Walton, hearing from Jim of the likely change in his lordship’s affairs, made sure that anything requiring his authorisation was dealt with. He was under no illusion that he would be able to summon his master north again that Season. Accustomed, like most of the Marquis’s servitors, to keeping a weather eye out for his temper, in this case Walton guessed it was unlikely to be directed at him, and his flat tones droned in Hazelmere’s ears incessantly over Friday and Saturday.
Hazelmere called a halt on Saturday afternoon and retired to his study, informing Jim that they would leave early the next morning. The events of the past two days, entirely divorced from those of the Season, had succeeded in restoring his calm. By forcing his mind to deal with such mundane affairs, he had managed to shut out the turmoil of emotions he had experienced on leaving Dorothea until now, when he felt infinitely more capable of dealing with them.
While it was warm in the south of the country, in Leicestershire the winds blew cool in the evening and the fire was alight. Pouring himself a drink, he dropped into the comfortable armchair before the hearth, stretching his long legs to the blaze. Cupping the glass in both hands, he gazed into the leaping flames.
Conjuring up the image of a pair of emerald eyes, he wondered what she was doing. Ah, yes. The Melchett ball. Away from the endless round of London during the Season, he was even more conscious of how much he wanted her by his side. That meeting in the drawing-room at Merion House had had about it an air of inevitability. He’d been so angry with her when he’d walked in the door—admittedly more from hurt pride than righteous indignation. And she’d been so surprisingly angry with him! Thankfully, she had promptly told him why. He grinned. All the dictates of how a young lady should behave had been overturned in the space of a few minutes. He could imagine no other female—apart from his mother, perhaps—who would dare let on that she even knew of his mistresses, much less question him on the subject.
As his relationship with Helen Walford was so well known among the ton, it had never occurred to him that a different version could be presented to Dorothea. Very clever of the Comte. He vaguely recalled some difficulty with Monsieur de Vanée over one of the barques of frailty who had at one time resided under his protection. What had been her name? Madeline? Miriam? Mentally he shrugged. The Comte’s lies had undoubtedly been the cause of Dorothea’s distress that night, coming on top of the incident with the Prince. Hardly surprising that she had baulked at meeting Helen and him in the Park.
But why, why had she flung that drivel about her being no more than a challenge at him? Even if Marjorie Darent had impressed it on her, surely she didn’t believe it? He sipped the fine French brandy and felt it slide warmly down his throat. No—she hadn’t believed Marjorie’s tales. The Darents had left London on Monday, so any conversation between Dorothea and Marjorie must have occurred earlier. But Dorothea had behaved normally at that horrendous party on Sunday night. And at the Diplomatic Ball she’d been entirely unconcerned until the Prince’s performance had opened her eyes too far. Even then, she had not been distraught, only, as he had expected, angry with him. It had only been later, after the Comte’s interference, that she had been shattered and almost in tears. Well, his actions in her grandmother’s drawing-room should have settled that. She couldn’t possibly have missed the implication of that kiss.
It had not occurred to him until that day that by loving her he had put into her hands the power to hurt him. Since he was naturally strong and self-reliant, there were few close to him whose opinions mattered enough to affect him—his mother and Alison, Tony and Ferdie and, to a lesser extent, Helen. That was about it. And Dorothea mattered far more than all of them combined. But if such vulnerability was what one had to put up with, then put up with it he would. She had only lashed out at him because she was hurt by his imagined perfidy. He would simply ensure that such misunderstandings did not occur in the future.
So where did that leave them now? Much where they had been before, except that presumably she now knew he loved her. Assuming that events progressed as he intended, there was no reason that they could not be wed in a month or so. Then his frustrations and her uncertainties would be things of the past.
He brought his gaze back from the ceiling whence it had strayed and fixed it once more on the dancing flames. He was happily engaged in salacious imaginings in which Dorothea figured prominently when his housekeeper entered to inform him that dinner was served.
He reached Darent Hall, close to Corby and not far off his direct route, just before ten o’clock. He threw the reins to Jim, who had run to the horses’ heads, with a command to keep them moving.
