“Ryecroft could grab her before the rest of the young bucks have the opportunity,” Lady Stone said thoughtfully. “Her coming-out ball is still a couple of weeks away, and as yet she’s barely been seen outside Berkeley Square. Or perhaps he’d do better with the Mickelthorpe girl. Hers is not as well-bred a family, of course, but that might be all to the good. It’s a much larger step upward for her to become a viscountess than for the Summersby chit, so she’ll appreciate it more. And she has an even larger portion, I understand.”
“I’m certain she would be honored to be chosen,” Miss Langford agreed.
Rye sketched an ironic bow at Lady Stone. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? Once I escape from this harpy, he thought, I will never set foot near Grosvenor Square again!
“Come, girl.” Lady Stone turned on her heel and marched up the nearest set of steps without bothering to check whether her companion was following.
The younger woman obeyed without so much as a glance at Rye—and without a hint of resentment or irritation. Of course, when her employer issued an order, no matter what the words or the tone, a companion had no option but to comply.
She was half a dozen feet away from him, with one foot already on the lowest step, when Rye said, “Miss Langford.” He had no idea why he’d spoken, except that the careless note in the old woman’s voice had jolted him.
She paused and half turned to face him, her head tilted to one side. Her foot was still on the step. He noticed how small her foot was and the slenderness of her ankle in the high-buttoned boot.
“I crave your pardon, Miss Langford, for any difficulty this incident might cause with your employer. I hope she does not blame you.”
“How kind of you to notice.” The irony that laced her voice was deft, almost delicate. “But of course, whether she blames me or not, you’ll still call on Lady Stone tomorrow—because she can help you choose the richest heiress.”
It wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t owe her an answer, anyway. Who was she to question his motives or his reasons? But before Rye could even consider explaining, she had reached the top of the stairs, and the door closed firmly behind her.
At least now he knew which house was Lady Stone’s.
And tomorrow Lady Stone expected he would come to give her his specifications for a bride. Namely, how much money an heiress must bring with her in order to become the next Viscountess Ryecroft.
Well, Lady Stone would be disappointed—for he would not appear tomorrow.
Except, he reminded himself, there was still Sophie to think of—and his mother—and that left him with no choice but to comply.
Three
Lord Randall’s ponderous efforts to make them welcome set Miranda’s teeth on edge. She felt easily eighty years old because of the way he tucked her solicitously into a chair and inquired whether she would like a hot brick or a shawl or a tisane to help her recover from the long journey.
The way he treated Sophie, though entirely different, was not much better. He kept apologizing for his horse and assuring Sophie that riding was the best pastime in the world. He even told her that if she would only give a try to a gentle old cob, one his father kept in his stables solely for the use of ladies who had been frightened by equines, she would soon get over this foolish prejudice of hers.
Miranda, keeping a careful eye on Sophie for signs of steam rising from her dainty ears, was pleased to see that her daughter resisted the temptation to set him straight.
Fortunately it was only a few minutes before Lady Brindle bustled in. If Lord Randall had kept it up for another quarter of an hour, Miranda thought, all bets would have been off. Sophie, despite her youth, might have been able to hold on to her temper, for she was clearly taking care to be on her best behavior. Miranda was fairly sure she herself would not have. One more offer of a pastille for her headache and she’d have given the young man an aching head of his own.
There was no doubt who the authority was in Lady Brindle’s house. Within five minutes of her arrival, Lady Brindle had firmly dispatched Sophie to the guest room that had been set aside for her, in the care of the housekeeper, for a rest—without inquiring whether her young guest felt in need of one.
It was soon clear why she had done so, however. Without Sophie present to hold her son’s attention, Lady Brindle was easily able to persuade Lord Randall to resume his interrupted ride. And soon thereafter Miranda and her old friend were settled in the drawing room with a glass of ratafia and a tray of cakes for what Lady Brindle called a comfortable coze. Miranda suspected it would be anything but comfortable.
