Lord Iverbrook's Heir

by Carola Dunn

  “Like Aunt Sena’s.”

  Before Iverbrook could err again, Delia bounced into the room, followed by Mr. Hastings at a more sedate pace.

  “Guess what!” she crowed. “There’s going to be a subscription ball in Oxford next Saturday.”

  “It was advertised in the bookseller’s in Abingdon,” confirmed Mr. Hastings.

  “And Mr. Hastings has bought tickets for us all! Even for Jane and Clive! And Cousin Aubrey! And Mama!”

  “Lend me fifty guineas till quarter day, my dear fellow?” murmured Hasty.

  Chapter 13

  Mr. Hastings was persuaded, much against his will, to accompany the lambs to Abingdon.

  “Or rather, to follow them,” said Iverbrook, “for I understand they leave at dawn. The shepherd and his dogs can get them there without our assistance.”

  “Thank heaven!” Hasty shuddered. “Why the deuce can’t the shepherd sell the beastly creatures?”

  “He has a vocabulary of approximately twenty words, ten of which are comprehended only by sheep and dogs. Besides, I told you of our wager.”

  With that reminder, Hasty ceased to object. A wager was sufficient justification for virtually any activity.

  Lord Iverbrook soon discovered why Selena disliked going to market. Around the edge of the marketplace a few women had stalls selling butter, eggs, and great yellow cheeses; others patronised a couple of peddlers hawking ribbons and buckles; but the main business of the day was exclusively male.

  Stock pens built of withy hurdles held bleating sheep, rambunctious bullocks, and one evil-looking Hereford bull. Underfoot, the glutinous mud gave off a penetrating stench. Buyers and sellers, pushing through the narrow walks between the enclosures, had to shout to make themselves heard over the animals.

  Hasty at once escaped to the Crown and Thistle, with a promise of ordering a neat luncheon.

  It was quieter and slightly less smelly under the arches of the town hall, where stout farmers in homespun retired to dicker with butchers in blue and white striped aprons and straw hats or sharp-faced drovers down from London and Birmingham. Here the viscount began to enjoy himself. He discovered a hitherto unused talent for bargaining, and by the time he joined his friend at the inn he had a very inflated idea of himself and a bank draft in his pocket for considerably more than Selena had expected.

  The panelled coffee room of the Crown and Thistle was dark and quiet after the noise and bustle of the street. Mr. Hastings was sitting on a settle in the chimney nook. Opposite him, a lady warmed her hands at the fire. From the doorway, everything but those hands and a corner of a sapphire blue cloak was hidden by the high side of the seat; nonetheless, Iverbrook had a very good idea who it was.

  He made his way between gateleg tables and Windsor chairs, for the most part unoccupied as it was still early, and found his guess correct. Amabel jumped up, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips.

  Taken by surprise, Iverbrook put his arm about her waist and returned the kiss — she was after all a cosy armful — then disentangled himself and firmly sat her down.

  “Hugh, darling, what a delightful surprise!” Amabel cooed. “I happened to meet Mr. Hastings in the street and he invited me to join you both for luncheon. Such charming friends you have, I vow!”

  Resignedly, cursing the Bart under his breath for giving away his whereabouts, Iverbrook seconded the invitation. He put his foot down when a private parlour was suggested. Over luncheon he described his triumph in the marketplace, which Hasty ascribed to shopkeeper ancestors. Amabel was certain it was due to his personal charm and address, and the innate genius of the nobly born.

  “I am surprised to hear that Selena usually does it herself,” she added. “Such a very masculine business. La, I’m sure I should have no more notion how to set about it than a babe in arms!”

  “Doubtless,” said the viscount drily.

  After the meal they escorted the lady to her carriage, handed her in, and watched as it drove off.

  “What the devil do you mean by asking her to eat with us?” demanded Iverbrook.

  Mr. Hastings was taken aback.

  “I can see no harm in it,” he protested. “You are not known here and she resides in London.”

  “I am certainly known to be staying with the Whittons, especially after this morning’s work. And she will regard it as encouragement to come to Milford Manor.”

  “Good Lord no, my dear fellow! Your chère-amie to call on your . . . ahem, on your brother’s family? Even the Merry Widow would not do such a thing.”