Admitted to the hall, he spoke to the butler. ‘I am the Marquis of Hazelmere. I wonder if Lord Darent could spare me a few moments?’
Recognising the quality of this visitor, the butler showed him into the library and went to inform his master. Herbert was engaged in consuming a leisurely breakfast when Millchin announced that the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere required a few words with him. Herbert’s mouth dropped open. After a moment he recovered himself enough to reply, ‘Very well, Millchin, I’ll come at once, of course. Where have you put him?’
Millchin told him and withdrew. Herbert continued to stare at the door. He had little doubt what Hazelmere wanted, but Marjorie had insisted that he was not in earnest and, even if he was, that he could not be considered suitable. In this instance, adherence to his wife’s wishes was entirely impossible. Herbert was already uncomfortable before he entered his library to face Hazelmere, who somehow seemed more at home in the beautiful, heavily panelled room than its owner.
The interview was brief and to the point, conducted as it was by Hazelmere rather than Herbert. Having listened to the Marquis’s request, Herbert felt forced to reveal that he had already given Edward Buchanan permission to address Dorothea.
At mention of Mr Buchanan, Hazelmere’s look became uncomfortably intent. ‘Do you mean to tell me you gave Buchanan permission to address your ward without checking his background?’ The precise diction made Herbert even more nervous.
‘I gather he owns an estate in Dorset,’ he flustered. ‘And, of course, he knows Sir Hugo Clere.’
‘And learned from Sir Hugo that Miss Darent had inherited the Grange, no doubt. For your information, Edward Buchanan owns a tumbledown farmhouse in Dorset. He’s penniless. The reason he’s in London is that, after his most recent attempt to run away with a local heiress, Dorset is too hot for him. I’m surprised, my lord, that you take such little care over your duties as guardian.’
Herbert, brick-red with embarrassment, remained silent.
‘I assume that, as you are acquainted with my family and my standing in society and as my wealth needs no detailing, you have no objection to giving me your permission to address Miss Darent?’
The scathing tones made Herbert wince. ‘Naturally, should you wish to address Dorothea, of course you have my permission,’ he said, squirming, then unwisely added, ‘But what if she’s already accepted Buchanan?’
‘My dear sir, your ward is a great deal more discerning than you are.’ Now that he had obtained Herbert’s approval, the only other information Hazelmere required was the name of the family solicitors who would handle the marriage settlements.
Herbert was strangely diffident on this question. ‘I believe Dorothea uses Whitney and Sons, in Chancery Lane.’
It took the Marquis a moment to assimilate this. Then he asked, eyes narrowed, ‘So Miss Darent’s solicitors are her own, not yours?’
‘My aunt’s crazy idea,’ said Herbert defensively. ‘She had the oddest notions. She decided it was best that both girls controlled their own fortunes.’
‘So,’ pursued Hazelmere, drawing on his gloves, ‘when the Misses Darent marry, control of their fortunes remains in their hands?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Herbert, glancing directly at him. ‘But that wouldn’t worry you, surely? Her estate is nothing compared to yours.’
‘Oh, quite,’ a
greed Hazelmere. ‘I was merely wondering whether you gave that information to Buchanan. Did you?’
Herbert looked blank. ‘No. He didn’t ask.’
‘I thought not,’ said Hazelmere, a highly cynical smile curving his lips. Disclaiming any desire to dally with his relations-to-be, he re-entered the hall, to find that he was not destined to escape an encounter with Marjorie Darent. Her ladyship was looking even more severe than usual and directed a look of such magnitude at her husband that Hazelmere almost felt sorry for him.
‘Lord Hazelmere—’ she began.
But Hazelmere was determined that the conversational reins would remain in his hands. ‘Lady Marjorie,’ he countered. ‘I’m sure you’ll forgive my not staying. I’ve concluded the business I had with your husband and it’s most urgent I return to Hazelmere at once. My mother, you realise.’
‘Lady Hazelmere is ill?’ asked Marjorie, struggling to keep abreast of this flow of information.
