Of course, there was the slim possibility that Angus Loftus would offer him a worthwhile proposition… But what did he know about the man except that he was a wealthy textile merchant who had used chemin de fer as a pretext for meeting him? Well, he would learn more on that score before too many hours elapsed. Dawn was already creasing the eastern sky.
That same afternoon Straeford was escorted into the merchant’s plush office, which was richly decorated in red velvet and brown leather. The center of the room was dominated by a huge desk behind which sat Angus Loftus. The gentleman welcomed him and offered the earl a cigar from a heavy bronze box inlaid with a darker metal in a scrollwork pattern.
“Now, let us get down to business,” Loftus proposed confidently.
“By all means.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Lord Straeford, I have had my eye on you for some time, ever “since your return from India.”
“Indeed.” Straeford regarded his host blandly.
“Hope you don’t mind my saying that I don’t hold with the raking-over you’re getting in the press these days. A lot of puffed-up nonsense pandering to the noisy rabble. Experience has taught me not to judge on the appearance of things. There are always deeper currents than meet the eye.” He paused. “There now, I’ve said my say and you’ll hear no more from me on that score.”
The earl nodded noncommittally, not allowing himself to react.
Loftus observed his guest and leaned forward confidingly. “I’ll come quickly to the point, my lord.”
“Please do.”
“You and I, Lord Straeford, can be of service to each other in meeting needs… needs each of us is capable of satisfying for the other. To be blunt about it, you need money, my lord, and I…” he paused again.
“Yes?” Straeford queried, but the merchant was not quite ready to reveal his full proposal.
“I’ll see that Straeford Park and your town house are restored. Also the paintings, jewelry and land which have been sold over the years are bought back—under the following conditions…”
Straeford displayed no enthusiasm or agitation at Loftus’s words, but commented levelly, “I’m listening.”
“A commission in the army for my son John and… marriage to one of my daughters. Make one your countess and see that she is presented to the ton.”
The moment of silence following Loftus’s terms was abruptly shattered by Straeford scraping his chair across the floor as he rose to his feet, swearing softly to himself.
Angus rose too and spoke before Straeford could put into words his opinion of this scheme. “My dead wife was the daughter of Sir Harry Bradshaw, an impoverished lord from the North Country. It is my wish to see that my children take their rightful place in society.”
“And I am to provide that entrée!” Straeford laughed scornfully.
“Why not? It’s more than a fair proposition to you.”
“You’re willing to sell one of your daughters to me for a place in the ton?” Straeford jeered.
“Don’t set me down, Lord Straeford, for something that is a common practice among the gentry; marriages of convenience are arranged all the time.” Loftus betrayed a touch of anger as he spoke.
“But not for me,” Straeford’s voice was laced with steel, “they aren’t.”
“My girls are dutiful and know what to expect.”
“Damn you man! You’ve had the temerity to speak to them about this?”
“And why not? It’s what they want too.”
“Indeed, do they?” Straeford’s black brows rose disdainfully. “Well, I can assure you it is not what I want!” And the earl attempted to pass the stocky man who was blocking his exit.
“Wait,” Loftus importuned. “Why don’t you think about my offer and let me know your decision later?”
“There is nothing to think about. I have no intention of offering for a daughter of yours, and I may add that I find your tactics distasteful in the extreme. You led me to believe it was a business proposition you were considering—not a back door to the ton!”
With effort Loftus ignored the bitter thrust and stood his ground. “I’m having a dinner party Thursday. Come and meet my family. No obligation.”
The earl did not reply but stepped around Loftus and crossed to the door, jerking it open. Then he swung around to face the merchant once more and demanded, “Who put you on to me?”
“Don’t you know?”
Straeford slammed the door shut and stared at Loftus incredulously. “That interfering old troublemaker!” he stormed. “I should have wrung her neck when she was at Straeford last week.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, laddie. Lady Maxwell is the best friend you have… besides me.”
“Damn you and Lady Maxwell!” Straeford shouted before slamming out the door.
Within an hour the angry man of war was glaring at Lady Maxwell in the comfortable drawing room of that lady’s spacious residence on Grosvenor Square.
“So you’ve had your talk with Loftus,” she claimed, reading the thunder in her grandson’s face. She seated herself regally on a small settee before the fire and regarded him with interest.
He gave her a dark look and flung himself into a wingback chair opposite her.
“Well, will you take one of the cit’s daughters, my boy?”
He jerked out of the chair and crossed to stand in front of her. “I ordered you not to interfere in my affairs! Yet you ignored my right to privacy and approached this… this merchant and dared to suggest a match between a daughter of his and myself…”
“Justin St. Clare,” the lady claimed, cutting through his impassioned speech, “sit down and exercise some of that icy control you are famous for. Your conduct smacks of the very class you profess to abhor.”
Lady Maxwell’s tactic worked immediately. The earl stepped back a pace and waited for his grandmother to continue.
“That’s better, boy. Now if you were thinking rationally and not letting emotion blind you, I’m sure you would realize this is the only alternative left you.”
Straeford sank into the chair once more, nodding his head in reluctant agreement.
