“What possessed you to let that pretty piece escape, Jack?” Harry Thatcher, clad in a simple black domino that effectively hid his injury, came up to join them just then. “If you didn't want her, with your newfound virtue, you should have sent her my way. I can still appreciate a toothsome wench—and pleasure one, too. Loss of an arm hasn't slowed me down in that department. God preserve me from a title, though!”
Jack regarded his wartime crony with a mixture of sympathy and envy. “As your uncle has three sons already, I shouldn't think there's much chance of your being saddled with such a curse.” Harry's father, like Jack's, was second son to a peer, in this case the Earl of Balfour. “Had I known Uncle Luther was both sickly and childless, I might have stayed on the Continent. But now I'm stuck with it.”
Both of his friends laughed, though they doubtless knew there was more than a grain of truth in Jack's words. He was finding this “conversion” to respectability damnably tedious—and difficult. Much as he hated to admit it, if it weren't for the money his grandfather held over his head, he'd have abandoned the idea already.
“This—” He waved his arm about to indicate the glittering throng— “was to be my final fling, as it were. As of tomorrow, I don the sober mantle of Marquis of Foxhaven, and all that goes with it. God help me.” With mock piety, he made the sign of the cross, causing his companions to chuckle anew.
Peter sobered quickly, however. “It won't be easy setting yourself up as a paragon after the reputation you've built over the years, Jack. Too many people know the real you.”
“Precisely what I've come to realize. That is why I need your help, both of you.”
Harry snorted. “That's well enough for Pete here. Always eager to be the voice of conscience anyway. But you can count me out. I think the whole idea is daft. You've got position, you've got money—more than you ever dreamed. Here you are, with everything you need to have the best time of your life, and you get morality or some such rot.” He shook his head. “Never thought I'd live to see it. Makes a man wonder what the point is.”
Jack glared at his friend, who only voiced what he himself had thought more than once since reading his grandfather's letter two nights since. “The point is living up to my potential,” he said tersely, willing himself to believe it. “Now that I'm Foxhaven, I have a family name to uphold. Besides, as I told you, I don't have the money. At least, not enough to continue as I've done and maintain the estates both. Not unless I follow through on this thing.”
Before Harry could repeat his thanks for escaping such a fate, Peter spoke up. “Well I think it's an admirable attitude, Jack, money or no, and I'll support you however I can. As I said, though, it won't be easy. What you need is some sort of shortcut to respectability.” He furrowed his brow, pondering.
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Jack. “Would an irreproachable wife turn the trick, do you think?”
Both of his friends gaped at him, clearly dumbstruck.
“Someone whose reputation is lily-white, beyond question,” he continued. “Surely some of that should rub off, in the eyes of Society.”
Peter was the first to find his voice. “By George, Jack, I didn't think you were serious, but… yes. I think that just might be the ticket.”
“And where are you going to find such a paragon of virtue?” asked Harry cynically, belatedly recovering from his own shock. “Never tell me you're acquainted with a woman fitting that description!”
Jack shook his head ruefully. “Any woman willing to admit to an acquaintance with me wouldn't qualify, on that ground alone. But if the three of us do a bit of research, surely we can discover a woman of that caliber somewhere—perhaps even here in London. I hereby commission you both to help me to find her—the perfect wife. One who can polish up my tarnished reputation and thereby secure the balance of my fortune.”
~ ~ ~
“YOU LOOK A BIT hagged this morning, Nessa. Did your headache keep you from sleeping?” asked Lady Creamcroft as her sister entered the brightly sunlit breakfast parlor. The torrential downpours earlier in the week had given way to unseasonably lovely weather for a London autumn.
“Yes, I'm afraid so.” Nessa manufactured a yawn. “I'm feeling much better today, however.” Lying to her sister was completely out of character and made her feel far guiltier than she'd expected. Still, last night had been worth it. She was almost certain of it.