Hazelmere, unwilling to expose his mother to letters of condolence on her relapse, simply looked grave. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter. I’m sure you understand.’
He bowed elegantly over her hand, nodded to Herbert and escaped.
He reached Hazelmere on Monday afternoon. His mother was resting, so, seeing the glint in his steward’s eye, he gave his attention to the host of minor matters Liddiard had waiting for him. He delayed his appearance in the drawing-room until just before dinner. If they were free of servants his mother would lose no time in asking him why he was home, and he would rather face the inquisition after dinner than before.
As it transpired, he entered the drawing-room immediately in front of Penton, his butler. Lady Hazelmere, recognising the strategy, pulled a face at him as he bent to kiss her cheek. He merely gave the smile he knew infuriated her, telling her as it did that he was perfectly aware of what she wanted to say to him but had no wish to hear it—at least, not yet. Her ladyship reflected that her son was growing to resemble his father more and more.
Over dinner he kept up a steady flow of inconsequential anecdotes, detailing the fashionable happenings since she had left London. Lady Hazelmere, knowing he would say nothing to the point in front of the servants, listened with what interest she could muster. Finally, after the covers were removed and the servants withdrew, she drew a deep breath. ‘And now are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ ‘Yes, Mama,’ he replied meekly. ‘Only I do think we might be more comfortable in your parlour.’
Functioning in a similar way to Lady Merion’s upstairs drawing-room, her ladyship’s parlour was a cheerful apartment on the first floor of the large country house. The curtains were already drawn, shutting out the twilight, and a small fire was burning merrily in the grate. Lady Hazelmere sat in her favourite wing chair by the hearth, while her son, after pulling it further from the flames, elegantly disposed his long limbs in its partner opposite.
He then smiled at his impatient parent. Her ladyship, inured by the years to such tactics, asked bluntly, ‘Why have you come to see me?’
‘As you correctly suppose, to tell you I’m about to offer for Dorothea Darent.’
‘Very punctilious, I must say.’
‘You know that I always am. In such matters as these, at least.’
Aware that this was true, she ignored the comment. ‘When is the wedding to be?’
‘As I haven’t asked her, I cannot say. If I have my way, as soon as possible.’
‘I must say, I’ve wondered at your unusual patience.’
He shrugged. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. She’d only just arrived in town, and if she’d refused it would have caused considerable awkwardness for a number of people.’
‘Yes, I can appreciate that. But why the change of heart?’
He looked hard at her. ‘Hasn’t Lady Merion written to you this week?’
‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I’d much rather hear it from you.’
Hazelmere sighed and succinctly outlined the events preceding his departure from the capital. He also described the two attempts to abduct Dorothea, learning in the process that his mother already knew of these via a recently informed Lady Merion. When he finished, Lady Hazelmere looked at him, perplexed. ‘But if she’s in danger, why are you gallivanting all over the country?’
‘Because the others are looking after her and it seemed more sensible to marry her as soon as possible and remove her from any danger at all,’ he explained patiently. ‘As I had to go to Lauleigh, I looked in on Herbert Darent on the way back.’
She eventually conceded. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, as usual. I assume Herbert was only too thrilled?’
‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I think that indescribable wife of his has convinced him I’m no better than a rake and shouldn’t be allowed to marry into the family.’
Lady Hazelmere was speechless.
After a moment Hazelmere said, ‘I take it you approve?’
His mother dragged her mind from contemplation of Lady Darent’s manifold shortcomings. ‘Of course! She’s very suitable. In fact,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘she’s eminently suitable, as among her numerous qualities she can include the unique accomplishment of having attracted your interest!’
‘Exactly so,’ he returned, amused. ‘And, as I’ve been at great pains to make our attachment abundantly clear to the ton, I really don’t think the announcement will surprise.’
‘When I think of that waltz at the Merion House ball!’ Anthea Henry closed her eyes, continuing faintly, ‘So very shocking of you, my dear!’
Hazelmere, not deceived, replied, ‘Coming it much too strong, Mama!’
