Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1)

by Jayne Davis

  “I’m sure I could mend my reputation, Father, if—”

  The earl slammed one hand down on the desk. “You know it’s your duty to marry and get an heir, yet you have done nothing but gamble and whore your way through London since your brother died. I will wait no longer.”

  That was unfair—he’d never had to pay for a lover.

  “It’s time you learned how to manage an estate, so you can—”

  “I did take an interest when Alfred died.”

  “For a few months!”

  Will clenched his jaw. He’d tried, but the earl’s steward was so set in his methods he couldn’t explain why things were done in a particular way. Any suggestions Will made had been met by a blank stare and a refusal to change anything. It was no use saying that to his father, though—the earl was not open to discussion at the best of times, let alone when he was in this mood.

  “I need you out of the way, Wingrave, so your reputation doesn’t damage the chances of Theresa and Elizabeth making good matches.”

  Will straightened. “They’re only fifteen,” he protested.

  “It will take three or four years for people to forget your… ah… exploits.”

  Exploits? He’d done nothing worse than most other young men in Town. What, exactly, had Ferris been telling him?

  “When do I get to meet this… paragon?” There was a possibility—however remote—that his father had picked a woman he could get along with. Although as he hadn’t bothered to even mention her name, it seemed unlikely that he knew anything of her other than her lineage.

  “On Monday—three days’ time. You will be married in the church in Eversham.”

  “What?” Will shot to his feet. “You can’t seriously expect me to marry a woman I’ve never even set eyes on?”

  The earl leaned back in his chair with the same humourless smile that Will had seen two days before. A cold knot of doom settled in Will’s stomach.

  “You will do as you are bid.” The earl leaned to one side and pulled a drawer open, taking from it a pile of papers.

  Will recognised the top one as the list of vowels he’d made two evenings before the duel. If Ferris had brought that along, the rest would be the tradesmen’s bills he owed.

  “How do you intend to pay these if I do not reinstate your allowance?”

  Will didn’t bother to reply.

  “You could be taken to the Fleet if you don’t pay.” The earl tapped a finger on the bills.

  “You wouldn’t damage the family reputation that way,” Will stated confidently.

  “True.”

  His father still wore that smug smile. The feeling of doom intensified.

  “I will pay them, all the outstanding ones,” the earl said.

  Will didn’t think thanks were appropriate.

  “And if you disobey me, I will cut off your allowance and sell Ashton Tracey to repay the Marstone estates for the monies spent.”

  The earl’s smile was triumphant now. Will stared at him, trying to make sense of what he’d said.

  “It’s part of the estate, you can’t sell it.” he protested.

  “No. It came as part of your mother’s dowry. It is not a traditional part of the Marstone holdings, nor is it included in the entail.”

  “But it’s worth far more than any debts I’ve run up!”

  The earl did not answer, but pushed the bills across the desk. Will frowned—there were a lot of papers there, many more than he remembered owing. He turned the top one over, then the next, flinging them to one side. The first few were bills he knew he needed to pay, the rest he didn’t recall. Most of them had ‘paid by the Marstone estate’ written on them in the steward’s crabbed hand.

  “I don’t recognise these,” he protested.

  The earl reached out and picked up a few of the scattered sheets.

  “Blue coat with silver trim,” he read out. “Matching waistcoat and breeches.”

  Will closed his eyes—that sounded remarkably like the suit he’d worn to the duel.

  “…crates of port, four of burgundy…”

  Ferris must have taken some of his bills, and he’d never noticed. Being under his father’s thumb like this seemed a harsh price to pay for not keeping a detailed account of his spending. He rubbed a hand across his face, realising his father had pushed the bills to one side.

  “You have incurred some of these expenses by flouting my authority and taking your own lodgings in London, instead of staying at Marstone House.”

  Where every member of staff would be reporting my activities to you.

  “You will wed this woman on Monday. You will live here or at Ashton Tracey until you have two healthy heirs.”

  It could be worse, he supposed. He could have been made to live here, under Marstone’s eye.

  “You will not go whoring, or swive anyone other than your wife.”

  “You were not so nice yourself,” Will protested, stung that his father so readily assumed he would not obey his marriage vows. He suppressed the thought that his fidelity might depend on what his future wife was like.

  “I’d sired the two of you before I took a mistress—I did not risk getting the French disease, nor being killed duelling over some strumpet before I’d got my heirs.” He ran his eyes down Will from his head to his toes, the curl of his lip making it plain what he thought of his remaining heir.

  “It’s not fair on… what is her name?” The woman was clearly only a brood mare to his father.

  “Miss Charters.”

  “It’s not fair on Miss Charters, either, to marry in such circumstances.” Unless, of course, she’d take anyone in line to inherit an earldom.

  “It is not her place to object; she will obey her father. She knows her duties to man and to God.”

  Good grief, that sounds almost as bad as being shackled to someone like Hetty!

  “…should be grateful I have chosen such an obedient wife.”

  Obedience—he’s obsessed by it.