  “Would she not! She has done so already, and more than once, since I came into the country. I’d forgot you were out on Saturday when she was there.”

  “Oh no, I say, my dear Hugh! Can’t have that. Very bad ton, very bad indeed. It simply won’t do.”

  “How am I to stop her? She has known the Whittons forever, it seems. I can scarcely be expected to ask Lady Whitton to refuse her on the grounds that she used to be my mistress. Used to be, mind you, Hasty. I told her in London that all was over between us."

  “Don’t think she believed you, dear boy. It’s my belief she still has her eye on the banns, for it’s a title she’s after, mark my words.”

  “She won’t get mine! Hasty, you won’t mention this meeting to Miss . . . to the Whittons. Though I daresay she will herself when she turns up for the apple harvest tomorrow,” the viscount concluded gloomily.

  “The Merry Widow picking apples?” said Hasty, incredulous. “Never!”

  * * * *

  Mr. Hastings’s skepticism proved well-founded. Mrs. Parcott arrived at noon wearing a pink and white striped carriage dress of Circassian cloth, a pink cachemire spencer, a Leghorn straw bonnet with roses (pink), and a striped parasol. Nothing could have been more charming, nor more unsuitable for any exertion beyond a stroll in formal gardens.

  Sir Aubrey, fortunately dressed in a crimson which complimented her pink, spread a rug on a wooden bench by the orchard gate, where stood a cart half loaded with baskets of apples. He seated her there, and begged permission to join her.

  “I was never more shocked in my life,” he remarked, “than when I discovered that the family intended actually to help in the picking.”

  “Indeed,” she murmured, “I had thought it rather an occasion for a picnic or something of the sort. Is not that Mr. Hastings in that tree? La, it is no place for a Tulip of the Ton to be seen!”

  “My cousin Delia persuaded him to it. No true Dandy would so compromise his principles.”

  “They say Brummell turns back from the hunt after the first field lest the white tops to his boots be splashed. Of course, Iverbrook is careless in his dress, and subject to odd enthusiasms, so I am not surprised that he has not yet noticed my arrival.”

  At that moment his lordship passed down a basket of pippins to Selena and Delia, saying something that made them laugh and nearly drop it. With merry faces they turned to carry it to the gate, and caught sight of Amabel, a vision of rustic beauty.

  “Why has Mrs. Parcott come here again?” demanded Delia. “You were not used to be so intimate with her. In fact, I thought you disliked her excessively.”

  “I do!” said Selena through gritted teeth, immediately conscious that she was hot and tired and grubby, that her cotton dress was not only faded but stained, and that her hair was tousled and probably full of leaves. Iverbrook was climbing down the ladder behind her and could not fail to be struck by the contrast.

  “Put that down, Selena,” said the viscount. “I shall carry it, or one of the men. I have been enjoying myself so, I had not realised how hard we have made you work.”

  Amabel came to meet them, her pink kid half-boots and dainty ankles revealed as she raised her skirts to clear the grass.

  “Poor Selena, you do look tired,” she said brightly. “And the sun is so hard on a delicate complexion, is it not? I can see that that is no occupation for a lady.”

  “Which is why you have arri
ved just in time for luncheon, no doubt,” said Iverbrook. “Selena, take my arm as far as the house.”

  “Yes do,” agreed Mrs. Parcott, “and I shall walk on your other side, Hugh, for I declare your sleeve is so soiled I hardly like to touch it.”

  “I must tell the men it is time to eat their dinners,” said Selena, turning away. “Delia, pray call Mr. Hastings down from his tree, since you talked him into it. Jem! Where is the keg of ale I bade you bring? It is time to broach it. Has Carter kept a count of the baskets, as I asked?”

  Willy-nilly, his lordship escorted Amabel back to the house.

  Luncheon was not a cheerful meal, especially after Amabel mentioned how kind Hugh had been to treat her to a fine spread in Abingdon on the previous day. Even the urbane Mr. Hastings lost his tongue, and only Lady Gant and Sir Aubrey seemed unconscious of restraint.

  Selena returned to the orchard, rejecting any further assistance. Iverbrook escaped to the nursery and Lady Whitton, called away by Mrs. Tooting, remembered Lady Anne’s obscure warning and bore off Delia with her. Mr. Hastings, far too gentlemanly to run away, was left to entertain Lady Gant, no arduous task as he merely had to school his features into an expression of interest and murmur, “Indeed!” now and then.

