by Amy Corwin
Removing her own bonnet, Dorothy turned to smile at the housekeeper. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Jolly. We are so pleased to be here.”
“Mrs. Polkinghorne will be happy to hear it.” Mrs. Jolly inclined her head regally. “Elsa will be here shortly with your bags. There is fresh water in the jug if you wish to refresh yourselves after your journey. I will send a tray up to you in a half hour, if that is acceptable.”
“Indeed—it pleases us very much!” Dorothy answered as her sister giggled with pleasure and twirled her traveling shawl onto the counterpane of the bed.
Dorothy stifled a sigh. She loved Grace dearly, but the girl never quite seemed to grasp the purpose of a wardrobe. Clothing didn’t just come out of them—it also went back into them and did not have to be heaped inside on the floor. And doors and drawers could actually be closed, as well, and not left hanging open.
Sharing a room was certainly going to be, well, a challenge. She took a deep breath, folded her own shawl, and placed it on one of the shelves in the wardrobe. She’d just have to remember that they were fortunate to be here in London, and that she loved her sister.
Truly. She honestly did. She picked up Grace’s bonnet and shawl and placed them neatly in the wardrobe next to her own. She loved her, even when Grace left her clothing draped over every available surface in a room as if she had a personal maid trailing after her, picking up all her belongings.
Chapter Three
Lounging in a chair negligently with his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, Marcus Chenneour, Earl of Arundell, smiled at his hostess. His gaze drifted over her face. His amusement deepened when she flushed. Her frown etched lines between her brows and around her thin-lipped mouth in a way that aged her greatly. Mrs. Polkinghorne might think that she had complete control over her emotions, but her narrow face betrayed her every thought.
One with such an expressive face ought not to play hazard—particularly when one can ill afford to lose. Marcus sighed.
“The debt stands at five thousand, my dear lady,” he reminded her when she’d finished covering her discomfort with a sharp order to her housekeeper to order some tea.
“I realize that!” Mrs. Polkinghorne snapped. A deep red tide returned to her cheeks when she realized she was being rude. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I do recall the sum, however.” She squirmed in her chair. Her knuckles whitened as she clasped her hands ever more tightly in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she straightened and eyed him before smiling in an uncomfortable and patently false way. “That is what I wished to speak with you about, my lord.”
“Indeed?” His voice rose along with his brows. “I must confess that I was, um, shall we say, startled when I received your summons.”
She flushed again and wriggled on her chair, making the slender wooden legs creak. “I didn’t summon—that is, I beg your pardon, I merely wished to invite you to tea. So we could discuss ways in which my debt could be settled.” She smoothed her skirt over her lap. “In private.”
“In private? You do not intend to suggest anything improper, I trust,” he murmured in his blandest voice, studying his signet ring. It might be wicked of him to bait her, but she made it so easy that it was utterly irresistible.
“Of course, it is nothing improper!” Her voice rose shrilly before she could bring it under control and give him a strained, ingratiating smile. “I am a married woman, after all, my lord.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him in such an embarrassing way that he transferred his gaze to the door beyond her shoulder, hoping fervently that she wasn’t going to make the suggestion he feared after all, despite her heated denial.
“So you are,” he agreed at last. “I am so relieved to hear you refer to Mr. Polkinghorne. May I assume, therefore, that you have informed your husband of your debt, and that he intends to pay?”
“No, I have not, as you very well know! Mr. Polkinghorne does not approve of gambling—that is—this is my debt and my debt alone. There is no need to worry him with such minor matters.” Her hands smoothed over her skirt once more.
Her admission confirmed the gossip about Mr. Polkinghorne and his wife. Cyril Polkinghorne did not approve of gambling. Unfortunately, his wife, Mary, could scarcely stay away from the excitement found at the turn of a card. This sad situation did not bode well for repayment of her debt, since she would no doubt refuse to let the matter come to the attention of her husband. However, Marcus was not overly concerned. Mrs. Polkinghorne was not the first to ignore a debt owed to him and most likely would not be the last.