Some minutes passed without further exchange between them, but not wishing to let the matter close until she received her grandson’s verbal commitment, Lady Maxwell broached the subject once more. “So you will marry a Loftus girl.” It was more of a statement than a question.
There was a strangled oath from the earl before he replied curtly, “I shall have to, I suppose, before you try to arrange my entire life to your liking.”
This mild satire brought forth a crack of rusty laughter from the old woman.
“Loftus has two daughters, a young dark one and an older blonde one. Which do you fancy?”
“How should I know?” He scowled and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
“They are called Margaret and Marisa.”
The earl leaned back rubbing the back of his neck and smiling at his grandmother’s ingenuousness. “Am I to choose on the basis of name or hair color, Madam? It makes no difference to me since I must have one of them.” He stood again and began pacing the room. “I told Loftus in no uncertain terms that I would have no part in his marriage scheme. Perhaps he will have second thoughts and I shall be relieved of the need to decide.”
“Wishful thinking, my dear. He will accept your offer. Did I not tell you he is mad for the ton?”
“And his daughters seem to be too,” he rejoined bitterly.
“As I begin to ponder it, Justin, I think you had best take the older girl. She is less likely to have romantic fancies. There was some talk of her and a man called Aiken a few years ago, but that’s all past history. She’s far likelier to be of a sensible turn of mind by now.”
“Had her fling, has she?” he claimed cynically.
His grandmother ignored this thrust. “Both girls are beauties, but the older one’s a biddable girl. Yes, Marisa will adapt to your ways quickly
and make you a good wife.”
“God spare me! I have no intention of remaining in the girl’s company any more than is strictly necessary. I shall return to the army with all due haste.”
“But not before you’ve done your duty by her.”
The earl ignored her thrust as she had his. “I shall leave her and her good family in your capable hands, madam. You will share the responsibility of introducing them to the ton.”
Lady Maxwell opened her mouth to protest, but Straeford held up his hand and continued, “That’s the price you must pay for your interference, my dear. Is it a bargain?”
“You forget one thing young man.” Lady Maxwell smiled a trifle maliciously. “The heir. There must be an heir!”
“You try me beyond all endurance,” Straeford claimed through gritted teeth. “I have not forgotten.” He rose and bowed mockingly. “I trust you will leave that, at least, to me.”
She cackled. “I hear tell, devil though you may be, women still want you. You’ll get us an heir for Straeford, Justin. Then you can leave the chit and her family to me and fly back to your precious military life.”
“We are agreed. I’ll see Miss Loftus is initiated as wife and mother before I take leave of her.” He smiled wickedly. “Mmh, I might enjoy this more than I expected—a beauty you say?”
“Justin,” Lady Maxwell warned, “whichever one you take, she’s not going to be one of your light-skirts—but your wife, the countess—don’t forget that!”
Straeford scowled, engulfed by a sudden black rage. “How will I be able to forget it with you and Loftus and his daughter about my neck? Just remember, afterward, the family is your headache.”
Lady Maxwell passed an uneasy night following the disturbing interview with her grandson. Now that the machinery for the marriage was set in motion she was suffering qualms of conscience. At heart she wanted what was best not only for her grandson, but for Loftus’s daughter as well.
3
A pounding at the door in the hall beyond woke the earl from a drugged sleep. It took some minutes before Harding’s excited words penetrated the fog in his brain.
“… Dashrami’s forces at Baklar!”
“Hold your fire, man. Did I hear you right? Dashrami…”
“… attacked the garrison at Baklar and slaughtered half the outpost! A mere handful escaped.”
“Good God! General Seton was supposed to be there.”
“I know. He escaped.”
“Escaped? General Seton? What are you telling me, Ed? Start again. My head…” The earl groaned as he massaged his aching temples.
“Look, here it is,” Harding thrust a morning journal beneath Straeford’s nose. “Read it for yourself.”
Suddenly the earl leaped from the edge of the bed where he had been sitting. Taking the paper to the window, he thrust back the draperies so the early morning light made reading easier. He winced painfully, his head throbbing from the excess of the brandy imbibed the night before, but he read hurriedly, consuming the incredible facts before him.
“Attacked at sunset… a band of two thousand screaming rebels… two hundred British soldiers dead… General Seton and Major Sellers escaped to Calcutta. I’ll be damned! The old fool must have bungled again.”
“That’s exactly what happened, Just. The garrison was undermanned.”
“I can hardly credit Dashrami’s luck. The dirty heathen must have nine lives!”
“It didn’t take much luck to outmaneuver Seton. This time there’s no covering the blunders. Sentries weren’t posted properly, the call to arms came too late, muskets weren’t ready—Seton will be disgraced.”
“It had to happen. He’s been going downhill for a long time. It’s a wonder he got by thus far.”
“He got by because you were there to see he did. Well, not anymore. He will have to face the consequences himself this time.”
The earl rubbed the black stubble on his chin thoughtfully. The War Office would not be able to sweep this disaster under the carpet, and the press and the public were bound to hear the truth about Seton. How that would affect him depended on whether the board saw Nangore and Baklar as two separate incidents, or a developing pattern of incompetence on the part of General Seton.
“For once, my friend, fate is easing your way.”
