The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “My spirits are not low,” Henrietta protested.

  “Here’s a letter from Rudd,” Lord Overton said, tossing that, too, toward his wife. “Wants us to go to Brighton to some soiree of the Prince Regent’s. He says an invitation will be forthcoming.”

  “Oh, good. I wonder if Rudd means to offer for Henrietta?”

  There was a time when the prospect of a proposal from such an eligible gentleman would have filled Henrietta and the entire household with excitement. She thought back to the massive upheaval when they were sure the Duke of Alvan was coming to offer for Thomasina. Henrietta had been more pleased by that prospect than by receiving her own proposal.

  She supposed it was different now the family was no longer in financial difficulties. There seemed no great triumph or happiness in receiving Rudd’s addresses. In fact, she rather hoped he would not speak, for she didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to think about him at all.

  So, she finished breakfast, went to change into her riding habit, and collected the letter from her mother to Lady Cecily.

  Although it was her first visit to Finmarsh House, Henrietta had no difficulty finding the way. Since coming home last year—and indeed on their infrequent visits before that—she and her siblings had made a point of sneaking onto the sinister baron’s estate in the hope of a glimpse of this terrifying personage. In fact, their one sighting had been in Finsborough, and that only the back of his head. Until last month, when he had attended the Alvans’ ball.

  This sighting had been much more satisfactory, and Henrietta looked forward to seeing him again. His wife, the Duke of Alvan’s sister, was already a favorite of all the family. In fact, on first meeting her, Henrietta had found her everything she herself wished to be—beautiful, graceful, witty, and supremely comfortable in any company.

  They were taken up to a drawing room on the first floor, where Lady Cecily, more properly Lady Verne, sat surrounded by samples of curtains and chair coverings.

  “How wonderful,” she greeted them warmly, coming to kiss Henrietta’s and Eliza’s cheeks. She even shook hands with the governess, whom she had never met before, and sent for refreshments.

  “I thought the house would be much darker and scarier than this,” Eliza said in clear disappointment.

  “Well, it was,” Cecily said. “But we are making it brighter and more welcoming, for although it may be more interesting as it was, it is not quite so comfortable to live that way! Goodness, Henrie, who is this?” she added, becoming aware at last of Minnie who clung to Henrietta’s skirts.

  Enticed, the puppy pranced toward her and made friends, and soon everyone, even Miss Milsom, was sitting on the floor and playing with her.

  “Oh. I nearly forgot the main purpose of our visit!” Henrietta exclaimed at last, extracting her mother’s note from where she had tucked it inside her riding habit. “Which is to invite you and Lord Verne to dinner on Friday. The Laceys are invited, too, and the Walshes. But it won’t be a large party.”

  “It sounds delightful,” Cecily assured her. “Verne will be up shortly, but he’s closeted with his estate people for the next half-hour. You will stay for luncheon?”

  After a rather amusing interlude helping Cecily decide upon her fabrics, they decided it was too beautiful a day to stay indoors and went outside to walk in the gardens. After the deaths of the previous Lord and Lady Verne, who had kept the gardens very formal and neat, the sinister baron had let them run wild. Cecily had tamed them without making them in any way artificial, and they were currently a riot of color and sweet summer scents.

  Minnie was delighted, sniffing everything and tugging at her leash to get at the next delicious smell. After a little, she pulled with more force. Amused, Henrietta gave in, half-running with the pup along the paths, and around a most beautiful red-rose bush until she saw a male figure approaching the house. At first, with the sun in her eyes, she thought it was Lord Verne, escaped from his estate meetings. But then her heart gave a funny little lurch, for this man walked with more of an unconscious swagger that was quite familiar.

  Any doubt was removed by Minnie who lurched at him, her little paws scrabbling on the spot in her desperation to get to him. Henrietta let herself be dragged a few more steps until she could see his face, but all his attention appeared to be on the puppy who was wagging her tail off and trying to lick his boots. He dropped into a crouch, and Henrietta slackened the lead to let her jump onto his knee. His large hands caught Minnie as she tried to lick his face, ruffling her fur in a careless caress.

