Jane swallowed her first impulse, which indeed had been to blast Randolph back to Loves Bridge, and forced herself to smile. “My brother is likely correct, Miss Livingston-Smythe, that country manners are different from what would be acceptable in Town, but I must believe that any intelligent man”—she leaned over to direct a speaking look up the table at Randolph—“in either Town or country must value a woman’s good sense. We are not children, so we no longer need an adult’s constant guidance and supervision.”
“Very true.” Lady Chanton stood. “And with that, I think this is an excellent time to leave the men to their port.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lord Evans’s mother also rose. “Don’t linger too long, gentlemen.”
“Well done,” Lord Evans said quietly to Jane as he stood politely with the rest of the men. “Thank you.”
She contented herself with a nod and then followed the other ladies out. Heavens, did he really think she’d brangle with Randolph in front of his relatives? She had more control than that. When she got Randolph alone, however . . .
That discussion would have to wait until morning. Now she was going up to her room. She should tell Lady Chanton, but the viscountess had gone on ahead and—
“Oh, Miss Wilkinson, may I join you?”
Apparently, not all the women had preceded her to the drawing room. Jane opened her mouth to explain to Miss Livingston-Smythe that she was retiring early, but the girl didn’t give her the opportunity.
“When Mama told me you and your brother were coming, I was so delighted. I’ve been dying to speak to you.”
“Oh. Well.” What was she to say to that? “I don’t know that I’m that interesting, Miss Livingston-Smythe.” She cast a longing look at the stairs.
Miss Livingston-Smythe didn’t appear to notice—or if she did, she didn’t take the hint. “Please call me Bea. May I call you Jane? Uncle Alex says you live by yourself in a place called the Spinster House. I so envy you.”
She still could say she was tired and excuse herself, but she hadn’t the heart to do something this eager young girl—Lady Chanton had mentioned her daughter had just turned seventeen last week—might take as a snub. Jane could remember being seventeen, though it did seem like a very long time ago.
So she repressed a sigh and went with Bea into the drawing room. The rest of the ladies had arranged themselves around the tea tray, but Bea headed for two chairs set off by themselves.
Jane pulled her shawl closer and followed.
“I will tell you,” Bea said once they’d taken their seats, “that I am dreading going up to Town. I’m not certain I wish to marry at all, but I definitely don’t want to be trotted around London to be”—she pulled a face—“examined like a horse for sale.”
Put that way, a Season did sound unpleasant. “I have no personal experience, Miss”—the girl frowned and opened her mouth as if to protest Jane’s formality—“er, Bea, but my one friend who had a Season thoroughly enjoyed all the parties and balls.”
Anne’s stories had been exciting, but they hadn’t made Jane long for the social whirl.
Bea looked skeptical. “How could she have enjoyed it? Didn’t her parents try to push her into parson’s mousetrap?”
Anne’s father had been anxious for Anne to wed, but that had been just recently when he’d wished to remarry. “No. Do you think your parents would pressure you to accept an offer you could not like? Pardon me, but I find that hard to imagine.”
Bea sighed. “No, you are right. I’m sure they wouldn’t. But I still believe it’s terribly unfair. Men have it so much easier than women, don’t you think?”
Jane opened her mouth to agree—and remembered Randolph’s sad tale of his dashed matrimonial hopes. “I’m not certain they do. It takes two people”—if one ignored the possibility of meddling relatives—“to make a marriage. Sometimes men face disappointment.”
Bea looked oddly pleased by Jane’s answer. “Yes, I suppose you are right. Uncle Alex was certainly disappointed.”
Jane’s attention sharpened.
I should not encourage Bea to gossip.
Nonsense. It is only sensible to be informed when the man’s sister and mother have matrimonial schemes that might involve me.
Bea glanced over at the other women and then leaned close to whisper. “I had it out with Mama when she told me Lady Charlotte would be here.”
“Oh?” How had Lady Charlotte entered the conversation?
