Hiram gave a rather awkward laugh, tugging at one ear. “I see. When you accepted my invitation to play cards this evening, I’d hoped . . .”
Hiram paused, but there was no need for him to finish. Christian already knew what Hiram Burke’s hopes had been, but his interest was in transatlantic telephone lines, not transatlantic matrimony.
“Alas, my goal is to forge business connections, Mr. Burke, and to perhaps discover some worthwhile investments. This company you’re starting up seems just the sort of thing in which I’m interested. It sounds like an exciting opportunity.”
“It would be.” Hiram paused, meeting Christian’s eyes across the table. “For the right man.”
The inference was clear, but though he had no intention of providing Hiram’s daughter, Fanny, with a duchess’s coronet, he hoped to engage Hiram as a possible business ally. But before he could offer a reply that emphasized his desirability as an investor rather than his suitability as a son-in-law, another voice entered the conversation.
“At the card tables again, Du Quesne?” a pedantic, distinctly British voice entered the conversation. “Why am I not surprised?”
Christian looked up, and the sight of the man by his elbow rather dimmed his spirits. Like himself, the Earl of Rumsford was a British peer, they’d both gone to Eton and on to Oxford, and they both happened to be visiting America at the same time, but any common ground between the two men ended there.
Christian was a dark-haired descendant of Norman nobles and Irish peasants, with a caustic sense of humor and no reverence whatsoever for his newly acquired title. He’d been wild as a boy and was still a bit wild as a man, and he knew, when he had occasion to look in the mirror, that the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and at the edges of his mouth showed many nights of whiskey and cards. Too many nights, perhaps.
A greater contrast to Rumsford could not be imagined. The earl had pale green eyes, fair hair, and a face widely described as handsome—that is, if one ignored the weak chin. Rumsford also possessed an inflated sense of his own importance and a superior little smile, two traits Christian had always found annoying as hell.
Rumsford, he knew, had a similarly low opinion of him, and by tacit agreement, the two men avoided each other as much as possible. Thanks to Christian’s aversion to the proper, respectable circles Rumsford moved in, avoiding each other wasn’t usually difficult. He’d never have thought to encounter the earl here, in an illegal New York gaming club. Still, nothing for it but to be civil.
“By Jove, it’s old Rummy,” he greeted, donning a careless smile and a jaunty air. “What a small world it is.”
“Du Quesne.” Rumsford gave him a bow, then turned toward the other two men at the table, and Christian thought there was a fleeting hint of surprise in Rumsford’s expression as he glanced at Ransom. But it was gone in a moment. “Good evening, Arthur,” he said pleasantly.
“Lord Rumsford,” Ransom responded, sounding much less inclined to be pleasant. He glanced at Christian, then back again. “So, you two Brits know each other?”
“School days,” Christian explained. “Eton and Oxford, you know. We rowed on the same team. Been a long time since then, eh, Rummy? Fancy meeting up here, of all places.”
Rumsford turned to him, his thin lips curving in that damnable smirk of his. “Our last encounter was the Derby. You were placing a sizable bet on an outsider. The horse lost, as I recall. Interesting how every time I see you, you seem to be gambling, Du Quesne,” he said with a little laugh.
Having been elevated to his ducal title only a few months earlier, Christian was sometimes still addressed by his surname. It was not an uncommon mistake, and one he usually allowed to pass without comment, for etiquette was one of those things he really didn’t give a damn about. But then his mind flashed back to early days at school, and how Rummy had been one of those to belittle him for his French name, his Irish grandmother, and the fact that he was only the second son of a duke. Since Rummy was such a stickler about these things, Christian decided to make an exception to his usual rule.
“It’s Scarborough, nowadays, old chap,” he corrected lightly. “Duke of.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing the other man grimace at his own faux pas. “Of course. Forgive me, Scarborough, and please accept my condolences on your brother’s passing. You must be . . .” He paused, glancing at the poker table. “You must be shattered with grief.”
