“Indeed, it is.” He turned to Cornelia. “And you, Miss Hardcastle? Have you had the opportunity to visit my fair country?”
“I have not had that pleasure, sir.”
She lowered her eyes and willed him to leave. Do not ask me to dance. Do not ask to call upon me. Do not make me invent some pretext to discourage your courtship.
“Did Lady Chastity accompany you this evening, Sir Stirling?” her mother asked. “Sir Stirling is recently married, Cornelia—and he has a new daughter. Oh, say you brought them to England, Sir Stirling. We would love to see them.”
Cornelia smiled at Sir Stirling—the first genuine smile of the evening.
“Alas, Chastity decided it best to stay in Inverness with Ella,” he said.
“My felicitations, Sir Stirling,” Cornelia said. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting them one day soon.” She beamed. How refreshing to have a conversation with someone who did not have ulterior motives.
He returned her smile. “I am sure you will have that opportunity. But for now, I wonder if you will take a turn about the room with me, Miss Hardcastle.”
She glanced at her mother, who nodded. “I should enjoy that, Sir Stirling.”
Anything to avoid the hordes of suitors.
He guided her away from the dance floor, toward the less crowded refreshment room, then asked, “Do I sense a hint of relief, Miss Hardcastle?”
She looked up and smiled when she saw the amusement in his eyes. “You are very perceptive, Sir Stirling.”
“Do you not enjoy social events in general, or is it this one in particular?”
She laughed. “I enjoy a good ball or rout now and then, but I am no social butterfly.”
He looked at her quizzically. “I understand you have better things to do with your time.”
She blinked. “You know of my work with the Foundling Hospital?” She couldn’t understand why her parents would have mentioned such a thing to a new acquaintance.
He took her hand and gently squeezed. “Your parents are very proud, you know.”
Pulling her hand away, she stopped in front of a potted palm. “I suppose they told you about the rest, too.”
He steadied his gaze on her. “About your promise to wed? Indeed, they did.”
Her nails bit into her palms. “Why do such a thing? This is a family matter.” She glared at him. “Who are you really?”
“I am Sir Stirling James, businessman. Some call me The Marriage Maker.”
Cornelia stepped back and nearly fell into the potted palm.
My parents contacted a matchmaker? God have mercy!
Chapter Two
Lady Elana Gallaway’s house
Devereux Lane
Two o’clock in the morning
Sir Stirling strolled into Lady Elana’s sitting room. She looked up from the book on her lap as he crossed to the divan where she sat.
“Stirling.” She extended a hand.
He kissed her fingertips, then lowered himself into the chair beside the divan. “She will do,” he said as he took a glass of brandy from the tray offered him by a footman. “She wants a husband even less than Preston wants a wife.”
Lady Elana laughed. Even in the early morning hours, she wore a shimmering moss green gown trimmed with gold ribbon. Her petite femininity served as a smokescreen—one she used in her work as The Raven, master spy of British espionage. The operative who took Lady Elana for a featherbrained woman did so at his own peril. After years of working closely with The Raven, Stirling maintained proper respect for her abilities.
“Only you would see that as an advantage, Stirling.”
He sipped his brandy and leaned back in his chair. “She has promised her parents to look for a husband—sooner than later, as the admiral is due to sail in less than a month. She’s a resourceful girl, and I would hazard a guess she is looking for a chap who won’t interfere with her life. It is a problem, though, because she is hesitant to tie herself to someone she barely knows and doesn’t respect.”
“Indeed.” Lady Elana leaned closer. “I see the way your mind is working. Young Mr. Warrington will not seriously consider any young woman with hopes for a true marriage. But one who expects him to be abroad most of the time—perfect.” Her brows furrowed. “But what if he does go abroad? Will that not defeat our purpose of keeping him safe in England?”
