To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  Guy scratched his head, trying to come up with the list of wealthy husband-and-title-seekers he had promised. But in the end, he could only think of one family that fit the description. “Have you met Miss Arabella Hastings?” he asked. “Brunette, tallish, just out this season.”

  Haro racked his brain for any remembrance of the young lady in question. There was a time when he could recognize the name and face of every eligible young lady out in society, but ever since his infatuation with Eda, he had paid scant attention to the new arrivals in the marriage mart. “I don’t think I’ve met her—should I?”

  “Certainly suggest so if you’re meaning to wed an heiress. Her father, William Hastings, made a fortune in the cotton industry—has mills all over the country, I daresay.”

  “And now he wants to spin himself a spot in good society?” asked Haro, smiling at his own pun.

  “Imagine so,” said Guy, who had no aptitude for or interest in wordplay. “He’s paid a pretty sum to launch his daughter into the ton this season, and even the grumpiest dowagers have been won over by his liberality. She’s enjoying a fair bit of popularity. Leading several suitors around by the nose already.”

  “Is she up to snuff?” asked Haro with a tinge of concern. One could trust that a lady born to privilege would act the lady, but who knew what reprehensible manners might lurk in a family tainted by trade?

  “Seems to be. Mother met her. Said she was unexceptionable and possessed pleasant conversation.”

  “And why not,” said Haro, speaking almost more to reassure himself than to respond to Guy, “when she’s had the best governesses, and tutors, and drawing teachers, and dancing instructors that her father’s money can buy? When can you introduce me?”

  Guy cocked his head. “Ball at the Duke of Doyle’s tonight. Girl’s bound to be there. If you’re coming, I could present you properly.”

  Haro shuddered inwardly. Upon receiving the invitation to the Duke’s ball, Lady Anglesford had, of course, declined it since the Emison household was but newly in mourning. And now, with the news of their latest tragedy seeping through the streets like sewer water, Haro hardly wanted to show his face at such a large assembly.

  But, on the other hand, if he wished to pursue this harebrained scheme of Torin’s, time was of the essence. If he wished to keep Woldwick off the auction block, it was imperative that he meet a rich tradesman’s daughter right away. His innate breeding hoped that the Duchess of Doyle would overlook the solecism of attending her gathering after the invitation had already been refused.

  “I’ll be there with my heart—and my title—in hand.” Haro stood up to leave, then remembered one thing Guy had mentioned that could turn out to be a fly in the ointment. “You said Miss Hastings already had a line of suitors on a string?”

  “Yes,” replied Guy, crossing his legs with care. “But ain’t none of them above the rank of baronet.”

  The new Earl of Anglesford smiled grimly. His father may have run through the betting money, but the high card was still his to play.

  ***

  Back at the Emison townhouse, Lady Anglesford expressed some surprise when her oldest son told her that he meant to pull the black crepe out of his hat and spend the evening at the Duke’s festive assembly. “I should have thought the appalling news we received today—if not the recentness of your father’s departure—would give you a distaste for dancing and such conviviality.” She had wrapped herself in a warm shawl and, despite the bright blaze of the parlor fire, declared herself unable to shake off the frigid chill penetrating to her very bones.

  Haro shrugged with unusual reticence. He knew his actions appeared crass and uncaring, but he did not want to explain himself. Indeed, if his mother knew the whole of his plan, she would think it reprehensible in the utmost. He swallowed. The plan was reprehensible. But…what else was he to do?

  “I suppose Eda means to go as well?” Lady Anglesford cast a glance over to the other side of the room where her cousin’s daughter sat sketching in the window seat. A few tresses of her dark black hair hung down over her paper, and the flickering firelight did not allow anyone to see the object of her portrait.

  “Oh no,” said Eda, setting down her pencil to reply. Her dark blue eyes flashed with intensity beneath her fringe of dark eyelashes. “I have no wish to be merry tonight, and I am sure that I should only get in Lord Anglesford’s way.” She spoke that last remark sweetly, but the words still cracked a little like the cut of a whip. Haro flinched as if he had been slapped, and Eda smiled as if she enjoyed inflicting that pain. Then, dropping her eyes to her paper, she pointedly proceeded to continue her sketch and ignore the rest of the conversation.

