Lord Rathbone's Flirt

by Gayle Buck

  Startled, Lord Rathbone turned. He was appalled to see that his mother had shaded her eyes with her hand and that she seemed to have diminished in the chair. In two quick strides, he had dropped beside her chair. “Mother!” He grasped her thin wrist between his fingers.

  Lady Rathbone straightened, though with what appeared to be some effort. Withdrawing from his hold, she pressed his hand. “I apologize, my dearest. I am ashamed of my weakness. It shall not happen again, I promise you.”

  Lord Rathbone clasped her hand between his. For the first time, he felt the frailty of her fingers and saw the fine webbing that mapped the skin of her face. He was shaken to realize how old she had become without his ever noticing. She had always seemed just the same, year after year, regal and indomitable.

  The realization that she was no longer the same lady that had been such a strong force in his life brought with it a sec­ond realization, and a sense of inevitability. Quietly, he voiced it. “It is not you who should apologize, dear ma’am, but I. You have carried what should have been my burden for too long. You are right, as always. It is definitely time that I wed and set up my nursery.”

  “You must not think that I wish to force you to it, George.” Lady Rathbone’s fingers closed tightly round his, surprising him by their fierce strength.

  “I know better,” he said slowly, wishing it were otherwise. He lifted his eyes to meet the shuttered expression in hers. Oh yes, he knew very well. He realized that it had been her sole purpose from the beginning of his visit. His mouth twisted. He was a fool to feel even the vague disappointment that was still his portion whenever he was brought face-to-face with his mother’s obsession.

  But Lady Rathbone was apparently satisfied with his answer, for she did not pursue it. Her fingers slipped from his clasp. “Get up, do, George. It seems so strange to see you thus.”

  Lord Rathbone got to his feet. He looked down at his mother, his eyes glinting. There was a cold, raw anger in him now. “For me, also, I assure you. I warn you, ma’am. My pride is monstrous. I will not be easily satisfied in my prospec­tive bride.”

  Lady Rathbone nodded. “You have already voiced your opinion of those on the market and, for the most part, I agree with your sweeping assessment. You will do better to look to the schoolroom and find a miss who has not had time to be ex­posed to society and its corrosive influence. With care, you will be able to mold such a miss to your requirements.”

  Lord Rathbone once more leaned against the mantel. He re­garded his mother with a mocking half-grin. “As my father did with you?”

  “Just so.” Lady Rathbone suddenly laughed. “It did not turn out so badly, I believe.”

  “No, perhaps it did not,” said Lord Rathbone. He turned his eyes to the fire, a deep frown contracting his heavy black brows. The firelight reflected over the planes of his face, making his countenance appear harsh. Lady Rathbone did not interrupt the quiet. She was content to leave the viscount to his thoughts.

  Then Lord Rathbone shrugged. “Very well. I shall look to the schoolroom. But how to go about it I have not the least no­tion. I do not number amongst my many acquaintances even one schoolroom chit.”

  “Whereas I am aware of the existence of several eligible young ladies of that sort. I, too, have a number of acquain­tances, and many of them will bore on about their numerous progeny,” said Lady Rathbone.

  Lord Rathbone smiled. It was a peculiar smile, at once charming but underlaid with cynicism. With exaggerated po­liteness, he said, “I would be grateful for any suggestions that you might lay before me for consideration, ma’am.”

  As he had known she would, his mother seized the opening offered her. “You have a cousin,” began Lady Rathbone.

  He straightened like a shot. The expression in his eyes was not pleasant. “Not one of my uncles’ daughters, ma’am! I will not stomach it, even to bring truce to the family.”

  “Of course not. Do you think me so unfeeling of you?” asked Lady Rathbone impatiently.

  Lord Rathbone studied her face, than made an ironic bow. “Forgive me, ma’am. I was not thinking. If not one of my Sandidge cousins, then whom do you have in mind?”

  “My sister’s eldest girl. I forget her name now, but it will come to me. Alice married a Pettiforth, the younger son.”

  “Yes, I remember now,” said Lord Rathbone, frowning. “I have a vague memory of visiting the Pettiforths when I was a boy. There was an infant.”