He studied her with amusement. She truly was just too easy to annoy, and too deserving of a bit of needling. Mary Polkinghorne obviously liked to fashion herself as a merry, lively woman who enjoyed dancing, gambling, and other such amusements. The sad reality was that her good spirits were brittle and easily shattered. She was only pleasant when she got her own way. More often than not, she was arrogant, petty, and irritable, taking out her bad temper on anyone who happened to be nearby. If she had been the merry society lady she thought she was, he’d have forgiven and forgotten the whole thing at least a month ago.
As it was, when he’d heard that Mary Polkinghorne was now burdened with orphaned nieces, he pitied the Stainton ladies more than he could say. The poor girls had apparently come to live with their aunt, and he suspected that anyone dependent upon the whims of Mrs. Polkinghorne was bound to find life difficult at best and downright unbearable most of the time.
“Excuse me,” he said, placing his hands on the armrests of his chair as if about to rise. “I had thought you meant to repay the debt. I see now I have made a mistake.”
“You know perfectly well that you have not made a mistake, my lord. And I must say, this sarcastic wit ill becomes a gentleman—though I suppose you and your cronies consider it the height of cleverness.” Her chin rose in defiance as she adopted the scolding tone of a long-suffering mother at the end of her patience with a recalcitrant child. “Well, I do not appreciate it, nor do I find it amusing.”
“How distressing for you. I do hope you will forgive me.” He gave her another half-smile. “I will attempt to curb my wit, though I admit that on occasion I find it a useful way to end unpleasant conversations.”
Mrs. Polkinghorne’s red cheeks grew pale for a moment as she obviously remembered she was talking to an earl. Her hands plucked at her gray silk skirt before she clasped them together again. She managed a polite laugh. “Thank you. At any rate, my lord, I wish to settle this matter, and I believe I have a solution that will be advantageous for both of us.”
The maid chose that moment to deliver the tea tray, and it was a good ten minutes before the girl left and Mrs. Polkinghorne recovered her poise once more.
She took a sip from her cup and smiled at him, fluttering her thin lashes again. “Now, as to my suggestion…”
“To the best of my knowledge, you have yet to suggest any acceptable method of payment.”
“Oh, yes.” After a disconcerted glance, she took another unsteady sip, slurping as she shifted again on her groaning chair. “Well. As you know, I have two nieces—”
“I understood you had three. Did you recently lose one? I do beg your pardon for not realizing that you are in mourning. How difficult for you to suffer such a terrible loss when you have only had them here for a few short weeks. Indeed, you have my sympathy, my dear lady.”
“I have not lost a niece—she is to be married!”
“I see.” He nodded, his eyes flashing with suppressed laughter. “I mistook relief for grief, then. You must be congratulated. It is certainly a great feather in your cap to be rid of one so quickly. At this rate, they shall all be duly settled by no later than the end of June. July at the very latest.”
“Yes—no—that is not the point!” She took a deep breath. “I have two nieces, and they have recently come into an inheritance.”
“Inheritance?” His eyes narrowed as he studied Mrs. Polkinghorne’s face. “I fail to see how that is germane to
the issue.” Unless you intend to appropriate the money from your nieces, of course. Another stab of pity for the Stainton girls pierced him. He could not imagine being dependent upon such a grasping, thoughtless woman.
Not that she seemed to be actively cruel. It was simply that her first thought, and no doubt her last one, was focused solely on her own pleasure and convenience. In fact, he found her shallow, vain, and more irritating by the moment.
“Yes. Each girl is to receive a sum of money—five thousand pounds to be exact!” she stated triumphantly. Sitting up straight, she took another sip of her tea and looked at him, her brows rising.
Another, even more unpleasant notion about her suggestion circled around him like a vulture gliding on ponderous, foul-smelling wings. “I am sure they must be pleased,” he murmured at last.
“Oh, they have no idea.” Holding her teacup in her lap with one hand, she flapped the other in front of her face in a careless gesture. “Mr. Polkinghorne just received the news—he is the sole executor now that my dear brother has passed away. It is from some ancient great-aunt of ours.” She grimaced, and her wave turned into a shooing gesture as if she were pushing away an unpleasant thought. “I suppose she thought she was being kind—to leave forty-five thousand pounds to be divided between all the girls—but she ought to have had some concern, at least, for the boys, as well.”
