by Claudy Conn
She gave him a tentative smile. “Harry, I am a country girl, not a London debutante.”
“But you could be,” Nanny stuck in immediately. “You have been taught how to manage as a lady. You were given dancing lessons, and you have a natural wit. Oh my dear, you know how to use your tongue, for we have all been privy to it,” she teased, and both Harry and Kitty laughed at that. “My darling, we shall go on—I promise you.”
“Nanny, you are so good, for this affects you as well as me.” Kitty stroked her nanny’s arm.
“There is just one thing,” Harry said. “Don’t want our Kitty hurt, and speaking about tongues, there are quite a bit of sharp ones I am told amongst the beau monde.”
“Ah, Harry is worried about me being hurt.” Kitty smiled. “Well, if I go,”—she snapped her fingers—“I shall be no one but myself, and I shan’t allow such tongues to damage or hurt me, but I haven’t agreed to go … yet.”
“Yes, you have, unless you don’t mean to honor Sir Edwin’s wishes.”
“That was very calculatingly said,” Kitty answered him, one brow up. “Low, Harry, very low.”
“Yes, I thought so, but spot on.”
“Right then, you want me to do the chin up sort of thing, and so I shall—but I am not happy about it.” So saying she folded her arms across her chest while a silent tear slid down her cheek.
“There, there,” Nanny said. “It will not be so bad.”
“What won’t be so bad?” a friendly male voice called from the open doorway.
Kitty sniffed at finding the young squire Clayton Bickwerth standing there. There was nothing unusual in that. The tall, lean, and handsome fellow had been very nearly a fixture at Wharton Place for some months, coming and going with great familiarity.
He shot Harry a wide grin and went forward to receive both of Kitty’s outstretched hands. He raised a brow. “Look at you—what a pretty gown.” He then said, “Had company, did we?”
“We did,” Harry answered and glared at him.
Ignoring him, Clay pulled up a chair beside Kitty and winked, which drew a reluctant smile from her. “There, that’s better,” he said.
* * *
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he watched Clay with Kitty.
He and Clay had been up at Cambridge together, and he considered Clay a friend … of sorts. Clay was a bit older, but there was nothing in that. They enjoyed hunting and fishing and the usual male sports and often laughed in one another’s company, and yet … Harry was more than a little disturbed by Clay’s obvious attentions towards Kitty. Clay had always been a bit of a libertine, and he was in debt.
He had for the last year watched Clay insinuate himself into Kitty’s good graces after her guardian had taken to bed but had not been worried, as Kitty didn’t seem to be interested in the squire.
Clay was in pecuniary straits because his late father had run up a score of gaming debts. In addition, Clay had come home to the country from London, and the gossip was that he had run up a few debts himself in the gaming houses. He would have to marry well to come about, and as far as Harry was concerned, Clay just was not the sort Kitty needed in her life.
The young squire, Harry knew, had recently had to take a mortgage on his estate, and there was no doubt whatsoever that he meant to make a marriage of convenience in order to set his estates to rights. Here was Harry’s dilemma. Did Clay genuinely care for Kitty, or was he after the inheritance? He rather thought the latter.
Kitty was a diamond, but one that was presently in the rough. One day, she would emerge a woman, and Clay simply was not the man, in Harry’s opinion, to allow this to happen the way it should in slow and easy degree.
“Uncle’s will was just read to us,” Kitty said sadly. “It seems I have to leave Wharton Place and allow some stranger to take me to London for the Season. I am not happy about it.”
Clay frowned darkly and looked to Harry. “What is this?”
“Ah, yes, Kitty’s inheritance will not be quite as large as we once thought. Apparently there is a nephew who will inherit Wharton Grange and a good portion of the liquid assets.” He purposely left off the fact that Kitty would be an heiress in her own right.
Clay choked on air.
Harry was sure Clay was utterly stunned.