Stirling drew a deep breath. “You were wise to remove him from the unit after that impetuous attempt on Boney’s life that nearly cost us three of our best operatives. But he will find some other reason to go abroad, in which case the Home Office will have lost a damned good strategist.” He smiled and gave her ladyship a crisp nod. “Miss Hardcastle is just the woman to induce him to remain.”
Elana’s eyes glowed. “Excellent. Now how do we persuade our Mr. Warrington of the advantages of marriage? A pity his mother is gone. Mothers can be useful in these matters.”
After a moment of reflection, she clapped her hands. “I have it. Stirling, did you not become acquainted with the older brother at The University of Edinburgh?”
Stirling lifted a brow. “William? Aye, we played cricket together my last year. He was an underclassman.” He quirked a brow and smiled. “I shall travel to Cheshire, to the Warrington seat, and persuade the viscount that it is in his brother’s best interests to marry and settle down.” He grinned. “And offer the assistance of The Marriage Maker, of course.”
Lady Elana drained her glass. “A first-rate plan, Stirling, my dear. One might even say, a sterling one.” She chuckled as he shook his head in mock sternness. “An old pun, but an apt one,” she said. “Your abilities never fail to amaze me.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I would categorize it as an ability. Matchmaking simply requires that one pay attention…and requires a bit of luck. After all, if I hadn’t met Admiral Hardcastle at White’s the other evening, I might never have had the opportunity to discuss Preston with him as a possible suitor for his daughter.”
“He wasn’t offended by Warrington’s profession?”
“Quite the contrary. He knows several espionage agents who have risked their necks to save British lives, and he’s not opposed to marrying his daughter to one, provided, of course, that he treats her with the respect she deserves.”
Elana nodded. “Shall we toast the matrimonial bliss of Miss Cornelia Hardcastle and Mr. Preston Warrington, then? Come, I will refill your glass.”
After they finished their drinks, Sterling took her hand and kissed it. “I shall be on my way to Cheshire tomorrow.”
She smiled. “Yes, of course. There isn’t much time, and there are still too many potential snags in this plan. If anyone can save Preston from himself, you are the one, Stirling.”
He grinned. “Saving gentlemen from themselves is one of my favorite pastimes. In my experience, however, it is often the ladies who prove to be the ‘snag.’”
* * *
Warrington, Cheshire
Two weeks later
“Mr. Warrington.”
Preston Warrington had almost reached the front door when the butler’s call halted him.
Preston turned. “Yes, what do you want, Walker?”
The rotund figure of the fifty-two-year-old majordomo emerged from the dimmer shadows of the hallway, his face flushed from exertion.
“Pardon me, Mr. Warrington, but his lordship wishes a word with you on the terrace.”
A word with him? Preston had a feeling he knew what words his brother intended. The lure of his morning ride tempted him to refuse, but refusal would only prolong the inevitable. If his career as an agent to the Crown had taught him only one thing, it was that no disagreeable task could be postponed. One moment of indecision could mean the loss of a dozen lives. Of course, this disagreeable task held less national importance, but the same principle applied. He would just tell his brother no, then proceed to enjoy his ride, as planned.
Nothing was that simple, however.
William, Visco
unt Warrington, and his lovely blonde wife were finishing breakfast at a daintily set table overlooking the parterre garden at the rear of the house. Joanna smiled prettily at her husband, and William’s mouth curved upward in an indulgent—but satisfied—smile. The picture of domesticity, Preston noted with some longing, before reminding himself that he wasn’t suited for such a sedate life. He was a man who longed to conquer the world, discover new territories, and enjoy flirtations with exotic women. Fortunately, his older brother was well-suited for his hereditary role as holder of the title, manager of the family estate, and progenitor of heirs. Why, he already had three daughters—Preston smiled at the thought of his darling nieces—and Joanna was enceinte once again. No doubt this one would be a son.
“Do come and sit with us, Preston,” Joanna urged. “We’ve set a place for you and the tea has only just been refreshed.”
“Very well.” He usually had breakfast after his ride, but there was no point in mentioning it. “One lump, please. No milk.” He seated himself at the table and accepted the cup Joanna poured for him.
