Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed

by Jo Beverley

  Despite her new hopes, Jane found it difficult to keep her composure as she descended the wide staircase with Sophie. Lady Harroving was fussing with her train and hardly glanced at them. Her husband was, as usual, bored and half-asleep, but Lord Wraybourne watched their progress with great appreciation, as did Lord Trenholme, who was to partner Sophie. Sophie had been somewhat scathing about this gentleman who was her brother’s favorite for her hand, but Jane thought him pleasing. He was a little taller and more strongly built than Lord Wraybourne and of about the same age. There was a composure about his face which was remarkable. Sophie called him stolid, but Jane thought that was too severe. He looked highly dependable, and she could see no particular reason for Sophie to be so against him.

  Sophie, a vision in cerulean silk covered by an overdress of silvery gauze which was caught into scallops at the hem by bunches of ribbons, accepted a warm kiss from her brother, then gave her hand formally to her escort. Lord Trenholme showed no emotion at this coolness.

  Jane turned anxiously to her betrothed, watching for his reaction, hoping to see some answer to her questions about his feelings. She wished her dress were prettier. She felt Sophie’s dress made her own gown look even more plain and wondered for the first time why such a style had been chosen. She had wanted to be glorious for her first ball and feared she was dowdy. He, of course, looked wonderful, his dark jacket and pantaloons, his white frilled shirt and black cravat seemed to highlight his lean good looks.

  Though Jane could find no deep feeling in his expression, Lord Wraybourne was unequivocally pleased. “I can see you are eager to set your own style, Jane. You will be the most beautiful woman at the ball.”

  “I’m afraid that is flattery again, My Lord. This gown is so plain. Lady Harroving chose it, I think. I certainly did not and I doubt that my mother would have, but it is the only ball dress I have as yet.”

  “Don’t confess that. Take the credit. With your hair in that style and just a few well-chosen jewels it is perfect.” His eyes seemed caught by her hairstyle for the first time. “I see the snipper man has been at you. How much has he left, I wonder?”

  Jane had to confess her lack of fashion. “I just could not bear the thought of it all chopped off, My Lord. I hope you will not mind.”

  “Oh, I think I can endure it,” he said with a little smile. “And bound up like that it is the height of à-la-modality and delightfully severe. My friend Brummell will love you. He is always preaching simplicity.”

  “My parents have always held him to be an unadmirable character, I’m afraid,” said Jane as she accepted her white velvet cloak and they walked out to the carriages.

  “He has his weaknesses and I’m very much afraid his gambling will be the ruin of him, but his taste is impeccable, I assure you, and he is still highly regarded. It will do you no harm to be approved by him.”

  Later on, it appeared the Beau did approve, for he smiled kindly at Jane and led her out for a country dance. She was surprised to find him not at all haughty but charming and humorous. They got along in great amiability. This, combined with Jane’s natural dignity and poise, carried off her unusual gown very well and many of the more fussily dressed damsels were suddenly seen as slightly vulgar.

  Mrs. Danvers watched Jane’s success with her habitual cool smile, and turned to Lady Harroving. “I must assume you have decided to favor the match, Maria. First you urge the girl to cover herself with musical glory, and now you present her as the most elegant debutante the ton has seen in years.”

  Lady Harroving’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth was tight. “How was I to know she could sing like an angel? And I never would have believed she could carry off such a gown. Cruder measures are called for.”

  Mrs. Danvers’ smiling face neither approved nor disapproved, and a few moments later she pleasantly accepted an invitation from Lord Wraybourne to waltz.

  At the beginning of the ball Jane had been suffering from nerves. The sheer number of people crowded into the ballroom, the glitter of the chandeliers, the beating wave of sound from music and voices and the fear that the whisperer might be somewhere among the guests all served to keep her off balance. She was perfectly content to stay by Lord Wraybourne’s side and dance the first set with him.