  Haro’s teeth clenched. It was unfair of her to treat him thus. His father’s imprudence had brought him to Point Non Plus. The only path forward was a dismal one, but if he was to provide for his mother, his brother, and for Eda herself, he could not refuse to take it. He tried to catch her eye, but she did not—would not—return his gaze.

  Lady Anglesford’s small face grew worried, and she shivered uncontrollably. She sensed that her son and his sweetheart had had a falling out. And this, on top of everything else she had to bear, was enough to overset her nerves.

  The double doors opened. The absent member of the family circle entered the room rife with tension. “Ah, there you are, Torin.” Lady Anglesford beckoned to her second son. “Your brother means to desert us all tonight and go to the Duke of Doyle’s, but at least I have you to depend on to keep me company in this vale of tears.”

  Torin walked forward like a good son and hugged his mother perfunctorily, but all his attention was taken up by what Haro planned to do. “So you’re off to the ball after all?” His thin black eyebrows arched with interest.

  “Yes, in accordance with your suggestion,” said Haro, and the two brothers exchanged a cryptic look. Haro glanced over to the window seat and raised his voice to make sure he would be heard. “Although I’m beginning to think that it will be as much pleasure as duty.”

  The only response that came was a ripping sound. Whatever—or whomever—Miss Swanycke had been sketching was now being torn in two. Haro left the room abruptly and went to his room to dress for the evening’s entertainment.

  ***

  The new Earl of Anglesford arrived at the ball at a late hour, hoping to avoid too many questions from inquisitive acquaintances. A servant took his coat, and he stepped inside the room, feeling for one of the first times in his life a little lost amidst the swirling world of the ton.

  But though his insides were shrinking with dismay, none of that showed to the rest of the guests. His flawless evening dress marked him as one of the most smartly dressed men in the room. His cuffs fell perfectly over his capable hands, and his cravat—the careful product of his valet Garth—cascaded over his shirt in crisp, clean folds.

  If he had not been the eldest son of a titled family, he would have made an admirable officer. He was an excellent horseman, a commendable shot, and had shoulders broad enough to fill out a red coat to perfection. Perhaps he would have been too easygoing to command the instant obedience of the men, but he had a pleasant manner that made people like him wherever he went. With the family fortunes in tatters, perhaps he ought to consider the military in earnest—although if Godwin’s gloomy predictions proved correct, there would not even be enough money to purchase himself a commission.

  The whispers that followed Haro around the room were politely fenced in by the fans of the lace-capped matriarchs, and Haro was able to navigate the assembly without too much embarrassment. He discovered that Guy Pontipale had already cornered the damsel in question and was leading her out for a quadrille. Ignoring all the sympathetic glances, Haro settled himself against a pillar and began to observe Miss Arabella Hastings.

  Guy had done her no injustice when he described her as brunette and tallish, but he had left out the finer details that would recommend the lady to a more discerning eye. She had regular features, a slim but
attractive figure, glossy curls, and an air of elegance that can only be hereditary or purchased at a very high price.

  Haro noted that she kept time in the dance very well and conversed with her neighbors effortlessly. He watched Guy lean in on one of the turns to utter some trite compliment. Miss Hastings responded very aptly with a smile and nod of acknowledgement. All in all, she was prettily adorned and perfectly mannered.

  Haro felt a flutter of anticipation as the string players brought the dance to its final cadence. Soon, very soon, Guy would lead her to the side of the room and perform the necessary introductions.

  But while he quizzed Guy’s partner, Haro did not fail to notice another man, standing directly across the room, who was also keeping a close eye on Miss Hastings. He had gray hair, a portly figure, expensive but gaudy clothing—and the way that he was sizing up Guy Pontipale, like a butcher weighing out meat, convinced Haro that he had sighted none other than William Hastings, the tradesman on the hunt for a title.