He took a long sip and set his cup down on the saucer. “It’s a lovely day, is it not?” he said as he looked at first his brother, then his sister-in-law.
“Indeed,” they said together, and Joanna giggled shakily.
William heaved a sigh and placed his napkin on the table. “Damn it, Preston, you know what this is about. The Home Office has already informed you.”
“William,” Joanna said in a loud whisper.
William shrugged. “I’m sorry, Jo, but I don’t see that there’s any point in shilly-shallying about the matter. Preston, the Home Office wants you to marry and settle down.”
“William and I, too, Preston. The girls are thrilled to finally meet their uncle, and frankly, it is time for you to stop running off on your own and learn what it means to be part of a family.”
That was quite a speech for his sister-in-law. Preston didn’t know her well, having missed the wedding and the greater part of the marriage while carrying out the King’s business on the Continent during the Peninsular War. Perhaps he’d been wrong to discount her as a flighty chit.
“With all due respect, Joanna, I’m not the marrying sort. I have informed the Home Office that is a non-starter. If they will not take me on as a bachelor, there are others who will. Why, I have already been contacted about a scheme to the East Indies…”
William pushed back his chair and rose to his full five feet ten inches. His was an imposing figure, no matter that Preston had a good five inches on him. William had inherited their father’s wide face and stocky build, most of it muscle. Viscount or not, William pitched in and worked the land along with the tenants and the hired help.
“It is time to grow up, Preston. Your gadding about for King and Country is finished. Liverpool wants you to take a position, but insists it must go to a family man.”
Preston tensed. “Then let him give the job to some poor country squire. I will not shackle myself to some woman to please the bloody prime minister.”
Joanna caught her breath.
Preston shifted in his seat. He hadn’t meant to offend her. “My apologies, Joanna.” He glanced at his older brother. “Perhaps this is something best discussed between the two of us.”
“Oh no.” She sprang to her feet, her face flushed. “If I leave, the two of you will be at each other’s throats, I know it.”
William pulled her into his arms. “Joanna dear, you must not agitate yourself. Remember what the doctor said.”
The fire went out of her, and she allowed herself to be eased back onto her chair, patting her stomach as if to reassure the babe inside. Preston averted his gaze. What was he thinking, losing his temper in Joanna’s presence? He knew how much they wanted this baby to be the Warrington family heir. He wanted it even more, if that were possible. Nothing would make him happier than to have a nephew displace him as heir to the title.
The last thing they needed was for the title to fall to their cousin John. William worried incessantly that if anything happened to him and Preston and the title and estate fell to their money-grubbing cousin that Joanna and the children would have no home. William must have a son.
Preston forced himself to relax against the chair back. The East Indian business scheme was still in the planning stages. Until it was ready to put in motion, he could spare the time to do the pretty with some society chits and make his brother happy. As for wedding any of them—not a chance in hell. But they didn’t have to know that. He looked up and caught Joanna looking at him like a cat with the cream. He blinked. What had he missed?
“You’re expected at Vauxhall on Friday,” she said. “William will take you in the carriage, of course. She will be there with her parents, but there will be ample opportunity for you to become better acquainted when you stroll the paths. Not the Dark Walks, mind,” she added the last in a stern tone. “She’s a respectable young woman and her father will have your hide if you tarnish her reputation.”
Preston’s core chilled. Had he just been played by his seemingly sweet-tempered, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth sister-in-law? He gaped at her for a full minute, quite unable to comprehend how one of Great Britain’s premier espionage agents had been trapped by a complete novice.
“Preston? Are you all right, man?” His brother’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Don’t you want to know who she is? Who her father is? I believe you are already acquainted. Admiral Cornelius Hardcastle.”
Nelson’s legendary protégé? The heroic Captain Hardcastle from the Siege of Toulon? He was expected to court the daughter of a man with the power to undermine all his future endeavors—which he undoubtedly would when Preston declined to make her an offer.