Christian kept his amiable expression firmly in place. “Quite.”
“So,” Hiram said, turning to Rumsford, “what brings you out on the town tonight, my lord? Celebrating, are you?”
“Celebrating?” Christian echoed. “What’s the occasion?”
The other three looked at him in some surprise. “Don’t you know?” Hiram asked him. “Lord Rumsford here’s engaged to be married to Miss Annabel Wheaton.” He gave a nod toward Ransom. “Arthur’s niece.”
Christian vaguely remembered hearing his sister mention Rumsford’s engagement in her last letter to him, but since he and the earl were none too fond of each other, he hadn’t found the other man’s impending nuptials particularly interesting news. Baffling, perhaps, that some young woman would agree to spend her entire future life with a poor stick like Rummy, but not interesting. What did interest him was the lack of enthusiasm about the match displayed by Ransom.
He turned toward the earl and raised his glass in salute. “My felicitations, Rumsford,” he said, and took a hefty swallow of whiskey. “To you and Miss Wheaton.”
Arthur Ransom jerked rather abruptly to his feet. “I need a drink,” he muttered, and started toward the bar at the opposite end of the room.
There was a moment of awkward silence no one seemed inclined to break. After a moment, Hiram gave a cough and stood up. “I could use a drink myself,” he said, and clapped Christian on the shoulder. “About those shares, Your Grace, I’ll be bringing my wife and daughter to England in May. Perhaps we can talk more about it then.”
“Of course,” he said politely, but as he watched Hiram walk away, he suspected there would be nothing to talk about, not only because he avoided London during the season like the plague, but also because those shares were clearly reserved for Fanny’s marriage settlement, and that was a business deal Christian would never make. Not again.
He picked up his glass and took a drink of whiskey as he turned to Rumsford, who, for some unfathomable reason, seemed inclined to linger. “Care to join the game, Rumsford?” he invited out of sheer politeness, heartily relieved when Rumsford declined.
“Thank you, no,” he said with an anemic smile. “I’m not like you, I’m afraid. I’ve no talent for gambling.”
Christian couldn’t help laughing at that. “Then what are you doing in a gaming club?”
Rumsford gave a quick glance toward the bar across the room where Arthur and Hiram were standing, and then, to Christian’s surprise, he leaned closer in a confidential manner. “There are . . . other distractions here, Scarborough,” he murmured, and his gaze lifted to the ceiling, excitement reddening his pale cheeks, that arrogant smile curving his mouth.
Christian raised an eyebrow, studying the other man’s flushed face and almost adolescent excitement. He was no saint, God knew, but bedding a courtesan in a gambling club just before one’s own wedding was a notion that offended even his jaded sensibilities about matrimony.
He hadn’t been the best of husbands, perhaps, but he had been faithful, though he doubted Evie would find much consolation in that fact, were she still alive.
At the thought of his wife, Christian’s throat suddenly felt dry, and he downed another swallow of whiskey, forcing himself to don a smile. “So that’s why you’re here, eh?” He gave the other man a wink, one man of the world to another. “One last fling before the big day, eh?”
Rumsford winked back. “I didn’t say it was my last.”
They laughed together in man-of-the-world fashion, but Christian’s laughter died the moment Rumsford walked a
way.
“Some things never change,” he muttered under his breath, watching as the earl turned his head for one more furtive glance at Arthur before slipping out of the room to seek the feminine companionship upstairs. “All these years, and you’re still an ass.”
He felt a hint of pity for the fiancée. He knew nothing of Miss Wheaton, but the only conclusion he could come to was that she was an heiress in the mold of Consuelo Vanderbilt—sweet, biddable, probably a bit naive and under the thumb of an ambitious Yankee mother, forced to marry Rummy because she lacked the courage to refuse.
“I must apologize, gentlemen, for droppin’ by your offices this way, but I am just so confused.”
