A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  “It was quite comfortable, thank you, my lady.” Eleanor sank into a curtsy. “My aunt insisted I convey her thanks as well. She thinks it excessively kind of you to sponsor me when we are not related, and regrets that accompanying her invalid sister to Bath did not permit her to make your acquaintance.”

  Lady Ingram waved this aside. “Yes, well, I’ve had her letters and send her my best. Please, don’t give it another thought. We are quite obliged to you for your friendship with Lydia these past four years.” She shot an indulgent glance at her daughter. “As you know, her father’s death affected her profoundly, and the tone of her mind was not what it should have been. She has spoken of how valuable your friendship was during those years.”

  The footman brought the tray in just then, and Lady Ingram gestured for Eleanor to sit as she poured a cup of tea. Lydia took up the fashion plates and began to flip through them. “Eleanor, I’ve seen just the dress for you in here. I’ll find it. Thank you, no, Mama. I don’t care for tea just now.”

  “Your aunt informed me in her most recent letter you’ve just received an inheritance,” Lady Ingram said with a raised eyebrow. “I expect our house to be overrun with fortune-hunters when I launch you both. I shall have my hands quite full chasing them off.” She laughed without mirth.

  Eleanor sipped her tea while gathering her thoughts, but the subject must be brought up from the start. “Did my aunt also tell you about my mother?”

  “I was aware of your somewhat irregular situation,” Lady Ingram said. “I insisted upon learning everything there was to know before inviting you to stay. True”—she set her cup down with an elegant clink on its saucer—“an elopement taints the whole family. But in your case, your former guardian saw fit to take you up, and his condescension has paved the way so well you won’t even be denied vouchers for Almack’s. He was a most kind benefactor. Although, I must own that it was also through my influence you received those vouchers. Lady Sefton is a particular friend.”

  “I am indebted to my guardian. And I thank you, indeed,” Eleanor said.

  “Your inheritance is the crowning touch, my dear. The ton does not lightly dismiss a gentleman’s daughter who has a portion. When possible they will overlook the less savory details.” Lady Ingram signaled for the footman to remove the tea tray.

  Eleanor chewed her lip as the words sank in. She was desirable because she had a portion. That particular truth stung. “While I’m thankful to have an inheritance, I must be clear that it’s not an independence. The bequest is tied up in a strange way, and I’m to be married before I can touch it.”

  Lady Ingram shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing unusual in that. You will make a match—a considerably better match than what I’d hoped for when I invited you to stay—and you shall benefit from your own income at that time as well as his.”

  “I should have liked to have had the choice—” Eleanor began.

  “Choice is one thing women do not generally have,” Lady Ingram said, “except the choice to show to advantage and marry the first acceptable candidate that comes forward.” She looked at Eleanor critically. “With the money your guardian has set aside for you, you will do very well. Your figure is good. We can change that hairstyle. But you mustn’t attempt Rifle Green; you haven’t the complexion for it. Lydia will guide you in the choice of colors.”

  “Eleanor! Only consider—” Lydia held up a fashion plate. “These ostrich feathers are dyed the boldest pink imaginable. I’m glad this is no longer à la mode! But come, I’ve found the pages I want to show you. We can head to the modiste tomorrow morning, and you’ll have at least one dress before Mrs. Jenkins’s soirée.”

  Eleanor set her teacup on the table. “Excuse me, ma’am, while I see what it is Lydia insists I must have.” Her attempt at levity fell short, and Lady Ingram dismissed her with a nod. Eleanor felt her measuring stare while she walked over to the settee. She would not have an ally in Lydia’s mother.

  Lady Ingram left after tea, saying she must speak to the cook, and Lydia and Eleanor were not alone for long before the door opened again.

  “Occupied are you? Lydia, who’s this?” A handsome gentleman, a male version of Lydia who moved with easy grace, came up to the two ladies on the settee. Eleanor stood.

  “Oh, Freddy, you know very well this is Eleanor Daventry, who is to stay with us for the Season. I’ve talked about her countless times. Eleanor, this is my brother, Ingram.”

