‘Perhaps she is just difficult to please?’ ventured the countess. ‘Her father is certainly wealthy enough for her to pick and choose—not that she will have been presented with a particularly inspiring set of individuals, if the usual set of fortune-hunters is still out on the prowl. You are sure to have far more chance with her than any of those ramshackle bucks.’
‘You are too kind!’ the earl ground out. ‘However, I am not sure that I care to join the ranks of such dubious company.’
Lady Isobel picked up her teacup and sipped tentatively at its now lukewarm contents. ‘Well, it’s entirely up to you, of course. However, I cannot help thinking that a readymade bride would certainly absolve you from having to go through all that tiresome business of formal introductions and correct procedures at Almack’s and so on.’
Although the idea of being obliged to contemplate marriage at all at this point in his life was sufficiently galling, without the added prospect of being saddled with a bride whose attributes had, it would seem, already failed to capture the interest of several previous suitors, the earl’s hitherto sceptical dismissal of his grandmother’s suggestions was now beginning to be replaced by the uncomfortable feeling that the dowager might actually be correct in her summation of the situation.
He was well aware that few men of his station married for love, an amicable mutual tolerance between the two parties being all that was usually required—and there was always the possibility that this Wheatley girl might not be quite as unprepossessing as she sounded, after all! It would mean giving up his occasional visits to Rachel Cummings, of course, although, in the event, that might not be such a bad thing, since that lady was beginning to develop rather expensive tastes of late—those ruby earrings he had recently presented her with had been a trifle extravagant, given his current financial position. Aside from which, the temporary cessation of his carnal delectations was a small enough price to pay for the restoration of the Markfield estate! Indeed, the very idea of being able to devote all his own resources to re-establishing the Standish Stud was beginning to prove an almost irresistible inducement.
Picking up his glass, he strode over to the window and stared pensively across the wide expanse of fresh green lawn that swept down to the river, which separated Westpark from its parent estate of Markfield—so very different from the baked and arid plains of the Iberian Peninsula where he had spent much of the past six years. The lush green landscapes of the English countryside were, as he knew, entirely dependent upon the weather, rainfall in particular. Just as rain could affect the outcome of a battle, so also could it affect the success of a harvest. He was well aware that his plans to utilise the returns from the forthcoming harvest to settle his outstanding bills lay very much at the mercy of the weather. And, given that they were still only in April, he was also shrewd enough to recognise that some of his creditors might be less than willing to hold out until August. Meanwhile, just the rumour of a possible alliance with a wealthy spouse could be all that was needed to deter further financial harassment. It would certainly make good sense to have, as it were, a second line of defence. After all, he then reasoned, it should not be too difficult to bring any such temporary relationship to a close, since it appeared that the female in question was merely out to gain herself a title and he was quite certain that there were any number of other fellows around who would be more than happy to fulfil that requirement.
As a Field Officer he had been used to choosing courses of action based on the information to hand and when timing was of the essence.
There was little doubt that this present situation required such an instant decision.
Draining his glass in one swift gulp, he swung round to face his grandmother.
‘Very well, you may go and see your Mr Wheatley and inform him that I’m willing to throw my hat into his ring.’
Chapter Two
‘Do come away from the window, Lottie, I beg of you,’ implored Helena. ‘It is not at all seemly to be seen twitching at the curtains in that manner!’
‘But are you not in the least bit interested in seeing what he looks like?’ queried her cousin Charlotte, reluctantly turning away from her self-appointed vigil at the window that overlooked the front doorstep.
‘Not in the slightest,’ returned Helena, with a weary sigh. ‘He will be much the same as all the others—rude, conceited and feigning an interest in me simply in order to get his hands on my dowry. If it were not for the fact that it upsets Papa so, I should have refused to go through this charade again. He seems incapable of understanding how very demeaning it is for me.’
As she watched Helena continue to ply her needle in silence, Lottie could not help but feel a certain sympathy for her cousin’s unusual plight. The Wheatleys’ runaway marriage had left their daughter stranded between the two distinctly separate worlds of upper and middle class. The young men of her father’s acquaintance considered her too far above their touch and those who moved in the circle on which her mother had turned her back all those years ago were not of a mind to consider the girl at all. Not until Mr Wheatley had, by word of mouth, advertised his present intention, that was, and, as Lottie well knew, this obsession of his had developed only as a direct result of dear Aunt Louisa’s death.
‘Perhaps I could try talking to him,’ she offered hesitantly. ‘If I explained how very much you have taken against the whole idea since that unpleasant business with Lord Barrington—’
‘No, Lottie! Please do not!’ urged Helena, her clear blue eyes widening with concern. ‘Papa got into such a dreadful state over that incident and you know that Doctor Redfern said that it was not good for him to be upset—his heart will simply not stand up to another attack.’
‘But what will you do this time?’ asked her cousin, perplexed.
An impish smile spread over Helena’s attractive features. ‘Oh, have no fear,’ she replied complacently. ‘I shall be sure to think of something. Fortunately, these town dandies—the ones with whom I have come into contact, anyway—hardly seem to be blessed with much in the way of intelligence, so it does not take a genius to find a dozen ways to send them packing!’