  ***

  Catching Haro’s eye as the dance finished, Guy Pontipale led his fair partner off the ballroom floor and in the earl’s direction. When they were nearly close enough to shake hands, Guy uttered a wooden exclamation of surprise. “Egads! It’s my old friend Haro. Haven’t seen you in ages!” His left eyelid dropped slyly in a far too obvious wink. “Have you met Miss Hastings?”

  “I have not had that pleasure.” Haro did his best to exude charm. He was a little out of practice in that regard, he reflected ruefully, especially since his comfortable and familial relationship with Eda had required little effort to maintain.

  “This is Harold Emison, the Earl of Anglesford,” said Guy, laying particular emphasis on the exalted title. “We were at Eton together. Wonderful chap, simply wonderful.” Guy’s dogged determination to do his duty by his friend was a little too conspicuous for Haro’s comfort.

  “Enchanted to make your acquaintance,” said Haro, and when Arabella offered him her hand, he pressed it gently to his lips and held onto it for half a second longer than necessary. “You must be thirsty after all those turns around the floor. May I procure you some punch?”

  “Oh, allow me!” interrupted Guy, eager to disembarrass them of his company. He left his erstwhile partner at the side of the young earl and took himself off to the punch table where a long line had already formed.

  “Are you well acquainted with Mr. Pontipale?” asked Haro politely.

  “I’ve met him in company two or three times,” replied Arabella. She met his eyes frankly. “He’s a bit of a rattle, I fear.”

  “More than a bit!” rejoined Haro with a laugh that was not entirely natural. He steeled himself inwardly to continue this bout of repartee. “How is it that I have not had the privilege of meeting you in company this season?”

  “I cannot say, my lord, although I’m sure the fault is none of my making. I’ve been everywhere anyone fashionable goes. We’ve taken a box at the opera and made calls all over Grosvenor Square.” She pressed her painted fan to the lower half of her face to make her eyes stand out to greater effect. “I’m afraid that you must have been playing the hermit this season, my lord, or else avoiding me on purpose.”

  “Avoiding you? How foolish of me!” exclaimed Haro, leaning in a little closer to the lady’s fine eyes. He suspected that Miss Hastings had taken lessons on how to flirt, but even with that suspicion in the back of his mind, he was still susceptible to her lures.

  “And if I wished to continue avoiding you tomorrow, what part of town should I keep clear of?”

  “I should most definitely stay away from the Vauxhall Gardens,” replied the girl without even a trace of a blush, “for I mean to be there all afternoon.”

  “Ah!” said Haro, attempting to inflect his voice with an air of mystery. Before he had exhausted his own stock of flirtation, a few bars of music wafted their way, the orchestra’s signal that the dancing was about to resume. Guy had still failed to return with the promised cup of punch, and Haro assumed that his friend had probably slipped away to leave him to his own devices.

  “Are you engaged for the next dance?”

  “Only if you ask me to dance it.”

  Haro extended his arm with a courtly gesture. “It would be my delight, Miss Hastings.” They stepped out onto the floor to perform the quick steps and the lively turns of a pair of country dances. The figures of the dance gave them little opportunity to talk, but as Haro had already observed, Miss Hastings was quite eloquent with both her smile and her eyes. By the end of the first dance, he began to feel as if he had drunk several tumblers of punch, and not the sweet lemonade reserved for women and children. He was not so intoxicated, however, that he failed to feel the dark eyes observing him from the pillar across the room where William Hastings smirked visibly at the sight of his daughter’s latest conquest.

  3

  The weather was unusually fine the following afternoon, and Haro made a point of appearing at the Vauxhall Gardens shortly after the noon hour, wearing a modish pair of pantaloons with topboots. He walked from one end of the Gardens to the other, but Miss Hastings was nowhere to be found. The afternoon passed wearily. Haro had been to Vauxhall dozens of times, and neither the tightrope walkers nor the balloon ascension impressed him as they would a newcomer.

  Eventually, when he had almost given up on the project—and was cursing himself for a fool—he caught sight of a familiar gray-haired, portly gentleman with a slender brunette in tow. The mill owner was clad in a tight suit of blue with puce colored lace, a garment made even more garish by the contrast with his daughter’s white muslin gown.

