“You’ve every right to be bitter, I know—”
“Bitter? You mistake me, Sylvia. I’m long past bitterness. I don’t care about Scarborough Park. I don’t care about restoring the south wing, or what to serve at the annual garden fete, or who’s up for MP in the Commons. I just don’t care.”
“You have to care now,” she said. “You are the duke.”
Even though he’d already accepted that inevitable fact, he still couldn’t stop the resentment roiling inside him. He cared, but damn it all, he didn’t want to care.
“And because of that,” she went on in the wake of his silence, “you now have responsibilities you cannot ignore.”
“I will not whore myself to save Scarborough Park. Not a second time. What?” he added at her sound of impatience. “I know we’re terribly well-bred and all that rot, but can’t we at least call a spade a spade?”
“There’s nothing wrong with allowing a pretty girl with a dowry to catch your eye! But you seem to prefer drinking and gambling and keeping company with women of low moral character. You sneer at Andrew for being irresponsible, but now that you’re the duke, how shall you be better? Investments need capital and are not guaranteed to succeed. Our people are depending on you for a more secure future than that.”
“Like they depended on Andrew?”
“Marry well,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “Invest the dowry wisely, prove yourself a better duke than he was, and carry on.”
“For what purpose? To raise yet another generation of lilies of the field?”
“I think whether your children are lilies of the field rather depends on you.”
Instead of answering, Christian turned toward the window, staring out at the traffic that clogged Fifth Avenue, thinking of Hiram J. Burke and how he’d built an empire worth millions in less than a decade. “Amazing country, America,” he said after a moment, thinking out loud. “People seem to make fortunes here all the time, don’t they? How do they do it?”
“Heavens, I don’t know.” She paused to consider. “Earn it, I suppose,” she said, sounding doubtful.
“A task for which we English aristocrats seem uniquely ill-suited.”
“Well, an English gentleman can’t earn a living by pegging away at a job. It would be unthinkable.”
“Yes, marrying for money is so much more honorable.” He bent his head, pressing the cool glass to his forehead.
Oh, Evie, he thought, if I could do it all again, I’d do it differently. I swear I would.
“Christian?”
Sylvia’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he lifted his head, turning to face her. “Hmm?”
“I don’t want . . .” She paused, looking at him with uncertainty for a long moment before she spoke again. “I shouldn’t ever want you to marry someone you’re not fond of.”
“Fond?” he choked. “God, what a horrible word.”
“I would like you to marry again, it’s true, but it would grieve me if doing so were to make you unhappy. Fondness can grow into love, you know. I wish you could believe that.”
Her voice was tentative now, conciliatory, and he knew his sister was offering up an olive branch. He also knew he’d take it. Her rosy view of marriage was due to the fact that although she and Roger had married for material considerations on both sides, she’d grown to love her husband. He’d never had the chance to love Evie. No, he corrected himself at once, he’d had the chance. He just hadn’t taken it.
“Christian?” Sylvia’s voice broke the silence. “I could change my passage and stay longer. I’m booked on the Atlantic tonight because I’m supposed to attend Rumsford’s wedding. It’s aboard ship.”
“A most unusual choice for a ceremony.”
“Rumor has it the bride wanted the wedding in London, not New York, but that Rumsford is too embarrassed about the match for such a public display. She’s very New Money, I understand.”
“I’m not surprised he’s embarrassed,” Christian countered with derision. “He’s that sort. What does surprise me is that a member of our family actually received an invitation.”
“Well, you and Rummy were at school together. And his sister Maude and I, the same.”
“That’s not why. You’re a valuable connection for the girl, that’s why.”
“Possibly. But I don’t have to go. I can express my regrets and stay here with you. Introduce you about and . . . and such.”
“Hope springs eternal,” he murmured wryly.
“That doesn’t alter the fact that I know a great many people here in New York, and you don’t. Even if all you intend to do is conduct business, I can still assist you. And besides,” she added with an irrepressible smile, “American girls are uncommonly pretty. If by some chance, you happened to fall in love with one of them, you could make her your wife and keep your principles intact at the same time.”
“I already had a wife. One wife. And she died. There won’t be another.”
“Evie’s death was not your fault. It was only because she lost the baby—”
“There won’t be another,” he repeated. “And we won’t discuss it again, Sylvia.”
She studied his face for a long moment, then she nodded. “All right. Shall you see me off on the boat then?”
“Of course. What time do you sail?”
“Half past five.”
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Plenty of time for a spot of lunch and a long visit. Shall we dine here? I understand the Waldorf has this smashing salad, something with apples and celery.”
She made a face. “After what you’ve told me, I’m not sure we can afford lunch at the Waldorf. In fact, I’m not sure you can afford to stay here, either. Perhaps you should go to the Windermeres’ after all? It would be less expensive.”
“Only in some ways, Sylvia. As for what we can afford, we’re so far in debt, a few weeks at the Waldorf won’t make a damned bit of difference. Shall we go down, or have our meal sent up? They can do that here—room service, they call it.”
Before she could answer, there was a knock on the door.
“Good Lord,” Christian muttered. “My rooms are as lively today as the Doncaster Races. If that’s room service, I shall have to compliment the management on their perspicacity.”