  Lady Rathbone nodded. “Alice writes to me often. We were never affectionate sisters, so undoubtedly she does so because she cherishes hopes that I might one day sponsor her daughter. This girl figures largely in her affection. She is forever prosing on about the chit. Ah, yes, now I remember. That is the name! Cecily. In any event, Alice Pettiforth claims that her darling is a positive beauty and that she has very high hopes for the girl upon presentation to society. The girl is seventeen, old enough to emerge from the schoolroom, but possibly still young enough to be molded.”

  There was a short silence. Lady Rathbone studied her son’s expressionless face. “What think you?”

  Lord Rathbone shrugged again. “The matter is nearly one of complete indifference. I have no liking for the prospect of tying myself to a schoolroom chit. But in deference to you, I shall look over this cousin of mine. If she is as attractive and malleable as you have painted, then perhaps she will suit me well enough.”

  “I will arrange a meeting, then,” said Lady Rathbone.

  Her ladyship’s autocratic manner set up the viscount’s back. As little as any man, and perhaps less than most, did he take kindly to being driven. “Take care that you do not push my head through the noose, dear ma’am,” said Lord Rathbone softly. “It will still be I who shall make the choice—or not—as I please.”

  “I am not so crude in my methods. This is a matter to be handled with subtlety. I do not expect you to post down and give the girl a cursory inspection with all the county watching the spectacle with gaping mouths,” said Lady Rathbone. “No, I shall request Alice to hold a house party. She will naturally have invited me. I will send my regrets, which you will convey on my behalf. There will be some speculation, but nothing to which anyone can actually point. It is hunting country. Take out your guns in the morning and of an evening do the pretty by the ladies. Cecily will be one of those present in the draw­ing room. What you do with the opportunity is completely up to your discretion, of course.”

  “Of course,” agreed Lord Rathbone, his swift grin flashing.

  Lady Rathbone held up her hand to her son. He took it in his. Her ladyship cocked her head, her shrewd eyes bright. “We have always understood one another fairly well, have we not?”

  Lord Rathbone pressed her ladyship’s fingers. For her sake, he uttered the meaningless lie. “Yes.”

  Lady Rathbone retrieved her hand, her show of affection done. “I shall write to Alice Pettiforth this same day. We shall undoubtedly have an answer by return post.” Her expression flickered in a glinting half-smile that bore a startling resem­blance to that of her son’s most sardonic expression. “My sis­ter Pettiforth and I are alike in one way, at least. Ambition is a cruel taskmaster, my son.”

  “Is it ambition or revenge that is your taskmaster, dear ma’am?” asked Lord Rathbone softly.

  Lady Rathbone’s face smoothed to the habitual mask that so completely concealed her thoughts. She looked up at the vis­count with cool amusement in her eyes. “You see, you do know me very well indeed.”

  “Perhaps better than I wish,” retorted Lord Rathbone.

  “You are a disrespectful dog, but you do know where your duty lies. That is all that I shall ever require of you,” said Lady Rathbone.

  “I have gravely misunderstood you, then. I thought all you wanted of me was a male heir,” said Lord Rathbone, a glint in his eyes.

  “You are worth something more to me than a mere stud, my dear,” murmured Lady Rathbone. “You have been both my in­strument of revenge and my justification in the ey
es of the world.”

  “I am more moved than you can possibly know,” said Lord Rathbone ironically.

  “What nonsense you speak, George.”

  Lady Rathbone smiled at her son. She did not quite under­stand the strange undercurrents that she sensed in him today, and that was dangerous where he was concerned. Besides a strong will, her son possessed a streak of contrariness that was totally unpredictable. That trait could possibly work to her dis­advantage if she inadvertently roused it to full life.

  Lady Rathbone made the sudden decision that she had seen enough of her son for that day. She leaned back in her chair. “Now I am weary. Send my maid in to me. I must nap before I write to my sister Pettiforth.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” said Lord Rathbone. The faintest of mocking smiles accompanied his formal bow, for he knew that he had been summarily dismissed. Lady Rathbone had achieved her end of the moment. She therefore had no further use for his company. He took his leave, pausing outside the sitting room to convey his mother’s order to her butler.

