you did. I believe both boys are a little spoiled. Mentioning the danger in the sport the way you did was the only way to make their mothers understand that their activities must be controlled.” She gave him a knowing look. “Gentlemen are all too ready to risk their lives and those of others without giving a thought to the damage they might cause.”
That was the truth. He remembered when he and some of his friends had bribed a stagecoach driver to let them drive when they were in their altitudes. They’d almost put the vehicle into a ditch.
She regaled him with some of her younger son’s exploits, and he told her about some of his but not about the stagecoach. As they entered Grosvenor Square, she gave him an approving look, and Alex felt as if he had passed some sort of test.
Alex had no sooner arrived home when he received two messages. One sent by a groom and relayed to his butler was a panicked message from Miss Chatham. Her father was preparing to accept Lord Lytton’s proposal if something did not happen by the time he returned from a short bolt home to take care of a problem. And Lytton knew it. It seemed Alex was going to Almack’s tonight after all.
The other was a hastily written note informing him that the winds had been keeping vessels from arriving from France, but they had turned early this morning. He said a prayer to whoever was listening that Dursley would be here by tomorrow.
Taking out a piece of pressed paper, he wrote a missive to Miss Chatham requesting the first waltz and the supper dance. Once that was sent, he went to Brooks’s and was lucky enough to find several of his friends and Dorie’s brother.
He approached Elliott, Turley, and Littleton. “I need a favor.” He told them about Lytton pressing his suit. Alex wished he could tell them why he detested the bounder, but that involved a lady. “Will you ask Miss Chatham for dances this evening?”
Once they agreed, he went to where Huntley was sitting with his friend Wivenly and asked for their assistance as well.
“I understand your desire to save any lady from Lytton,” Huntley said. “But what are you going to do about my sister?”
Alex frowned. He’d be unable to come up with an answer if Dursley didn’t get to Town soon. “If she doesn’t accept Fotheringale, you mean?”
Huntley grinned. “After this evening, I do not believe it will be a consideration.”
“I hope you’re right.” Alex glanced around and, finding no one within hearing distance if he spoke softly, decided to tell them about his only plan for Miss Chatham. “You must promise not to mention what I’m about to tell you to anyone else.” He waited until both men nodded their assent. “She is waiting for Dursley to return.”
“Isn’t he making a Grand Tour?” Wivenly asked, his voice as low as Alex’s had been.
“He is, but I was able to contact him and he is waiting in France for a ship. I was informed not long ago that the winds haven’t been in the right quarter, but it changed early today. I expect him to arrive by tomorrow at the latest.”
“I’ll add my prayers to yours,” Huntley said. “By the way, there is talk about you and Dorie being at Rundell and Bridge this morning.”
“That is what might have prompted Mr. Chatham to make his threat.” Alex would have to watch what he said and did this evening. For the first time he was glad Dorie wouldn’t be there.
Huntley picked up his glass. “You know what they say about heavy ground.”
“Get over it as lightly as possible.” And that’s exactly what Alex would do. If the Fates were with him, he had only one more day of this torture. But he would not propose to her tomorrow. He’d wait until the next morning when they usually met. That would give him time to make it perfect for her.
* * * *
When Dorie and her parents entered the hall of Fotheringale House she had to stop herself from wrinkling her nose. The scents of vinaigrette and burnt feathers fought with the strong fragrance of roses. There was a large vase of the flowers in the hall, but even they could not be responsible. It was as if someone had added perfume.
Lord Fotheringale stood next to a willowy blond lady with threads of silver in her hair. “My ladies.” He bowed. “My lord. We are so glad you could come.” He motioned to the woman. “Lady Huntingdon, I believe you know my mother.”
“Indeed. Naomi.” Mama inclined her head. “I can tell by the smell you’ve been quacking yourself.”
Dorie heard a faint choking sound from her father behind her. Fotheringale did not react at all to her mother’s comment.
He smiled at her. “Lady Dorie, I’d like you to meet my mother.”
She gave a shallow curtsey. “A pleasure, my lady.”
