Rothburn came at last to sit beside her, his long legs crossed at the ankles, hands shoved into his pockets. Gazing at his boots, he spoke low and gentle. "Your father wishes us to elope."
When she started to protest, he stayed her with a look. "But of course, he does not mean Gretna, for God's sake."
"What then?"
"He says we should go to a relative of yours, someplace in the country and be wed with a special license. He would that your brother give you away and once the deed is done—"
His speech halted as she pulled him off balance, her arms coming round him strongly.
"Rothburn, this is perfect! I shall have a wedding and my mother will not be there to spoil it." She smiled mistily then drew back, her voice hesitant. "Do you agree to this plan?"
"If it pleases you, I should walk on hot coals to be your husband." He kissed her then, drawing her arms around his neck and pulling her close. Dipping his head to kiss her, he drew away hurriedly as the doors opened.
"Excuse the interruption, I'm sure, old fellow." Sir Gordon did not sound at all sorry to have interrupted their embrace. "Just came from Eleanor's and been speaking with your mother, Rothburn. She says you must bring Lady Alana for a visit."
He looked at the pair and could not contain his grin at their disheveled look. "Of course I suggest you repair appearances beforehand. Won't do to have the two of you gadding about looking as though you'd been spooning in the coat closet."
"Leave off, Gordon!" Rothburn's voice held a hint of threat but Sir Gordon only laughed aloud.
"We shall be married before the week is out, so I suggest you do as Rothburn says and leave off teasing us. We will need your help, it would seem," Lady Alana intervened quickly.
Sir Gordon rubbed his hands together, then settled into a nearby chair, saying, "Let's get down to business, for I would be wed as well, but only when you two have done so."
The three of them began making their arrangements and spent the rest of the day enclosed in the drawing room. Allie joined them for tea, happy and eager to assist as she was appraised of the plans.
"I shall have to find to whom your father intends we should go." Rothburn looked rueful as he glanced at his audience. "I am afraid we had little time to discuss things before Lady Grace came upon us."
"I shall go. She cannot deny me the house, and even if she did, the servants would aid me in getting a missive to father." At their raised eyebrows and skeptical looks she bristled, saying in a defensive voice, "They are, to a man—or woman—most loyal to him. They may fear my mother, but they would defy her for us, I am sure."
Sir Gordon made a suggestion. "Why don't we have Hobbs deliver a letter to your father and he can pretend he is going to his club, and come here instead. With him readily available, we can finalize your wedding plans easily. I shall have Hobbs remove his livery, and the Countess does not know him on site, so we would be safe on that count."
"Excellent, old fellow. Never knew you had such a penchant for intrigue." Rothburn lifted his Port in salute to his friend and drank the last swallow, reaching for the cut glass container. Lady Alana, however, deftly removed it from his hand, her eyes sparking as she warned him off, feeling he had already imbibed as much as he should get.
"Ah, she has already begun to treat me as a husband." Rothburn drew a deep breath, hand to his brow in thespian-like despair. "I vow I shall be cowed and removed to the status of a child before she has done with me. I shall no doubt be sipping warm milk while my fellows drink their ale."
Lady Alana merely laughed lightly and patted his cheek, saying, "You would do well, Rothburn, to remember that in future. I will not tolerate excess indulgence and you are overly fond of your Port."
Sitting up straight, he appeared disgruntled. "Never say so. I can handle my liquor as well as the next man."
Sir Gordon poured himself the last drop of Port, setting the empty decanter near Rothburn's hand. "Can the two of you stop quarreling long enough to get this mission accomplished?
"Allie, do ring for Marsh. We have need of writing implements and another bottle of Port." He looked sideways at Lady Alana, his warning glace not lost on her as her lips thinned in censure.
Rothburn looked smug and Alana, petulant, but they said no more on the subject as March entered and took his orders. Before half an hour had passed, the letter was on its way in the capable hands of Hobbs.