He groaned.
Joanna covered his hand with hers. “Do not worry, Preston. You may like Miss Hardcastle. I am certain you will find you have much in common.”
He grimaced.
“Preston?” Joanna’s brow wrinkled, and William shot him a warning glance.
“No need to worry, Joanna, dear,” William said. “My brother will behave himself with all politeness and decorum when he meets Miss Hardcastle on Friday evening. You will, won’t you, Preston?” his civil words carried an implied threat.
Preston straightened in his chair. “Yes, of course. I promise I will be a most attentive swain for the admiral’s daughter.” He had, after all, had extensive experience pretending to be something he was not. Feigning interest in a young lady was so simple it was hardly worthy of his talents.
“Just give her a chance, Preston,” Joanna said.
Preston rose, grasped Joanna’s hand and kissed her fingers. “It shall be as you say, my lady. If you will excuse me, I have a stallion awaiting me.”
He needed a good long ride to clear his head.
Chapter Three
Vauxhall Gardens was ablaze with lanterns when Cornelia arrived with her parents. A trio of acrobats performed in front of the orchestra, attracting a motley crowd of onlookers of all ages and classes. Strolling couples chattered merrily along the shadowy paths, and, on the other side of the piazza, a juggler tossed plates in the air. The revelry at Vauxhall usually pleased Cornelia as she had no time to be bored. A ball, on the other hand, she found exceedingly tiresome. Although she enjoyed dancing, she disliked the endless smiling, polite greetings, feigning interest in people she knew would whisper behind her back. At Vauxhall, one could find a diversity of amusements without an excessive amount of empty social interaction.
Tonight was another matter, however. Her father had arranged with the vexatious Marriage Maker—her fists clenched whenever she thought of it—for her to meet some former operative in search of a wife.
Her father had told her what he knew about her prospective groom. A British spy.
If not for the prospect of marriage, she might have been excited about meeting such an intriguing man. She might have struck up a friendship with him and prevailed upon him to tell her about some of
his adventures, but now she would have to discourage him completely. She had done it before—though not with her parents present and not after she’d promised to take their husband-hunt seriously. Her stomach churned.
After the contretemps with her parents, she’d devised a plan to attract a naval officer, like her father, who would be absent for months or even years at a time. Preferably, one who would be satisfied with a marriage in name only. She would have his name and the freedom allotted to married women and he would have her dowry and an illustrious military career. A fair bargain, it seemed to her. Her mother could join her father in Canada and she could continue her work with the Foundling Hospital and not have to worry about bringing any defective progeny into the world.
Neither will you have to worry about telling your husband the truth, a small voice said.
She shoved aside the thought. If her marriage was in name only, and her husband was gone, her lie—her omission—was of little consequence. But only if she could choose her husband.
But no, she couldn’t be allowed to find her own husband. Her father insisted she meet this Mr. Warrington, who was not only The Marriage Maker’s choice, but someone her father had met and considered suitable as a prospective son-in-law.
Which meant he was completely unsuitable to fit her plans.
Cornelia’s gaze caught on a tall gentleman, ten feet to their right, who sidestepped two passing ladies. His light brown hair, a bit tousled in the breeze, made him look oddly vulnerable. His eyes slid past the ladies to Cornelia. She flushed and dropped her gaze.
An instant later, black trouser clad legs came into view and she lifted her eyes to find the brown-haired gentleman had stopped in front of them and faced her father.
“Admiral Hardcastle, we’ve been expecting you and your family,” he said.
Good Lord, this would be the gentleman her father had in mind for her. He was taller even than she—who was used to being called a Long Meg—with wide-set shoulders, a slightly curved Roman nose, and smoky gray eyes. She had to admit that he made an appealing picture in his dark blue jacket with polished gold buttons and perfectly tied Mathematical. But she’d seen handsome gentlemen before. She would not be swayed by a pretty face.
Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 49