Within moments of picking up her first cake, Lady Brindle said, “Now, Miranda, you must tell me what this is all about. I’m happy to have you visit of course, at any time, but why in heaven’s name did you write to ask me to make up some ailment that would require you to come and stay for a few days?”
Miranda sipped her ratafia. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t anticipated the question or given thought to how to answer it. But she’d forgotten how like a bulldog Ann Eliza could be when there was something she wanted to know.
Perhaps, she thought wryly, she had wanted to forget.
“Since when,” Ann Eliza persisted, “aren’t you free to come and go exactly as you like?”
“When one has children, it’s hardly as easy as—”
“Oh pish. It’s not as if they’re still in the nursery. And you’ve had years to get used to the situation. That must be one of the best things about being a widow—not having to be accountable to a husband.” She sounded almost wistful, and not for the first time Miranda wondered whether Ann Eliza’s determination to marry Brindle all those years ago had been such a wise thing. She seemed to have let herself run to seed.
But to an extent, Ann Eliza was right. There was definitely something to be said for the independence that came with being the widowed mother of a son who had achieved his majority and taken on the responsibilities left to him by his father.
If only, Miranda thought, the freedom she enjoyed had included an independent income, she would truly be a happy woman!
Ann Eliza hadn’t stopped talking. “From everything you’ve told me, Ryecroft is the best of sons. Why wouldn’t he agree for you to visit a friend just because you wanted to do so?”
“I didn’t wish him to feel I was trying to avoid my responsibilities.”
Ann Eliza looked at her narrowly. “Do you mean by leaving Sophie at home with him as you said you were going to do? Did Ryecroft object to being left in charge of a young lady? Or did you not ask him? Miranda, you must give me leave to tell you that if you’ve trumped up this visit merely in order to bring your daughter to the attention of my son—”
“I most certainly have not! Ann Eliza, I’m shocked. Why you should think that I would do such a thing… I have no desire…” Miranda swallowed the rest of the sentence. To see my daughter married to your selfish oaf of a son, she had been starting to say. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her tongue today that she’d almost insulted her hostess?
“Because I would have you know that his father and I have made plans for his marriage already,” Ann Eliza said firmly. “Summersby’s eldest daughter—a considerable heiress in her own right. The money comes from her mother’s side of the family, and the house that will be settled on her is only ten miles away from here.”
“How convenient,” Miranda managed to say.
“Yes, isn’t it? Eventually Randall and Flavia will join the two estates.”
“Why haven’t I heard this happy news before, Ann Eliza?”
“Oh, well, Lady Flavia’s only seventeen. She will make her formal come-out in a few weeks, as soon as the Season gets well started. It’s only fair for the girl to make her curtsy, after all, and have a bit of fun before settling down. But there’s been an understanding for years now between Summersby and Brindle. I expect that by June we’ll have a wedding.”
“My congratulations.”
“Yes, I’m
well pleased to have that settled. She’s such a biddable girl too—delightfully accommodating. I only wish I had a daughter of my own. Such fun it would be to match her up. After all, there’s young Carrisbrooke, right here in the neighborhood. He’s not reached marriageable age, of course, but in another year or two, when he reaches his majority—”
“And his estate is even closer—and larger—than Lady Flavia’s,” Miranda put in acidly before her common sense kicked in.
“Yes, just three miles away… and an abbey. It would be so convenient to have my daughter right at hand and to have her be a countess as well. However, there’s no sense crying over spilt milk; it wasn’t meant to be. But I shall enjoy having a daughter-in-love—helping her set up her household, advising her as to the best way to go about things.”
Miranda couldn’t help wondering if Ann Eliza’s assistance would be as welcome as she expected.
Ann Eliza refilled her glass and selected another cake. “It seems to me you’ll have your hands full presenting your Sophie, when the time comes. Surely you’re not going to try this year, Miranda? It seems to me that more seasoning would be wise. Of course she’s old enough and foolishly pretty—just as you were. But Blackett tells me she’s something of a hoyden as well. He said she actually jumped from the carriage.”