  Henrietta was too stunned to think of anything to say. And when he lifted his gaze to her face, her mouth dried.

  “Does she remember me?” he asked. “Or is she like this with everyone?”

  “I’d say she remembers you. She dragged me across the garden to get to you. Are you a friend of Lord Verne’s?”

  He rose to his feet. She had forgotten how tall he was, how imposing. “We’ve known each other a few years. Are you?”

  “My sister is married to Lady Verne’s brother.”

  His lips quirked. “The tangled web of the aristocracy. Were you found out?”

  It took her a moment to think what he meant. Then she smiled. “No, I got away with it. So did Matthew, although his father read him a very mean lecture about getting in such a state at the tavern that he fell off his horse. Poor Matthew had to bite his tongue and bear it.”

  Cromarty grinned, causing butterflies to rise in her stomach.

  “How was your trip?” she asked. “I hope you got to your ship in time.”

  “Profitable, and yes, I did. Who needs sleep when one can rescue damsels in disguise?”

  She didn’t know if he was teasing or flirting—heady thought—so she was almost glad to be interrupted by Eliza’s childish exclamation. “There she is!”

  Almost guiltily, she turned to face her sister, Miss Milsom, and Lady Cecily.

  “Captain Cromarty,” Cecily said in some surprise.

  The captain bowed. Although dressed informally in a worn, brown coat, carrying a wide-brimmed hat, he performed the courtesy with the same grace as in the theater.

  “Are you here to see Verne?” Cecily asked, offering her hand.

  Although the captain shook hands with her, Henrietta could have sworn he was surprised. “If he is available.”

  “Go up. I think his guests have gone, but he’s probably still in the library.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed to the rest of the company and sauntered on up the path to the house.

  “You know him,” Henrietta observed as she walked with Cecily in the other direction.

  “Verne introduced us. They are old friends. More to the point, how do you know him?”

  Henrietta considered. Cecily had no real evidence that she had known him before running into him here. Then again, their first meeting was respectable enough to share. “We met at the theater. He helped me rescue Minnie. I confess, I was surprised to find him here.”

  “So was I.” Cecily glanced at Henrietta. “You do know he’s not exactly a respectable person?”

  Henrietta lifted her chin. “Because his father was a banker?”

  “No, because he’s a smuggler!” Cecily frowned suddenly. “I didn’t know his father was a banker.”

  *

  Cromarty, thrown and yet not at all unhappy to have discovered Henrietta there, wandered up to the house, but didn’t walk round to the front door. Instead, he followed the garden path to the library’s French windows, through which he could see Verne writing busily at his desk.

  Cromarty tapped on the window, then opened it and strolled inside.

  Verne glanced across, then his eyebrows flew up and he tossed down his pen, spattering ink across the desk. “Good Lord. To what do I owe the honor? There’s no trouble, I hope.”

  “None that I heard of. I was just passing, thought I’d drop in and see how your rehabilitation was going.”

  Verne rose and went to the decanter. “Why? Consid
ering one of your own?”

  “Hardly. In any case, mine is immutable. Your lady was remarkably welcoming, especially considering she has guests.”

  “Does she? Well, Cecily accepts people for who they are, not what the world says they are. I should know.” He came back, dropped a glass into Cromarty’s hand, and clinked his own off it. “Your health.”

  “And yours.”

  They both drank, and Verne waved him to a seat by the window.

  “So, are you?” Cromarty asked, sitting down.

  “Rehabilitated?” Verne gave a slightly contemptuous shrug. “In part. Apparently, the world cannot believe the Duke of Alvan would marry his sister to a murdering arsonist, so most are prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Do you care?” Cromarty asked.

  “For Cecily’s sake.”

  Cromarty searched the face of the young man he’d known since fishing him out of the sea when he was sixteen. And made a discovery. “You’re happy.”