  Will stood and walked over to the window, aware of his father’s triumphant gaze on his back. He’d rather see Marstone Park itself go than sell the place that held his happiest memories, but Ashton Tracey was only a house and some land. Meagre though it had been, he’d find it very difficult to manage without the allowance from his father. If he accepted this arrangement, he would at least be able to live away from his father with an estate to manage for himself.

  But what would the earl do to keep a hold over him once he was married? Of course—Ashton Tracey would still be held over his head. That estate would not be his own until the old man died, and if that went, so would his independence.

  “You will be signing Ashton Tracey over to me, then, if I am to live there.” He knew what the answer would be.

  “Why would I do that?” The earl’s brows rose.

  Fairness?

  “Then I decline the arrangements you have made.”

  Will had only taken a few steps towards the door when the earl spoke. “What will you do with no money?”

  “Sign on as a deckhand in an East Indiaman.” Will turned to face him. “Uncle Jack will see me right if I get to India.”

  The earl banged his desk. “I will not have a son of mine serving as a common deck hand!”

  “Then you know what to do!”

  This time his father did not call him back as he left the room.

  Chapter 7

  Late that afternoon Connie was summoned once more to the study, where the lowering sun slanted a pink light through the windows. Her father sat behind his desk, a small pile of papers before him and a rare expression of satisfaction on his face.

  “Sit down, Constance. I have good news for you.”

  That sounded ominous.

  “You are about to improve your situation in the world. Lord Marstone came today to agree your marriage arrangements.”

  Connie stared at him. “Marriage?” To the fat old man with a gouty foot?

  No.

  “Yes, yes
. Marriage!” His complacent smirk faded. “You should be thanking me. That is what all young women should aspire to, marrying well.”

  Nausea rose in her throat. “Papa, he’s old enough to be—” She bit her lip against her words, and against rising panic. He was old enough to be her father, yes, but Charters wouldn’t see that as an impediment.

  “Ha! No, girl. The marriage is to his son. I’ll have a viscountess for a daughter, a countess one day.”

  The son who fights duels over loose women? She closed her eyes for a moment—that could be worse.

  “But Papa, I have never even seen him!”

  “What difference does that make? It’s all arranged, you ungrateful girl.” He tapped the papers on his desk. “The contract is signed and witnessed, and irrevocable. You will be married at Eversham on Monday, at eleven…”

  Three days?

  Her father talked on, his tone gloating, but she was no longer listening. Was she even to meet her future husband before the ceremony? Was it truly irrevocable? What if she told her father—no, told the earl—some fiction about a lover, that she was no longer—

  “Constance!”

  She started as her father’s hand slammed onto the desk. His smile was completely gone now, a vein bulging in one temple.

  “Some gratitude would be fitting,” he spat. “It’s a better match than you could ever have hoped to make. Get your things packed up, and make sure you don’t disgrace me on Monday. Now get out of my sight!”

  Tears pricking her eyes, Connie got to her feet and left the room. In the hallway she hesitated, clenching her hands into fists so that her nails dug into her palms. She’d be alone in her room, but that wasn’t what she needed—instead, she turned the other way and strode out of the house, out of the gate and across the fields.

  The brisk walk helped to calm her mind a little, and her panic had settled into a dull weight on her chest by the time she reached the vicarage and walked around to the back garden. The vicar and his wife sat together at their little table beneath the apple tree, glasses of wine before them. The contrast between that picture of domestic happiness and what she might expect from this arranged marriage brought a lump to her throat. She took a deep breath.

  Martha must have seen something in her face, or in her bearing, for she stood and came towards her, holding her hands out. Connie ran the last two steps towards her and allowed Martha to hug her close for a moment.

  “Do you have time to talk to me? Please.” She took another deep breath as her voice verged on a wobble.

  “Of course, my dear.” Martha led the way back towards the table, and Connie took the seat the vicar had just vacated. “Joseph, can you bring some tea, please?”

  Mr Fancott set off for the house.

  Martha leaned across the table and patted her hand. “Tell me what your father has done now.”

  “I’m to be married.” Connie told Martha of the earl’s visit and the interview she’d just had with her father. Her explanation sounded garbled, even to herself, but Martha nodded as she spoke.

  Before Martha could comment, the vicar came back into the garden carrying a tea tray, a couple of shawls draped over one arm.

  “It’s getting a little cool.” He set the tray on the table, and handed the shawls to Martha and Connie. “Enjoy your tea.”

  Connie watched him go, not feeling a need for the shawl yet, but grateful for the thought.

  “What can I do, Martha? I don’t want to marry someone I’ve never met, a libertine.” Her voice rose in pitch as she spoke, and she paused to take a ragged breath. “I don’t know what my father will do if I refuse—he’ll force me in some way, threaten to cast me out. He… it’s as if I’m a thing, something he owns, to do with as he pleases.”

  Martha did not contradict this supposition. Connie hadn’t expected her to—Martha knew her father as well as she did.

  “I can’t escape, can I, Martha?” She had no relatives who would take her in, no qualifications or references to be a governess, even if she could find a job. No money of her own. “I won’t enjoy being married to such a man!” A profligate, as the earl’s son was rumoured to be, could have little respect for women, and a man who resorted to duelling… well, she’d seen in the village the results of husbands being prone to violence.