Since boys were usually well taken care of by their family, Marcus found his sympathy and admiration lay entirely with the deceased great-aunt. He could only silently applaud the august lady for her foresight in the matter of her will. Such an inheritance would mean freedom to choose whether to marry or not, as the girls wished; a choice few girls had.
What that had to do with him, however, was the mystery. “Again, I am sure you are pleased by the gifts to your nieces and your daughters, but I fail to see its relevancy.”
Mrs. Polkinghorne leaned forward, smiling, and her blue eyes glinting. Opening her mouth, she took a deep breath and then sat back, her face still wearing a gloating expression and clearly intending to make him beg for elucidation.
He smiled and took another sip of the abysmally weak tea. His gaze strayed toward the door—left open a crack to ensure they observed the proprieties. A movement in the gap and a glimpse of blue caught his attention.
The little maid returning for the tea tray? No—she had worn a dismal black gown with a dingy white apron. The housekeeper also habitually wore black. So, the bright blue he’d seen belonged to someone else. One of the Polkinghorne girls, no doubt.
“I understand you have your own difficulties regarding your inheritance—a title and entailed estate, certainly, but you must have… oh, what does my dear husband call it? Oh, operating expenses—that is it. You are in need of operating expenses, are you not?”
How the devil has she heard that rumor? He calmly took another sip of tea, his gaze flickering over her and then back to the door. He couldn’t tell if anyone remained there listening or not.
When he glanced at his hostess, he found her staring at him with bright, avid eyes. The shame of it was that whatever rumors she’d heard regarding his personal affairs had held an undeniable—and embarrassing—kernel of truth. He had a title, an estate, and lands aplenty, but the more liquid assets were caught up in a ridiculous, old-fashioned requirement that the monies be held until he married and begat the next heir.
Clearly, the assumption had been that the title would not be inherited until the heir was a mature man with a wife and children. Which had certainly been the case, when his older brother had originally inherited. His jaw tightened. His brother had only been dead a few months, but the hollow ache remained.
“I hope I have not overstepped my bounds. Or embarrassed you, my lord,” Mrs. Polkinghorne simpered when he remained silent. “But knowing your situation, I thought it might solve your more immediate need for operating expenses, while repaying what I owe you, if you were to marry my eldest niece, Miss Dorothy Stainton. That would give you the five thousand I owe, as well as placing you closer toward gaining your entire inheritance, would it not?”
“Miss Dorothy Stainton?” he drawled. If Mrs. Polkinghorne were so desperate to be rid of the girl, there must be something terribly wrong with her. A squint, spots, or worse.
“Yes. With the five thousand pounds she will inherit, she would make you a most suitable wife.”
“As would any of your daughters or the younger girl—Miss Grace Stainton,” he suggested, fastening his hooded gaze on his hostess. “The youngest Stainton is accounted to be the beauty in the family—or so I was given to understand by those who have seen her.”
“My oldest niece is quite attractive, I assure you.” Mrs. Polkinghorne sat up straighter, her eyes hardening. “And I have plans for the youngest—my dear little Grace.”
Plans, indeed. Mrs. Polkinghorne had obviously been chagrined when their elderly aunt had left money only to the girls, leaving her son without his fair share. Perhaps she hoped to correct the situation by marrying Grace to her darling Stephen, thereby gaining five thousand for him.
Which made Marcus want to rescue Grace even more from such a fate. He’d met Stephen several times, and while the boy wasn’t bad looking, Marcus had been genuinely impressed by the boy’s determination to excel at bootlicking, brown-nosing, and other such vocations. No doubt, he would one day become an excellent politician, as long as there were sufficient noble boots to lick and toadying to be done.
Perhaps Marcus’s opinion was too harsh, and the boy would grow out of his unpleasant ways. Or grow ever worse.