“I did come up and knock an hour or so after you'd retired, and assumed you were sleeping when you failed to answer”
Nessa paused in the act of filling her plate from the sideboard. “I, ah, may well have been asleep at that time. 'Twas later in the night that I awoke and had trouble nodding off again. I came down to the kitchen for some warm milk, and that helped.” That was the excuse she'd given to the scullery maid who'd discovered her sneaking through the lower levels upon her return from the masquerade. Luckily, her cloak and her wrapper were the same color—black—and there'd been too little light for her attire to give her away.
“Nessa! It is not at all the thing for you to be wandering about the house on your own after we were all abed. Why did you not ring for a servant?”
“I didn't wish to wake anyone.”
Prudence, like their parents, was an absolute stickler for propriety. If the idea of her venturing to the kitchens alone upset her, Nessa didn't like to think what she'd do if she discovered where her sister had really gone last night. Doubtless she'd have Prudence's prostration from apoplexy on her conscience as well.
“That's what servants are for, my dear,” her sister assured her. “Things are more lax in the country, I know, but you are in Town now, and must learn to abide by Town customs.”
Nessa laughed. “Lax? Not in Lord Haughton's house, I assure you, Prudence. His standards were every bit as high as any you'll find in London—probably higher.”
“I was thinking more of how you went on after his passing.” Prudence frowned. “I wish I could have had you with me sooner, but with Lord Creamcroft traveling back and forth from Herefordshire to Town all the summer…”
“You did invite me to accompany you, if you recall,” Nessa reminded her sister. “I preferred to wait till my period of mourning was up, or nearly so, so as not to interfere with your engagements.”
She'd also needed time to adjust to the idea of being her own mistress for the first time in her life. Married at eighteen to a man of her father's generation, temperament, and choosing, she'd never known anything but rigid adherence to The Rules as laid out by the men in authority over her.
Suddenly finding herself without their firm guidance, she'd been at somewhat of a loss. Had her parents still been alive, she might have returned home to Worcestershire during the early months of her widowhood, simply to have her decisions made for her, as they'd always been. Living under the thumb of her Cousin Filmore held no appeal, however, so she had remained at Haughton until her late husband's nephew and heir was due to arrive.
Gradually, tentatively, she had taken up the reins of the house and estate, showing an unexpected flair for both business and domestic organization. By the time she'd left a fortnight ago, on the arrival of the new Lord Haughton, even the dour, efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Cobb, frequently sought her direction.
Nessa settled herself across from her sister with a plate of eggs and creamed sole and thoughtfully sipped her coffee. She had mourned her husband's passing, of course, just as she had her father's two years earlier. But, like her father, her husband had been so distant that she had been unable to develop more than the mildest affection for him—an affection tainted by more than a hint of bitterness. It would not be true to say she'd felt relief at finding herself on her own, but it would be equally untrue to say she was prostrated by grief.
Now that she'd finally made the adjustment, she felt ready and more than ready to taste her newfound freedom. Last night had been a promising start.
“Oh!” Prudence broke into her musings. “Mention of your mourning period reminds me
that I have received an invitation which includes you.”
Nessa blinked in surprise. “An invitation? Will it be proper for me to go anywhere just yet?” she asked innocently. “I'll not be out of my weeds for more than two weeks, you know.”
“Yes, I know, and I consulted Lord Creamcroft on that very point. He seems to think me over-scrupulous in this—as in a few other matters.” She primmed her lips. “But in this particular case, I believe he may be right. Lady Mountheath is hostessing a musicale three days hence, and 'tis she who issued the invitation. She knows of your circumstances and surely would not have invited you had she thought your attendance ineligible.”
“A musicale. So there will be no dancing?”
Prudence looked stricken. “Heavens no! There could be no question of your attending then, of course. But a quiet evening in company, listening to a few noted performers, seems a very proper way to ease you back into Society.”
Not that she'd ever been in Society to begin with, thought Nessa sourly. A three day visit to London for her presentation at Court a few weeks after her wedding scarcely counted. Idly, she wondered whether any of those who'd attended last night's masquerade were likely to be present—especially one in particular. Given what she'd heard of Lady Mountheath, it seemed unlikely.
