There was that.
He was not related to a duke, an earl, or a marquess, not even distantly. He was not related to anyone of any note, on this continent or any other. He was not a man of means, thanks to Percival, and he was not in possession of a great house or a good deal of prime property, thanks to his own efforts at consolidation.
Summing it up, and Peter did enjoy finding the sum of things as a rule, Peter Grant did not stand the devil’s chance of acquiring Miss Julia Whitton as a wife.
That did not, however, stop him from thinking of ways to do so. He was in need of a wife, according to Mama. He was in want of a wife, according to his almost instantaneous fascination with Julia Whitton. As in all things, Peter considered the facts with clear-eyed realism, determined to succeed no matter what the facts declared.
He meant to marry Julia Whitton. Only the means of doing so remained a mystery.
“I am so delighted to have reached an accord, Miss Whitton,” he said, offering his arm. “I trust I am not wrong in supposing that you speak for your father?”
Julia laid her slim, gloved hand upon his arm. “I am quite certain that Papa will be agreeable as to the terms. We shall know as soon as we find him. Where has he gone, do you suppose?”
Peter led her across the hall and toward an open door on the left. The room was the ground floor library and it was not occupied. The light from the single large window spread across the rug, highlighting the marquetry oak floor. “I suppose they have already surveyed the library,” he said. “Does Mr. Whitton engage in business of any sort? He will find this room useful, if so.”
“Papa was with the East India Company,” Julia said. “He is on leave.”
“Permanent leave, Miss Whitton?”
Julia turned to face him, removing her hand from his arm in the process. She had a clean, classic profile; her nose long and delicately tipped, the angle of her chin haughty, the curve of her brow elegantly drawn. When she faced him, her blue eyes, blue the color of a summer sky above a pristine lake surrounded by larkspur . . . good gad, was he turning into a lovesick poet?
Most probably.
“I fail to see how that concerns you, Mr. Grant. Are you concerned that we shan’t meet the conditions of the lease?”
“Knowing something of the people who shall live in my family home seems little enough to ask,” he said. “Is there a secret regarding his employment? I trust he has the funds to make the initial payment?”
Her eyes lit up like fury at the inquiry. He smiled inside when he saw her battle ardor rise up and enflame her.
“You insult us, sir,” she said. “Do you think we are the sort of people to wander into houses talking of leases when we don’t possess the funds to proceed with the endeavor?”
“I am atremble with anticipation, Miss Whitton,” he said in a murmur. “Are you or are you not that sort? I confess to a more than mild curiosity.”
She stared directly into his eyes and he absorbed the sight. She was beautiful. She was strong. She was the sort of wife a man needed when he had to lift himself out of crushing debt and into solvency. This was a woman who would bludgeon the butcher if he fobbed off a rotten piece of meat on her household.
“And you, Mr. Grant, seem to be very much the sort of man who, when he is not content with a bargain fairly made, looks for a way out of his binding verbal contract. For we do have a contract, Mr. Grant, and I intend to hold you to it. We shall take this house at the agreed upon terms. I shall tolerate no deviation. Am I quite clear?”
Bludgeon the butcher? She would cut his throat with his own knife and throw the man’s body to the dogs. What a woman.
“Julia?” Miss Judith Whitton said from behind them.
They both turned; he thought Julia turned rather reluctantly. He knew he did.
“Miss Judith,” he said. “There you are. Have you seen everything you need to see?”
“Yes, certainly,” she said in answer to his question. “Julia, are you quite all right? I thought I heard you from the garden.”
“From the garden?” Julia said. “Don’t be absurd. I was merely discussing the terms of our lease with Mr. Grant.”
“What’s that?” Mr. Whitton said, joining Judith in the doorway. He looked faintly amused, though Peter could not think why that should be so. “Julia has made some sort of arrangement with you, Mr. Grant?”
“I hope that is not against your wishes, Mr. Whitton,” Peter said. “It seems that Miss Julia is quite, ah, taken with the house and we came to terms. Quite by accident, as it happens.”
“The terms are quite set, Papa,” Julia said, giving Peter a flinty glare. “I know you will be quite satisfied with them. I trust we are all in agreement that this house is quite adequate for our needs and that we shall be as comfortable as we can be, given the size of the rooms.”
“They are quite grand,” Judith said.
“I meant, Judith,” Julia said, “that the rooms are far smaller than we are accustomed to.”
“The terms have been set, Miss Julia,” Peter said mildly. “There is no further need to downplay the assets of the house, which I trust are quite obvious to all.”
Mr. Whitton cleared his throat and stepped into the room. “Quite right, Mr. Grant. I should like to hear the terms for myself, if no one minds.”
“Of course,” Peter said. “Three months in advance with a ten percent reduction in the original asking price.”
“For each month we are in residence, not just for the first three months,” Julia said, looking at him with a suspicious eye. “We did not discuss termination, Mr. Grant. I trust one month’s notice is sufficient?”
“Completely,” he answered. “As must be plain, Mr. Whitton, your daughter and I have found ourselves to be on familiar terrain when discussing the details of the leasing arrangement. I trust that is agreeable to you?”
