by Jo Goodman
"Then you were serious?"
"Completely. So was she."
The colonel's frown deepened as he considered this. "But you are quite wealthy."
"I believe she was the one to point that out. It did nothing to make my character flaws more palatable."
"Dunsmore cannot like that," Blackwood said. "There are debts, I believe. Heavy ones. Bad investments also."
It did not surprise Eastlyn. It was not an unusual circumstance with inherited titles and lands, especially ones that were entailed, as he surmised was the case in Sophia's family. Although the colonel had not offered the information yet, East gathered that the late earl was the reason for the empty pockets. "Lady Sophia does not seem to be of a mind to lay the problem of her family's finances at my door."
"Someone was," Blackwood reminded him.
"Yes. But she was not the one. Dunsmore, perhaps Tremont as well, might not be above trying to take advantage of the rumor, but as I mentioned before, I most sincerely doubt they are the source of it."
The colonel had his own idea who was responsible for starting the gossip, but he did not test his hypothesis with Eastlyn. He'd make a wager, he thought, with South or perhaps West. They were also likely to be privy to some information that he was loath to ask East. "When do you mean to confront this individual?"
"Soon."
"I have an assignment for you," Blackwood said. "If there is to be bloodshed, I would be obliged if you would make certain it is not yours."
"I have always been heartily grateful for your concern," East drawled. He sat up straight as his mind turned to the matter of his business with the colonel. "What is it you would have me do?"
"There has been serious discussion of establishing a settlement in Singapore. The East India Company would like to see it happen as early as next year, and I don't have to tell you how important a settlement would be to the Crown. If such a thing could be accomplished without an excess of political posturing, we would all be better served for it. You will see to it, won't you, East? You know the stage and the players. The Prince Regent's announcement that he is in favor of the settlement has had the unfortunate consequence of merely raising suspicions. There are more questions in Parliament about the soundness of the venture, and the East India Company wants to be assured of wider support."
"Military support, you mean."
"If it comes to that."
East was silent for several minutes as he applied his thinking to the problem. For all of that time it was as if he were alone in the colonel's study, every sense concentrated on the task before him. "It will mean negotiating with Helmsley and Barlough. They are among Prinny's most vocal detractors. I suspect something of substance will have to be offered to bring them around. Shares, perhaps, in the Company."
The colonel nodded once. "I trust you to know what is best. You have had dealings with Barlough before, as I recall, and been quite successful in reasoning with him."
"Stealing his chamberpot is always a good beginning."
Blackwood chuckled; the story was a favorite of his. "Liverpool has given his approval," he added. "He envisions this as a victory for the Tories if the naysayers can be brought around."
The prime minister was in need of a feather in his cap, Eastlyn thought. Liverpool's leadership during the Napoleonic wars had been crucial in bringing about a successful end, but the restrictive policies he had enacted during wartime were still in effect while the people's tolerance for them no longer was. Eastlyn was not in agreement with any plan, prescribed by government or demanded by the people that suppressed freedoms of speech and the press. "The minister has his own detractors," East said evenly, his opinion of no importance here. "He must be aware of the mounting opposition."
"How could he not be? His life is politics." He cocked one dark brown. "You will see to this? Speak to Helmsley and Barlough?"
East did not immediately agree, his mien still contemplative. "When you conceived of this assignment, had you already heard of my engagement?"
The colonel saw the direction of East's thinking before the figurative corner was turned. "Yes, but it is of no account because I did not make any connection between Lady Sophia and Tremont." The Earl of Tremont, Blackwood knew, would loom as large an obstacle to the establishment of the settlement as Helmsley and East's childhood tormentor. "If you are in expectation of problems because of it, you can pass on the assignment. I will speak to South when he returns from Battenburn."
East felt no urgency to rush his acceptance because the colonel suggested Southerton. He and his friends might compete at racing bloods through narrow London streets or wager who would be the first to nod off over his cups, but there was no rivalry for the colonel's work. "South will not make too fine a mess of it," East said equably. "I do not think he would be bothered a whit at the prospect of leaving Battenburn."
"South is on assignment at Battenburn," the colonel said. "And you are purposely being difficult."
East laughed. It was a charge that was often leveled at his head, most consistently by his own mother. "Very well. Of course I will do it. Tremont presents no conflict for me, though you should know at the outset that I will not sacrifice myself to marriage in order to secure a British settlement in Singapore."
"I never thought it."
"I am not remotely inclined to believe you," Eastlyn said without rancor. "You think of everything."
Blackwood was not offended in the least; rather he accepted it as a compliment. "It would be more accurate," he said, "that I considered and dismissed it."