“And your daughters are too young,” he said thoughtfully. Not that he wished to marry any of Mrs. Polkinghorne’s offspring, any more than he wished to marry the unseen Miss Stainton.
The Polkinghorne name might be an excellent one, but he cherished no desire to be related to Mrs. Polkinghorne or her dour husband.
“Yes—Cecilia will come out next year, but her father…” Mrs. Polkinghorne shut her mouth, pressing her lips into a thin line. Clearly her plans had not been discussed with her husband, and she had no intention of letting Marcus in on them, either. “No, it must be Dorothy. She is the eldest, and she is quite an agreeable girl.”
“And if she does not agree?”
Mrs. Polkinghorne laughed. “She will, I assure you. She will never get a better offer. And if you do not find her acceptable, perhaps Grace…” She shook her head, her hands plucking at the soft folds of her silken skirts. “Dorothy is older, and Grace is closer in age to my… No, I am sure you will be quite pleased with Dorothy. She is an attractive, healthy girl and will suit you admirably.”
Suit my purposes like a brood mare, to be bought and bred to obtain an heir? Disgusting though the thought was, the hard truth was that one day, he would have to do just that: marry and beget an heir. There was too much dependent—too many people dependent—upon the continuation of the Chenneour line to ignore his responsibilities forever, though he’d hoped to wait until he was well into his thirties to do so.
“There are a great many ladies with fine dowries who might also suit me admirably,” he pointed out, expertly needling her just when she believed she was about to grasp the prize.
“But it is nearing the end of the Season. Most—the acceptable, well-dowered ones, at least—have already entered into marriage contracts.” She smoothed back a gray-blond curl from her narrow forehead. “And I do not see how I am to repay you, if we cannot come to some agreement.”
“Surely, Mr. Polkinghorne—”
“There is no need to bring him into it. Will you not consider it? It would suit both of us so well.”
“It may not suit Miss Stainton at all well.”
Mrs. Polkinghorne waved a hand airily. “She is a sensible girl and will be very pleased, I’m sure. Her sister, after all, is to be married to a mere baron—and an impoverished one, at that. If Dorothy accepts, she will marry an earl! She cannot hope for a better offer.”
“She might still have oth
er hopes,” he murmured under his breath. Sighing, he placed his cup and saucer on the low table in front of him. In truth, he might be doing Miss Stainton a service to marry her and take her away from her aunt’s house. He might even suggest that her younger sister slip out of the clutches of Mrs. Polkinghorne and her son, as well. The girl could provide Miss Dorothy Stainton with company and give Miss Grace the opportunity and time to marry as she wished. And Mrs. Polkinghorne had already indicated—no matter how indelicately—that marriage would certainly be a step toward shouldering his own responsibilities. He had to marry eventually.
It might as well be Miss Stainton. And there were advantages. Marrying her would allow him to avoid next Season’s batch of simpering debutantes, all eager to catch the attention of a marriageable peer of the realm, regardless of age, appearance, or foul reputation.
His father’s voice echoed in his memory, “Love is for the lower orders, Marcus. Forget it. Do your duty and all will be well.” Fine advice from a man who gave the appearance of being very much in love with his own wife—a woman he’d known for years and married as soon as her parents permitted the union.
Such happy alliances were rare, however, regardless of social class.
“Very well.” He stood and smoothed the lapels of his deep blue jacket. “If Miss Stainton agrees, then I can do no less. You will have to notify your husband, however. Our lawyers must draw up the appropriate contracts, and as you indicated, he is acting as the executor of your great-aunt’s will.”
Mrs. Polkinghorne sprang to her feet, her hands clasped together and beaming with pleasure. “Indeed—oh, he shall be so pleased to see our dear Dorothy settled so well, my lord.”
“I’m sure he will,” Marcus replied dryly. When he opened the door, the hallway was empty. Whoever had stood there was gone. “I bid you good afternoon.”
“Oh, yes! Good afternoon!” Mrs. Polkinghorne echoed gleefully as she followed him to the front door.
In her excitement, she opened the door herself and ushered him out, babbling pleasantries and waving until he disappeared around the corner.