  Lord Rathbone left his mother’s town house with the de­cided opinion that he would do well not to return to enjoy her hospitality until he had wed and gotten his bride with child. If he did not tie the knot of his own will, whether with this Petti­forth cousin or another, Lady Rathbone was not one to sit idly by. He knew enough of her ladyship’s machinations to realize that she would work to force his hand.

  The wild possibilities that crossed his mind made him utter a short bark of laughter, but he was actually little amused. He disliked very much to be manipulated. He disliked it most when it was at his mother’s hands.

  He climbed up into his phaeton and swung it into the traffic. He did not notice that his groom scarcely had time to scramble up behind the vehicle. He was too deep in his own unpleasant reflections.

  No, it would not surprise him in the least if his mother tried to force him into wedlock, by fair means or foul. He had seen today that she felt her age at last. Knowing herself to be mortal and having perceived the end of her life, Lady Rathbone would not rest until she had made certain that everything that she had preserved would be safe forever from the clutching fingers of the lesser Sandidges.

  Lord Rathbone was no less determined that his life would not be savaged in the process. Little cause as he had himself to wish that all that was his by birth would fall by default to his uncles and their get, he would damn his soul to hell before he willingly immolated himself on an altar of Lady Rathbone’s fashioning.

  He would indeed wed. In truth, it was past time to think of the future. But his bride would be of his own choosing.

  As Lord Rathbone maneuvered through the heavy traffic, he mentally made a swift catalog of the young eligible ladies of his acquaintance and of one or two others who might possibly fit his requirements. If this cousin of his, Miss Cecily Pettiforth, proved unsuitable to his taste, he should have other pos­sibilities already settled upon.

  It was unfortunate that he had no feelings whatsoever about any of candidates whom he could bring to mind. The milk misses were all of them insufferably boring. There was a widow of his acquaintance who had more countenance and vivacity, but he swiftly discounted that lady—the widow was a little too free with her favors. He had not found that objectionable in her before, but it would not do in one who was to be made his lady.

  Little as he desired a wife, he would still require the woman who bore his name to be completely faithful to him. Not even a breath of scandal must touch her.

  Lord Rathbone recognized that he had a task of monstrous proportions before him. It was not a prospect that could be ex­pected to delight a gentleman who had agreed to the necessity of wedlock with the greatest of reluctance.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Over the following week, Verity settled into her role of com­panion. It was not done without considerable effort on her part. The situation in which she found herself was fraught with difficulties. Mr. Pettiforth had indicated his confidence in her abilities, but he offered no direct support of Verity’s authority. Mrs. Pettiforth swung between regarding Verity with resent­ment, or as an ally who could be relied on to help tone down her daughter’s worst starts. Mrs. Pettiforth’s vacillating atti­tude did not work to Verity’s advantage; on the contrary, it promoted much of the hostility that Verity was faced with in her charge.

  Miss Pettiforth proved to be a very hard nut to crack. She very much resented the fact of Miss Worth’s presence. She needed no chaperone or companion to burden her with restric­tions or to show her how to go on. Encouraged by her mother for years to think of herself as perfect, Miss Pettiforth treated all whom she came into contact with either disdain or simper­ing coquettishness.

  Verity was appalled at the complacency with which Mrs. Pettiforth regarded her daughter’s indifference toward ac­quaintances and servants alike; but it was Miss Pettiforth’s desperate flirtations that made Verity truly shudder. She was privileged to witness Miss Pettiforth’s machinations at a small dinner and dance, and again at a cotillion at a neighboring es­tate. Miss Pettiforth had several youthful admirers whom she played off one against another with a ruthlessness that set Ver­ity’s teeth on edge.

  It was particularly galling to be forced to the realization that she could do nothing to circumvent the beauty. Verity had tried to relay a few well-meaning hints to Miss Pettiforth, but her efforts had fallen flat. Miss Pettiforth’s lovely eyes had flashed and she had flounced off to wreak as much damage as she possibly could. She could do no wrong for she was the ac­knowledged beauty and reigning queen of the neighborhood. Miss Pettiforth was so certain that her credit was sterling in everyone’s eyes that she served with contempt any suggestion that she might engender disgust or disapproval with her high­handedness.

