When Harry Met Molly ib-1

by Kieran Kramer

  There was a secret bedchamber at the club?

  Harry and Lumley exchanged looks of shock. Maxwell ran his narrowed gaze over the bookshelf. Arrow remained standing at attention.

  “Captain Arrow,” Prinny said with a huff of laughter. “At ease. Please. I can’t think when you look as though you’re about to call out orders to fire a hundred cannon at the Spanish fleet.”

  Arrow’s shoulders relaxed.

  And there followed a general lessening of tension in every man, Harry noted. Maxwell took a puff from his cheroot. Lumley grinned, and Harry uncurled his fingers, which he’d balled into fists at his sides.

  Yes, Prinny was in his cups, but he was also in a good mood.

  “As I was saying,” His Royal Highness went on, “Liza and I were passing through, and we couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, gentlemen.” He opened his snuffbox with a grand flourish, pretended to inhale some—everyone knew he really despised the stuff—and returned it to his pocket. “And I’m shocked—nay, dismayed,” he went on, “at the state of affairs in this room. Can’t be good for the Empire when its best and brightest are gloomy.”

  He leveled an eye at Harry. “Yes, I include even you in that description, young man. Despite everything I’ve heard about your bedding the captain’s wife while your unit suffered an ambush, of all things”—Liza gasped—“you can’t be a complete disgrace if the Duke of Mallan is your father.”

  Harry’s chest knotted. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he gritted out.

  But inside, his heart grew harder. And smaller.

  Prinny looked around assessingly. “We must correct this situation. What you need is hope—hope that you may avoid legshackles. And not just a vague hope.” His expression brightened and he raised his right index finger. “You’ll need a surety!”

  “Yes!” Liza clapped her hands.

  “We need to make it impossible,” Prinny said, “for any matchmaking mamas, silly debutantes, and conniving bettors to rob your bachelor days of their necessary frivolity. Who’s got a quill and paper?”

  No one did. Harry wondered what the Prince was about.

  A coach-and-four rattled by the window, and through the door, there were the regular sounds of club life: voices rising and falling, the scrape of forks and knives against plates, the clink of bottle against glass.

  Life was going on as usual, Harry thought, except for here in this room. He wished he could talk to the other bachelors, but no one dared look at anyone but Prinny.

  Prinny nodded his head at Arrow. “Captain, please see to it that paper and quill and writing desk are brought immediately. I have a decree to prepare and sign. Here. And now.”

  Captain Arrow saluted. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Not thirty seconds later, he was back with Prinny’s requested materials, which he handed off to Liza with a swooping bow.

  Liza blushed, Harry wasn’t surprised to see. Women always fell apart around Arrow.

  “Take this down,” Prinny said to Liza, who settled into a chair, the quill poised above the blank paper, prepared to write.

  “Please begin, Your Highness,” she said.

  Prinny adjusted his cravat. “By order of the Prince Regent,” he said, “let it be known that the annual Impossible Bachelors wager shall commence the first week of August in the year 1816 and every August thereafter. The participants shall be conscripted by the Prince Regent and his advisors, who shall have sole control over the circumstances of the bet.”

  Harry’s neck muscles tensed, and the sound of Liza’s quill scratching across the paper only made it worse. He craved nothing more than to get up and leave.

  But, of course, he couldn’t.

  After a bit more scribbling, Liza looked up, her quill at the ready.

  “The winner of the wager,” Prinny continued, “shall be granted an entire year of freedom from the trials, tribulations, and, ahem, joys of marriage. As well as from the dreary events leading up to the eventual acquisition of a wife.”

  His grin was decidedly saucy. “He shall not be chased after by matchmaking mamas at social events.” A twinkle gleamed in his eyes. “He shall not be forced to attend tedious balls at Almack’s”—he paused and grinned—“although if he cares to attend to observe and flirt with the newest crop of debutantes, he shall not be denied entrance by the patronesses.”

  Liza’s mouth curved up in a smile, and she continued to write furiously.

  “And he most certainly shall not,” Prinny said, his eyes stormy, “be trapped into marriage by a young lady’s relatives—or by bettors seeking to make their fortunes.”

