A quick rap sounded upon her door. Before Helen could say anything, the door was flung open and the whirlwind known as Amelia Thacker flew into the room.
“I’m so glad you are up!” she exclaimed. “I could not wait another instant to see your bouquet, for your maid told my maid they were delivered by Stratford’s man! Oh, are they not the most beautiful roses you’ve ever seen? And at this season! The viscount is a wonder, is he not?” Without pausing for an answer, she skipped to her cousin and snapped up the small card from where it had fallen. She read the message, her violet eyes widening.
“You have made a conquest, Helen!” she cried. “I confess, the way Stratford smiled at you last night, I was quite eaten up with envy.”
“Yes, but Amy, the smile never entered his eyes,” Helen pointed out quietly.
“Oh, pooh! I should not care a button for that! Why, a wealthy viscountess doesn’t need smiles from her husband!” Amelia twirled before the mirror, peeking through the roses to examine her sprigged muslin day gown with a critical eye. She leaned toward the glass to fluff her cropped blond curls and said with a laugh, “It is a great pity the viscount does not seem to care for fair beauties, for I should not hesitate to snatch him from you if I could. He is the catch of the decade, silly! And you want his eyes to smile!”
With a pitying shake of her head, Amelia darted from the room, leaving her cousin standing with a line sketched upon her brow.
She did not understand, nor did she want to understand, such a fashionable view of marriage. For Helen, the union of two souls was only conceivable when blessed by love. It was, she feared, an emotion of which Lord Stratford knew nothing. The memory of the cool calculation in his gaze returned and she shivered as she dressed in a becoming pleated percale gown of pale blue, with a high bodice and long, tight sleeves that accentuated the slimness of her figure. But she smoothed away the worry from her brow before removing to the breakfast room where she found her Aunt Elizabeth sipping from a Wedgwood teacup while Amelia busily spread a thin layer of marmalade over a biscuit.
“Good morning, dear. Amy was just telling me you were up. I trust you slept well after the excitement of your first ball?”
“Yes, thank you, Aunt Liz,” Helen replied, taking a seat opposite her cousin.
“Just think, Mama,” said that lively miss, “Helen was not impressed with her roses! I should be positively overcome should I receive anything half so grand! And if Lord Stratford had compared my lips to roses, I should be in transports of excitement!”
“Thank goodness Helen has more sense,” her mother said with a touch of dryness to her tone. “It would not do, my dears, to take the viscount’s attentions too seriously. It appears he’s been much taken with Helen, but he’s well known for his flirtations, and we must not expect this to be anything more.”
“But if it were, Mama, just think how thrilling it would be!” Amy said before sinking her teeth into her biscuit.
“Well, there’s no denying that it would be the greatest good fortune,” Elizabeth admitted with a sigh.
“Oh? And why is that, Aunt Liz?” Helen asked in a carefully bland voice.
“Viscount Stratford is the most eligible bachelor—” she began.
“I told her, the catch of the decade!” Amy interrupted before subsiding at her mother’s quelling eye.
“Besides his title and vast wealth—some say greater even than the Golden Ball’s forty thousand a year—he is the heir to his grandfather’s title and all the Earl of Hallbrook’s considerable wealth as well. The connection is one of the oldest and most impeccable in the county. His estate stands on the ruins of an ancient fortification in Kent.”
“Hallbrook Keep,” Helen murmured.
“Why, yes. When you consider what such a connection would do for your family, you cannot but be sensible of the good fortune such a match would bring. Imagine, dear, having all the burden of your family taken from Griffen’s shoulders! Why, I was quite bemazed to see how much he had aged in the years since your father died—one would hardly believe that he is not yet thirty!
“He . . . he does have many cares, since Papa did not leave us provided for. And with Mama’s health being so poorly . . .” Helen’s voice trailed away.