  A tinge of color crept into Verne’s cheeks. “I seem to like being married. You should try it.”

  “You mean give up the sea and marry some prim banker’s daughter? No, thank you.”

  “There’s always Lily at the Hart.”

  “Lily is too good for me. Besides, she makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Really?” Verne sounded amused. “Why?”

  Cromarty shrugged. “She sees too much. It’s as if she reads your soul in your face.”

  “You have a point. I suspect she gave both Cecily and me a little push toward each other. Which is odd when you consider how ill-suited the rest of the world thought us.”

  “Her parents say they run a lucky house,” Cromarty said disparagingly.

  “I don’t know about that.” Verne laughed suddenly. “Though my friend Alvan first met his wife there, too, so who knows? Will you stay for luncheon?”

  Cromarty blinked. “Good God, no. You’ll be ostracized again before you know it. No, it’s time I was off. Thanks for the wine.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  Verne understood him immediately, for it was he who’d first involved Cromarty in smuggling spies into France with British manufactured goods—and bringing them home again to England with information, fine cognac, and wine. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  Cromarty dropped his glass on the desk and turned away, just as the door opened and Lady Verne came in with Henrietta and her other guests. It was odd, but the library seemed to light up.

  He wasn’t normally on visiting terms with Verne. He could count the number of times he had been inside the house on one hand. He fully expected Verne to announce that the captain was just leaving. It was what Susannah Carew did whenever they were interrupted by her “quality” callers.

  But Verne merely said cheerfully, “Good afternoon, ladies. Have you come to root us out for luncheon?”

  “If you wish to come,” Cecily said. “Since it’s such a beautiful day, we thought we would take it into the garden.”

  “Why not?” Verne said. “I don’t suppose you know Captain Cromarty? Cromarty, Miss Maybury, Miss Eliza Maybury, and Miss…” He paused at the dowdier lady who looked like a poor relation. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m forgetful with names!”

  “Miss Milsom,” Henrietta said. “She’s Eliza’s new governess.”

  Cromarty bowed to everyone once more. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your al fresco.” He was sure disappointment flickered across Henrietta’s face, and he couldn’t resist a quick grin and a conspiratorial wink as he turned and sauntered out of the open French doors.

  By the time he’d caught up with his horse, munching happily on one of Verne’s hedges, he’d decided to ride directly to London.

  On the road, it struck him that he, who had never run away from anything in his life, was actually fleeing from a slip of a girl. It was such a novel idea that instead of dismissing it out of hand as he should, he allowed himself to dwell upon her.

  In truth, he didn’t know why she had got under his skin. She was lovely to look at, of course, with a seductive figure she seemed utterly unaware of. But such charms had never been enough before to inspire him with more than a temporary lust. Perhaps that was the problem. He could not have her, and was not yet such a cad that he would seduce a gently-born innocent.

  But that was to trivialize her, and he strongly suspected she was not trivial at all. At the tender age of eighteen, she had already thrown off the paltry obsession of most debutantes, namely the catching of an eligible husband. And yet, what else was open to a well-born girl? Her main purpose in life was to attract a husband that would benefit her family’s wealth and influence. Once, he was sure that had been enough for her. By the time he had met her, she was already discontented. Marriage as a goal was no longer enough for her.

  Perhaps that was it. He had a fellow feeling for her. He, too, grew quickly bored with his various goals in life—education, sailing, banking, free-trading. Verne, certainly, had imbued him with a new sense of purpose by involving him in the secret aiding of his country in the war with France. And he was the kind of man who thrived on excitement. But somewhere, he had been increasingly aware of an empty gap in his life, a spreading space that needed to be filled, though with what he had no idea.

  Henrietta felt that, too, with more cause, hence her escapade to the Hart in boy’s clothes. But for women of her class, there was little alternative. Somehow, he didn’t like to think of her devoting all her energies to an unknown and unappreciative husband, several children, and genteel charitable works. Surely it would eventually dull the light of fun in her eyes, the vital energy of her restless soul.