“Agreeable and familiar, Mr. Grant,” Mr. Whitton answered. “Julia is the hardened negotiator of the family. I fear I allowed her too much latitude when she was a child. With the girls’ mother gone, I kept them close to my side and, in Julia’s case, she liked to play at my feet when I dealt with various situations involving my work with the East India Company. A man’s way of handling affairs seems to have rubbed off on her.”
“I do not think Mr. Grant is at all interested in our family history, Papa,” Julia snapped.
“On the contrary,” Peter said. “I am very interested. More and more with each revelation, in fact.”
“Are you?” Judith said, looking at him, at Julia, at him again, her pretty face lit with obvious happiness. “How delightful.”
“Judith,” Julia said, “I do think we must leave. We have to see the modiste before tea and the hour is late. Papa, you and Mr. Grant can manage the legal document regarding the lease?”
“I am flattered you think me capable, my dear,” Mr. Whitton said, his eyes gleaming in either amusement or wrath, Peter could not quite determine.
“And I, Miss Whitton,” Peter said, “am flattered you think me trustworthy of the task.”
“Oh,” Julia snapped, striding across the room and taking Judith strongly by the arm, “Good day to you, Mr. Grant. Papa, we shall wait for you in the carriage.”
The light, sharp footsteps of the women echoed across the floor. They heard the faint sound of the door opening and closing and then it was just Peter Grant and Humphrey Whitton, staring at each other across the red and blue rug, dust motes dancing in the light.
“Now,” Mr. Whitton said, “shall we get down to it?”
“I do apologize. Get down to what? Are you not interested in the house?” Peter said.
“The house is fine. The terms are reasonable,” Mr. Whitton said.
“Then . . . ?”
Mr. Whitton indulged in a lengthy perusal of Peter’s face, his person, and the room in general.
“Mr. Whitton, should we not finalize the agreement, legally?”
Mr. Whitton nodded a few times, more than was strictly n
ecessary, and said, “We should and we shall, Mr. Grant. I think you are the right man and that you and my daughter have reached an accord of sorts.”
“Yes,” Peter said. “The terms of the lease, if you remember.”
Perhaps the man was not quite on his game; perhaps there was a definite reason as to why he had left India for an extended, perhaps permanent, stay in England. And, perhaps again, here was the reason that Julia had negotiated the terms of the lease and not her father. He might not be capable, poor man. He didn’t seem quite the thing at the moment, though he had seemed pleasant upon first introduction. Well, that was the way of these sub-tropical diseases; they came and went and left a man shaken to the root.
“You have a man you trust to write it up?” Mr. Whitton asked.
“I do. Shall I have it presented to you for your approval?”
“Certainly. When might we take possession?”
Peter considered what to say that would be both direct and not insulting. Then he considered that Julia had sat at Mr. Whitton’s knee and learned her business skills from this man.
“As soon as the funds are deposited and the papers signed,” Peter said, looking carefully for Mr. Whitton’s response to that bald statement.
Mr. Whitton smiled. “Sound policy,” he said. “You are indeed the man, Mr. Grant.”
To that, Peter had no ready reply. He finally settled on: “Yes, thank you, Mr. Whitton.”
And with that, Mr. Whitton marched out of the house without so much as a bow. There was the haunting suggestion of a whistle heard in the front hall, but Peter, upon reflection, dismissed it as a product of his overly excited imagination at picturing Julia Whitton sleeping in one of his bedrooms.
Chapter 4
Julia sat in the carriage and boiled with indignation at Mr. Grant, Papa, Judith, and Mr. Grant. Repeating his name seemed entirely to the point. She was terribly afraid that she had looked rather too ruthless, too masculine, too determined to best Mr. Grant in the terms of the lease agreement. At the same time, she was not at all interested in changing one item of the lease agreement. It had been fairly fought and the terms set. If Mr. Grant thought her too ruthless, too masculine, too determined then he should find someone else to negotiate his contracts for him.
“Mr. Grant owns the house?” Judith said, opening the frog closures on her cloak. The day had warmed considerably. “I wonder he did not use a leasing agent.”
“Probably to save the fee,” Julia said, staring out the window.
London still fascinated her. It was so different from India. The sounds were sharper, the air colder, the views wider. In India, the views were tight and green, the sounds were rolling and musical, and the air was warm and moist and friendly. England was a land of chill mists and pearl skies. She supposed that she’d become accustomed to it, eventually, and certainly she preferred the south of England to the north. Yorkshire was entirely too wide and wild, too thinly populated, and too close to the Duke of Danby and his considerable influence.
“The fee?” Judith said.
“Mr. Grant impressed me as being a man not to give away a farthing if he could possibly keep it in his own pocket,” Julia said.
“High praise from you,” Papa said, looking at her.
“It’s merely an observation,” Julia said, looking at her father with a bland eye. “I trust you are truly content with the terms? I bargained him down from a preposterous opening bid.”
“Completely content, my dear,” he said. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself. It was pleasant to observe that you’re up to form, as usual.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I did not know that Mr. Grant was the owner of number 12 Portman Square, Papa. I would not have walked off with him, into a secluded portion of the house, if I had known it. I assumed he was the leasing agent.”