“At the expense of two hundred British lives, man! Don’t forget that!” Straeford declared vehemently.
“Hell, Justin, I’m not forgetting it! But it happened, and your future looks better for it. I’m sure the board will decide in your favor.”
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and Straeford’s servant, Billings, entered with a breakfast tray. After serving each man a cup of coffee, he left them alone again. Straeford stared moodily at the cup in front of him until Harding asked, “Something else troubling you, Justin?”
Straeford took a gulp of black coffee before answering. “It’s the Loftus business.”
“Oh.” Harding waited for him to go on.
“I’m promised to the merchant for dinner tonight to meet his daughters.”
“Take heart, old man. Mayhap you’ll like the look of them.”
“What’s that to say to anything?”
“A pretty face can ease many a sorry plight.” Harding grinned as he bit into a warm scone.
“Egads, Ed!” Straeford jumped out of his chair and began pacing the room restlessly. “They are common cits! The man’s in trade. Daughters of a climbing, grasping merchant. Can you imagine their style? Their mode of life?”
“You over-dramatize, Just. You are not the first man ever forced to search the merchant ranks for a suitable wife and fortune. Besides, you told me the mother was a Bradshaw.”
“Who married beneath her,” Justin snapped.
“Still, you may find the gods are dealing more kindly with you than you know, my friend. Take heart and keep an open mind.”
“An open mind is an unguarded door through which any fool may pass,” the earl retorted before dropping into his chair and returning to the topic of General Seton and the catastrophe in India.
The modest Loftus residence in Bloomsbury surprised Straeford. The air of simple dignity presented by an unadorned dark green door and shining brass knocker was altogether impressive. It was not what the earl expected and he regarded it favorably.
The butler’s manner was quiet, the foyer sedate and the drawing room well lighted, simply furnished and filled with fashionably attired guests conversing in civilized tones.
It far exceeded Straeford’s expectations, and yet he was not pleased. An atmosphere of quiet repose did not belie the fact that it was a marriage mart the earl was attending and that he was both the buyer and the bought.
Well, let’s see the merchandise and get the business settled. He did not doubt that he himself would be found suitable.
Angus Loftus came up to his aristocratic guest, a jovial smile lighting his blunt features. “My Lord Straeford, allow me to introduce you to my family.”
It was a large family—not only Angus’s children, but cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces he met and whose names the earl scarce heard. But he did observe carefully the immediate progeny of the wealthy merchant with whom he might be forced into a family relationship.
John Loftus, a lad of twenty-one, greeted Lord Straeford with a direct look that revealed none of his inner feelings. He was exceedingly fair, tall and wiry, and his handclasp was firm. His simple black breeches and frock coat were bare of the flowing laces and stiff collars so popular among the young sporting set who aspired to join the ranks of Corinthians.
The older daughter, Marisa Loftus, shared her brother’s fair coloring and modest style, but there was a deeper intensity to the blue of her eyes and her blond tresses, worn in charming coils that framed her lovely face, were more honey-toned than flaxen. She too met the earl with a cool gaze that revealed nothing of her thoughts, though hers was a greater stake in this meeting.
There was something fa
miliar about the man, but she could not quite bring to the surface of her mind that frozen moment at the Inns of Court when they had briefly collided in the snow.
It was Margaret, the younger daughter, who obviously was the scene stealer. Her flowing hair of dark brown was allowed to tumble about her bare shoulders in a most provocative fashion. Her blue eyes were bright and sparkling and eager to convey her lively interest in the handsome catch her father had snared for his daughters. It was apparent from the onset that she was already measuring the breadth of those wide shoulders with a proprietary air, and preparing a mental list for the wedding invitations.
The family was an attractive group, the earl was relieved to discover. But that they were not of his class was uppermost in his mind.
The Loftus board was another unexpected bonus. The master set an ample table and his cook was excellent. The dressed fowls stuffed with truffles in wine sauce were superb, and the earl’s wine glass was never allowed to empty of the rich, red claret that filled it.
It was Marisa who held the earl’s attention though the younger Margaret, seated to his right, was a stunning coquette. Wherever she learned her maneuvers with the fan, she had learned them from an expert. And those dark-fringed eyes regarding him with sly satisfaction were nothing new to him. He had met that look on the faces of ambitious females in the past, but he did little more than nod occasionally to her animated attempts to draw him out. Instead he studied Marisa Loftus, seated at the foot of the table, with unconcealed interest until his attention was distracted by the mention of General Seton.
“… General Seton’s fiasco. Just goes to show the army don’t know what it’s doing if you ask me.” A shrunken little fox of a man with darting eyes peered maliciously beneath bushy brows at the assembled table. “Win one day and lose the next. Can’t depend on ‘em, I say.”
No one else dared speak out with Straeford present.
“Must be something wrong when a ragged band of heathens can get the upper hand and send our ruddy soldiers scurrying for cover, eh? What d’ye say, Denton?” He flung a challenge to a red-faced young man across from him who dived into his dinner plate and began to eat furiously. Others started conversing eagerly with their neighbors hoping the old fool would have the sense to silence himself.
Tender Torment Page 4