  “Drink some tea,” Martha said, pouring two cups and pushing one across the table.

  Connie obeyed, the hot liquid welcome in spite of the warm evening. It soothed her a little, although she’d hoped for more sympathy from Martha.

  “What am I to do?” Connie asked, when her friend did not speak.

  “Make the best—” Martha broke off as Connie jumped up, her tea spilling on the grass. “No, hear me out, Connie.” She held Connie’s eyes until the younger woman sat back in her chair.

  “First, Connie, believe me that if the match had been with the earl himself, as you first assumed, we would do everything in our power to prevent it. But we know something of Lord Wingrave, and I know Fancott considers he is a good man at heart.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you. He may tell you himself if he wishes, but that should be between you and him.”

  “But he only wants me to… to breed—like buying a mare!”

  “That’s the earl’s view,” Martha said, her tone even. “It may not be your future husband’s. And knowing what I do of the earl, Wingrave is probably being forced into this as much as you. No, I don’t know how,” she added, before Connie could interject, “but believe me, if there is a way to enforce his will, the earl would find it.”

  “But a marriage that neither party wants? How will that turn out?”

  “You will have a family of your own, my dear, and more control over your life than you have now.” Martha leaned over and patted Connie’s hand again. “Men can be trained, you know, as long as you don’t let them know you’re doing so. But it’s not unlike bringing up children—you must set boundaries and start as you mean to go on.”

  Connie’s jaw slackened at this unexpected turn in the conversation.

  “Come and see me tomorrow, dear, or stay after church on Sunday, and we can talk some more.”

  “My father…”

  “If he protests, tell him you need me to explain your wifely duties.”

  Connie did not want to think about that now. She’d find some excuse, or just not bother to ask her father for permission to leave the house. He could hardly lock her in her room for days when she was supposed to be getting married.

  “Thank you, Martha.”

  She didn’t understand why Martha thought the marriage would turn out well, but as she tramped back home across the fields in the dusk, she decided she had to trust the wisdom of her friend.

  There wasn’t anything else she could do.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday 21st June

  The day after the interview with his father, Will rode into Nether Minster. The maid at the vicarage told him Fancott was at the church, so Will entered the cool dimness and took a seat in one of the rear pews to wait. This church was as plain and practical as the vicar and his wife, with none of the memorial plaques for previous generations of Marstones that cluttered the walls in the small church in Eversham. Will had always considered those, and the stained glass windows paid for by previous earls, as his ancestors’ attempts to bribe their way into heaven.

  He used a handkerchief to mop his brow. Taking off his wig, he placed it on the bench beside him and ran his hands through his hair. Gradually the cool peace seeped into him, leaving him calmer than he’d been since leaving London three days ago.

  “Wingrave?”

  Fancott looked as hot as Will had been earlier, a thin sheen of sweat clear on his face even in the dim light.

  “Mr Fancott.” Will stood as he spoke, and they shook hands. “Do you have a little time to spare?”

  “By all means, my boy. Perhaps a glass of ale? There is a shady spot in the garden that might be co
ol enough.”

  “So, that’s my future,” Will finished, leaning forwards with his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t understand why he doesn’t marry again himself, if he’s so opposed to Uncle Jack being next in line after me. It’s ten years since Mama died, three since Alfred—he’s had plenty of time to get another heir.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “I did once, when he first tried to arrange a marriage for me.” He’d never seen his father so angry; he’d almost frothed at the mouth as he’d shouted about ungrateful children, the duty of obedience, and other things that Will hadn’t bothered to listen to.

  “I’ve wondered that myself,” Fancott said, “after hearing of some of his attempts to marry you off. One possibility is the carriage accident, not long after your mother died.”

  Will sat up. “I didn’t know about that.”

  “You would have been away at school. I don’t know…” Fancott raised a finger to emphasise his point, “but it is possible he may have been injured in such a way that he couldn’t father any more children. He was certainly bedridden for some time, by all accounts.”

  “I haven’t heard of a mistress since then, either,” Will said slowly, trying to think. That wasn’t proof though—he didn’t know what his father did with most of his time. Then he shook his head. “That doesn’t matter now. What am I going to do about this woman I’m supposed to marry?”

  “Hmm.” Fancott settled back in his chair, the dappled light through the branches making his expression difficult to read. The lines beside his eyes looked a little like amusement, but surely the vicar would not laugh at his situation.

  “Did you say Miss Charters is the granddaughter of a viscount and of a baron?”

  “Yes, according to my father.”

  “Is her pedigree important to you?”

  “Not really,” Will replied. Within reason, of course; it wouldn’t do to be marrying an uneducated woman. On the other hand, the young women who’d fluttered their eyelashes and fans at him had been of good birth, and all had been more interested in his inheritance than him. And Lady Henrietta Elberton, deceiver of her husband, also had an aristocratic lineage. If they were examples of women of good pedigree, blue blood was no predictor of a good wife.