  By the end of the half hour and the promenade, however, she was more composed and had no desire to be thought peculiar in clinging to one man, even if she would have been delighted to spend the whole evening by his side. Her dance card was already well-filled, and she whirled off happily with partner after partner. Yet, when she saw Lord Wraybourne lead Mrs. Danvers out for the waltz, which Jane was not yet permitted to perform in public, she felt positively cross and turned warmly towards Mr. Crossley Carruthers, who was sitting out the dance with her. After her fright with the whisperer she had determined not to indulge in frivolous flirtation but now, suffering from pique, she forgot.

  “The waltz is very graceful, is it not,” she said, hoping her tone did not betray her thoughts as she watched the earl and the widow.

  “Beautiful,” he agreed, “but not perhaps quite proper.”

  He seemed to feel as he ought, she thought approvingly. But then her eyes strayed to the dancers, and she wished she were twirling with Lord Wraybourne.

  “Do you not dance it then, Sir?”

  He smiled a little guiltily. “Of course I do. I would happily dance it with you, Miss Sandiford. Whoever said that what was proper was most fun?”

  Jane was taken aback. This was not Sir Tristram talking. She remembered then that flirtation could be dangerous and would have drawn back except that she saw Lord Wraybourne say something smilingly to his partner and deduced from the way the lady preened that she had been complimented—just as Jane had been at The Middlehouse.

  One of hundreds, she remembered, for the first time in days.

  “Do you recommend impropriety then?” she asked lightly.

  Mr. Carruthers turned his soulful eyes on her. “I could never recommend it,” he said. “But I am human enough to desire it from time to time.”

  This was definitely going too far. Jane retreated. “I fear you forget that my marriage day is set, Sir.”

  “How could I when it is the source of my greatest anguish, Miss Sandiford?”

  “Mr. Carruthers, you must not!”

  “Miss Sandiford, I cannot help it. Nor can you forbid me my feelings.”

  And what of Jane’s feelings—the sudden mixture of panic and excitement—to be so loved that someone suffered! But, if she permitted this to continue, she could not reconcile it with her conscience. She might be expected to do something, and she had no wish to. Sir Tristram knew the rules, but did Mr. Carruthers? Then, the terrifying suspicion came upon her. Could Mr. Carruthers be the whispering intruder? She had no way of knowing for certain, but her behavior with this man could have caused her to receive such an insult in the first place. She must cease this foolishness at once.

  She said firmly, “I can forbid you to express those feelings, Mr. Carruthers,” and turned the conversation to more impersonal subjects.

  Thus, Jane succeeded in controlling one admirer, but he was soon replaced by another. She now detected innuendo and insult in the most harmless gallantries, fuel for the whisperer in every admiring glance. The crowd of enthusiastic admirers which surrounded her and Sophie at every intermission had become not a joy but a torment. In her attempt to avoid any imprudence, her manner turned as cool as her mother’s, earning Jane approval from the high-sticklers but strange looks from her contemporaries.

  She greeted Lord Wraybourne with great relief when he came to take her in to supper and found him a comfortable and unalarming companion, compared with some of the others. An hour in his company along with Sophie, Lord Trenholme, and the Ashby party restored Jane’s equanimity, and the rest of the evening went much more smoothly. She did not detect that Lord Wraybourne, seeing her distress, had carefully orchestrated these later dances so that her partners were only those who could be tr
usted to hold the line.

  The next morning the Marlborough Square house was full of flowers. Of all those directed to Jane, Lord Wraybourne’s were the most beautiful. He had sent her free sias in a silver holder, and the perfume filled the drawing room. Mr. Carruthers had sent her rather overblown pink roses. Sophie disregarded her masses of blooms, including a prim collection of red roses from Trenholme and some showy lilies from Sir Edwin, in favor of a small pot of primroses from Lord Randal.

  “They remind me of the flowers at Stenby,” she said simply.

  From this, Jane deduced that there was still no impression on the beauty’s heart. Flowers were forgotten, however, when she found that her riding dress had been delivered. Madame Danielle must have bullied the habit-maker unmercifully to have accomplished such a wonder in so short a time. It was made of a brown fabric so dark as to be almost black and dragoon-trimmed with gold braid. It was accompanied by a shako-style hat with a high plume and dark leather gloves fastened by gold tassels.