Two hours later the ladies had gone to look at pattern books and the gentlemen were nearly dozing in their seats. Marsh—with a discreet cough— ushered in the Earls of Avonleigh and Champlay, both gentlemen having arrived at the door simultaneously.
Disturbed by the noise, Sir Gordon arose quickly to greet the pair, astonished at this new turn of events. Rothburn stood as well, coming awake rapidly.
"Pardon this intrusion, Sir Gordon, but I needed to speak with you and ran across my old friend Champlay at White's. Seems he was on his way here, so I just came along. If it is convenient."
"No inconvenience at all. Glad to have you. Matter of fact, you will probably be quite entertained by our purpose in this meeting. Know I can depend upon you to keep a closed mouth on the subject."
Sir Gordon, inordinately pleased to greet his would-be father-in-law, led the man to a seat along with Rothburn's future in-law.
"Went along to White's, did you?" Rothburn looked at Lord Champlay with a commiserating smile, knowing the old fellow would be wont to give at least some truth to his lie when speaking to Lady Grace.
Lord Champlay coughed into his hand and glanced about, saying, "Well, much easier to fool my wife if I tell something of the truth. She's very sharp, don'tcha know? Catches me out most every time."
Lord Avonleigh agreed with a laugh. "My wife can see through walls. Ain't had a chance to do anything untoward in years. Not that I'd want to, of course." He twinkled at the others. "Well, and what goes on that I should be aware of? You look like connivers to me."
Loving a good conspiracy, Lord Avonleigh—once made privy to the situation—offered much helpful information. This included dispatching his own servant with a request for the special license that would be required. This would keep any tittle-tattle away from Rothburn that might find its way to Lady Grace. "They'll all likely think it's for Eleanor and Gordon here—and so much the better."
It was suggested by Lord Champlay, that a week from Saturday they would meet in Cheshire, at the home of his cousin. This cousin would loan his manor to the couple for a honeymoon, preventing Lady Grace from finding the newlyweds and bedeviling them with her antics.
"Your cousin's home sounds a perfect place for a wedding," Rothburn enthused, glad to see the plans solidifying at last.
"Yes, I suppose it would and if you are comfortable with that notion, we can make the arrangement to suit you." Champlay sensed Rothburn's eagerness. "I'll just send word to my cousin today."
That settled, Sir Gordon looked at his other guest, Lord Avonleigh, asking in a deferential voice, "Would you require privacy for our talk?"
Pausing a moment as he thought about it, the earl shook his head in the negative. "Actually, there is nothing these two cannot be privy to."
Both Rothburn and Champlay noticed his hesitation, however, and excused themselves for a game of billiards.
Once the door had closed firmly behind them, Sir Gordon leaned forward, giving his full attention, but asking nothing, for he could see the fellow was somewhat ill at ease.
"Sir Gordon, I am at a loss how to begin." He drew a deep breath then went on. "My wife, you know, is a very forceful woman. Though in most things she is quite reasonable, she has put her foot down, I'm afraid."
"What? You mean she does not want Eleanor to marry me?" Sir Gordon experienced a sinking sensation in his stomach.
"No. Not that at all. It's the damnable title. Wants you to appeal to the crown for one. Says our daughter deserves a titled husband." The Earl of Champlay looked uncomfortable, as he had led the young man to believe that a title was unnecessary. He
hated retracting his words, though it was his wife doing it.
"It happens Rothburn has already appealed for me. There is an Earldom available and I may have it, but not before the wedding. Takes too long, may be six months or better."
Brightening at the news, Lord Avonleigh lifted his glass in a congratulatory toast to his host. They drank each other's health, the health of the King, the health of grandchildren not yet born, and finished the bottle of Port—which was a good thing, for they had run out of toasts.
Rothburn had applied on his behalf, petitioning the crown—at his mother's insistence—the very day after they had discussed the possibility in her drawing room. Now an Earldom was in the offing. He had not meant to tell anyone just yet, but in view of Lord Avonleigh's obvious distress, he had thought it prudent to at least tell him. He did not want the news spread abroad even now, and felt compelled to say so.
