“The countess!” Anna smiled at him with false innocence. “Who is she? Will you be having your Season too?”
“See to your own affairs,” Stratford bit back mildly. “You have enough to occupy you. Like learning to curb your tongue.” All he got in return was a smirk.
“Stratford, you haven’t answered a single question in my letters about this ball we’re to have.” Phoebe reached over and poured a cup of tea for her aunt and handed it to her. “We want to organize it early enough in the Season that people will not have a load of invitations to choose from, but not so early that no one is here.”
“I suppose we shall have to discuss it, but pester me only about the spending decisions, if you please,” Stratford replied. “The rest you must sort out without my help.”
Anna turned. “May I see the ballroom? Where is it?”
“Drink your tea first, Anna,” Stratford said, as he accepted a cup from his sister. Anna rolled her eyes at his patronizing tone but obeyed the summons.
Pouring her sister and then herself a cup of tea, Phoebe stirred a spoonful of sugar in each. “What news is there of the estate? You told us nothing of the reading of the will in your letter, only that you would arrive in town Tuesday.”
“After your sharp reminder that my presence was required immediately to escort you to every societal gathering, I cut to the essentials.” Stratford leaned on the mantel.
“One would almost think you didn’t know your duty, Stratford.” His younger sister’s words were laced with humor, but her blue eyes penetrated uncomfortably. “Aunt Shae can chaperone us, but we need a male presence. Had you forgotten everything in your three years overseas?”
Stratford shifted to the other foot. “I cannot forget what I don’t know. I am … unaccustomed to our father’s absence.” He stopped suddenly and swirled the tea in his cup.
Phoebe’s eyes shimmered. “We’re glad you’re home, Stratford.” After a pause, she said, “Tell us of Worthing.”
“Yes, is the estate falling to rack and ruin?” Anna, flipping the pages of La Belle Assemblée, allowed her tea to grow cold. “Aunt, I told you we should’ve chosen the white rosebud overlay. Look here how fine it is over the Damascene sarcenet.”
Phoebe waited while her brother sipped his tea. “There were no surprises,” he admitted. “Well, but for one. The former earl’s ward will inherit the most promising piece of land, and I shall be obliged to use my own resources to bring parts of Worthing back to their former glory.”
Phoebe’s brow creased. “Was not the entire estate entailed?”
“All but this and some property bequeathed to the old earl’s sisters.” He reached down with the iron poker and jabbed at one of the logs that had fallen too close to the grate.
“What will the young man do with the land? Is he willing to sell it to you?” Phoebe glanced at her sister to see if she were following, but Anna was still engrossed in the magazine.
“It was a Miss Eleanor Daventry who inherited the property.” Stratford couldn’t resist a look to see how his sisters took this surprising news.
“A Miss Eleanor Daventry! But she’s not even in the family.” Anna’s gaze flew to her sister, then Stratford. She had been listening. “Who is she? Why was she his ward?”
“I don’t have the particulars, but I believe her father and our uncle were friends. She was in need of a portion, but why she was given this piece of land I cannot fathom.” Stratford put the iron poker back in the ring with unnecessary force. “Would you like to look over the house?”
Phoebe helped their aunt to her feet while Anna sidled up to her brother. “You have only to marry her, Stratford. That will solve all the problems, and you can keep our family’s property intact.” She tiptoed to peer at his face with an impish smile that was too perceptive for his comfort. He turned away before she could divine his thoughts.
“Is she a Homely Joan, then?” Anna called after him at his abrupt departure. Her aunt and twin sister followed Stratford through the door, but Anna was still rooted to the spot. “That’s it then? She’s pudding-faced?”
“She’s tolerable,” Stratford said over his shoulder, knowing his face was flushed now in earnest—and knowing, too, he was a liar. It will seem strange if I don’t tell them she’s staying with Lydia. With a bluster he didn’t feel, he added, “You will meet her soon enough. She’s Lydia’s friend from school and is staying at the Ingram house for the Season.”
“Is she now,” Anna said, with an arrested expression.
Stratford knew dodging Anna’s questions for any length of time when she had that look on her face was an impossibility. As soon as they had toured the house, he made a strategic retreat, informing the ladies he intended to visit White’s.