The woman adjusted her shawls around
her shoulders, which contributed to a sylphlike look. “I have heard so much about you, my lady.” From her tone, Dorie couldn’t make out if that was good or bad. “I understand you are in your second Season.”
Ahhh. This was going to be an interesting if not a pleasant evening. “I am. Like my older sister and my mother, I am taking my time to find the right gentleman.”
Fotheringale turned back to his mother. “Mama, may I present Lord Huntingdon.”
Papa bowed, but instead of curtseying, Lady Fotheringale spent several seconds detaching her shawls from a figured gold bracelet and offering her hand. “I know you will understand that my health does not allow me to do you the honor of a curtsey.”
As Papa reassured the woman, Dorie glanced at Fotheringale and was surprised to see he accepted his mother’s behavior as completely normal. Her ladyship latched on to Papa’s arm, leaving Fotheringale to escort Mama. Dorie followed the rest into a drawing room that was decorated in red and gold. Although the day was not cool and it was still light, the heavy velvet curtains, also in gold and red, had been drawn, shutting out all the natural light.
As if Lady Fotheringale knew what Dorie was thinking, her ladyship glanced back at her. “The light hurts my eyes.”
Dorie wanted to roll hers.
Once again, her mother decided not to let the comment pass. “I am sure my daughter understands. If she and Fotheringale do marry, she will no doubt redecorate. However, you will naturally keep your apartments the way you wish.”
She had trouble keeping her jaw from dropping. She’d never heard Mama be quite so direct. There had to be some reason for her behavior.
Lord Fotheringale handed her a glass of sherry. “Your mother is quite harsh with invalids.”
Dorie was certainly not going to agree with that. “Mama believes that one should always try to be well.” Dorie drank a large sip of wine. “In our house it was always easier to get better than to remain ill.”
“You must understand. My mother’s been in poor health for a long time now. She began failing after my father died.”
Something told her his mother was stronger than she wished to appear. “I am very sorry for her.”
His brown eyes warmed when he gazed at her. “I knew you would understand.”
Then a thought occurred to Dorie. “When did your father die?”
“When I was just starting at Cambridge. I came home straightaway to take care of her.”
That had to be at least ten years ago if not longer. She was clearly her mother’s daughter as the first response that came to mind had something to do with his mother getting on with her life instead of clinging to him. Fortunately, she was saved from answering by the butler calling them to dinner.
Unfortunately, that did not save her from the rest of the evening.
None of the leaves had been taken out of the table long enough to sit twenty. She was on Lord Fotheringale’s left, Mama was on his right, and Papa was at the other end on Lady Fotheringale’s right. Had Dorie been in charge, the table would have been reduced to what was needed. Their wineglasses were filled and a white soup was served before any other significant conversation took place.
Naturally, her mother started it. “Fotheringale.” Mama had taken a sip of soup and set her spoon down. “I have not seen you at any of the political parties. I predict Dorie will become a great political hostess. We have certainly supported her interest in that and charities that help the poor.”
Lady Fotheringale held up a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose. “Oh, I could not abide the noise and trouble of a party.” For such a frail lady, her hearing was excellent, and her voice carried well down the table. “So much work, and there are always arguments.” She gave a fairly dramatic shudder. “And the poor. As charitable as that is, one must not actually come in contact with them. Think of the diseases.”
“But Naomi, dear.” Mama glanced at Dorie and there was a wicked gleam in her mother’s eyes. “You will surely not be here to be exposed to either. Do you not wish to retire to your Dower House? I remember you telling me once that it was quite lovely.”
Fotheringale glanced at Mama. “My mother will live with my wife and me. Her health is such that I could not leave her alone. Even to trusted servants.”
Dorie tasted the soup and discovered why her mother was not eating it. It had absolutely no taste at all.
The soup was removed, and the next course served. Sole in butter sauce, asparagus, poached chicken in white sauce, and haricots verts. She picked at her fish and ate the asparagus. For a few minutes, they ate in relative quiet. Then Papa said, “Of course, I know nothing about the planning of entertainments, but in the great scheme of things, there are not so many of them. Children, now, create a great deal of noise.” He beamed at Dorie. “I hope to have a great many grandchildren.”