"Just so." East rose to his feet. "I regret that I have to take my leave, sir. I have not yet spoken to my mother or father, and they are sure to have an opinion about the engagement-that-is-not. As to the Singapore matter, I will make all the appropriate contacts. I cannot say how long it will take to influence the outcome in favor of the Crown and the Company, but you may be confident that I will do whatever is required."
"Oh," the colonel said softly, "I am never so certain of anything as I am of that."
Eastlyn made a slight bow of his head, acknowledging the remark. "I am most grateful for your hospitality last night and again this morning. It was generous of you to look after me."
Blackwood dismissed East's thanks with a wave of his hand. "Pray, extend my best regards to Sir James and your mother. It has been an age since I've seen them about."
Since his parents were in society with a frequency that tired Eastlyn when he thought of it, he knew that it was the colonel who had become more confined. "I will certainly do so," he said. "They often inquire after you."
The colonel made no reply to that but wheeled his chair forward to see Eastlyn out. At the door he raised his eyes and regarded East with affected innocence. "You will keep me informed, won't you, in the event that you speak to Lady Sophia again and find yourself in need of either a physician or a special license."
Chapter 3
Lady Francis Whitney Winslow looked up from her embroidery as the pocket doors to the drawing room opened. Her eyes brightened as she took in the fine figure of her son standing on the threshold. "Ah! So you have come at last. And there's a good boy you are for not making me wait overlong. I heard that you had returned to London, but I thought the wags could not be in the right of it since you meant to be at Battenburn for a fortnight." She patted the space on the settee beside her and proffered her cheek at the same time. "So here you are, but as it is already past the noon hour, I collect I am not your first call of the day."
Grinning, East bent and kissed his mother's cheek. As scoldings went, it was a mild one. "But you are, Mother. Today's first call, that is. However, I arrived in town yesterday, so if you mean to split hairs..." He sprawled on the settee and turned slightly to one side to better gauge her reaction.
Franny Winslow had only affection for her son today. Perhaps later she would be out of sorts with him—not that it would last long—but this afternoon she was feeling most generous toward him. "I have decided to forgive
you," she said.
"That is good of you, though I suspect it is premature. You have not heard the whole of it."
That was when Franny looked more closely at her son. His eyes, often remarked to be much like her own in shape and color, were not as lively as they night have been. The smile, offered so easily to her upon his entry, showed some signs of strain at the corners. "Then it is as I first thought," she said. "There is no engagement."
He nodded. "Where is Father?"
"He has gone to his office and then to the bookseller's. He is most particularly excited about a manuscript that has come into his hands. I simply cannot rein him in. I'm afraid we cannot expect him soon. You will have to make do with me, Gabriel, and I will give him every detail. He cautioned me not to place too much credence in the rumors, and I can tell you, I was very torn. It is no easy thing to learn of your son's engagement from a friend, and one is bound to wonder at the truth of it, but a mother does have certain hopes for her children." She put her embroidery hoop aside and rested her hands in her lap. "Shall I ring for tea? Mrs. Eddy will have cakes for you. Your favorites, I am sure. She always does."
Eastlyn knew the futility of trying to refuse this offer and accepted it because it gave his mother so much pleasure to coddle him. In truth, at times like these he was not entirely opposed to it either. "I could not call on you until I had spoken to Lady Sophia," he said as she rose to ring for refreshments. "I did so immediately upon arriving in London, and there is now agreement between us as to how we mean to go on."
Franny looked over her shoulder and favored her son with an arid glance. "Separately, I take it."
"Yes, Mother. Separately." He thought her subsequent sigh a tad dramatic, but he supposed it was in proportion to her disappointment. "I must needs point out that Cara has presented you with three grandchildren, two male, all of whom are hale and hearty, though Simon does drool overmuch. The line shall continue, so there is no justification for pinning the whole of the responsibility on me."
Franny arched an eyebrow. "My, you are out of sorts."
"I beg your pardon."
"I should like to see you settled. I will not apologize for that."
Eastlyn closed his eyes briefly and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "You have been conspiring with Lady Redding. Southerton reports his mother has been preaching from the same text."
"It is hardly a conspiracy. We are of similar minds."
"And the Dowager Countess Northam?"
"The same." She laughed delightedly when she heard her son's soft groan. "You should surrender to the inevitable, you know. We will have our way." The butler arrived at the door, and Lady Winslow requested tea and cakes. She returned to the settee and patted her son's knee lightly. "Tell me about Lady Sophia. I confess I know little enough about her. Is it true she is Tremont's niece?"
"A cousin," East said. "Second, I think. That would make Dunsmore a third cousin."
"Oh, yes. Dunsmore. He is not an agreeable sort."
"More so than his father." While they waited for tea, Eastlyn shared what he knew about Sophie's family.