She opened eyes brimming with laughter. ‘But it was! You had all the tabbies with their fur standing on end!’
Both mother and son allowed the conversation to lapse while they relived fond memories. Her ladyship finally stirred. ‘When will you speak to her?’
‘As soon as I can arrange to see her. Wednesday probably. If she’s agreeable we’ll come here for a few days. It would be useful, I imagine, for her to see the house.’
Lady Hazelmere sighed. Hermione’s weekly letter had been perfectly candid. Clearly, despite minor misunderstandings, her arrogant son had, as usual, triumphed, and all would proceed as he decreed. Even the headstrong Dorothea had apparently been tamed. If things continued in this fashion Marc would soon grow to be utterly impossible. She had had such hopes of Dorothea. Still, at least she would now have a daughter-in-law. Even if nothing else, they could swap stories of her impossible son. And, knowing her son, she could look forward, with as much confidence as possible in such matters, to a grandchild within the year. The thought cheered her. So, resigned, all she said was, ‘Yes, that would be wise. We’ll have to arrange to refurbish the apartments next to yours.’
Chapter Thirteen
Hazelmere returned to London, driving a new pair of black horses, leaving the bays in the country to recuperate. The curricle flashed into the mews behind Hazelmere House late in the afternoon. Discussing the performance of the new pair with Jim, he strolled out of the stables as Ferdie rode into the mews, leading two horses.
Thoroughly worn out with his role as chief confidant and protector, Ferdie was delighted to see his cousin. Dismounting and handing over the reins to Jim, he reflected that the source of the horses the Darent sisters rode was one of the better kept secrets in this whole affair. He could imagine what Dorothea would say when she learned that her bay mare had all along belonged to Hazelmere. He hoped they would be married by then and she could discuss the subject with Hazelmere rather than him. He turned to his cousin. ‘Relieved to see you back!’
‘Oh?’ The black brows rose interrogatively.
‘Not that anything’s happened,’ he hastily assured him. ‘But Dorothea knows something’s going on and it’s getting more and more difficult to know what to say.’
‘Poor Ferdie! It sounds as if it’s all been too much fo
r you.’
‘Well, it has!’ returned Ferdie, incensed. ‘Here she’s gone and turned all your friends into her most devoted slaves—oh, yes! Didn’t expect that, did you?’ He had the satisfaction of seeing the hazel eyes widen. Nodding decisively, he continued, ‘Rather think it’s been her holding the reins in your absence, not us!’
Hazelmere, eyes dancing, sighed. ‘I see I was mistaken in thinking it safe to leave you all in charge of Miss Darent. I might have guessed it would turn out the other way. Why on earth you have allowed her to assume the whip hand, I know not. Obviously I’ll have to intervene and save you all.’
‘All very well for you. It’s you she loves, not us! Never seen a lady so capable of making us all jump to her tune. Better take her in hand straight away!’
Hazelmere laughed at this blatant encouragement. ‘Believe me, Ferdie, I intend to—with all possible speed. But not tonight, I think. It’s Alvanley’s dinner for me. I can’t remember if there’s anything else on.’
‘No, nothing of note. I’m to escort Dorothea and Cecily to a quiet little party at Lady Rothwell’s. Just the younger crew, so I’m looking forward to an uneventful evening. Mind, though! Tomorrow she’s all yours!’
‘Oh, quite definitely!’ As they strolled back into Cavendish Square Hazelmere added, ‘In fact, you can assist in your own relief by informing Dorothea that I’ll call on her tomorrow morning.’
Regarding his cousin with misgiving, Ferdie answered, ‘Well, I’ll tell her. But she’ll probably insist on going riding or think up some important engagement on the spot.’
‘In that case,’ Hazelmere said, his voice silky smooth, his lips curving in anticipation, ‘you had better add, in your most persuasive tones, that she would do very much better to meet me next in private rather than public.’
Ferdie, doubting that he could deliver that statement with quite the force Hazelmere could, nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, all right, I suppose that’ll do it.’
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