“Indeed.” Kitty bit her bottom lip and put on a brave face. “I will have to leave for London …”
Clayton Bickwerth pulled a face. “I don’t understand. Why?”
It was obvious to Harry, so damned obvious, that Clay was about to make a retreat. It was a good thing too, as Kitty’s attentions were not yet engaged and she probably would think nothing of it if his attentions were to stop at this stage.
Kitty dove into a brief summary of her guardian’s will with regards to giving her a London Season, but Nanny clucked her tongue and put a stop to this, saying, “Now, now, Kitty, we don’t wish to bore the squire with such mundane details, now do we?”
Looking at Nanny’s expression, Harry realized that she did not at all approve of Bickwerth.
“Yes, quite right, Nanny,” Kitty replied. “Well, that is it really. I will be carted off to London. It appears that my uncle’s nephew is supposed to launch me into polite society.” She sighed and sat back in her chair.
“I see,” Clay said, and Harry could see the man’s mind calculating.
“I am not ready for marriage, and how can I go to routs and balls while I am still in mourning? It is … unthinkable.”
Nanny had apparently had enough of this sort of talk as well. “That is not to be discussed now. It was your guardian’s wish. That is all there is to it.”
Kitty eyed Nanny and then eyed the squire. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. How dreadful of me airing my problems to you, when I should have offered you refreshments and light conversation. You see, how shall I ever do the polite in London?”
A footman appeared with a fresh tea tray laden with an assortment of small cakes, bread, jam, and fresh butter.
“Oh,” said Kitty. “I am famished.”
Harry grinned to see her fill her plate and devour small cake after small cake. He adored his Kitty, and perhaps this London situation might be just what she needed. In fact, he rather thought the irrepressible Kitty Kingsley would do quite well amongst the haute ton.
~ Seven ~
THE EARL LOOKED up at the sky. He didn’t bother taking out his pocket watch. He could see by the position of the slightly obscured sun that it was past late afternoon. He brought his snowy gray to a complete stop in the middle of the country Post Road.
Here he waited patiently until he caught sight of his new chocolate-brown barouche bringing up the rear. It had been a prize he had won in a game of chance, his only expense that of having the doors painted with the Halloway crest.
He was weary and wished the damned trip was nearly over. As smart as his new barouche was, it was slowing down the pace of the journey to the New Forest. However, he had no choice. He needed this equipage if he was going to escort Miss Kingsley and her duenna to London. He was sure, his uncle would have a fine enough carriage, but it would appear more respectable for him to arrive in his own. Respectability was already wearing thin.
His grandmother had been suspiciously gracious and had immediately accepted his invitation to go ahead to London. She had played all innocent as she made a list of things to do, but no one could play hostess at Halloway House better than she. He smiled to himself. This would be good for her.
Yes, he was certain that she too had received a letter from Mr. Hawkins about his uncle’s will. She was a knowing one, but she had taken the news a bit too in stride. At any rate, it didn’t matter. He was pleased to provide her with a measure of happiness, and she would be happy controlling the social order in his elite London home.
He studied the road ahead with a weary resignation. At least his young four-year-old gelding was getting a much-needed schooling on this long trip. Ah, but it was time he took to his carriage and got the weight off his young
horse.
He waited for his barouche to approach, and then dismounted and unsaddled his horse before tethering him at the boot. “Well done, Prancer … we will be calling it a day soon, and you’ll have a bed of straw, your hay, grain and water. Aye … that is a good man.”
He nodded to his driver and said, “God-awful long trip, but at least the weather has held up, eh, Max?”
Max knew his worth. He had been the earl’s head groom and driver for many years and was both pleased and proud of his position in the earl’s household. He grunted in response.
Luts put his head out the window and said, “He drives like an addle-brained—”
“Uh-uh-uh!” the earl admonished and grinned. “No bickering. I can’t abide it.”
Luts was his valet and had once told him that his job was the envy of every well-known valet in London. “You are, my lord, considered a top sawyer, a Corinthian, the very pink of the ton, and your masculine lines are a joy to dress!”