  The vision of Miss Pettiforth playing off her tricks at her come out in London was not to be thought of. The girl would totally ruin herself in the eyes of an unforgiving society, and though Verity did not like Miss Pettiforth, she did feel respon­sible for her.

  It was not at all difficult to understand that pure self-interest motivated the girl. Verity wished often that there was a more noble character trait to which she could appeal, but look as she might, she was finally brought to acknowledge that there was not an ounce of fellow feeling existent in Miss Pettiforth.

  Miss Cecily Pettiforth was everything that her parents and Miss Tibbs had claimed. The girl was a stunning beauty. She was also impulsive and high-strung. What all of them had ne­glected to mention was that Miss Pettiforth was willful, spoiled, and mean. That became perfectly obvious in how Miss Pettiforth chose to treat even her sisters.

  The world was apparently created to revolve around Miss Pettiforth and her wishes. Nothing and no one else mattered.

  Miss Worth had understood much of this in a flash that first shopping expedition. What had happened since then had only underscored her suspicions. The only recourse she had, if she were to at all justify Mr. Pettiforth’s confidence in her, was to make herself seem more of an ally to Miss Pettiforth’s inter­ests rather than the watchdog she really was.

  Quickly recognizing that Miss Pettiforth’s highest ambition was to capture a wealthy peer, and that Mrs. Pettiforth entered into the same ambition, Verity did not waste additional time in serving homilies designed to bring Miss Pettiforth to an aware­ness of wrongdoing, but instead put everything in the context of how her behavior or her dress would affect her chances of winning the type of position that she craved.

  Within a fortnight of her conclusions, Verity was able to congratulate herself, albeit with mixed feelings, that she was beginning to make progress in capturing the beauty’s ear. The weeks past had been enlivened by Miss Pettiforth’s tantrums and demands, and Verity’s ingenuity had been taxed to the ut­most.

  However, in a much shorter time than Verity would have believed possible, she was grudgingly accepted by Miss Petti­forth as, if not an equal, at least someone who could be de­pended upon to promote th
at young damsel’s interests.

  Miss Pettiforth was even beginning to show some signs of decorum in society. Verity received several quiet compliments from various ladies of the neighborhood who quite rightly laid the change in Miss Pettiforth’s manners at her door.

  One neighbor, Lady Redding, went so far as to comment that her own daughter, Camilla, and Cecily had been friends when very young, but that Cecily had grown so unstable that she was glad that they were no longer bosom bows. “I shall not hide from you, Miss Worth, that I admire very much what you have been able to accomplish with that impossible child,” said Lady Redding.

  Verity had murmured gratitude for the compliment, but she wondered what Lady Redding and the rest would have thought had they been privy to her methods. Verity chose not to en­lighten these good dames of the tactics that she had used to gain this much ground with Miss Pettiforth, for she felt the means she had been put to were reprehensible in the extreme.

  However, it could not be denied that her stated observation that none of the beauty’s beaus were peers had penetrated Miss Pettiforth’s brain to good effect. From there and by slow degrees, Verity had worked around to pointing out that a lady desirous of high position had to display a certain knowledge of how to make herself pleasant to influential hostesses so that she would be assured of invitations and of sponsorship to Almack’s; that she had to know how to draw the line between light flirtation and giving food for the gossips (the latter of which would almost certainly prejudice any well-heeled gen­tleman against making an advantageous offer, since no peer would tolerate a bride who made of herself a byword); and that she had to make herself agreeable even to those she considered inferiors because that was a quality that was regarded with favor by any peer who bore the responsibility for several de­pendents.

  Verity had begun to breathe a little freer and feel more con­fident of her ability to exert a limited measure of control over Miss Pettiforth. Then Mrs. Pettiforth announced plans for a grand house party, to which she had invited several guests, in­cluding her nephew, Lord Alan George Sandidge, Viscount Rathbone.