  Almost as one, the gentlemen in the room looked down at Wray, snoring on the rug.

  “Pity this comes too late for him,” Prinny murmured.

  Liza made a small tsking noise and inclined her head in sympathy.

  But then Prinny gripped his lapels, threw back his shoulders, and resumed his speech. “Those who cross the Prince Regent in his wish to see at least one of his bachelor subjects free from shameless pursuit for the period of one year”—he paused and narrowed his eyes—“shall forever be given the cut direct by His Royal Highness and his loyal subjects.”

  Harry met Maxwell’s eyes, which reflected back his own gut feeling. Prinny meant business, obviously. And since he meant business, they must follow suit.

  The Prince Regent released a long-suffering sigh. “The price of pursuing seemingly impossible freedom and privilege is always high, is it not?” He arched a brow. “Therefore, the losing bachelors shall be required to draw straws.”

  He looked first at Lumley, then Arrow, then Maxwell, then at Harry. “The recipient of the shortest straw,” he said grimly, “shall propose marriage within two months to a woman of his club board’s choosing.”

  He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his expansive belly. “That is all.”

  Liza laid her quill down and blew on the paper holding Prinny’s latest decree.

  A cold stone boulder rested in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He most certainly didn’t want to marry. But he’d prefer to avoid the altar his way—as Prinny’s way involved a hefty measure of diabolical risk.

  Prinny sauntered to the desk and signed the decree, hiccupping as he handed the quill to Liza. “I’m amazed at my own genius,” he said with a chuckle.

  “I’m not, Your Highness.” Liza cast him an adoring glance.

  Prinny curled his chubby hand around hers. “The first year’s wager shall be in your honor, my dear. I shall call it the Most Delectable Companion contest. The ladies shall be rigorously tested according to my exacting if unscrupulous standards—and the lucky bachelor who brings the finest mistress shall win a cherished year of freedom.” He looked up. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”

  Harry swallowed hard. Follow Prinny’s orders, and any one of them might very well be legshackled by Christmas if they lost the wager!

  “Your Highness,” Arrow said in his authoritative naval captain’s voice. “According to my ship’s sailing schedule, I shall be rounding Cape Horn at that time.”

  “No, you shall not,” Prinny insisted. “I shall see to it that you’re reassigned, Captain Arrow.”

  Harry caught the slightest hesitation before Arrow spoke. “Very good, sir,” he said.

  But Harry could see the red creeping up his friend’s well-tanned neck. He wasn’t happy about this wager, either.

  Dear God was written all over Maxwell’s usually implacable face.

  Lumley exclaimed something like “Wha’?” before remembering to shut his mouth.

  “I shall send each of you details of the circumstances of the bet imminently,” Prinny said sternly. “You’ll follow it to the letter.” He snorted. “I’m quite sure I’ll be entertained.”

  Harry’s spirits sank even lower. Prinny and his compulsive need to be entertained! Couldn’t he simply reinstitute the tradition of the court jester?

  Prinny’s gaze narrowed. “Harry, you’re to host. Maxwell, reco
rd. Arrow and Lumley, you shall form the arbitration committee. Keep me informed as the wager progresses, gentlemen. And that’s an order.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” Harry forced himself to sound amenable, although he’d no desire to be under the strict watch of His Royal Highness in a caper over which he had no control. He’d already undergone five years of imposed military service, courtesy of his father, and then he’d stayed in long enough to do his damnedest to help Wellington win at Waterloo.

  He’d been home only a year, hardly long enough to enjoy his freedom.

  Liza stood and handed the decree to Prinny, who immediately passed it off to Harry. “See that it’s hung to the right of the fireplace in the front room of the club.” He chuckled and took the candle from the mantel. “Congratulations. You’re all the Prince Regent’s Impossible Bachelors now. Except Wray, of course.”

  He nudged Wray with his foot. Wray flung out an arm and snorted.