  Jane immediately sent round a note to Lord Wraybourne to inform him of the delivery, and the footman returned with a reply which invited Jane and Sophie to ride with the earl that afternoon. Sophie was quite willing to fall in with this arrangement and full of praise for Madame Danielle.

  “I must have a habit in the same style,” she declared. “Mine is quite dowdy by comparison.”

  As hers was both new and very becoming, this was not entirely true, though it did lack the panache of Jane’s. Still, Lady Harroving was not enthusiastic.

  “I am not sure that it is proper, Jane,” she said. “One would think you were in the military!”

  “But the military is all the rage, Maria,” protested Sophie. “With so many brave men fighting in the Peninsular we must show our admiration as best we can.”

  Lady Harroving pinched her lips. “You should ask David for his opinion, Jane,” she said. “Be guided by him.”

  Jane felt slightly mutinous but said nothing, and her betrothed seemed only admiring when he saw her in her finery. Jane was, in turn, overcome when she saw the beautiful mare that Lord Wraybourne had provided for her use. The white-footed chestnut was a Thoroughbred with a dancing step and an elegantly curved neck.

  “She is a darling,” exclaimed Jane as she stroked the velvety nose and was gently butted in return. “What is her name?”

  “That is for you to say,” Lord Wraybourne replied. “She is yours.”

  Jane was almost speechless to be favored with such a gift—and such consideration for her needs. Had he remembered their conversation at The Middlehouse?

  “Thank you,” she murmured, swallowing her tears. “I cannot think of a name just now.”

  “I am sure she can survive without one for a little while,” he replied as he tossed her into the saddle. “I believe her former owner called her Mitchin, for reasons known only to himself.”

  “How terrible to have had to part with her,” said Jane, already in love with the sweet-natured beast.

  “No tragedy, I can assure you. She was owned by a young man who simply grew too large. But she has been used to being a gentleman’s darling and thrives on attention.”

  “She will have all she wants,” promised Jane fervently. She guided the horse over to Sophie and Lord Randal for their admiration.

  “Well, she is a handsome gift,” approved Sophie. “I was beginning to think, brother, that you were a little lacking in gallantry.”

  “Jane had need of a horse,” he said carelessly. “I would hardly wish to see her on a hired hack, and I would like to breed the mare to Abdullah. She is sired by Markham out of Negrina.”

  This immediately caused the two gentlemen to become involved in a complex analysis of equine bloodlines and dissipated some of the euphoria for Jane. So he had just been buying bloodstock, had he? No doubt it was an afterthought to allow her the privilege of riding the animal. Despite her hopes, she still had no evidence that he held her in anything more than regard. His kindness was, of course, appreciated, but it was not at all what Jane desired.

  9

  LORD WRAYBOURNE RETURNED from the ride in a pensive mood. Who would have thought that Jane Sandiford would give him so much trouble? It was becoming increasingly difficult to handle her with a light rein, particularly when she became cool as she had this morning. At first, she had been warm and responsive. Yet, moments later, he could have been a stranger. It was damned tempting to seduce her to the softness he knew was in her and make her fall in love with him; but she was so new to Society, so innocent, that he feared he would alarm her. Look how easily she had been overset by a few enthusiastic gallants last night. He must give her a little time, but he’d also be grateful for a reason to be out of Town often in the coming weeks. The excuse came later that day, when he received a note from his uncle, asking the earl’s presence at his office. He found Mr. Moulton-Scrope in a state of agitation.

  “There’s been another one,” he said. “Gel fought him off, which brought some passersby running, but not before he’d stunned her with his usual blow. Poor young thing came to to find herself the center of a crowd with her gown ripped and disarranged but her virtue intact. Of course, there was no keeping it quiet.”

  “Was he caught?”

  Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “He was off in his carriage, and the description of that you wouldn’t believe. It could be a brougham or a hackney, but it would seem he wasn’t the driver. So there’s an accomplice we might get at.”

  “What of the victim? Can she help us?”

  “She was distraught. I’m hoping we can talk to her later. Now tell me if you’ve anything to add from your work.”