  “How very vexatious!” said Mrs. Parcott in a low voice to Sir Aubrey. “Selena is as close to pulling caps with Iverbrook as I could have wished, but Iverbrook is at outs with me. You must make a push to win her. Have you proposed marriage to her yet?”

  “Yes,” admitted the baronet sheepishly. “She said she did not feel for me as a wife ought towards her husband.”

  “Missishness! And most unbecoming at her age. However, you must not expect her to proclaim undying love at first asking. It will take some effort on your part to engage her affections, you know! She will not drop into your hand like a ripe apple.”

  “Why should she not? At her age! It is an excessively suitable match and I think she cannot have taken a dislike to my person.” He smoothed his thick, wavy golden hair and presented his profile for the widow’s inspection.

  "You ought to wear blue,” she said, “or green."

  “Henry Cole of Brighton is said to wear nothing but green. His fame has reached even to Jamaica. I do not wish to be a mere imitator.”

  “Blue then. Red is such a trying colour.”

  He frowned. “I was under the impression,” he said haughtily, “that red became me to perfection.”

  “Certainly. A complexion such as yours, my dear Sir Aubrey, looks superb in any hue. But think of Selena. Her face is pale, and freckled too; red makes her positively haggard.”

  The baronet looked sulky. “I don’t know that I want to marry her after all. Neither her appearance nor her manners are more than tolerable.”

  “You must not let her intimidate you!” said Mrs. Parcott in alarm, involuntarily raising her voice. Mr. Hastings regarded her with surprise, and she went on in a near whisper, “Only think of the fine property you will own! I can see I shall have to help you. You say you are all going to the ball in Oxford on Saturday?”

  Mrs. Parcott’s plans for assisting Sir Aubrey to a bride appeared to please the gentleman, for he sniggered once or twice and Mr. Hastings heard him say, “‘Pon my soul, you’re a clever woman.” When after half an hour, neither Iverbrook nor Lady Whitton had reappeared, Sir Aubrey escorted the ladies to their carriage in a high good humour.

  Lord Iverbrook, with Grandmama's permission, had carried Peter down to the orchard, bundled in a rug. Selena would willingly have ignored the viscount’s presence but she could not ignore her nephew when he waved and called to her.

  She offered him an apple.

  “I want to climb up a tree and pick one,” he said. “If I get stuck, Uncle Hugh will help me down, won’t you, Uncle Hugh?”

  “I think you had better not, Peterkin. You are still convalescent.”

  “Grandmama said I may. Uncle Hugh asted her. Long as I don’t get cold or hot or wet.”

  “Or tired,” confirmed Uncle Hugh. “Which tree would you suggest, Selena?” He smiled at her over the child’s head.

  She looked away quickly. “Phoebe and I always used to climb that winesap over there. It is easy because it grows at a slant, and the apples are sweet."

  They stood beneath the tree, watching Peter climb, Iverbrook ready to catch him if he slipped.

  “Is . . ." Selena's voice sounded strange and she cleared her throat. “Is Amabel gone already?”

  “I neither know nor care.” Iverbrook turned to her and took both her hands in his. “Selena, I knew Amabel in town before I went to Jamaica. She had any number of admirers, the sort of court collected by any beautiful and fashionable young widow living on the fringes of Society, and I was one of them. That life is past. I have a mission now, and a nephew, and soon, I dare to hope . . .”

  “Uncle Hugh, look at my apple. Isn’t it big, Aunt Sena? It’s the biggest one on the tree. I can't climb ‘cos I have to hold onto it with my hand. Come and get me, Uncle Hugh.”

  Uncle Hugh went.

  * * * *

  On Saturday evening, Lord Iverbrook was loitering in the hall when Selena descended the stairs, dressed for the ball. She seemed to float in her gown of amber sarcenet, trimmed with Honiton lace, and the topaz necklace at her throat sparkled no more brightly in the candlelight than did her eyes.

  She read admiration in his face and a delicate flush tinted her cheeks.

  He bowed low over her hand.

  “Madam, allow me the pleasure of driving you to the ball. I wish to be seen to arrive with the most elegant lady in the place.”