Jane would admit to not immediately liking Charlotte—all right, she’d taken an immediate dislike to her—but she’d also admit, much as it pained her to do so, that her negative feelings were largely due to jealousy. Lady Charlotte was the epitome of English beauty with her blond hair, blue eyes, and flawless complexion.
The fact that Lord Evans had spent a significant part of dinner talking to the girl was beside the point.
“Yes. Mama said there was nothing to be done—Charlotte is Cousin Imogen’s companion. But I’m afraid I’ll have a hard time being civil to her.”
“Ah.” Jane repressed the urge to ask what made Lady Charlotte so dreadful.
She didn’t need to inquire.
Bea’s eyes had widened at her noncommittal reply. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Er, know what?”
“That Lady Charlotte is the woman who jilted Uncle Alex at the altar.” Bea shrugged. “Or almost at the altar.”
Oh! Poor Lord Evans.
No, not “poor Lord Evans.” Hadn’t the earl already begun combing London ballrooms for a replacement bride? Clearly, his heart hadn’t been injured.
Randolph hid his broken heart so well, I never had an inkling he was wounded.
The situations were not at all comparable. Of course she hadn’t noticed Randolph’s pain. She’d been only fourteen and overwhelmed by their parents’ deaths when his romance had ended.
“He came home to the Hall to lick his wounds and hide from everyone,” Bea said.
“I can’t imagine your uncle hiding, Bea.” She should be more charitable. Perhaps the earl’s return to Society’s ballrooms was merely a case of getting back on the horse that threw him. Earls needed heirs, after all. She—
She should not be encouraging Bea to gossip. “This is really none of my affair, you know. I’m certain your uncle would not wish you to discuss him with me this way.”
Bea continued as if Jane hadn’t spoken. “Charlotte should never have agreed to marry Uncle Alex. She loves Septimus—has loved him forever.”
Jane blinked. “Septimus as in Septimus Grant, your cousin?” Septimus was older than Octavius, but he still seemed quite young to be thinking of marriage.
Bea nodded. “Charlotte—”
“Bea,” Lady Chanton called from the group by the tea tray, “the men will be here soon.”
“Yes, Mama.” Bea turned back to Jane. “I can’t say any more now. Meet me by the fountain later and I’ll tell you the whole. I need your help.”
“What?” Jane’s mouth fell open. She must look like a beached fish. “Help?”
Bea nodded. “Alex needs a wife, and Mama said you are an accomplished matchmaker.”
“Not really.” She’d only made two matches and her goal with both had been to free the Spinster House for herself, though of course she wanted her friends to be happy.
“Bea!” This time Lady Chanton raised her brows significantly and gestured with her head at the door.
“Yes, Mama.” Bea looked back at Jane. “Please? Meet me in the garden by the fountain later.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
They heard the deep sound of male voices. Bea jumped to her feet, so Jane stood as well.
“By the fountain,” Bea murmured as her father and Lord Evans entered the room. “Promise?”
“Oh, very well.”
* * *
Alex took a sip of tea. He’d much rather be drinking brandy.
During dinner he and Charlotte had spoken about the weather and the condition o
f the roads and other inconsequential topics. Well, he had spoken. She’d mostly nodded. The bulk of her attention had been directed at Septimus Grant on the other side of the table.
And now he was sitting with her in the drawing room, slightly apart from the others. He didn’t have to be. He could have chosen a different seat, but he’d seen her alone and had thought it kinder to join her.
Earlier this year, he would have been delighted with the situation. But now? He wished someone would rescue him. Miss Wilkinson, perhaps.
He smiled inwardly. He knew why she was so attached to that shawl. He’d much enjoyed the glimpse he’d got of her creamy skin when it had slipped off her shoulders at dinner.
“Do you think it will rain tomorrow, my lord?” Charlotte’s voice trembled slightly and her eyes flitted from his face to a point on his right before returning to her teacup.