  Now, you are growing poetic, imbecile, he castigated himself. She is little more than a child, and she will conform in the end and be content. Like her sisters. Like Verne.

  Forcing his mind away from her, he concentrated hard on dull things like numbers and investments and sailing times, and in this way, finally arrived in London after dark, heartily bored.

  The family house in which he’d grown up was just to the unfashionable side of Hanover Square. His sister and her husband, mill owner Neville Miller, lived there, too, which was one reason he tended to avoid it these days. He didn’t much care for Neville for one thing. For another, he’d begun to feel he was intruding in their home, even though it was he who owned it. Fortunately, they had gone north for a month.

  The house was large, comfortable, and well-run, mostly by old retainers of his late maternal grandparents. They were used to him turning up at odd hours of the day and night and rarely batted an eyelid, whatever his dress. He asked for supper to be brought to his office, where he sat down and poured himself a large brandy while the servants lit the lamp on the desk and the candles in the wall sconces.

  He rifled through his post without a great deal of interest. He recognized a note addressed to him in Susannah Carew’s hand and tossed it to one side with vague irritation. Why should the woman have turned so clingy? He’d sent her back her damned ring which he had only taken to please her in the first place. How utterly paltry—not to say illegal—of her to have given him her husband’s property.

  He piled up his business correspondence in order of importance, keeping it separate from his few social invitations. Among the latter, he was surprised to receive a card of invitation to a ball.

  He tossed it aside without reading it properly. Then something made him pick it up again. It was from the Earl of Silford and his sister Lady Manson, inviting him to a ball at Steynings.

  “What the…”

  It seemed the old man was not giving up. Instead, he was providing the opportunity for him to come to a social occasion and rub shoulders with all the august people he was supposed to be missing. Presumably, he was to be so impressed by their superior company that he would immediately accede to his grandfather’s wishes and behave as his heir. Well, he wouldn’t do that either.

  *

&nbs
p; The following evening, after a full day “shuffling papers” as he called this dull side of his work, he was changing his clothes to join a friend and partner for dinner, when he was brought news of visitors.

  He took the card from Stephen, his elderly footman. “Mr. and Mrs. Cromarty,” he read ominously. “Who the devil are they?”

  “Quality, sir,” Stephen replied without expression. “Possibly family.”

  “God, I hope not.” Cromarty sighed. “Very well, where did you put them?”

  “In the drawing room, sir.”

  Cromarty pulled on his boot and stood. Only honored callers were ever admitted to the drawing room. In this case, he suspected snobbery had got the better of Stephen’s normally excellent perception.

  From the drawing room doorway, he was afforded an excellent view of his visitors, and there were three of them, not two. A small, balding man in spectacles sat on the sofa with his head almost buried in a book, while a large lady of similar middle years was walking about the room, examining the candlesticks and the porcelain which had been his mother’s obsession. The third visitor, a young, fair man, sprawled in the winged armchair, oozing discontent from every line of his face and body. Clearly, he would rather have been anywhere but here—which at least gave him and Cromarty something in common.

  “Good afternoon,” Cromarty said, entering the room before they could become aware of his scrutiny. He bowed civilly to the lady while both men rose to their feet, reluctantly in the case of the younger man.

  “Mr. Cromarty!” the lady exclaimed, advancing with her hand held out, like a ship in full sail. “How charming to meet at last. Forgive us calling so late, but we only just discovered your direction and just had to come straight to meet you.”

  “Why?” Cromarty asked discouragingly. He took the lady’s hand very briefly, bowing over it with cold disinterest.

  The lady laughed, a somehow alien sound that grated on his nerves. “Why? Because we are your cousins!”

  Cromarty would have uttered that they had always been cousins and it made no conceivable difference to him, but the older gentleman suddenly spoke in a quiet, apologetic manner.