"I'd like to keep this news private for the time being, Lord Avonleigh," Sir Gordon explained with an ironic gleam in his eyes. "Royalty being what it is—if you'll excuse the frankness—I would not want it bandied about that I had this peerage, then not get it for some inexplicable whim of His Majesty."
Gordon thought that as good an excuse as the truth, which was that he simply did not want to appear a braggart. He felt in no actual danger of losing the appointment.
"Of course, lad, not to worry." Lord Avonleigh was agreeable and ready to swear to anything at the moment, having imbibed more Port than he should have. It was likely he would remember little of their talk.
The two men spent some companionable time discussing business. Lord Avonleigh was very astute on the subject, the fact that he was a peer of the realm notwithstanding.
Sir Gordon found his future father-in-law to be a generous, amicable and considerate person and he warmed toward the fellow more and more as they conversed.
For his part, the earl looked upon Sir Gordon with great benevolence, finding in him all the qualities that he would have wished in a son, had he been so blessed as to have one.
Chapter Eighteen
~~
In her quiet way, Lady Susan Rothburn had been busy. She'd seen the tittle-tattle in the Times about Lady E and Lord R and was wont to add some of her own mixture to the brew. She engaged Aggie to take an anonymous letter to the newspaper, then sat back to await the results.
Lady Grace had sent a missive to them as well, and both items were featured in the following day's scuttlebutt section of the Who's Who column, causing quite a stir in certain quarters.
* * * * *
Lord Rothburn, Lady Alana and Lady Eleanor, along with Sir Gordon were happily ensconced in the library. Since they were practically family, the foursome gathered for the day at Pendleton House, with Countess Rothburn attending them as chaperone—though she spent most of her time alternately reading and dozing in the small salon near the fire.
They had luncheon and high tea and were just deciding which ball to attend that night when the afternoon papers were delivered.
What lady of spinsterhood has captured what earl of rake hell reputation? And indeed, what will next happen in the ton when these two are allowed to run riot among us? Does Lady A not know that Lord R is unreliable? Let us hope the spinster can produce an heir, lest she be cast off for another.
The paper rattled as Lady Alana shook it with fury, then went on to scan the next entry, slowing and reading with care, her voice changing from anger to wonder.
When Lord R lost his heart to Lady A, it was not surprising, for they have been much in each other's company of late. There will be an announcement soon, thinks this reader. Lady G may not be pleased, but this reader thinks she will be reconciled to Sir G as a son-in-law.
Lady Alana finished reading the entries with a wounded expression. "How could my mother do such a thing?"
In no doubt about the author of the first item—for it had a touch of malice that only Lady Grace was capable of—Alana fixed her gaze on the paper with a pensive regard. "And who, pray tell, wrote the other one?"
She looked at Rothburn and his innocent disavowing demeanor only gave her cause to doubt him. He continued to protest, however, and for once he was innocent. Were he not so prone to theatrics, she might have believed him, but as it was, she waxed suspicious the afternoon long, giving him a cool reception.
Sir Gordon and Lady Eleanor stayed well out of their path, and wandered in the garden much of the time, making their own plans.
Allie, lonely and bereft without Griffin, kept to her room most of the day, writing him a letter.
Lady Susan, unaware her little note to the Times had caused a rift between the lovers, alternately dozed and read her book, munching on whatever cook sent to her from the kitchen.
Thus, the lovers' quarrel had fertile ground in which to sprout and grow. Their very isolation from anyone who could provide a voice of reason gave impetus to the argument.
Facing one another, Lady Alana and Rothburn spared—she with abandon and he with caution—fueling the tender that would soon burst into a bonfire of anger.
"You have lied to me, Rothburn, and I know it well. If you think that I will stand for these games, you are mistaken."
She stood before him, her eyes blazing, ignoring the hurt in his own. "I think you are very good at protesting your innocence, but who else would do such a thing? Who else would know to do it?
"My mother's hand was all over that first article, but the second one was not quite so blunt, nor vicious in its presentation."