The earl had raised his brow at him and coughed at the time. However, a rivalry of sorts had been struck up between Max and Luts, one that was usually comical.
The earl entered the barouche and sat back while Luts clucked his tongue and said, “If only you would allow me to introduce a few articles into your wardrobe that are the very height of—”
“No. I am quite pleased with the style of my wardrobe just as it is. I don’t go for the dandy fashions,” the earl said, looking out the window.
“Yes, but with Beau Brummell and you such good friends, I thought you might like to start a fashion all your own?”
The earl smiled. His valet had ambitions. “Beau Brummell would not be caught dead in some of the things you have called the ‘height of fashion.’ The answer is no.”
Luts picked up his brush and began sweeping the road dust off the earl’s coat. His lordship gave him a warning eye but allowed the small man to finish before he returned his attention to the passing scenery.
“It is such a long trip,” Luts complained.
“Ah, I don’t think it is much further.”
“Is it not? Where do we stop today?” his valet inquired cautiously.
“The Red Lion. We shall pull in for the night, enjoy a meal and a tankard of ale, and get a good night’s rest. What say you?”
“Indeed, whatever my lord wishes, so then, do I,” Luts said, his lips primly pursed.
The earl laughed out loud. “Is that true, or do you just wish to placate me? I would much rather you speak your mind, as does Max, more often than not.”
“Max is a groom. He knows nothing of parlor manners. I, on the other hand, am a valet and do know how to behave.”
The earl roared and then said, “I beg your pardon, of course you do.”
He opened the box to Max’s seat above and said, “Max?”
“Aye then, m’lord?”
“We’ll put up at the Red Lion.”
“Aye, good notion that. M’lips are dry, they are, and ready for a libation.”
“Impudent fellow,” his lordship said with great affection.
Luts displayed his disapproval at Max’s audacity and the earl’s fond acceptance.
The earl chuckled to himself. At least this made the journey a bit more amusing.
Max was very special to his lordship. He had found him when the boy was just a starving orphan living by his wits in the streets of Soho.
The earl’s attention had been captivated when he witnessed the dirty urchin stealing a loaf of bread and trying to stuff it in his torn shirt. The earl felt a need to help him in that moment, but even as he walked towards the lad, for he meant to pay for the bread and perhaps a bit more food, the shopkeeper had nabbed the urchin.
The orphan was caught, and a local beadle cuffed him and would have dragged him away had the earl not intervened.
Watching the child steal food caught the earl in the heart. Why should a child have to steal or starve? That was the real crime, that children, English children, had to resort to stealing for the very basic needs in life.
The earl had been twenty years old at the time. He had been full with ideas and ideals. Outraged at the boy’s condition, he took Max home with him.
Max had been twelve, and after the earl gave the boy over to his housekeeper to wash and dress and feed, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with him, but he knew he wasn’t sending him back onto the streets.
Thus, he marched Max over to his grandmothers’, and Minerva took one look at the urchin and smiled.
It was his grandmother who discovered the lad was good with horses. The earl took a keen interest in Max over those months and into the following year. When the following year the earl turned one and twenty, he found his meager allowance had become a respectable competence, and he took the lad on as a groom in his stables.
The years passed, and Max, when only nineteen but aware that his savior and beloved mentor had an affection for him, put on the airs of an older, wiser man. Luts, who was past thirty, took immediate exception, and thus their rivalry began.
The earl remembered that time … and her.
Was his hardened notion of marriage all because of her?
He didn’t think she had really broken his heart. He had never truly been in love. His was but infatuation.
Indeed, the Lady Anne never really had taken hold of him.
He had been so young, so infatuated, but that infatuation had been with a fictitious character. Lady Anne was not the woman he had painted her to be.