Still, she found herself looking forward to the musicale. It would be the next step, albeit a small one, toward her new life of freedom.
~ ~ ~
A SOMBER TRIO gathered before the library fire at Foxhaven House the following night. At least, Jack felt weighed down by doom and depression at the idea of marriage, whatever his companions might feel. If their spirits were higher than his own, they were discreet enough not to show it.
“We may as well compare notes,” he suggested heavily as he passed the brandy decanter around for the second time. The thought of walking willfully into parson's mousetrap set his teeth on edge, but he really had no choice. Just that afternoon he'd received a note from Havershaw informing him that the roof of the west wing at Fox Manor required repairs that would eat up the remainder of this quarter's allowance.
Lord Peter pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket with a flourish. “Have my list right here, old boy,” he said, waving away the spirits.
Harry took the bottle and poured himself a generous measure to compensate for Peter's forbearance. “You actually wrote 'em down? Egad, but you're taking this project seriously. Must have been an amusing sight, you quizzing all the biddies and taking notes the while.”
“I didn't jot down the names until later, when I was back at my lodgings,” Peter assured him. “Wouldn't have been at all the thing to let on what I was about. That would queer the whole deal.”
Harry laughed heartily. “Jack might thank you for that, judging by his face. You look like you've downed a quart of spoilt milk, old boy,” he advised his friend.
Jack only scowled more fiercely. “If you're not going to help, you may as well remain silent, Harry—or take your leave.”
“While the bottle's still half full? Heaven forfend! But I have had my ear to the ground, as it happens, though I may not be as organized in my approach as Pete here.” He chuckled again. “Two or three names cropped up in Boodle's betting book as those least likely to disgrace themselves this winter. Starched up, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-their-mouths misses, just as you're wanting.”
Wanting? Hardly that, Jack thought. “Let's have them.”
“There were two chits listed there—can't say as I've ever met either of them, not that that's surprising. Lucinda Melks, Lord Jeller's daughter, and Lady Beatrice Bagford, daughter to the Earl of Sherbourne.”
Jack nodded gloomily. “I've been introduced, briefly, to both of them. Just out of the schoolroom, I believe.”
Harry shrugged. “Easier to train that way, I should think.” He studied Jack's morose expression. “Antidotes, are they?”
“No, no, not really. Miss Melks' nose is a bit long, but otherwise she's quite handsome. And Lady Beatrice is tall, blonde and nobly formed, as I recall.” And brainless, as well. Jack had not the least desire to wed either, even if one of them would have him. “What of your list, Peter?”
His friend peered down at the sheet in his hand. “Lady Beatrice is on mine as well, but I left off Miss Melks because of a rumor that her maternal grandfather had dabbled in trade. Other contenders include Miss Varens, though she's been out nearly two years, and Lady Constance Throckwaite, Claridge's daughter. Both fairly attractive and eminently respectable.”
Peter paused, then said, “I hear Mrs. Dempsey has called here twice in the last week, and you were seen in Covent Garden with Selena Riverton. If you're at all serious about this, Jack, you'll have to give up your paramours, at least until you've been safely wed for awhile.”
“Your sources are appallingly thorough, Peter! Miranda Dempsey has just returned from Paris, but I've carefully been 'not at home' to her, if you must know, and Selena accosted me by chance as I was passing the theater where she performs. Can I help it that women find me irresistible?” He grinned, his mood momentarily lightening. “Have you anyone else on your list?”
“There were a few others, but—of the debutantes—those I have already named were mentioned most often.”
“Of the debutantes?” echoed Jack. “What else is there?”
“Widows,” said Harry succinctly. Peter nodded.
Jack looked from one to the other with a frown. “A widow? I'll admit that idea has more appeal than a virgin child.” His tastes had always tended to run to more experienced women—which had resulted in more than one near miss with an irate husband. “But would that serve my purpose as well? After all—”
“One would,” Peter declared. “Except that I can't vouch for her appearance, as no one seems to have seen her. Lady Haughton should just be coming out of her weeds this month.”