McIntyre entered from the bedroom. “Are ye in, sir?” he asked, pausing beside Christian.
He glanced at his sister. “If it’s any young American woman with a mother tagging along, then no, I am not in.”
McIntyre, a long-faced Scot with no sense of humor, simply bowed. “Verra good, sir.”
Christian and Sylvia waited in the sitting room, which was obscured from the door by a painted Oriental screen, as McIntyre answered the knock. There was a low murmur of voices, then the door closed and McIntyre reappeared, a card in his hand.
“A Mr. Ransom to see you, Your Grace. He requests a few moments, if you are free?”
“Ransom?” he echoed in surprise. “Arthur Ransom? Show him in,” he added as his valet nodded confirmation.
“Arthur Ransom is Annabel Wheaton’s uncle,” Sylvia murmured as McIntyre started back toward the door. “The girl we talked about, the heiress Rumsford is marrying. Why does her uncle want to see you?”
“I have no idea,” he answered, and stepped forward to greet the lawyer as he was shown in. “Mr. Ransom, this is a welcome surprise.” He gestured to Sylvia, who had moved to stand beside him. “Are you acquainted with my sister, Lady Sylvia Shaw?”
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure.” Mr. Ransom smiled, then he took up Sylvia’s hand and kissed it, making no effort to conceal his admiration. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, Mr. Ransom,” she answered. “Your niece is to marry Lord Rumsford, I understand, and the earl was kind enough to include me among the invited—”
She stopped, for there was no mistaking Ransom’s grimace at the mention of his niece’s upcoming wedding. Always sensitive to such nuances, Sylvia changed the
subject at once. “Would you care for tea?” she asked, gesturing to the tray on the table.
“Thank you, ma’am, but tea’s something I’ve never been able to cotton much to. Besides, this isn’t really a social call, I’m afraid. I’ve come to see your brother on matter of business. That is,” he added, turning to Christian, “if you’re interested, Your Grace?”
“Of course,” he answered, slanting a glance at his sister.
Sylvia took her cue.
“I shall leave the two of you to your discussions,” she said, reaching for her handbag, “and I shall toddle off to pack. I look forward to seeing you aboard ship, Mr. Ransom. Christian, I’ll send my maid to tell you when I’m ready to depart?”
He nodded, and with that, Sylvia left the suite, allowing him to give the American his full attention. “Shall we sit down?” he asked, and gestured Ransom toward Sylvia’s vacated settee. Once the other man was seated, he started back over to the liquor cabinet. “Would you care for a drink? There’s quite a fine Scotch whiskey here, a tolerable Irish—”
“If there’s bourbon, count me in.”
“Bourbon?” He rummaged a bit amid the glass decanters. “Hmm, I don’t—”
“Allow me, sir,” McIntyre interjected, stepping from behind the screen where he had just closed the door after Sylvia. The valet crossed the room to take his master’s place at the liquor cabinet, leaving Christian to resume his own seat.
“Your visit intrigues me, Mr. Ransom, I confess,” he said as he sat down.
“I hoped it would.” The lawyer paused a moment as if thinking out precisely what he wanted to say, then he went on, “As you already know, my niece is set to marry Lord Rumsford six days from now. I’m a pretty observant man, Your Grace, and from what I could tell last night, I think it’s safe to say that you and the earl aren’t exactly friends.”
“Put it that way if you like,” Christian said cheerfully, leaning back in his seat. “You might also say we loathe each other to the core. That would be a less polite, but more precise description.”
“Then you and I have something in common.”
“Indeed?”
Ransom plucked his glass of bourbon from the tray McIntyre presented to him and downed a hefty swallow. “I can’t stand him, either. Looking down his nose, giving me that little smirk every time I see him, acting like he’s doing us all a favor by marrying my niece. Goddamn, it gets my back up.” As if to demonstrate that point, he set his glass down on the table between them with enough force to rattle the tea things.
“So we agree that Rumsford is an ass,” Christian replied, reaching for his own glass. “Rum luck for you, since he’s about to become a member of your family. I fear your Christmas dinners will prove deuced awkward from now on.”
“Which is why I’m here. I think you might be just the person to help me avoid that calamity.”
Christian hoped he was not about to be subjected to more matchmaking schemes, but to be on the safe side, his brain began crafting polite but emphatic statements about his aversion to matrimony. “While it would delight me to see Rumsford set down a notch or two, I don’t really see how I can assist you.”
“I’m hoping you can stop her from marrying him.”
He stared at the other man, astonished. “My good man, I’ve no cause to do so. If you somehow think I do, by breach of promise, or something along those lines, then you are quite mistaken. I’ve never even met Miss Wheaton, much less—”
“I’ll pay you half a million dollars.”
Christian nearly dropped his drink.
Ransom had the good sense to stop talking and let the offer speak for itself. Christian took a hefty swallow of whiskey, calculated the exchange rate, and took another drink. “I’m listening. How could I not with that much money on the table?”
“The amount I’m willing to pay shows you just how desperate I’m getting. I’ve done everything I can think of, but it’s all been useless. Annabel just won’t see reason.”