‘It is a good thing Uncle Giles does not realise what a minx his daughter is turning into,’ chuckled Lottie, as she resumed her seat at the window and picked up her book.
‘I just wish that I could persuade him that I have no desire to wed,’ sighed her cousin. ‘It is not as though I have any need to find a husband but, ever since Jason’s death and then poor dear Mama following him so soon after, Papa has had this bee in his bonnet about failing to give me my rightful place in society. I ask you! As though you and I could not rub along very nicely together if only he would allow us to do so!’
And, as the well-remembered image of her teasingly light-hearted elder brother once more invaded her thoughts, Helena’s eyes grew moist. Just four short years had passed since Jason had gone off to war, so handsome in his scarlet regimentals and so full of confidence. Sadly, a mere six months later, he had been shipped home so grievously wounded that, even with his mother’s devoted care, there was never any real chance of his recovery and, although he had clung courageously to life for several weeks, he had eventually slipped away.
Mrs Wheatley’s careless disregard for her own health during her son’s illness had resulted in her contracting the bout of pneumonia from which she had never recovered. The shock of his wife’s death, less than a year after that of their beloved son, had exacerbated Mr Wheatley’s prevailing heart condition, obliging him to take to his bed on more than one occasion since her passing.
From Helena’s point of view, these enforced periods of rest had enabled her father to spend rather too much time dwelling upon what he considered to be an unacceptable uncertainty regarding his remaining child’s future. His late wife’s ostracism from her social circle had always weighed heavily with him, and he had continually held himself to blame, despite Mrs Wheatley’s laughing insistence that, having happily relinquished her own title a
ll those years ago, such things mattered not a jot to her. However, now that Helena was all that he had left in the world, Mr Wheatley was determined to do his utmost to—as he saw it—retrieve the situation for her sake.
Recognising that, after the death of her mother, Helena would be in need of a female companion and disliking the idea of bringing a stranger into his house, Mr Wheatley had invited his sister’s eldest daughter, Charlotte, to make her home with them. Lottie, being one of a family of seven children, had been more than delighted to accept her uncle’s offer, for with it had come the promise of a room of her own and a generous quarterly allowance, as well as an opportunity to move into a social circle that, whilst not being of the highest, was certainly considerably removed from that of her own country-vicarage upbringing.
However, despite being more than two years older than Helena, Lottie lacked her cousin’s fine judgement and presence of mind, possibly due in part to the fact that she had not had the benefit of the highly expensive schooling that the younger girl had received and, although Helena loved her dearly, she was frequently obliged to take Lottie gently to task in order to curb her somewhat impulsive behaviour.
Disregarding Helena’s constant pleadings that she had no wish to marry into high society and was perfectly happy to remain as she was, Mr Wheatley, concerned that his daughter had reached the ripe old age of twenty-two without so much as a single suitable offer, had made up his mind to take matters into his own hands. In reaching this conclusion, it had pleased him to ignore several tentative proposals he had received from various of his city acquaintances on their sons’ behalves since, despite his own relatively humble beginnings in the world of commerce, his aspirations for both of his offspring had always been somewhat more high-flown. Hence his current ambition to secure his daughter’s elevation.
Observing that her cousin was, once more, deeply absorbed in her sewing, Lottie was unable to resist taking the occasional quick peek out of the window along the path that led to the front gate, in the hope of catching sight of this new contender for Helena’s hand. Being an inveterate reader of romantic novels, she had developed the notion that it was simply a matter of time before Mr Right would ride out of the blue and capture her beloved cousin’s heart. For, quite apart from the fact that Helena was possessed of the most generous of natures and—as a result of having lost her brother in so tragic a manner—given to devoting much of her free time to the welfare of the many crippled or displaced soldiers who roamed the capital daily, she was, without doubt, an extremely attractive young woman. With shining russet-brown curls that framed the creamy complexion of her face, expressive violet-blue eyes and the neatest of noses, she was, in her cousin’s eyes at least, quite without equal. Lottie, although she had inherited her mother’s light-hearted and easygoing personality, had also been, somewhat unfortunately perhaps, blessed with her father’s somewhat Romanesque features and, well aware that she herself lacked the physical attributes of her storybook heroines, had long ago given up any thoughts of meeting her own Prince Charming. Instead, finding herself not entirely unsympathetic towards her uncle’s attitude regarding his daughter’s continued single state, she was quite content to spend a good deal of her time indulging in her own private fantasy that, any day now, the ultimate beau idéal would arrive and sweep Helena off her feet.
Therefore, when her eyes did finally alight upon the carriage that drew up at the gateway to the Wheatley house, she was obliged to push her disappointment firmly to one side. For, instead of the showy, dashing carriage of the sort with which each of Helena’s three previous potential suitors had equipped himself, today’s visitor had arrived in nothing more than a common hackney carriage!
‘I perceive that Lord Markfield has arrived, Nell,’ she began, her tone non-committal but then, as the earl’s rangy figure hove more closely into her view, her eyes brightened and she leant forward with deepening interest.