Phoebe called out. “I’ll have that list of questions pertaining to the ball by tomorrow.”
“I’ll have some too,” Anna added with a mischievous gleam.
R
Lydia tied her bonnet securely under her chin then pulled Eleanor’s arm, sending her own ribbons askew. “I’ve heard from Madame Baillot, and they expect us at two. I cannot wait to outfit you in something more suitable. If I have to look at such a drab-colored dress another day, I shall be tempted to take my scissors to it.”
Eleanor chuckled and pulled her arm away to retie her chip hat. “There’s no rush. I won’t have my dresses in under a week, so I don’t see the need to race about—” she took the voice of their former schoolmistress, “‘like a hoyden.’ ”
Lydia smirked. “I’m quite certain there will be a dress that someone has ordered and has not taken, and that we will walk out of the store with a new dress for you today. Then we can both attend Mrs. Jenkins’s soirée tomorrow night.”
“Perhaps,” Eleanor said, not yet ready to enter the lists.
Lydia was right. Madame Baillot had a dress ready-made in the perfect size for mademoiselle, a forgotten article among a large trousseau for a lady who had already removed to Norfolk. Though the dress was suitable, Lydia employed her good taste in choosing fabrics to drape over Eleanor that would have a more striking effect for her remaining wardrobe. The gold Apollo crèpe was something Eleanor would not have chosen for herself, but the transformation when she stood before the glass was heartening.
“I knew it. Eleanor, this color is perfect for you.” Lydia hugged Eleanor from behind before going over to examine more bolts of fabric in shades of lavender. “We will certainly need one in Stifled Sigh for after the come-out ball. And one in ivory, of course.”
Madame Baillot encouraged Lydia’s planned expenditures with murmured approval while examining Eleanor from head to toe. “We take off some length from ze bottom, and we bring to you zees afternoon.” Turning to Lydia, she added, “Oui, je suis d’accord. Miss Maxwell will take ze measurements for riding habit, day dress, walking dress …”
“I think two walking dresses to begin with,” Lydia stated. “Where is the fabric for the evening gowns? I have some fashion plates with ideas …”
Eleanor, bemused, gave full rein to Lydia in deciding the number of dresses she would need, stopping her only to say she would not take the pink—(vous avez raison, mademoiselle, zat color will never do)—and allowed Miss Maxwell to wind the cord around her waist, her arms, and her bust, and write down the measurements.
After two hours of this, the first step outdoors felt like freedom, and Eleanor wanted to laugh. “I was afraid I’d be buried under fabric and they wouldn’t find me for three days.”
“Well, it’s only because you needed so many,” Lydia said. She paused on the side of the road to tell the driver, “One more stop before we head home, but we can walk to the carriage from there. We won’t be but a minute.”
“Haven’t you had enough?” Eleanor groaned, as Lydia pulled her forward.
“No. I promised you a turn in the store on New Bond, and we shall have it. There’s likely to be a crowd if we come tomorrow morning, and you will need accessories for your new gown. I saw just
the gloves with pearl buttons …” She stopped and pulled Eleanor close to whisper, “Do you see that woman there? With the blonde hair?”
Eleanor couldn’t miss her. She was dressed in the first stare of fashion with a white muslin draped gown and a pale-blue spencer that matched the color of her eyes. She was laughing at a gentleman’s remark—he, a Pink of the Ton if ever there were one—showing her perfect teeth set in pearly white rows. I must always be a dowd next to a woman like that, Eleanor thought dismally.
“That,” disclosed Lydia, “is one of London’s terrible jilts, Judith Broadmore. She threw off our friend Stratford, though no one outside the family knew they had an understanding. I’m sure that’s what caused him to leave his father’s business and go off and join the regiment.”
Eleanor felt a queer pain in her chest. She knew to whom Lydia was referring but couldn’t bring herself to remind Lydia of the connection. She would have to say his name. Instead she asked, “Would that not ruin her?”