  “I believe I shall name one more Impossible Bachelor,” Prinny said. “To fill the vacant spot Wray would have occupied had he not been vanquished by feminine forces already.” His brow creased in thought. “Possibly that rat Sir Richard Bell. He’s seduced so many virgins that it’s time he sweated a bit, eh?”

  And before anyone could respond, he swooped into the hidden passageway, pulling Liza by the hand.

  The bookcase shut upon them both.

  There was total silence in the room until the creeping footsteps of Prinny and his lady were no longer audible.

  “Dammit all to hell,” Lord Maxwell said, his voice dangerously low.

  Arrow ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be reassigned! And I most certainly don’t want to be called an Impossible Bachelor. It doesn’t have nearly the ring to it admiral has.”

  Lumley threw himself into a chair. “I’ve nothing to do except oversee my estates. And perhaps acquire a few more. So I think I shall quite enjoy this wager. Especially if Sir Richard shows up. I’d like to pound his face for ruining the Glasbury girl last year. She’s a nun now, did you know that?”

  “Yes, I knew that,” Harry spluttered, “and I agree with you about Bell. But really, Lumley. Enjoy the wager? What are you thinking? One of us will wind up married at the end of it!”

  “I forgot about that part.” Lumley sighed. “I don’t even have a mistress at the moment, much less a delectable one. Which means, right now, I’m favored to get legshackled!”

  “You and I both,” said Arrow. “We must get cracking. Maxwell’s Athena is sublime, and Harry’s girl is—who is she now, Harry? The blonde, or have you moved on to that redhead you met at the Cyprian Ball?”

  “That’s beside the point at the moment.” Harry had difficulty keeping up with all the women in his life. He’d rather not think of them unless he had to, which was usually right before he saw them—when he’d open a drawer near his bed table and pull out a little bauble from a collection of baubles his jeweler had put together for him to save him the tedium of selecting little gifts himself. “We’re Prinny’s puppets. He’s shrewd when he wants to be, but the only thing that interests his addled brain these days is mindless entertainment.”

  “There’s nothing more annoying than an intelligent person who’s gone to seed,” Maxwell said with a hint of contempt. He raised his brandy glass and drained it—then filled it again.

  Wray sat up with a groan. “I’m awake.”

  “Obviously,” said Maxwell. “And no doubt with the devil of a headache already.”

  “Gawd, yes.” Wray’s hair was sticking up all over his head.

  Maxwell poured another brandy and handed it to his soon-to-be-married friend.

  Wray took a large gulp. “I daren’t let Prinny know,” he rasped, “but I came to when he opened that demmed bookcase. No telling what shenanigans he would have had me participate in before the wedding tomorrow had I been any more lucid.”

  He raised himself to sit on a leather chair, wincing as he did. “Don’t be so down, gentlemen. Imagine…one of you at Almack’s, looking over the girls, and no one—not even Lady Jersey—being permitted to say a word to you about their gowns, their pedigree, or their worthiness as potential wives.”

  “There is that,” Arrow said hopefully.

  “So before you go feeling sorry for yourselves,” Wray said with a grimace, “remember, I’d give anything to be in your position.”

  He was right, of course. And if Harry were truthful with himself, he must admit that beneath the resentment he felt about being pulled into Prinny’s scheme, there was a spark of hope…

  That he would win the wager. And be able to walk into any ballroom in London and not have to worry about someone trying to marry him off.

  He patted Wray’s shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

  It was his way of saying farewell to a noble bachelor, and everyone there knew it.

  Wray tried to buck up and grin, but it turned into another wince. He got up and stumbled toward the door. “I’ve got to go, gentlemen. I—I’ll see you”—he hesitated—“after I’m married. At church. Or a musicale. Or something equally boring.”

  And he shut the door behind him.

  There was a grave silence, but Harry turned to the others. “I’d like to raise a toast,” he said.

  Arrow, Lumley, and Maxwell each wore almost identical somber looks, but they lifted their glasses anyway.

  “To the Impossible Bachelors,” Harry said with spirit. “And this impossible wager. May we survive it handily, with our freedom intact.”

  “Here, here,” the others said in chorus.

  Everyone drained their glasses.