“I suspect much of Susanna’s state of health is in her mind,” Elizabeth returned sharply. “But I shan’t speak ill of my own sister. If you married well, Helen, your mother could receive the best of medical care. And Esmond could continue his studies. I could also mean, I think, a bit of freedom for Rose. I’m sure no one could be more deserving of a chance for fun and ease. I was even more shocked by her spinsterish air than I was over Griffen’s staid attitude. Why, Rose is only six-and-twenty, and it’s a shame to have her placed so firmly on the shelf!”
“I could not agree more, Aunt Liz. But when I begged her to come to London with me, she only laughed and asked me what an old thing like herself could do amid all the young belles and beaux! And she said Griffen and Nell and Esmond and Mama could not do without her.”
“That, at least, I will believe,” Elizabeth said through tight lips. She shook her head, as if to shake away the vision of her niece aged before her time, and spoke briskly. “But, of course, we are racing ahead. It would not do for us to get our hopes up on the basis of one basket of roses.”
“But you would be the most envied woman in all England should Stratford offer for you, Helen,” Amy put in. “Last season, there was a jest that the recipe for a lively season consisted of one part balls and fetes, one party young beauties, and one part Viscount Stratford—then toss out everything but Stratford, for the viscount alone would account for a lively time!”
“That is enough, Amy,” her mother reproved.
Helen stared down at the rim of her plate for a few moments, then asked in a small voice, “I was wondering what you could tell me of the viscount’s friend, Mr. Maret?”
“That cold fish?” Amy cried in disgust.
“Amelia, mind your manners! There is nothing so disagreeable as to receive unsolicited opinions from those who should know better than to express them,” Elizabeth scolded. She turned to Helen and said kindly, “Mr. Maret may lack a title, but he is also most eligible, having a large fortune of his own. His father was one of the few French aristocrats with foresight. He left France before the worst excesses of the Revolution and though he forfeited his title—he was a Comte, I understand—and his property there, he brought most of his wealth with him when he emigrated. The father is gone now, but Maret’s mother still lives on the estate, I believe. She’s not been to town in years, but I remember her as a fiery Frenchwoman full of emotion.”
Elizabeth pushed back her chair and stood, looking slim and quite youthful, despite the graying of her hair. “At any rate, should either of the two make you an offer, Helen, and should your inclination be to accept, it would be not only suitable, but a tremendous blessing for you and your family. But, of course, we must not count too much upon the circumstance of one ball.”
“Don’t forget the roses!” Amy called out to her mother’s retreating form.
Throughout that day, Helen received other posies and small gifts from admirers and dandies who were following Stratford’s lead in making Miss Helen the latest rage. And if she felt disappointed when none of the many offerings bore the card of Mr. Maret, Helen was most careful not to show it.
*****
The day proved less than pleasing to the Viscount Stratford as well. It began with a morning call—at an entirely unsuitable hour for one who had not left the gaming tables at White’s until past dawn—from Daniel Baldwin.
When Felton had informed Mr. Baldwin that his lordship was still abed and could not be disturbed, Daniel simply brushed past him, ignoring the servant’s lively protests, saying, “Surely, my cousin cannot be aware that the hour is so advanced! I shall wake him.”
He mounted the stairs so rapidly, Felton only just kept up with him, coming nervously to a halt behind his shoulder when Baldwin thrus
t open Stratford’s door.
Lying on his side in an enormous poster bed, the viscount opened one eye, saw Baldwin standing in the door frame, and closed it again.
“Remove him, Felton,” he said tonelessly.
“But my lord—”
“Don’t be nonsensical, Colin,” Daniel said, whisking the servant’s hand from his sleeve and advancing into the room. “It wants but a few minutes to noon, and you cannot wish to sleep the day away.”
“Your concern overwhelms me,” Stratford murmured. He slowly opened both eyes, saw the determination stamped upon his cousin’s face, and resigned himself to the unwanted interview. “Felton, bring me coffee and a bottle of brandy.”
“Brandy! At this hour!” Daniel exclaimed.
“As you pointed out, it’s nearly noon. I dare say by the time he returns it will be safely past noon and quite permissible for me to lace my coffee with brandy,” Colin said as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “And, Felton, send Busick to me.”