  Lord Wraybourne shrugged. “I am now an authority on the subject of lavender water. Yesterday I visited Steele and Meyer’s, the largest manufacturer of the stuff in England.”

  “And?”

  “The villain is either a randy septuagenarian or was given it by an aged aunt. The stuff is favored by the older set.”

  “Hardly useful. I have cupboards full of useless gifts from elderly relatives myself.”

  “So has everyone,” agreed his nephew. He smiled. “I remember Randal’s expression when his grandmother presented him with a flagon of the stuff.”

  His uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Now he’s a pretty wild one.”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “Just because he’s a friend of yours don’t mean Lord Randal is above suspicion.”

  “He is as much above suspicion as I am.”

  “Never heard that you went to Bar Street orgies. I’ve even heard talk of sodomy.”

  “You are misinformed,” said Lord Wraybourne icily and then added with exasperation, “Randal is just a lodestone for ridiculous rumors. He could hardly be an habitué of the Bar Street Tavern and an unnatural!”

  “Does seem unlikely,” replied his uncle, unrepentant, “but he’s been to Bar Street at least once. There was a raid. All the gentlemen slipped the jarveys a few golden boys and no more was said, but a list of the names was sent to us. You’d be amazed at some of our lists.”

  “The filth in your environment is no concern of mine.”

  Mr. Moulton-Scrope regarded his angry nephew ruefully. He had no wish to alienate him. “Are you going to wash your hands of me?”

  “Damn you, no,” said Lord Wraybourne with a reluctant grin. “But no more about Randal. The idea is ridiculous. He must find his normal amatory adventures sufficiently exhausting, without trailing unwilling women all over Town!”

  “With his reputation, I’m surprised you let him run wild around Miss Sandiford and Sophie.”

  “Jane’s in no danger from him. He’s a true friend. As for Sophie, she regards him as another brother.”

  “He might be honorable but that don’t mean Jane won’t fall in love with him. I have to admit that he’s an engaging rogue, and Sophie’s growing up fast. What if one day she realizes that he’s not her brother?”

  Lord Wraybourne shrugged. “If Sophie ever
looked to Randal as a husband she’d have a long wait, Uncle. He’s not the marrying kind. All he wants is a set of colors and a quick passage to the Peninsular.”

  “Ashby wants a commission? Then why in tarnation doesn’t he go instead of wasting his high spirits on us?”

  “The duke is determined on a grandson. Randal’s older brother Chelmly doesn’t seem inclined to marry. Until he does and produces sons, Randal is refused permission to risk his neck in the war.”

  “If he had real spirit he’d go and be damned to the duke.”

  Lord Wraybourne smiled. “It’s not like you, Uncle, to recommend such unfilial behavior. The duke is not a well man, and he suffers spasms whenever he’s crossed. It is to Randal’s credit that he doesn’t relish having his father’s death on his plate.”

  “Maybe so,” muttered the older man, “but I’d still not want him around Sophie if I were you.”

  “If there was any suggestion of attraction, I would agree with you, Uncle. Randal is not what I would want for Sophie. Not because of his morals—he plays his games with women who know the rules—but because of his recklessness. Even if he never gets to the war, he’s hey-go-mad for any crazy scheme. I probably shouldn’t tell you this—you’ll doubtless put it on one of your lists—but he was off with the free traders once last year, just to see what it was like. Now he’s full of plans to go up in a Montgolfier balloon. No, he wouldn’t do for Sophie. Thank God there’s no question of it. They both need to be joined to a sober head. I have great hopes that Trenholme will come up to scratch. He would handle Sophie gently but firmly. As it is, Randal is an excellent escort, and his sisters are unexceptionable companions for Jane and Sophie.”

  “Quite so, quite so.” Mr. Moulton-Scrope decided it was time to return to less heated topics. “So lavender water is a dead end?”

  “Not necessarily. Remember, our villain uses his lavender water. Unfortunately, there are enough like him to make it impossible to arrest every young man who does so, though Brummell would approve. God, even that model of prosy rectitude, Edwin Hever, drenches himself with the stuff. It would almost be worth arresting him just to puncture his intolerable self-importance.”