“Old Haughton was married?” asked Jack incredulously. “Hard to imagine, somehow.”
“Yes, scary old fellow, wasn't he? Can't say I'd have envied his wife. Kept her immured in the country.”
Jack frowned again. “But she'd be far older than I, wouldn't she? I don't know that I need rebel quite that thoroughly against the young chits.”
“Not at all,” Peter assured him. “Haughton married late. She's no more than four- or five-and-twenty.”
Harry spoke up. “Now that you mention it, Pete, I heard something about her as well. Lady Creamcroft's sister, isn't she?”
“That's right. The late Lord Cherryhurst's daughter. Between them, he and old Haughton pretty well cornered the market on straitlaced respectability.”
Jack had met Lord Cherryhurst at his stepfather's house when he was a lad, and retained an impression of a nose and chin jutting skyward. Any daughters would no doubt reflect their father's starched-up formality. Truth to tell, a young woman who was the product of Cherryhurst's upbringing and several years' marriage to Haughton sounded terrifying—but perfect for his purposes.
“What's her first name?”
Peter checked his notes. “Agnes.”
Harry snorted. “And her sister is Prudence, I seem to recall. No doubt both were well trained to live up to their names.”
Jack winced. Agnes. Purity. “I suppose I could at least meet her,” he said at last, remembering Fox Manor's leaking roof. “I'll also seek a reintroduction to Lady Beatrice. Perhaps she's matured a bit since the summer.”
“Excellent!” Peter rose to slap him on the back. “We just need to arrange invitations to some of the same dos. Lady Beatrice is certain to be at the Mountheath's musicale, and there's an outside chance Lady Haughton may attend as well, for all she's still in blacks.”
Jack snorted. “Lady Mountheath? She won't have me under her roof. She's the biggest gossipmonger in London—probably knows more about my reputation than I do.”
“Just show up,” Harry suggested with a grin. Over Peter's indignant exclamation, he continued, “No one's more terrified of a scandal than Lady Mountheath—
too many people would jump at the chance to spread it, after all the dirt she's dished over the years. And wouldn't it create just that if she attempted to have the Marquis of Foxhaven ejected from her house? She'd never do it! Mark my word, she may look daggers at you, but she'll never let on you weren't invited if you appear at her door.”
Both Jack and Peter had to chuckle at the truth of Harry's words. No one had a greater fear of exposure than someone who'd thrived for years on exposing others.
“I'll try it,” said Jack with sudden decision. “And I'll be everything that's proper while I'm there, which in itself should go a long way toward repairing my reputation. Lady Mountheath's rumor mill is legendary.”
“I'll accompany you,” offered Peter. “I happen to have an invitation, which may mitigate your lack of one.”
Harry poured himself yet another measure of brandy. “I won't wish you a good time, as I see little chance of that. I'll bide my time more pleasantly at the club, and you can meet me there afterward to tell me how the first foray went.”
~ ~ ~
NESSA REGARDED HER REFLECTION in the dressing mirror with vague dissatisfaction. Her rich chestnut brown hair looked well enough piled high on her head, if a little severe. Simmons, her abigail, was weaving a spray of tiny silver silk flowers through the crown as an accent, though a few curls about her face would have made for a softer effect. Her complexion was well enough, but black had never been particularly flattering on her. And after nearly a full year wearing nothing but that hue, she was heartily tired of it.
No doubt the world—and her sister—would see it as vastly disrespectful when she discarded every black gown she owned (which numbered in the dozens) in two week's time, but that was precisely what she intended to do. Perhaps giving them all to some charitable organization would mute criticism a bit. But whether it did or not, she never intended to wear black again come mid-October.
“Thank you, Simmons, that looks lovely,” she said, though privately she thought the silver flowers gave the impression that her hair was beginning to gray. But anything more colorful would have been frowned upon—particularly by her sister.
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