  “At least one member of this family has a modicum of taste,” muttered Haro to himself. He tossed aside his meat pastie that he had been munching to while away the time and began to meander toward the mismatched pair. “Why, Miss Hastings!” he called out in feigned surprise. “How fortuitous to run into you here! And this gentleman”—the word grated as it slid over his tongue—“must be your father?”

  Arabella’s brown eyes batted attractively. “Fortuitous indeed, my lord! Father, allow me to present the Earl of Anglesford. I made his acquaintance last night at the Duke of Doyle’s.”

  “Yes, your daughter was kind enough to honor me with two dances,” said Haro, swallowing back his growing distaste as William Hastings’ thick fingers pumped his hand in greeting.

  “And a very kind-hearted lass she is!” replied Hastings proudly. “The jewel of my life. Shall we walk?” He seemed to take it as a matter of course that the earl would be joining their party. Haro fell in step with the mill owner and his daughter, groaning inwardly at the thought of traipsing around the whole circuit of Vauxhall once again.

  “Have we missed the balloon ascension?” asked Arabella, striding comfortably between the tall earl and her short-legged father.

  “I’m afraid that you have,” said Haro. “The balloon went up and the balloon came down, two hours ago and more.”

  “What a pity!” said Arabella, casting him a sideways glance from behind her eyelashes. “But at least you were here to enjoy it!”

  Haro fumed inwardly, realizing that he had revealed just how long he had been waiting for the Hastings to appear. But on further reflection, he relaxed his annoyance. It did no harm to let the girl think he was besotted with her. After all, if he was to get a hold of her fortune, her goodwill was paramount.

  “I would have enjoyed it far more had I experienced it in better company.”

  They paused to watch a troop of fire-eaters exhibit their skills, and Mr. Hastings—as if by prior arrangement—switched places with Arabella to become the center of the trio. “My condolences on your late father,” he said insinuatingly. “I did not know him personally, but I understand that he was a fine man.”

  Of course you did not know him! raged Haro inwardly. It upset him to think that, except for his father’s financial imprudence, none of the Emisons would ever have been required to know a man that smelt so strongly of trade and pr
etension.

  “A father’s death works great changes in a young man’s life,” pontificated Hastings. “Now that you’ve come into the title, you must be thinking about settling down, and setting up a household of your own.”

  “Quite so,” said Haro, in as polite a tone as he could manage. His natural instinct was to swim away from the fisherman’s hook, and he had to remind himself that this time it was in his best interest to be caught. “My mother has been urging such a step for some time.”

  “Trust a mother to know what’s best for her son—and a father for his daughter.” Hastings threw a thick arm around Arabella’s slim shoulders. They moved on to view some of the other sights that Vauxhall had to offer. And somewhere in between seeing the dog that could walk on its hind legs and getting their fortunes told by an old Gypsy woman, William Hastings found time to drop another hook. “I think I’ve taken a shine to you, Lord Anglesford. Perhaps you’ll join us for dinner tomorrow.” He gave Haro the address, a rented house in Russell Square, the very place where the old earl’s imprudence might soon condemn the Emisons to dwell.

  “Most readily,” replied Haro. His friend Guy had been right—these tradesmen were as desperate as a poor fellow in dun territory to throw their daughters into the arms of an earl.

  ***

  Mr. Godwin paid a visit to the house on the following day. He had come to meet with Lady Anglesford and the new earl to discuss what steps should be taken to pay the creditors. They ensconced themselves in the library, the dark wood of the bookshelves towering all around them like the walls of a fortress.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Godwin,” said Lady Anglesford, determined to endure the ensuing conversation bravely.

  “Thank you,” said the solicitor, settling down into an overstuffed armchair. His light gray morning suit stood out sharply against the purple and green stripes of the upholstery. “It is good to see you again, Haro.” He smiled cordially at the younger man. “And may I say that your new title becomes you well. Let me express how pleased Witansby and Sons has been to hold the privileged position of solicitors for the Emison family. We hope to continue serving the new Earl of Anglesford as we did the old, if it is agreeable to you, my lord.”