He forced himself to focus on her. “I don’t know. Rain is always a possibility in England, isn’t it?” Surely she wasn’t afraid of him? “And do call me Alex, Charlotte. We were almost married, after all.”
Her eyes came up to his again—and again slid off to his right before returning to her cup. “Yes, my lord.”
Blast, he was gritting his teeth. He relaxed his jaw, took a breath, and idly glanced over to see what so interested Charlotte.
Miss Wilkinson was talking to Septimus Grant. Odd.
Well, perhaps not so odd. Everyone else was occupied. Randolph and Imogen were in close conversation in the far corner; Bea and Octavius were arguing; Roger and John Grant were likely discussing horses; and Mama and Diana had their heads together.
Oh, Lord. They’re probably plotting something I won’t like. Thank God this house party is to last only a few days.
He turned back to Charlotte and regarded her bowed head. He’d once thought her shyness appealing. Now he thought it annoying.
Well, this would be a perfect time to clear the air. “I wish to apologize, Charlotte.”
That caused her to look up. “You do?” The smallest frown appeared between her brows. “Why?”
Wasn’t it obvious? “I should have stayed in London and supported you after the news got round that you . . . er, that we had called off the marriage.”
“Oh.” The line between her brows deepened.
Was that all she was going to say? Miss Wilkinson would have—
This had nothing to do with Miss Wilkinson.
“I knew your father was very angry. I hope he did not, ah, take his displeasure out on you?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Papa shouted. He always shouts.” Her gaze slid back to Miss Wilkinson and Septimus. “And he sent me away to be Cousin Imogen’s companion.”
“I’m sorry. Do you miss London?”
“Not really.”
Had it always been this difficult to converse with Charlotte?
“I imagine your father will relent. I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”
“He and Mama are busy with Felicity now—that’s my next younger sister. He’s forgotten about me,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
“You must be mistaken.” He’d never liked Buford much, but no man would ignore his own children.
“Oh, no. Papa was only ever interested in how much I could bring him on the Marriage Mart. It’s the same with all of us.” Her lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “He wanted sons, you see. He’s quite bitter that he has only daughters. He’d keep trying for a boy, but Mama can’t have more children.” She shrugged. “Lord Chanton is very fortunate that he finally managed to get an heir.”
“Er, yes.” An heir was important, but Alex felt confident Roger would have welcomed another girl had that been the new baby’s gender.
Charlotte glanced over at Septimus and Miss Wilkinson again and something that might have been excitement lit her eyes....
No, he must have been mistaken. The expression was gone almost immediately and when Charlotte spoke, it was in her usual soft, even tone.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I believe I’ll go upstairs now to make certain all is ready for Imogen when she retires.”
From the look of things, Imogen would not be retiring anytime soon—she was still talking to Randolph—but Alex grabbed at the words like a jailed man grabbing an open door. Freedom was at hand!
“Of course.”
He stood and watched her leave. She was small and delicate and beautiful.
And dreadfully boring. How could he ever have thought himself in love with her?
Clearly, he had no business looking for a wife if his judgment of women, and more importantly, of his own feelings, was so faulty.
He took their teacups over to the tea tray. Apparently, others had decided to retire early as well, as the only people left—besides Randolph and Imogen in the corner—were Mama, Roger, and John Grant.
But where was his sister? “Has Diana deserted you?”
“No,” Diana said, coming back into the room. “I was just checking on something. Would you like more tea?”
“No, thank you.”
Roger grinned and pulled a bottle out from behind a potted plant. “How about some brandy?”
Brandy would have made his conversation with Charlotte much less painful.
But perhaps less enlightening.
“Is that what you’ve been drinking?”
Roger’s grin widened. “Of course.” He held the bottle out to Alex.
“No, thank you.” He had brandy in his room, and the faster he retreated there, the less chance his mother and sister would quiz him about his conversation with Charlotte. “I believe I’ll go up to bed.”
“It’s a nice night,” Diana said. “You could go for a stroll in the garden first.”