“You forget that no one knew. Stratford was a gentleman and kept their understanding secret at her request. Then she changed her mind because he didn’t have a title. At least, that’s what Anna told me. I’ll bet Judith is regretting her haste now. He inherited an earldom.” Lydia lifted an eyebrow at that choice morsel of gossip.
Eleanor had only time to think, She doesn’t remember that I have met him, before Lydia prattled on. “If you ask me, she will try her luck with him again, counting on their former attachment. He was simply pining away with love for her. And look at her now. She’s positively on the shelf! I fear our Stratford is just nice enough to be taken in again.”
Oh. Eleanor’s mouth formed the word, but she had no chance to respond before a nondescript, bony gentleman sporting a pink waistcoat and a bored expression was bowing before Lydia. “Miss Ingram,” he said. “You’re looking very grown up.”
“Sir Braxsen,” Lydia exclaimed, her whispered disclosures forgotten. “I haven’t seen you in years. Had my brother not thought you fit for my company, or is there another reason for your absence?”
“Only going off to Spain would keep me from your charm,” Sir Braxsen said, with more practiced flirtation than sincerity. “I’ve been with the regiment at war these past two years.”
“Well, in that case, I hope we shall be seeing more of you while you’re in town.” Eleanor heard the sincerity in Lydia’s light reply. The late Lord Ingram had been a major-general, and Lydia respected those in service.
“I imagine there’s not a party you will miss this Season,” Sir Braxsen said, “now that you’re out.”
“As to that, I’m not out just yet. In fact, let me introduce you to Miss Eleanor Daventry, who will be staying with me. We’ll have our come-out together in a week’s time, and I’ll see that you receive an invitation. However, not officially being out won’t stop us from attending Mrs. Jenkins’s assembly tomorrow night. Will we see you there?”
“If you’ll promise me the first dance, I’ll come,” Sir Braxsen rejoined. Beyond him, a red-headed military gentleman, whose arresting features were not quite handsome but made one wish to look twice, descended the steps of the imposing stone building. He looked surprised to see Sir Braxsen there. However, after the initial start, he stared, not at Sir Braxsen, but at Lydia. Eleanor wondered if Lydia knew him, but her friend seemed unconscious of his gaze.
With the dance promised, Sir Braxsen turned to join the other gentleman, and Eleanor linked her arm through Lydia’s. Lord Worthing’s—Stratford’s—jilt had, by now, been joined by another admirer, and Eleanor was transfixed by her smile.
“So we shall attend Mrs. Jenkins’s, hmm?” Eleanor said, but she wasn’t listening for Lydia’s answer. She was busy thinking of an earl who had once loved (still loved?) this woman enough to be engaged to her. He had then proposed to Eleanor, but not for love. And although his could not truly be called a proposal, it was enough of one to signify that Lord Worthing had been rejected in marriage twice.
R
Stratford walked briskly toward the club, saluting a surprised acquaintance on his way, but he did not stop. His entrance at White’s provoked no small reaction once his presence was made known. It needed only hailing a gawky fellow with a cowlick, who went by “Finch” and another gentleman in colors who answered to “Gerry” for everyone to return with handshakes and slaps on the back.
He shook Gerry’s hand, congratulated him on his marriage, and asked how he had left the Peninsula. It didn’t take long for them to come to the story that brought them together: their successful maneuver against the French army at Bussaco. They laughed at Masséna’s confusion when Hill’s brigade came over the ridge and, as Gerry said, wiping his eyes, “discovered there were more of us on the other side!” After that battle, their brigades had gone separate ways, and it was the last time they’d seen each other.
“So I heard you inherited a pretty estate. Now we shall not only put up with your presence at White’s, but actually welcome it.” Gerry’s cynical words were belied by the amusement in his expression.
“If the fellows at White’s are this fickle, I’d better make my way to Brooke’s.” It was an old joke. No one could explain Stratford’s acceptance by the peerage when his father had no title and his mother’s family was in trade, but from his early days at Eton, then at Cambridge, everyone liked him, and no one contested the invitation. He was sure his long-standing friendship with Ingram helped matters, but if he thought his addition to the peerage changed anything to those who counted, he would have turned his affections elsewhere.