“Is she of age?”
“She’s twenty-five.”
“Old enough to legally marry without your permission.”
“Yes. But per the terms of her daddy’s will, she doesn’t gain control of her money until she’s thirty, or until she marries. I’m one of her trustees, along with her stepfather, George Chumley, and another lawyer by the name of William Bentley. Two of the three trustees have to approve her marriage if she’s under thirty. Bentley knows he’d better stay on Annabel’s good side, unless he wants to be booted out after she’s married and in control of her own money. And Chumley just can’t bear to refuse his permission. He’s known Annabel since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, and he never could say no to that child, especially now he’s married to her mama. I’m the one holding out. I’ve tried to persuade Annabel to take more time and have a longer engagement, but the more I talk, the more she digs in her heels. Annabel can be mighty stubborn.”
Studying the other man’s hard, determined countenance, Christian found it easy to see from which side of her family Miss Wheaton had inherited her stubbornness. “Rumsford is urging a wedding straightaway?”
“No,” he conceded with reluctance, “I wouldn’t say that. He’s mired in debts, but I’m told his creditors aren’t pressing too hard yet. But he also doesn’t see any reason to wait, and Annabel doesn’t, either. I tried to tell her he’s just after her for her money, but . . .” He gave a heavy sigh. “That didn’t go over too well.”
“I’m not surprised. Telling a woman that a man wants her only for her money conveys the implication that she is undesirable otherwise.”
“Exactly. And Annabel doesn’t seem to care about his debts. She feels it doesn’t matter since she’s got so much money. Besides, she says, all you peers have debts.”
“Which is true, alas.” He paused, thinking of last night. “What about women?”
“I set private detectives on him, and told her about his past mistresses, but that didn’t bother her much, either. And if he’s catting around now, he’s not providing me with any proof that would convince Annabel.”
“Is she in love with him?”
“She says she’s fond of him.” Ransom made a sound of derision. “I ask you, is that enough reason to marry somebody?”
“Some people say it is.” He took a drink. “I have sympathy for your predicament, but I’m not quite sure what you think I can do to resolve it.”
“Before I came, I did some asking around about you. Lots of rumors floating around.”
Christian’s hand tightened around his glass. “That sounds ominous. What is being said nowadays? My sister doesn’t keep me informed of the gossip about me, I’m afraid.”
“They say you have quite a way with women when you choose to, although you don’t often choose to, at least not when it comes to marriage-minded women.”
He lifted his glass in acknowledgment. “For once rumors have festered into facts,” he murmured, and took a drink.
“They say you married for money a long time ago, a rich American girl, not someone of your own class. They say she was unhappy afterward, so unhappy that she . . .”
“Go on,” he urged in a hard voice when the other man paused. “Don’t stop now. What else do they say?”
“They say she was so unhappy she killed herself.”
He sucked in his breath, surprised. Even now, even after twelve years, it still hurt. Like a blow to the chest, or a knife through the heart. He swallowed the last of his whiskey, put his glass aside, and stood up. “You really shouldn’t listen to gossip. Good day, Mr. Ransom.”
The other man didn’t move to leave. “I don’t know if any of that’s true,” he said, looking up at Christian, “but I know I don’t want my niece to ever be that unhappy.”
“Be damned to you. What have I to do with who your niece marries? It’s not my business. And if you think waving money in my face will impel me to make it my business, you’re mistaken. Some things can’t be bought. But buying a titl
e is easy, and if your niece is rich enough to do so, why not let her?”
“We weren’t always rich. Her mama—my sister—and I grew up poor. So did her daddy and her stepdaddy. We all lived in the same small town in Mississippi. Jack Wheaton always was a no-account wanderer, and my sister finally had to divorce him for it. He happened on a gold mine seven years ago and struck it rich, but that was just pure, dumb luck. He died right after, and left it all to Annabel even though he hadn’t seen her since she was a little girl. As for me, I’m a country lawyer, self-taught. My daddy was a sharecropper, and my sister and I were raised in a tin-roof shack—Annabel was born in that shack. We’re plenty rich now, but Annabel didn’t even own a store-bought dress until she was fourteen. There’s a term down South for people like us. We’re known as poor white trash. The money didn’t change that, but Annabel thinks marrying an earl will do what her money can’t.”
“It sounds as if she knows what she wants. And many people do marry for considerations other than love. You don’t strike me as a romantic sort of fellow. If she doesn’t care about marrying for love, why should you?”
“Because I care about her! Annabel has never been to England, never been around anybody English until she met Rumsford, and I don’t think she understands just what living the sort of life you people lead really means. I don’t, either, not really, but you do.” He shot Christian a shrewd glance across the table. “I think you know better than most what’s waiting for Annabel if she marries Rumsford. I’d like you to sit her down and explain it to her.”
Christ. Christian gave a sigh and sat back down, reminding himself he couldn’t afford to snub men with money. “Let me see if I understand you. You want me to strike up an acquaintance with your niece, tell her about my own experience, and persuade her that people who marry out of their class and without mutual love end up unhappy. Is that your idea?”
Trouble at the Wedding Page 4