So why then had he allowed himself to turn into such a libertine? He was everything he loathed in a man. His grandmother was right. He had taken the road to perdition, but perhaps now, now that he had to do right by his uncle’s wishes and launch this Kingsley chit, he should take the road he first envisioned?
“There she be—The Red Lion!” Max called out. “Aye, m’lord. Right fine hostelry.”
~ Eight ~
MORNING ARRIVED IN a blaze of sunshine. April had all the signs of delivering a nattily attired spring. Daffodils on tall green stalks winked in the breeze while tulips of various rainbow shades filled the Red Lions’ shapely garden beds and made the earl smile.
Trees everywhere were vibrant with new red buds, and the scent of spring was most definitely in the air as the earl stretched and took a stroll in the cool morning air.
He felt refreshed after the convivial evening he had spent with a party of young bloods. A pretty barmaid had flirted outrageously with him, but, with a new purpose in mind, he had not taken her to his bed.
He found the scent of spring invigorating and was pleased with himself for not dipping too deep into his cups. He took to horse, with Max bringing up his carriage behind, and began putting road behind him. In a few hours they would reach Lyndhurst, a lovely little New Forest village, and from there they would make their way to his newly acquired estate, Wharton Place. Not his, yet, he told himself. First, he had a young country wench to launch.
At any rate, he really wouldn’t have to do much, would he? After all, he couldn’t take her shopping at Bond Street, arrange for invitations to all the best soirees and balls. No, that would be his grandmother’s job. All he need do was to give escort now and then. That’s right. That won’t be so very bad, now will it?
The Kingsley chit was nothing more than an ingénue. What had he to do with such a child? Naught. She was best left to his grandmother.
Minnie would know the trick of launching her Season and making her the toast of London. That would more than fulfill his uncle’s request and his obligations—though in truth, he found that even with it being an obligation, he was surprised to find he sincerely wished to do what his uncle had requested.
Again, he was dashed thankful for his grandmother.
The chit would need entre to Almack’s, and Almack’s would be tricky.
When last he saw the Jersey, she had been a bit annoyed with him. She had, in fact, read him a lecture. However, his grandmother would see to it. Jersey would never
deny his grandmother vouchers for Almack’s.
In this frame of mind, the earl was able to shrug off his irritation and continue to enjoy the beauty of the spring morning as he mounted his horse and told Max he would just jog on ahead.
At his back, he heard Max say, “Oi don’t know about all this, Luts, no Oi don’t. We both know this is not m’lord’s ken, looking out for some flash piece of fluff. Lor, but we be in for a time, that’s what Oi be thinking.”
“In that, I happen to agree with you,” Luts said. “Now stop the coach. I think I’ll go sit inside the carriage.
“Nooo, Oi can’t do that,” Max said. The earl, picturing Max’s face, laughed to himself and urged his horse forward as he started off and put distance between himself and his equipage.
* * *
Kitty, however, was not yet quite resigned to being carted off to London. It occurred to her that her ‘new guardian’—drat the man—might arrive any day and scoop her away from the only home she had ever known, and she was sick at heart over her uncertain future.
She had risen from her bed, washed, and thrown on her comfortable britches and a wool riding jacket. She tied her long blonde curls at the nape of her neck and plopped a peaked wool cap over her head. She looked in the mirror and sighed. “Is that who you are? A hoyden in britches?” She grimaced at her reflection. “Won’t you enjoy wearing pretty gowns and dancing the night away with handsome young men?” She smiled, for she was always honest with herself, and answered, “Truth be, that would not be so very bad.”
Yes, she would love to go to Drury Theatre and Vauxhall Gardens and all the marvelously mysterious things that London held as a lure. And, yes, now and then she thought of flirting outrageously with some handsome buck and … and … well, she knew there were no such things as knights in shining armor, but somewhere out there a man would fill her eyes and her heart, and she wanted him to find her and sweep her off her feet. Yes. She wanted that, and it probably wasn’t going to happen while she was tucked away here in Wharton.