Mama nodded. “It might help you sleep, Alex. You seem a trifle out of sorts.”
“I am not out of sorts.”
He glared at Roger who, after one explosive guffaw—loud enough to momentarily capture Randolph’s and Imogen’s attention—was struggling to swallow the rest of his laughter. Grant, wisely, kept his eyes on his brandy cup.
All right, yes. He was a trifle out of sorts.
“I believe I saw Miss Wilkinson go out there alone. You should see that she doesn’t get lost.” Diana smiled blandly—it must be quite a struggle for her to appear disinterested. “I imagine she’d like to have a look at the fountain. It’s so lovely and mysterious under a full moon.”
There were times he truly detested his sister. “I’m certain Miss Wilkinson can find her own way. The garden is not that complicated.”
“Not for you. You’ve walked through it many times. This is Miss Wilkinson’s first visit, and the moon casts many confusing—and, er, interesting—shadows.”
Zeus, no matter what Diana did, she always managed to make him want to brangle with her.
He would not give in to that base urge. He had more control—and he also knew he wouldn’t win. He never did.
“Yes. Miss Wilkinson, however, is very resourceful. I’m not worried about her.” He let his gaze touch on all of them—except for Randolph and Imogen. An earthquake could shake the walls and they’d not notice. “Good night then. I will see you in the morning.”
“Alex,” Diana said before he turned away, “will you visit the girls in the morning? The ones who weren’t in the nursery when you stopped in today were very sad to have missed you.”
He grinned. It would be a relief to spend some time with uncomplicated females who said exactly what they meant. “I’ll look in on them after my morning ride, if that suits?”
“That would be splendid.” Diana gave him one of her broad, sunny smiles.
She was a perfectly fine sister when she wasn’t trying to run his life.
He left the drawing room and headed for the staircase—and paused with his foot on the first step.
Oh, hell. Miss Wilkinson truly was quite competent, but now Diana had got him worried. The garden could be confusing at night.
And he wasn’t tired—
there was no chance he’d be able to fall asleep anytime soon. He didn’t feel like reading. Perhaps Mama was right and a walk in the garden, breathing the cool night air, would be calming.
He headed for the door.
Chapter Seven
I should never have told Bea I’d meet her out here.
Jane pulled her shawl more tightly round her shoulders as she hurried down yet another path. She’d seen the fountain from her room when she’d arrived earlier and had thought it a simple matter to reach it.
Ha! What had looked simple in daylight was impossible at night, even with a full moon. Whoever designed this garden had an evil sense of humor. The walks were a maze of wrong turns, dead ends, and endless loops, and the surrounding vegetation was planted so she got only occasional glimpses of the blasted fountain—and it was never where she expected.
If she did believe in curses and supernatural cats, she might think there was some evil magic at work here.
And then the moon went behind a cloud, turning the garden dark as ink. Something damp and feathery tickled her face, caught her shawl . . .
She squeaked, jumped, hit out—and discovered when the cloud moved on that her attacker was an errant evergreen branch.
She grimaced as her heart slowed. Perhaps she was a little on edge.
I hope there weren’t any spiders on that branch . . . and now on me!
She frantically brushed her hands through her hair.
“Shh!”
She froze. That was a male voice, coming from off to her right.
“Someone’s nearby.”
“Silly. It’s just an animal.” That was a woman. Bea?
Jane debated what to do. If it was Bea, she should probably join her at once, though it was hard to see how Miss Livingston-Smythe could be in any danger of scandal here. All the men but Randolph were related to her.
“Kiss me again.” The woman’s voice was breathy and urgent.
Oh. It couldn’t be Bea.
She should leave the couple to their privacy . . . except she had no idea how to find her way back to the house.
She scowled at the bushes. What to do?
She would approach them. It would be awkward but she didn’t wish to wander the garden forever, especially when there were people nearby who could rescue her. And Bea should be here soon, so they would be interrupted anyway. Better that she, a mature woman, handle the matter than a young girl like Bea.
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