  “Miss Daventry. Why of course.” Lord Ingram gave a deep bow to Eleanor while still addressing his sister. “And I agreed to your scheme to invite Miss Daventry knowing you would cut up my peace with your gabbing if you didn’t have someone else to talk to.”

  Eleanor couldn’t resist a grin when Lord Ingram winked at her. He seemed much more like his sister than his mother. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. You must know how highly your sister thinks of you. She was forever telling me stories when we were at school.”

  “You must not believe any of them,” he said promptly. “She is prone to exaggerate. Lydia—” he turned to Eleanor, “forgive me for discussing family affairs, but I think we must put aside some formality if you are to live here for three months, do you not agree?” When Eleanor nodded, he continued. “Hand over your bills, and see that you don’t forget any that you’ve stuffed in some drawer. It won’t do to be dunned and refused by the milliner, will it? I’m headed to the counting house and will draw out your quarter pay.”

  “Oh, it’s time you thought of that. I’ve not had two coins to rub together.” Lydia’s skirts rustled as she moved across the room. “I’ll be two minutes, Eleanor.”

  “Please sit, Miss Daventry,” Lord Ingram said when they were alone. Taking a seat on an Egyptian chair, he gave her a smile. “It’s not your first time in London, I take it?”

  “Only if you count a visit when I was two,” she answered. “I’m eager to take in all the sights if Lydia can spare me during the day.”

  “Refreshing,” said Ingram with an appreciative gleam. “I’m glad you did not try for boredom.”

  “Bored! In London?” She shook her head.

  “At least you know Lydia well enough not to expect her to accompany you. I daresay you will be pulled to pieces with plans every evening, and you will soon be taking your chocolate abed in the mornings.”

  “I am indefatigable,” Eleanor said, the corners of her mouth lifting.

  Lydia swung back into the room holding a fistful of papers. “Here they are, Fred.” She leaned down and pecked his cheek, depositing the slips in his lap so that half the papers slid to the floor. Lord Ingram rolled his eyes and leaned over to pick them up, then stood.

  “I bid you both good day. Stratford is back in town, you know, and I haven’t seen him since his last furlough. I’m off to his new house.”

  “Oh, Stratford,” Lydia said. “Do say hallo to Anna and Phoebe if you see them, won’t you?” She turned back to Eleanor, her brother forgotten. “On our way to the dressmaker, we can pop into a store on New Bond that has the most darling furbelows in the window. Shall we?”

  Eleanor nodded as she watched Lord Ingram disappear through the door, her cheeks drained of color. Stratford. Here. And friends with the Ingrams? She had spoken so little of her guardian, she was sure Lydia hadn’t made the connection. But wouldn’t Lady Ingram have spoken of it when she read Mrs. Daventry’s letter?

  Could there be two with such a name in London?

  R

  Lord Ingram whistled as he strode toward Cavendish Square. Despite the summons he had received that day from headquarters, he couldn’t be immune to the sun making its appearance after what seemed an interminable winter. He was also glad his oldest friend had made it back from the Peninsula. Stratford’s sisters needed him after the loss of their father and, well, there’s no one I trust more, he thought.

  The knocker was in place at the Worthing residence, and Ingram could see signs of the house being brought to
life through the windows—flashes of white as the holland covers were removed, a maid leaning out the window to dust the shutters on the third floor. Stratford’s butler informed him that the earl had gone off to Jackson’s for a bit of sparring, and Ingram turned his steps in that direction.

  Stratford had just buttoned his shirt when Ingram walked into the changing room at Jackson’s and gave a lazy salute. “Just finished, have ye? None of your usual bruises to show for the effort?”

  Stratford laughed. “Ingram! It’s mighty good to see you.” They shook hands, warmly. “Thanks for the reminder, old friend, but that happened once.” He selected a cravat from a waiting servant and turned toward the glass.

  Ingram gave an answering grin. “What would old friends serve if not to remind you where you come from?” While Stratford turned his attention to the serious matter of tying a trône d’amour, he looked around the empty changing room. The Season was not yet in full swing. “One neckcloth and you have it. I’d have thought you lost your touch in the Peninsula.”