‘Lottie, please!’ urged her cousin. ‘If the gentleman should happen to look up and catch you staring, it might well give him the impression that I have been eagerly awaiting his attendance! With Papa in his present frame of mind, I swear that it will be difficult enough to turn this one off but if, in addition, I have to cope with the fellow’s puffed-up supposition that I am on tenterhooks to meet him…!’
‘I’m sorry, Nell,’ said Lottie contritely, as she pulled back from the window. ‘I don’t think he saw me—but I have to tell you,’ she added, in a breathless rush, ‘he really is most awfully good-looking!’
‘And, very probably, just plain awful!’ replied Helena tartly, folding away her sewing and getting to her feet. ‘Nevertheless, I suppose I shall have to go and tidy myself up in readiness for when Papa summons me to meet the odious sycophant!’
Richard, who had indeed caught a glimpse of Lottie peering down at him from the window of the morning room, suffered a moment’s irresolution as he approached the house but, steeling himself, he remembered his grandmother’s words about the Standish Stud and, striding purposefully up the steps to the front door, pulled at the bell knob.
He was ushered into what appeared to be a study and was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not confronted with the brash, modern furnishings that he had, for some reason, associated with the nouveau riche. Instead, the room was filled with comfortable, well-worn pieces that he recognised as being of very good quality.
Seated at the large mahogany desk that dominated the room was a rather stout gentleman with a florid complexion. At Richard’s entrance, he rose to his feet and offered his hand.
‘Your lordship,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
Mr Wheatley’s voice, Richard noted, as he took the seat that his host had indicated to him, was nicely modulated and, relieved that the man was exhibiting neither servility towards his rank nor—and what he had dreaded more—the superior air of one who has all the cards at his disposal, he accepted the drink that Mr Wheatley offered him and leaned back in his chair.
‘You will no doubt have some questions that you wish to put to me,’ he ventured slowly. The man’s first impression of him, he knew, would be vital and, since he had made up his mind that, come hell or high water, he would do everything in his power to succeed in this undertaking, he forced his lips into some semblance of a smile.
Mr Wheatley waved his hand dismissively. ‘That will not be necessary, your lordship,’ he replied. ‘I have already made it my business to enquire into your background and find myself more than satisfied with your credentials. Let us proceed.’
Extracting a single piece of paper out of a folder, he placed it down on the desk in front of him and began, ‘In my taking what you might well consider to be this rather extraordinary course of action to find my daughter a suitable husband, you must realise that I have only her best interests at heart. She will be in possession of a considerable fortune when I am gone and I am sure that you will understand why I feel that it is my duty to ensure that she is not taken advantage of by some unscrupulous scoundrel.’
‘Naturally,’ replied Richard smoothly. ‘As her father, I would expect nothing less of you.’
‘I have drawn up this agreement,’ continued Wheatley, nodding to the sheet of paper under his hand. ‘It contains the main qualities that I require in any prospective candidate for my daughter’s hand—you will, no doubt, have heard that you are by no means the first such contender. I myself do not consider that these requirements to be particularly onerous but, for some reason, it appears to be increasingly difficult to find someone who is able to fulfil my expectations.’
Urging Richard to cast his eye over the several clauses therein, he pushed the sheet of paper across the desk. ‘It will save time if you read the thing yourself, my lord,’ he said. ‘If there are any points that you do not understand or on which you are not prepared to agree, we need not waste any more of each other’s time.’
Richard picked up the document and began to peruse it. It appeared to be a contract
of sorts—an agreement that was to last for a period of three months, during which time the candidate for Miss Wheatley’s hand would be required to introduce her into his circle of friends—given that her father found them acceptable—acquire the necessary entry and escort her to as many of the Season’s upper-class functions as the time allowed. During this period, all expenses would be met, including that of furnishing the applicant with a suitable wardrobe, should he be in need of such refurbishment.
Whilst it was clear that the proposed schedule was one that might be achieved with very little difficulty on his part, he still could not help feeling that, by entering into such a calculated agreement, he would be in grave danger of signing away the last vestige of his self-respect. There was no question that the cost of the renovations at Markfield Hall had reached a crisis point and to be given another chance to try and re-establish the Standish Stud would be a dream come true but, as the Bible said, ‘For what shall it profit a man to gain the whole world, if he loses his own soul?’
Very gradually, a deep frown began to develop on his forehead as he contemplated the document and he was just in the process of questioning whether he could really bring himself to sign such an ignominious agreement, when an odd sound from across the desk caught his attention. Looking up, he encountered Wheatley’s frozen grimace. The man’s face was sweating profusely and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing; his hands were frantically tearing at his intricately tied neckcloth, in a vain endeavour to loosen the offending article.
At once, Richard leapt to his feet. ‘My dear sir,’ he gasped in dismay, ‘are you ill?’
In answer, Wheatley’s eyes bulged, a weak gurgle issued from his lips and, to his visitor’s consternation, he slumped forwards on to his desk, his outflung hands knocking over the inkstand and scattering his pile of papers in all directions.
A Marriageable Miss Page 2