“Did you?” Papa said. “I was aware that Mr. Grant was the owner of the home.”
“Were you?” she said.
“Were you?” Judith echoed, her brows raised. “Did you not think Julia’s reputation in danger, Papa?”
Papa smiled at Judith before looking appraisingly at Julia. “I have complete confidence in Julia’s ability to look after her own best interests.”
She sounded quite the dragon. It was appalling.
“How did you know he was the owner?” Julia asked.
“I heard of him at White’s yesterday. There was some conversation regarding his home being put for let,” Papa said.
Wonderful. Mr. Grant was the subject of gossip at the most popular of the London clubs. It was hardly a recommendation.
“It is such a beautiful home,” Judith said. “I am so glad we shall be living in it for the Season, aren’t you, Julia?” Before Julia could manage to nod in agreement, Judith continued. “Why he is leasing his home, Papa? Does Mr. Grant not intend to be in Town for the Season? Is he already married?”
They were all excellent questions. Julia was somewhat relieved that Judith had taken on the burden of asking them. She abandoned her view from the carriage window to look at Papa fully.
Papa took his time responding. It seemed entirely intentional, as if he delighted in increasing the tension of his reply. It was most annoying. They had just crossed Oxford Street and were entering Mayfair on what Julia thought was North Audley Street. They would be back at Danby House shortly. She did not want to be caught discussing Mr. Grant and his situation in the questionable privacy afforded in her meddling uncle’s domain.
Julia resisted the urge to prompt a response from her father. He eventually gave up his little game and answered Judith’s very pertinent questions.
“He is not married,” Papa said, “that is quite certain. I am not aware of his general history regarding the ladies, as that is not something men discuss when amongst themselves.” Here he leveled a stern eye upon his daughters. His daughters returned his look with mute innocence. It was an act, for both of them. Julia, and even Judith, did not believe any such thing of men. They discussed anything and everything, especially women. “He is leasing his home because his elder brother, recently deceased, incurred great debt at the gaming tables and Mr. Grant is now responsible for paying off that debt. He is working toward solvency, and doing all he must to attain it, and is doing quite well at his task, by all reports.”
Julia’s blood stopped completely. She was shocked that her heart was still beating, and it was, barely. He was insolvent. Mr. Peter Grant was a pauper. He had a lovely house in Town, but he could not afford to live in it.
Was there anything more to know concerning Mr. Peter Grant?
There was not.
“How awfully he must be suffering,” Judith said, missing the point entirely. “The poor, poor man.”
“Yes, that is the entire problem. He is a poor man,” Julia said, returning her gaze to the streets of Mayfair.
Mayfair was London at its most lovely. She simply would not marry a man who could not afford Mayfair. That put Mr. Grant, who she had not been seriously considering for the role, out of the field completely. His home, which he had to let for the income, was not even in Mayfair. Portman Square was in Marleybone, a fine address, but not nearly as fine as Mayfair.
“But he is not responsible for his brother’s---” Judith began.
“He most certainly is responsible,” Julia said. “He must pay the debt. He cannot escape that.”
“That is certainly true,” Papa said, “and by every report, he is doing an admirable job of it. His honor is quite intact.”
But not his accounts; his accounts were not at all intact. She kept that comment to herself.
“If I had known of his situation, I am certain I could have driven him more sharply, Papa,” she said. “You should have told me.”
Papa looked at her and smiled his indulgent father smile at her. She found it slightly belittling on most occasions and never more so than now.
“I am quite content with the way things have settled themselves, Julia.”
“Poor man,�
�� Judith said. “To be forced to rent out his home. Where will he go? Where will he live?”
Under a hedgerow, for all Julia cared.
“How much does he owe?” Julia asked. That was the important question.
“Did you expect me to ask?” Papa said, spearing her with a look.
“I thought it might have been mentioned,” Julia said mildly.
“Is he living with friends?” Judith persisted.
“A man with great debt has no friends,” Julia said.
“Oh, surely not! Papa?” Judith exclaimed.
Judith was so naive. Julia sometimes worried that Judith would find herself paired with the worst sort of man, one who would take advantage of her sweet, innocent nature without guilt or shame.
“Actually,” Papa said, “the Earl of Hartford spoke quite warmly of Mr. Grant. They have interests in common. In fact, Hartford also lives in Portman Square.”
“You learned of his situation from an Earl?” Julia said.
It was slightly astonishing that her first thought was not that she would be neighbors with an earl. She had heard someone mention the Earl of Hartford at some Danby event, it might have been Hope, and she knew he was not married and that he was highly eligible. She should have been thinking of Hartford the moment his name was mentioned. But, no, she thought of Peter Grant. She felt nearly alarmed by the fact. She simply must arrange her thoughts into proper order.
“I knew he must have lovely friends who would not desert him!” Judith said, leaning back against the squabs. “He seemed such a lovely man to me. Didn’t he, Julia? His mode of expression was quite lovely, was it not?”
“Lovely,” Julia said,” is not the word I would use regarding Mr. Grant.”
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