  “The conditions may have been rude at times, but an officer must look the gentleman. I heard you were at Lisbon with Wellington. When’d you come back?” Stratford shrugged on his close-fitting coat, spurning the help of the servant who had leapt forward.

  “I was there, but briefly,” Ingram replied. “I carried the plans for building Torres Vedras but left as soon as the construction started.” Ingram waited until the servant retired from the vestiaire. “There was some strange business going on. We ran across a platoon of Boney’s men, and one could almost say they knew where we were headed.”

  Stratford met Ingram’s eyes in the glass before turning. “I’m unsurprised. We also got heavy fire at Talavera, and Donkin had us retreat. Anson was cleared of blame, though it was never determined what intelligence caused him to pull back, leaving us exposed. Not a friendly one, I daresay.”

  Ingram gave a noncommittal grunt and asked, “Where are you headed now? I’ll accompany you.”

  “Back to the new house. My sisters are expected within the hour, but I needed to get away. I couldn’t stand any more housekeeping questions.”

  “I should say so,” Ingram said. “All right, I’ll go with you. That direction is as good as any.” They stepped outside into weather that had become overcast in the short while he had been inside Jackson’s and walked down the street in silence, dodging the few pedestrians. Ingram waited until they turned the corner and there was nobody else about. “I need your help with something.”

  “I figured as much,” Stratford said. “You’re only quiet when you’re stewing over the best way to ask me for a favor. And it usually involves trouble.”

  Ingram smiled and shook his head but still didn’t speak. Stratford shot him a sideways glance. “That serious then? Tell me. If it’s within my power to help, I’ll do it.”

  “I know you will,” Ingram said, but they walked in silence some more before he finally spoke. “You flushed out one spy in your regiment and another in the sixty-second.”

  “You know of that, do you?” Stratford was only mildly surprised. He knew his friend was connected, at least in part, to the war intelligence unit. “It was sheer luck, though. I stumbled on one traitor meeting with the French near where we camped at Almeida. He didn’t see me in the trees, and the creek kept me from being heard. I figured the odds were against me, so I waited before confronting him. When I followed him, he led me directly to his accomplice in my regiment. It was a piece of luck, really.”

  “Hmm. For all that, it took some instinct to know how to bring him in.” Ingram turned as a carriage clattered down the nearly empty street. “Not surprisingly, there is espionage on the campaign trail, but what’s more worrisome is that there’s a new leak coming from headquarters. It’s likely to be someone higher up since the lower staff don’t have access to information concerning the movement of troops. Where they’re being sent, when, how many.” He stopped and looked at Stratford. “I’ve been put in charge of uncovering it.”

  “A gentleman traitor,” Stratford mused. “I can see your concern. Why involve me?”

  “I should think that would be obvious.” Ingram shot his friend a wry glance, then warned, “This conversation doesn’t go further than us.”

  Stratford retorted, “Do you find me so changed in the past three years?”

  “No, which is why I need you. The thing is, with this new leak, I can’t be everywhere at once, and I want to be sure of whom I trust. In short, I need your help.”

  “You have it. But doing what, exactly?” Stratford asked.

  “We’re looking at people who have a reason to spy. Bitterness toward the army, sympathy for the French, stuck in dun territory … Anything that could get them to question their loyalty. It’ll be an officer with access to all the social functions. I don’t need to tell you it’ll have catastrophic implications if the traitor gets information on troop movement, especially with what’s going on in the Americas. We risk getting spread thin.”

  Stratford nodded. “Any leads?”

  “We have three who might be bought,” Ingram said, “but only two valid ones. Sir François de Delacroix—he’s dropped the prefix—Robert Conolly, and Giles Cooke. All three will be coming to the end of their resources if their luck doesn’t change soon.”

  “Giles Cooke is no surprise,” Stratford replied. “I think everyone in London must know except, perhaps, his wife.”