As she spoke, Annabel’s voice was as sweet as sugar and her Mississippi drawl was more pronounced than usual. The wide-eyed gaze she gave the three men seated on the other side of the conference table was melting and filled with apology. She’d even brought her mama with her. To any man who knew a Southern girl, these were obvious signs that all hell was about to break loose.
Unfortunately, the lawyers of Cooper, Bentley, and Frye were native New Yorkers, and had little experience dealing with women from the Southern side of the Mason-Dixon line. They were accustomed to seeing Annabel only a few times a year and conducting any business matters surrounding her estate with her uncle Arthur, who was one of her trustees, and who was, like them, a lawyer. The fact that Annabel had come to their offices without her uncle and without any advance notice the day she was supposed to be leaving for England might have caught them off guard, but she could tell they had no inkling of what was coming.
Bless their hearts.
“Thank you for that prenuptial agreement y’all sent over to me last night, gentlemen,” she went on as she leaned down to pull the document in question out of the leather portfolio she’d placed beside her chair. “You obviously put a lot of work into it, and I appreciate that so very much.”
“We’re always happy to assist you, Miss Annabel,” Mr. Bentley assured her. “We hope you know that.”
“I do.” She pressed a gloved hand to her bosom, the picture of sincerity. “And I promise I won’t take up too much of your time. I just have a few teeny little questions. I’m sure y’all will have me out of your hair in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Her mother made a soft sound of derision at this pretense of sweetness and light, and Annabel gave her a gentle kick under the table. The last thing she needed was Mama rolling her eyes right now.
She placed the sheaf of papers on the table and began to rummage through them. From beneath the brim of her pink silk bonnet, she watched her lawyers relax, easing back in their chairs, clasping their hands on their substantial stomachs, the picture of indulgent, fatherly patience.
She stopped at the page she wanted and tapped a particular paragraph with her finger. “It says here that Lord Rumsford is to receive seventy-five thousand dollars per year for the maintenance of his estate, Rumsford Castle.” She looked up and gave them her prettiest smile. “Gentlemen, that is just not going to be acceptable.”
The fatherly patience faded. The three men sat up straight in their chairs and exchanged uneasy glances.
“I’ve read the reports provided by Lord Rumsford’s solicitors,” she went on, “and I know that seventy-five thousand dollars barely covers the shortfall between the expenses of the estate and the income from the land rents. Lord Rumsford’s solicitors asked for one hundred thousand dollars, a provision I already agreed to. Why hasn’t this been changed?”
Mr. Bentley, as one of her trustees and senior partner of the firm, took charge. “We have written many marital settlements of this kind, Annabel, and the annual sum offered in the agreement is adequate for an English estate the size of Rumsford Castle.”
“Adequate?” Annabel echoed. “Is that all that you believe I am worth, gentlemen? Adequacy?”
The men exchanged glances again, and this time it was Mr. Cooper who chose to speak for the group. “The amount requested by Lord Rumsford’s solicitors is well above the estate budget, and we understand some of it shall be spent to restore certain areas of the house and grounds, a waste of money.”
“Mr. Cooper,” she said, still smiling, “we are talking about my future home. My home, and that of my children. It must be taken care of properly.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But you and His Lordship and your children will probably live at Rumsford Castle only a few months a year. The American wives of peers always seem to want to live in London. Based on that knowledge, we thought it best to keep the expenses of the estate to a minimum. And,” he added before Annabel could reply, “we understand some of the funds requested would be used for social activities—balls, parties, and other extravagances.”
“You gentlemen are about as much fun as a funeral,” she said, noting their expressions of disapproval with some humor. “What’s wrong with balls and parties?”
“British men of Lord Rumsford’s position are notorious for excessively lavish entertainments. Such unnecessary expenditures can only drain your resources, my dear Annabel.”
Annabel, who knew the extent of her resources down to the penny, disagreed. This wasn’t just about big balls and lavish parties. Although she’d never had those things, and she wanted them, for sure, there was far more at stake here than entertainment.