  She dimpled. “Why thank you, kind sir. I shall be happy to go with you, if Mama permits.”

  “I have already consulted Mama. At first she did not think it quite the thing for a young lady to drive alone with a gentleman at night, but I pointed out that since it will be dark, no one will see us, and she is altogether won over.”

  “I do not believe you even broached the subject! However, I mean to tell Mama I am going with you, not to ask her if I may, and I doubt she will object. You are, as even Lady Anne was forced to acknowledge, practically one of the family.”

  “‘Practically’ will not suffice for long,” he said, a gleam in his eye.

  The door bell rang and Bannister admitted Jane and Clive Russell, who were to dine at the Manor before they all set out for Oxford. Clive had promised his mother to see that Jane danced only with gentlemen of their own party.

  “For she is not yet out, ma’am, you know,” he explained to Lady Whitton. “And she is to ride with me in our own carriage. Will you go with us, ma’am? Our coachman is very safe and steady, I promise you." He glanced wistfully at Delia, who was looking very pretty in pale blue muslin, her silk-smooth hair wound in a knotted, grown-up style. She was laughing with Mr. Hastings and had scarcely acknowledged his arrival.

  Mr. Hastings, Delia, and Sir Aubrey were to travel in the Whittons’ barouche. Selena thought of suggesting that it was not quite proper for her little sister to go alone with two gentlemen, but she was too happy in her own arrangement to risk upsetting it. Her mother seemed oblivious of any possible impropriety, and she decided that Lady Anne’s strictures must be preying on her mind. After all, if Iverbrook was nearly one of the family, Cousin Aubrey was not only a family member but actually the head of it. She dismissed her qualms and prepared to enjoy the evening.

  Delia was already enjoying herself. She had noticed Clive’s pleading look and deliberately ignored it. Handsome as he undoubtedly was, next to Mr. Hastings’s sartorial splendour he looked a country bumpkin. Not that Mr. Hastings was flamboyantly dressed—far from it. His fastidious black and white made Sir Aubrey’s vermilion ridiculous.

  Sir Aubrey seemed unaccountably nervous. He jumped when spoken to, and had a tendency to look behind him in a hunted way. He insisted on conferring with Jem, on the box of the Whitton carriage, for several minutes while the others disappeared down the drive and out i
nto the lane. Delia was biting her nails with impatience by the time they set off at last.

  It was a moonlit night, and once they reached the post road they proceeded at a good pace for several miles. Delia had been to Oxford any number of times, and she chattered about shopping expeditions and concerts and the hordes of dashing young gentlemen who swarmed about the city during the university terms.

  “I have never been to an Assembly, though,” she confided, “for though I was old enough last year, we were in mourning for poor Phoebe. Is it not vastly exciting?”

  She scarcely noticed when they left the main road at Cowley and drove a short way down a bumpy lane, but as they turned in between gateposts of ornately carved stone, she exclaimed in surprise.

  “Wherever are we?” she said, puzzled. “The ball is in the Assembly Rooms at the Blue Boar, not at a private house. Jem has made a mistake.”

  “You are sure?” queried Mr. Hastings. “Let me stop him before we disturb the residents.”

  “It’s all r-right,” stammered Sir Aubrey. “I t-told him to come here.”

  Before they could demand an explanation, the carriage reached the end of the short drive and pulled up before an elaborately Italianate house. The front door swung open at once, and there stood Amabel Parcott, resplendent in a daringly diaphanous, peach-coloured ball gown, already hatted and gloved. A servant was placing a cloak about her exposed shoulders as Sir Aubrey let down the step of the barouche, and a moment later she seated herself beside him.

  “G-go on!” he called to Jem.

  Unlike the baronet, Mrs. Parcott was perfectly composed.

  “So kind of you to stop for me,” she said, pressing his hand, then turned to the others. “When I told Sir Aubrey that my parents would be absent for several days, taking our carriage with them, he insisted on fetching me on the way."

  Delia was too young, and Mr. Hastings too proper, to do anything but accept the situation with what complaisance they could muster. As they left Cowley behind and started down Headington Hill, the former wondered what Selena would say, while the latter had a very good idea of what to expect from Lord Iverbrook!