"And why, pray tell, do you believe I am the author of such drivel?" Her intended raised his perfectly shaped eyebrows and allowed a touch of disdain into his voice as well as his eyes. "I am no peddler of gossip."
"Normally, I would believe it, but I have to say, your hand is written all over that wholly theatrical piece, Sir." Lady Alana was having none of his declarations of innocence. Refusing to attend the Parkhurst ball was her way of showing him that he could not get away with such things. It wasn't that he'd written it—for it wasn't inflammatory—but he denied the fact. She couldn't abide being misled in this manner.
"Very well, if you are going to be so intractable, I shall just go along to my club for dinner and call it an early night. Perhaps you will see things more clearly tomorrow, Alana." Rothburn, fed up with her antics, was ready to leave, for he had spent the past hour trying to convince her that he had nothing to do with the note in the newspaper.
He stepped slowly toward the door, however, still having some hope that she would call him back.
"Rothburn." He turned at the sound of her voice, freezing in outrage at her next words. "Don't forget your mother. She is in the small salon."
Alana crossed the room, and passing him, opened the door herself. Not looking at him, tears threatening, she spoke into the air. "I doubt I shall see this differently tomorrow. It is bad enough to be attacked by my mother, without being deceived by you."
"Yes, and I vow your mother will hear from me tomorrow. I've had enough of her viciousness and she will retract every word publicly before I am done." He moved off before she could respond, his anger at Lady Grace mixed up with his hurt at Alana's refusal to believe him.
As a parting shot he ground out a vow to her, his eyes fiery and his face stormy with inflexibility, as was her own. "I shall find out who sent in that other note as well, and when I do, you can be sure you will be the first one informed, seeing as how you have no faith in my word."
He was almost to the front door when he remembered his mother and went to fetch her, his face burning as Lady Alana stood in the entryway watching him with inscrutable eyes, a smug smile playing across her lips.
He turned sharply at the salon door, his eyes cutting in her direction, and nearly missed it, bumping into the statuette that stood guard there. His dignity affronted by his clumsiness, he grew angrier, face flaming with mortification at her short bark of laughter, followed by a murmured word that sounded like clumsy oaf, though he could not be certain.
&n
bsp; He looked pointedly at her again as he stepped through the door but she had turned away, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter, he thought. He knew not that it was silent sobbing that possessed the lady, for she disappeared quickly into the room from whence she had come and he went just as quickly to his mother.
"Mother, we are leaving now." He shook her shoulder gently and the lady came awake with a start. Seeing her confusion, he explained, "We are in Sir Gordon's home. You are chaperoning, do you not recall?"
"Oh yes, of course. Did you have dinner without me then?"
"We are not staying for dinner. We are leaving now."
"But why? Surely the Pendleton's cook is not that bad." She looked more carefully at her son and saw that he was very upset. For once she decided not to question him. Following him meekly out the door, she asked, "Should we not give our goodbyes? It is rather rude to just leave."
"I have given them."
His terse comment did nothing to ease her curiosity, but Lady Susan's way of meddling did not include directness, at least in matters like these. She rather enjoyed prying information, a little at a time, from her victims and she was good at it.
Though The Countess had been direct when she interviewed Alana, that had been a different sort of thing altogether. It had required interrogation, where this did not. "Let us have dinner at home then. I'm sure cook will find something delectable for us, though she is not prepared."
Hoping to have a quiet chat with him over dinner and discover the problem, she was disappointed when he replied, "Eating at White's, thank you Mother. You will have to dine without me."
He helped her into the carriage and called to the driver, "Drop me at White's and come for me later."
* * * * *
Lady Alana stood in the window of her bedroom, looking down as the carriage pulled away, tears slowly seeping from her eyes. She was no longer angry with Rothburn, and indeed, had not intended this situation to go so far—nor expected him to grow angry in return. Rothburn being generally mild-mannered and agreeable, she thought he'd confess and beg forgiveness. That her expectations we're unrealized startled her.
A Curious Heart (Love Vine: A Regency Series) Page 19