“I’m surprised your butler thought it necessary to mention that Sophie slipped on the carriage step.”
“Jumped,” Ann Eliza went on ruthlessly, “and she practically knocked her hat off as well. My word, Miranda, how you are going to deal with a young miss like that one…”
At least, Miranda thought, Ann Eliza had distracted herself from the original question. “She only slipped because Lord Randall’s horse startled her.”
“You mean she isn’t familiar with horses? I thought he must be funning when he said that. I never thought a daughter of yours would be anything but a bruising rider.”
“She rides very well indeed. Speaking of riding,” Miranda added carelessly, “I wonder, Ann Eliza, if you will lend me a mount and a groom. Tomorrow, perhaps? I have a fancy to ride over some of the old paths and revisit the places I knew as a girl.”
“By all means. I’ll send a message to the head stableman. But your plan sounds like fun, my dear. Perhaps I’ll come along. We can take the carriage out and relive our youth together. No?” She laughed. “You looked quite put out for a moment. What are you up to, I wonder, Miranda Ryecroft? Something dodgy, I’ll be bound. But as long as you swear on your mother’s Bible that you’re not trying to match up your ridiculously pretty Sophie with my boy—”
“I swear it,” Miranda said. And she had the virtuous reassurance that she was, at that moment, telling the absolute and complete truth.
For a change.
***
Portia took off her outdoor things, neatened her hair, and plucked a wayward violet from under her collar, where it had lodged somehow when that fortune-hunting oaf had almost knocked her into the street.
She had to admit the collision had been only an accident—the sort of thing that could have happened to anyone. But the way he’d let go of her and ducked away the instant he’d realized she was nothing more than a paid companion… now that had been intentional. Insulting, even, because he wouldn’t have dropped her arm like a hot coal if she’d been one of the heiresses Lady Stone had promised him. He’d have bowed and scraped and begged her pardon and flattered her…
And you’d have hated it, she reminded herself.
So it was just as well that he knew right up front she was a mere companion. And it was just as well that she knew he was a mere fortune hunter. Because otherwise…
Because otherwise she might have kept believing that eyes as dark and warm and sincere as his were, in that long instant when he’d looked down at her, must belong to a true gentleman. She might have kept thinking about how strong his grasp was when he held her, and how soft his touch had been against her temple as he untangled the violet from her eyelashes, and how his height had made her feel as fragile as a flower…
“A violet, perhaps,” Portia jeered at herself. “Just like that bunch he was holding. And look what happened to them—trampled in the street.” Except for the one that lay on her dressing table now.
She smiled at her foolishness, dismissed the thought of Viscount Ryecroft, and tapped on the door of Lady Stone’s boudoir to ask if her employer would like her to read the next chapter of Mansfield Park.
“Not just now,” Lady Stone said. “Come and talk to me instead.”
Portia took a chair near the chaise where Lady Stone was reclining. “What shall I talk about, ma’am?”
“Whatever is on your mind. Lord Ryecroft, I expect.”
“Why would I be thinking about him? What inspired you to take him up, anyway?”
Lady Stone shot a shrewd look at her. “Do you think him too young for me?” she simpered.
“I think he’d be too young for your daughter, if you had one,” Portia said under her breath.
“I heard that, miss. My ears are as sharp as they ever were.”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you certain it’s not misplaced maternal instincts that you’re feeling?”
Lady Stone gave a rusty laugh. “You might be right. He did seem to treat his mother well, so perhaps I felt envious. At the time, however, I merely thought it might be amusing to have a tame young man around the house.”
“The blush having worn off the idea of having a companion?”
“Indeed it has. You’ve been here all of six weeks, Portia, and you’re no longer showing me proper respect. I should turn you off and find someone new.”
“No one else would put up with you for six weeks, ma’am. But I still don’t understand why Viscount Ryecroft has commanded your attention.”