As Felton disappeared, thankful to have escaped so easily, Stratford moved to a small vanity where he poured water from a large pitcher ornamented with gold leaf into a matching ewer. After liberally splashing his face with cold water he turned to Daniel. “Well, cousin, you’ve swept me from my bed. I ask myself, to what purpose?”
Before Baldwin could make an answer, the viscount’s valet entered, carrying all the necessary items to shave his lordship. Stratford dropped into a chair. Busick wrapped a linen cloth around his neck and began to lather his cheeks.
“Well?” Colin prompted his cousin again.
“You . . . you must know!” a flustered Daniel replied. “It is on a private matter that I wish to speak with you!”
“I should be insulted if I were you, Busick. My cousin does not think you are private. Do you wish to call him out? Shall I stand as your second?”
Busick permitted himself a smile at this jest before scraping his razor edge expertly down the viscount’s cheek.
“Come, Colin, your levity is misplaced,” Daniel chided. “As it was last night. I dare say you realize that all Lady Carmichael’s guests could speak of was your dalliance with Miss Lawrence. It’s shocking for you to play with someone’s feelings to satisfy your own selfish purposes.”
Stratford’s heavy lids hid the anger in his eyes, but his tone was harsh as he bit out, “One would think to listen to you, cousin, that I was out to ravish the chit, instead of marry her.”
“Oh, it is not your intentions I deplore—indeed, I’m quite surprised that you’ve at last realized your duty to your name—”
“Thank you,” Colin replied in a sarcastic tone.
“But it is your manner of executing that duty that is distressing. Your wager with Maret is an insult both to Miss Lawrence and to the seriousness of the wedded state. Marriage should not be entered into lightly, but only with a sense of respect and admiration on the part of those involved.”
The earnestness of Baldwin’s tone galled the viscount and as Busick stepped back, his ministrations complete, Stratford threw off the linen towel with an angry snap and stood.”
“God, spare me your lectures! Why is it that you must always treat me like some younger brother, I cannot fathom—you seem to forget that I am eleven months the elder!”
“In age, yes, but you must permit me to say that you rarely act the elder.”
“I do not permit you, cousin,” Colin said through clenched teeth, “to say anything of the sort.” He spun round as Felton silently entered and deposited a tray upon a Pembroke table. Ignoring the steaming coffee, he splashed brandy into his cup and tossed it off, knowing full well it would scandalize his visitor.
“Colin! Anything I say to you, you must know I say because I care about you and your welfare, and it is to keep you from making a great mistake that I am here today.”
“Let me make my own mistakes, Daniel. You’ve never kept me from one before. You should know by now you cannot. I’ve not forgotten our summers together at the Keep when we were boys, and indeed, it is because I hold you in some affection that I’ve not flung you bodily out of here for your impertinence to interfere in my affairs.”
Stratford leaned over the back of a chair and raised a hand to forestall Baldwin’s protests. Though anger still glittered in his eyes, his tone softened as he said, “Yes, Daniel, your damned impertinence. I’ve made up my mind to have Miss Lawrence for my wife and I will have her. And Jacques’s guineas, too. You may whistle down the wind for all I care, but I advise you—cousinly advice, you might say—to leave off, or you may press me too fair. I don’t wish to end by breaking your stuffy, righteous neck.”
Daniel looked thoroughly horrified, and his eyes darted from his cousin’s stony face to the brandy bottle.
“Don’t be a fool, Baldwin. I’m not drunk. One cup couldn’t intoxicate a green youth. I’m merely tired of your prosy interference into my life.”
“My intention—”
“Oh, I grant you, kindness in itself. Very well, you have warned me. I am about to commit the greatest error. You may stand at the head of the line to tell me, ‘I told you so’ afterwards, I assure you. And now, for God’s sake, leave me alone while I still have some temper left to me.”
Baldwin stood motionless, the real hurt reflected in his hazel eyes annoying Stratford far more than anything he had yet said. Then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
“Damnation! May all well-meaning, officious relatives be sent to hell!” Stratford exclaimed under his breath as he signaled his valet to begin dressing him.