In this world, social position was everything. And her family had none. There hadn’t been a time in her life when they hadn’t been looked down on, and having money hadn’t changed that. Seven years ago, when her daddy had died and left her all that money, she’d thought inheriting a fortune was a blessed miracle that would change all their lives for the better. But though she might have prettier clothes now, and fancier houses, and a big, fine motorcar to drive around in, she and her family were still regarded as nothing more than poor white trash.
Annabel’s hand tightened around the papers in her grasp. No girl ever forgot what it was like to be poor white trash.
She was determined to rid her family of that stigma once and for all, but the only way to do it was social acceptance, and she’d been hammering away at that particular stone wall for the past seven years without making a particle of difference.
And then Bernard had come along. Bernard would give her and her family the one thing they couldn’t buy on their own. Bernard would be the reason her children would never be seen as trash. Her daughters, and her sister, Dinah, too, would have their pick of young men from the finest families. And Bernard would see that no one ever laughed at them again. This wasn’t about being frivolous. She was using her inheritance to make an investment in the future, a future that was well worth one hundred thousand dollars a year. Especially when she had more money than she could spend in a lifetime.
“We have your best interests at heart, Annabel,” Mr. Bentley said. “We don’t want you wasting your money.”
“Why, that’s right kind of you, gentlemen,” she said softly. “But it’s my money to waste, now, isn’t it?”
Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the sheet of paper with the terms of the estate maintenance across the table. “Rumsford Castle has been in His Lordship’s family for over three hundred years. It’s important to him, and it’s important to me. I’d like this changed to one hundred thousand dollars, please.”
Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “There is also the matter of His Lordship’s sisters.” Flipping to that part of the agreement, she once again shoved a sheet of paper across the table. “I’d like you to double the amounts for the pin money allocated to Lady Maude, Lady Alice, and Lady Millicent, if you please, as I asked before. Pretty clothes are important to a girl. And double their marital dowries.”
The men started to interrupt, but she hastened on. “And about His Lordship’s personal income, you have allotted only ten thousand dollars per year. I understand he asked for twenty thousand dollars. Is that right?”
Mr. Bentley again took charge. “Many gentlemen of the earl’s position fi
nd ten thousand dollars quite enough for an allowance.”
“What other gentlemen think doesn’t really have much to do with it. I have the best clothes, jewels, and folderols money can buy, and I want my husband to have the best, too.”
“Of course you do, of course you do, but my dear . . .” Mr. Bentley paused, pasting on his fatherly face again. “Perhaps you are letting your heart rule your head a bit here.”
“Uh-oh,” Henrietta murmured. “Now you’ve done it.”
Unwisely, Mr. Bentley chose to ignore Mama’s gentle hint of caution. “This engagement was very sudden, Annabel, and we would be remiss in our duty if we failed to protect your interests. Perhaps in light of these concerns, you would consider a longer engagement. Perhaps, say, a year?”
Annabel quelled that notion with nothing more than a look.
“Six months,” he amended hastily. “Still plenty of time for you and Lord Rumsford to truly be sure you are suited to marry and can agree on how to spend your money wisely.”
“First of all,” she said, a note of steel coming into her sweet-as-pie voice, “my heart never rules my head, gentlemen. Second, Bernard and I have already agreed on how to spend the money. It’s you three and Uncle Arthur who don’t seem to be rowing with the boat here. Third, Bernard and I want to marry, and we see no reason to have a longer engagement. And I’d have thought you gentlemen would be happy for me.” She paused deliberately. “Having my best interests at heart, and all.”
“We are happy for you, my dear,” Mr. Cooper hastened to say. “But we are . . . concerned. Your uncle is, too. We all only want what is best for you. Of course you want to be married, Annabel. Every girl does, but—”
“I am not a girl,” she reminded, interrupting this condescending flow of words. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Frye assured her. “You are a fully grown woman, we know. But that’s just it. You are a woman. And it’s widely understood that women are not particularly skilled in matters of finance.”
Trouble at the Wedding Page 2