Dorie stole a quick look at her ladyship, who had blanched. “Naturally, my son must fill his nursery. But I ascribe to the adage that children should be seen and not heard. My dear Fotheringale did not bother us until he was sent off to school.”
And if he was at school, he could not bother them. Dorie and her brothers and sisters had had the run of the house and grounds. Until one rainy day they decided swinging from a chandelier would be great fun and it came crashing down. After that, they were not allowed to play in the formal rooms. She ate the last of her vegetable. “At what age did you go to school?”
Fotheringale swallowed whatever he was eating. “Twelve.”
She had no idea there was so much to discuss when considering the person one wished to wed. “We ate with my parents starting at eight years of age. Not when they had guests to dinner, but every other evening.”
“I was quite happy with my nurse.” Dorie was surprised at the evenness of his tone. Did he not understand that she didn’t approve of that method of raising children and would not stand for it?
The rest of the courses were as mediocre as the first, and she ate very little.
“I am pleased to see that you do not gorge yourself, Lady Dorie. A lady should never eat too much when in company.”
She caught Fotheringale smiling at her and she gave him and then his mother a polite smile. Other than informing them that dinner was almost inedible, there was really nothing to say. She hoped her mother had the forethought to order something to eat when they got home. By now, she was quite peckish. Lady Fotheringale did not care for dessert and did not serve it. Instead she rose and motioned for Dorie and her mother to follow her.
Yet once they reached the drawing room, she said, “You must excuse me. I am feeling fatigued.” And, in a flurry of shawls, she left.
“Well,” Mama said once the door had closed behind her ladyship. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that she has gone.”
Dorie went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of claret. Even if nothing else had been good about dinner, the wine was.
She handed her mother a glass. “You did that on purpose.”
Mama raised her glass to Dorie. “I did it so that you could see what being married to him would be like. It is important to remember, one does not marry an individual, but a family. Unless you find an orphan, but you are still likely to have former guardians and alike around.”
“I had not appreciated that before.” Naturally, she had thought about Exeter’s sisters, but it had not occurred to her that other family members could be even more difficult. “Thank you.”
It looked as if she would have a third Season after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Almack’s was barely endurable. Alex danced two sets with Miss Chatham and was thankful his friends kept their promises and danced with her as well, leaving Lytton without a set with the lady. Pleading a headache, she convinced her mother to leave right after the supper dance.
When he arrived home at midnight, Coyne took his hat, gloves, and cane, then said, “Ther
e is a gentleman waiting for you. I put him in the library.”
Who would visit him…? The only gentleman who’d come this late at night and wait had to be Dursley. “He wouldn’t happen to be a tall man with sandy hair and a perpetual grin, would he?”
Coyle inclined his head. “That is a perfect description, my lord. I take it you have been waiting to hear from him?”
“I have.” And Alex was going to give thanks to all the deities. Thank God, the man was finally here. “If there’s no brandy, bring a bottle. This is a cause for celebration.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He strode down the corridor and opened the library door to find his friend with a glass of brandy in hand. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”
Dursley slapped Alex’s back. “And I can’t tell you how glad I am that you contacted me and kept Lytton from Miss Chatham.”
Alex spied the decanter of brandy on the table next to a bottle he did not recognize as one of his, and poured a glass. “It was a close thing. Her father is starting to jib. When do you plan to tell her you’re back?”
They sat on large leather chairs next to the fireplace that had been lit. Dursley took a sip of his brandy. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. The man isn’t going to be happy to wed his daughter to a mere viscount.”
“A viscount that will be an earl.” Alex twirled the brandy before taking a sip. “Good stuff.”
“I found this in a small winery in Cognac, France.” Dursley took a healthy drink of the brandy. “Be that as it may, I took the safe path and spoke with my father. He will talk to Chatham on my behalf.”
“He’s out of Town at the moment, but told her that if I didn’t come up to scratch, he’d accept Lytton.” Alex raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid I might have caused that bit of nonsense. I was with Lady Dorie at Rundell and Bridge. Several people saw us and came to unhelpful conclusions.”