Once attired in a tightly cut morning coat of dark blue superfine and equally tight fawn pantaloons, the viscount set out in his curricle for what proved to be the second unsatisfactory interview of the day.
He called upon Miss Helen Lawrence in Brightside Street where he found that lovely lady receiving visitors with the flighty Miss Thacker. Though Helen smiled at him politely and thanked him for the roses, she did not seem overly touched by the gift. Moreover, she was so unreceptive to his attempts at conversation, leaving the burden of it to her cousin (who had no difficulty whatsoever in carrying the bulk of the discourse) that when he left, Stratford was no longer so certain of the outcome of his wager with Maret.
Thus it was that Lord Stratford pursued Miss Lawrence with a determination that set the ton buzzing. He sent her a fresh bouquet of flowers every day, each delivered with a flattering note tucked within the petals. The viscount called upon her every morning, took her driving through the park every afternoon, and danced with her every night. For seven days, it was as if every other woman had ceased to exist. London’s haut monde hummed with bewilderment.
His pursuit extended even to the hallowed rooms of the sacrosanct Almack’s, where his appearance occasioned a great deal of surprise, for it had been some years since he had last made use of his voucher to attend one of the weekly supper balls. Though his name had long topped the all-important List, his opinion of Almack’s as being drier than a stack of Sunday sermons was well known and word of his arrival this night passed from ear to ear in a drone of conjecture.
One who watched his approach with pure amusement shining in her eyes was a handsome, vivacious brunette of scintillating with. Many considered Lady Sally Jersey vulgar, but Stratford was not among them. He stopped at her side and gracefully took her hand.
“Wonders never cease!” she laughed, lifting her other hand to unfurl her printed silk fan. “And to what—or should I say, whom—do we owe this honor?”
“My dear Sally, I would like, I would very much like to waltz with Miss Lawrence, replied his lordship directly, a smile playing on his lips.
She snapped her fan shut and looked at him with eyes that sparkled with lively speculation. “So for once the gossipmongers are in the right of it. I’ve a mind to deny you, Colin, but I am even more of a mind to watch the excitement you shall dust up. Tell me, though, are you caught at last by the dazzling country beauty?”
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p; Stratford’s hand closed over the fan. Her eyes flew upward to find his turned-down gaze filled with mockery. “Only you, dear Lady J., would dare to ask, though everyone else seems to want to. Let us say, then, that I may choose to be caught.”
“Then by all means, you must have your waltz,” she returned, extracting her fan from his grasp.
At the first strains of a waltz, they walked together to where Miss Lawrence had taken a seat, ready to sit out the dance that was still considered so daring, no respectable female could take a whirl without the approval of one of Almack’s patronesses.
“Miss Lawrence,” said Lady Jersey with a wide, mischievous smile, “may I present the Viscount Stratford as a suitable partner for this dance?”
With a nervous smile, Helen reluctantly rose to accept his lordship’s hand. Lady Jersey did not linger, moving quickly on and thereby dashing Amy’s hope that she, too, would be allowed to waltz.
Like a delicate flower exposed to too much heat, Helen’s personality wilted in the presence of his lordship. She had become more accustomed to his smooth compliments, but unlike the majority of the ton, she did not believe Lord Stratford to be in love with her. She had too often seen a look in his so coldly calculating as to completely belie all the warm flattery he showered upon her. Once or twice, a passionate flame had blazed in the dark eyes raking over her, particularly unnerving to Helen, because the fiery gleam remained somehow cold, like a block of ice set afire. At such times Helen fought down a rising fear by thinking solely of her family and their needs.
For his part, Stratford found the ravishing beauty desirable, but she was so often inattentive, responding to his conversation with only the dullest commonplace observations, that he wondered if she were not loose-witted. It made not a whit of difference to his determination to have her as his wife. Having learned during the week from his man that, though the Lawrence’s pockets were all to let, the Willowley connection was unexceptional, the viscount resolved to win his wager. As his arms encircled her slim form, he thought of Maret’s guineas and smiled rather kindly at Helen when they began to waltz.
Fran Baker Page 3