  “One more thing,” Harry said with a grin. “I propose the damned bookcase is nailed shut before we leave tonight. All in?”

  “All in!” they cried.

  Just as he knew they would.

  Chapter 2

  August 1816

  Thanks to the Providence School for Wayward Girls, which took her in hand at age thirteen, twenty-one-year-old Molly Fairbanks was no longer a silly romantic—she was a silly romantic with superb posture. She sat perfectly straight in her chair at the rather seedy inn where she and Cedric Alliston were taking a bit of nuncheon before eloping to Gretna Green.

  Not that she could actually eat. She was much too excited. And confused. The way she suspected a bird let out of a cage is confused moments before it flies away to freedom.

  To honor her emancipation, she’d forgone her usual dreary traveling dress. She’d worn instead her favorite white muslin gown paired with her late mother’s gloves and a navy blue and white striped silk parasol Penelope had just sent her from Italy, where she and her family were on a six-month painting holiday.

  “Cedric—” Molly toyed with her glass of ratafia. “If Papa weren’t so damnably rich—and far away at the moment—would you still be running off with me?”

  “What a sh-illy question,” Cedric said, working his jaw in a grand manner as he cut his sausage. He often spoke as if he were clenching a knife between his back teeth, which should have seemed terribly Londonish to a girl who’d been rusticating in Kent an age with an addled crone of a cousin, and before that, a cold, stone school high atop the wind-scoured Yorkshire dales.

  But as Molly had never been to London, she couldn’t be impressed.

  “The elopement izzh what it izzh,” Cedric said, glancing at the gold watch he wore on his emerald green waistcoat. “And we are what we are.”

  Molly blinked. “I don’t understand you.”

  Which was nothing new. Cedric was like a puzzle. And she was like a person who, um, didn’t like puzzles. Particularly the kinds with one piece missing. Cedric seemed one of those.

  He sighed, his perfectly chiseled jaw framed by the exceedingly high points of his shirt collar. “Our nature is sh-tamped upon us, Mary. Every piece of broken pottery your father and I pull from the earth reveals the human condition. And we can’t esh-cape it.”

  “Oh,” she said politely. How did
every conversation they had come round to broken pottery?

  Cedric pointed his fork at her. “Unlike your perfectly proper sister Penelope, you are nothing more, or lesh, than a well-bred young lady—of too high spirits, I might add—who requires constant direction from a better mind. And I…I am the brilliant treasure hunter—of noble visage,” he added with a loft to his brow, “who shall provide that tutelage. It’s our lot in life.”

  He shrugged and popped a piece of sausage in his mouth.

  Oh, pish posh. Molly pursed her lips. Cedric was no treasure hunter. He was an impoverished social climber—Cousin Augusta’s husband’s nephew—who served as an assistant to her father. And Penelope wasn’t perfectly proper, either. Any girl who kissed her fiancé’s brother couldn’t qualify as perfectly proper, could she? And Molly loved her long-married sister all the more for it.

  Molly knew ladies weren’t supposed to seethe, but really, why was it that only gentlemen were allowed to speak boldly? And why were they permitted to boast about themselves—even contradict themselves!—while ladies must remain meek and…and boring?

  “Someday,” she said, leaning toward Cedric, “someday you shall call me Molly. And you’ll never go back to calling me…Mary.”

  “I beg to differ.” He slurped at his wine.

  “I beg to differ.”

  “You can’t. I already did.” He set his goblet down with a thunk.

  “We both can. You don’t have a license to differ alone.”

  Cedric scoffed. “You make no sen-sh.”

  “I beg to differ,” she said.

  Although secretly, in her deepest heart, she realized Cedric had a point. She must have lost her mind to have agreed to stay at home, pour out Cousin Augusta’s tea, and listen to her complain of a brass band playing in her ears—while Papa traipsed about Europe hunting treasure with Cedric for the past three years.

  And when Papa did return to visit Marble Hill, Molly spent each night at the dining room table (sitting quite straight) while Cedric and her father prosed on about chunks of broken, thousand-year-old vases for hours.