Lady Stone shrugged. “When I met him at that assembly down in Surrey, I felt sorry for him. He’s got this huge manor house that’s falling to rack and ruin, or so it’s said in the neighborhood. In short, he needs to marry an heiress, and a whomping great one too.”
“So you decided to be his fairy godmother and introduce him to Summersby’s eldest daughter?”
“Not exactly.”
“You don’t intend him for Summersby’s daughter after all?”
“No, I meant I don’t fancy myself as a fairy godmother—I wouldn’t look at all good prancing around in wings, waving a magic wand. As for Summersby’s daughter, her marriage portion may not be large enough to meet his needs. But she would thank me in the end if I did make a match between them.”
“Being married solely for her dowry? What an honor that would be.”
“Ryecroft’s a great deal more interesting than Lord Randall is.”
“That,” Portia said, “is hardly a challenge. The last climbing boy who came out of the flue in my bedroom was a great deal more interesting than Lord Randall is.”
“Portia, my dear, you could make something of him, you know.”
“Ryecroft?”
“Certainly not. I told you, he needs an heiress. I meant Randall.”
“What could I make of him, pray tell? A leather wallet from his thick hide?”
Lady Stone’s laugh pealed through the room. “It can’t be denied that Randall’s a dull stick, though a lively woman could keep him on his toes. But there’s sufficient money there and a decent title. True, the estate is in Sussex, but…”
“There are worse places,” Portia conceded and regretted her momentary lapse into agreement when she saw Lady Stone’s gaze sharpen.
“He’s an only son, and there’s not even a sister who needs a dowry funded. Besides, once I’ve peeled away Summersby’s daughter, Randall will be ripe for the plucking for a lady who possesses some diplomacy. What do you think?”
“I think, my lady, that you have exceeded the bounds of good taste in matchmaking.”
“I’m only trying to make your life easier, my girl, but if you don’t appreciate my efforts, I’ll move on. If you’re positive you don’t want
Randall—”
“I’m certain.”
“Then he can have Summersby’s daughter with my blessing. Let’s go back to Ryecroft.”
“Must we?” Portia muttered.
“There’s Juliana Farling.”
“She seems sweet. Too sweet to waste on him. I thought you mentioned Miss Mickelthorpe.”
“I did. No family connections to speak of, but she’d be moonstruck at the idea of being a viscountess.”
“So moonstruck that she wouldn’t even mind if Ryecroft had a mad aunt concealed in the attic of that crumbling house of his. Or if he had a previous wife or two who died under mysterious circumstances.”
“He’s hardly old enough for that.”
“Or to be married at all.”
“When one has to marry for money, there’s nothing to be gained by waiting.” Lady Stone waved a dismissive hand. “I want you to write a letter for me.”
“Certainly.” Portia went to a small writing table in the corner of the boudoir, got out a sheet of Lady Stone’s hot-pressed notepaper, and trimmed her pen. After a while she glanced over at her employer, who was staring abstractedly out the window. “It would be helpful, Lady Stone, if I knew to whom the letter should be addressed and what information you wish it to contain.”
“You’ve a pert way with you, miss.”
“You knew that when you hired me, ma’am, and you said it suited you right down to the ground.”
“And so it does. Mealymouthed young women give me an ague. The letter’s to Robert Wellingham. I want him to call on me tomorrow.”
“Robert Wellingham? The merchant banker? Why do you—” Portia bit her tongue.
“Because,” Lady Stone said blandly, “I find myself in need of financial advice.”
“I suppose that means the merchant banker has a daughter?” But instead of waiting for an answer she knew would not be forthcoming, Portia began to write.
***
Miranda had to admit that Lord Randall was correct about one thing—for late March, the weather was uncommonly fine. When she rode out from Brindle Park the next morning with only a groom in attendance, the air was cool and fresh. She could smell damp earth just coming to life with green spikes that would quickly become daffodils. And she could hear the chatter of birdsong in the newly budded trees.
Just One Season in London Page 3