At that moment, Sir Braxsen spotted him and came over, his expression mocking. “Is this Lord Worthing? And to think I’d hoped to outrank you in the military. I’d no idea you were in line for a peerage.”
His tone was playful, but Stratford felt there was some truth to his words. “With an uncle and two cousins in line ahead of me, it was too far removed a possibility for me to speak of it. And you? You’ve sold out?”
“I’m on furlough,” Braxsen replied. He turned his head toward a laughing, impeccably attired Corinthian verbally sparring with only the faintest of accents. “Look over there,” he said with a sneer. “How did one of Boney’s men push his way in?”
“Oh, I suppose he came over in eighty-nine with his family.” Stratford fingered his pocket watch and looked over the crowd.
“Don’t it bother you, then? I, for one, can’t bear to see ’em here,” Braxsen said.
The dark leather walls and the sounds of the club faded away as Stratford remembered his first close encounter with the enemy. A white-faced boy, who could not have been more than seventeen, trembling alone in a cow shed, his breeches wet from terror. The boy put his arms up to shield his face from the sunlight streaming through the spaces in the wooden lath-board.
“Vas-y. Caches-toi. On sera parti avant l’aube,” Stratford had told him. Hide. We’ll be gone by dawn. On the battlefield, en masse, the French were the enemy. As individuals, they bled red like he did.
“No.” Stratford answered Braxsen firmly. “They’re pawns under Boney and Murat. If he—” Stratford jerked his head toward the Frenchman, “has gained acceptance at White’s, his loyalties must be unexceptionable.”
“Worthing,” Amesbury called from his table, interrupting a conversation Stratford was increasingly glad to leave. “You’ve come so soon.” Stratford nodded a farewell to Braxsen and took a seat next to Amesbury.
“I did, indeed. It’s my sisters’ second Season, and as much as I’d have liked to stay at the estate, I’m responsible for opening the house and launching their ball.”
Amesbury nodded, and a short silence ensued before he drew a breath. “I say.” He paused to take a drink and leaned back with studied nonchalance. “Have you seen Miss Daventry in London yet?”
“No, I’ve only just arrived. Why do you ask?” Stratford looked out the window as a sudden rainstorm sent figures scurrying for cover outside.
“I say,” Amesbury rep
eated, absently. There was another pause as he tapped the edge of his lorgnette on the table.
“I wish you would,” Stratford said. Amesbury shot him a look of confusion, and he clarified: “Say it, that is.”
Amesbury sucked in his breath and said, “I was thinking I might try my hand at Miss Daventry.”
Stratford’s brows shot up. “I thought you disliked her parentage, and just about everything else. You found it hard to sit next to her at lunch.”
“Yes, but I’ve been thinking.” Gathering steam, his friend refilled his glass. “Her lineage cannot be that questionable if your uncle accepted to be her guardian. And her owning the Munroe hamlet would be an asset to my property. If I lent her my credibility, I’m sure she would be received.” Stratford felt bile rise in his throat.
Amesbury went on, “Unless, of course, you …” His voice trailed away as he looked a question at Stratford.
“No, no, of course not,” Stratford declared. “As you’ve reminded me, I cannot be too careful in choosing a countess.”
Amesbury missed the sarcastic tone. “You’re right about that. I, however, need look no further than a gentleman’s daughter with a good portion.” Amesbury straightened the neckcloth around his skinny neck.
“You can take your chances with her in a week’s time,” Stratford said, in a clipped tone. “I have it on authority from Ingram that she’ll be presented at Lady Ingram’s ball when she brings Lydia out.”
“Miss Lydia Ingram. Now she would make a suitable wife to an earl,” Amesbury mused.
“Lydia’s a scamp,” Stratford said roundly. “She’ll marry someone she can bring ’round her thumb.” Dismissing Ingram’s little sister, his thoughts drifted to the brown-eyed woman who was staying at her house.
Amesbury stared ahead unseeing, already, it seemed, planning his assault on Lydia or Miss Daventry or anyone who would have him. Stratford looked around the club to see what other long-lost face might bring relief. He was feeling out of sorts.
A Regrettable Proposal Page 8