  “Yes,” said Ingram, “and he has no connection to the military. But Delacroix and Conolly do … Or at least Conolly is on leave, and Delacroix runs with a military crowd. I’m having them followed. Major Fitzwilliam—I’ll introduce you—is handling that, but you’ll be the better man for gaining information from conversations. People watch their tongue around me, knowing I’m at headquarters, but with you they’ll let down their guard because you’ve sold out. They’ll think you have no particular military loyalty.”

  “They don’t know me then,” Stratford replied, his face grim.

  “That they don’t. Which helps the cause. And is another reason I asked you. And Stratford—” Ingram clapped his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “I can see that. Barely a hallo, and you’re putting me to work,” Stratford retorted.

  “It’s no less than what you wish. You can’t bear to be idle,” Ingram said.

  “Idle! I will not have the luxury of idleness for some years, I predict.” They had arrived at Stratford’s residence. “Come inside and have a drink. Phoebe and Anna will be here at any moment.”

  “You’ll have to pass on my greetings,” Ingram replied. “I must be off. Oh, and Lydia sends her love to all of you as well.”

  “Lydia’s home from school, then. She has her come out soon, does she not?” Stratford asked.

  “This year. I’ve heard about nothing else for the past six months. Fortunately, she has a friend staying with her, so she can chew her ear off with how fetching she looks in each dress she’s had made up. A Miss Eleanor Daventry will be spending the Season with us.”

  Stratford turned to his friend, sharply. “Miss Daventry? How are you acquainted with her?”

  Ingram stopped, his attention arrested. “She’s Lydia’s classmate from school. You know her?”

  Stratford gave a short nod. “Only the barest acquaintance. She was my uncle’s ward, and she spent three days at Worthing for the reading of the will.” He glanced at the front door then back to Ingram, clearly uncomfortable. With a forced laugh, he said, “I must go in and face more questions about where this flower arrangement or that chair should go. Phoebe cannot arrive soon enough.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get to it then.” They shook hands, and Ingram watched Stratford enter the house, his mind busy even after the door closed. The barest acquaintance, hmm?

  Chapter Nine

  Stratford! We’re here.” The sound of a young lady’s footsteps flying up the stone stairway echoed through the rooms. “It’s grander than our last house, and in
a better location, but it doesn’t feel quite like home. However, you’ll be able to hold your coronet ball here. We shall be so distinguished.”

  “Anna, slow down, my dear. You’re running and shouting like a gamine, and a not very elegant one at that. What will your suitors think?” Their aunt’s affectionate but indolent voice had no power to check her niece, and it was over Anna’s breathless perusal of the cascading stairwell that the aunt intoned, “Stratford, would you ring the footman for some tea? We’ve had a most fatiguing journey across town.” She turned a soft, plump cheek for him to kiss.

  Phoebe, nineteen, and a facsimile of her sister but with more grace than Stratford remembered her possessing, came to the rescue. “Would you like to sit down, Aunt Shae? I believe the morning room must be this way.”

  Stratford opened the door and gestured them in. “It is. James, bring the tea tray for my aunt and sisters.” Turning to Phoebe, “Are your dresses ready at last then? If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were trying to escape having to visit Worthing.”

  “Only Anna was,” the more demure twin replied. “I’ve been quite impatient to see the estate, but she kept finding fault with her dresses.”

  Anna stuck out her tongue. Apparently, thought Stratford, it hasn’t registered to Anna that she’s nineteen as well. “It was not the moment for retiring to the country,” Anna said. “It takes ages to prepare for one’s Season, and we were lucky to stay with the Jervils until the house was ready.” She skirted the room as her aunt and sister found places to sit. “Who is the gentleman in this painting? He looks disapproving and therefore must go.”

  “That is the third earl, and I was intending to replace the painting, but perhaps he will stay. You need someone disapproving to keep you in line, and it will save me the trouble. Ah, thank you, James.” Stratford gestured toward the table nearest his sister. “Aunt, as soon as you’ve had your tea, I’ll show you the house.” His gaze shifted to the ruby-red felted wallpaper. “We will need to redecorate, but that might best be left to the countess.”