Bloodlines and family intrigues were not so important to Lady Whitney Winslow as they were interesting. She did not have to look farther than her own son to see what could be wrought when events conspired to reshape a family tree. She thought of her husband who was gone from home and what he would make of Gabriel's predicament; then she thought of the husband who was long gone from her life and what he would make of their son.
Gabriel was a man, she thought, but it was not so easy to always see him in that light. The vision of him as he was as a child in the aftermath of scarlet fever—frail, thin, his complexion mottled by sickness—was never completely absent from her mind. His beautiful eyes had been made unnaturally bright by the fever, but their gaze was unfocused. He cried for her and was too delirious to know that she came. That haunted her, the needy cry of her child and her inability to comfort him. She had already lost the battle to save her husband from the fever; she would have made any sacrifice demanded of her not to lose her son.
Walter Whitney was only thirty-five when he succumbed. He was the third son born to the Marquess of Eastlyn by that worthy's third wife. There had never been any expectation that Walter would inherit his father's title, and indeed, his premature death had insured it could not happen; yet his older brothers were similarly unsuccessful in attaining the longevity of their common sire, and the title and lands eventually came to Gabriel.
It had not passed Franny's notice that the title had passed through an entire generation of Whitney heirs in not much above a decade. Walter's oldest brother had breathed his last in his mistress's bed, a fact that was never mentioned in the family, but was well known, it often seemed, to everyone outside it. His son inherited next and upon reaching his majority promptly took a drunken spill from his thoroughbred's back and broke his neck. Having naught but a sister, and entailment being what it was, the title then went to Walter's second brother. While Samuel did his best to make certain the line continued through him, he sired only daughters, and upon his death (he shot himself examining his hunting rifle), it was Gabriel's.
Franny was not overjoyed by what some would say was her son's good fortune. It seemed to her that the title was more curse than blessing, and her inclination to protect her son from life's harsh turns could have easily become an obsession. It was Sir James, the man she had married after her mourning was at an end, who saw to it that she tempered her maternal instincts. He was, for all intents and purposes, Gabriel's father, and she did not believe the bond they forged could have been stronger had it been a bond of blood.
She wished her husband were here now because his presence could be counted on to provide calm and reason. Gabriel was, of course, both calm and reasonable, but Franny required the reassurance from someone who loved her son as well as she did. Sir James had done so from the beginning, taking Cara under his wing first, knowing all the while that Gabriel would follow his much admired sister's lead. It would not hurt, Franny thought, if Cara were here as well. For all that Gabriel seemed to have the matter of his false engagement well in hand, it could not hurt to hear other opinions.
"What do your friends say?" Franny asked, pouring herself a second cup of tea.
"They have made a point of wishing me happy."
Franny pursed her lips, but her disapproval was mostly feigned. "Fell all over themselves making the jest, I'll wager. Laughing too hard to voice an opinion or offer their help."
"Their opinion is that Lady Sophia has been poorly used." His voice dropped, and he added gently, "And they did not offer help because none is needed. It is all being dealt with."
"I trust that is so, Gabriel, yet it occurs to me that the understanding you have reached with Lady Sophia might be inadequate to halt the rumors."
"I have thought of that. There is one more call I will be making today."
"Oh." Franny fell silent, wondering what she dared say. Keeping her own counsel did not sit well with her, but there were also matters that one did not properly discuss with one's own son.
"Mother?" Eastlyn said.
She did not quite catch his eye, preferring to study the pattern of dainty blue flowers on her teacup. "Hmm?"
"You are biting your tongue, I can tell. You may as well say what is on your mind. It will save you from going to Father and putting him up to broaching the subject with me."
Franny placed the teacup on the silver tray at her side and fussed for a moment with a loose thread on the fringe of her shawl. "I can think of only one person who would want to cause you this sort of discomfort among your peers, Gabriel. It is Mrs. Sawyer that you intend to visit, is it not?"
Eastlyn had no one but himself to blame for the turn in this conversation. What other mother, even prompted to speak freely, would accept the invitation to discuss her son's mistress? He would wager Southerton had never had this dialogue with Lady Redding, and Celia Worth Hampton, for all that she was
unafraid to speak her mind on a variety of subjects, quite possibly drew the line at the topic of North's paramour. West was spared the ignominy on two counts: one, because his mother had been someone's mistress; and two, because she was dead. True, none of them were keeping a mistress at the moment, but the same could also be said of him.
"You are distressed, are you not, that I have mentioned her?" Franny said. "It is not the done thing, to be sure, but it cannot be avoided. She is an evil woman."
This genie was not going to return to the bottle, so Eastlyn resigned himself to the inevitable. "She is hardly evil, Mother. It is truer to say that she is unhappy."
"She is a woman scorned."
Although his mother made this announcement in a tone that brooked no argument, Eastlyn could not let it pass. "I did not turn her out. Mrs. Sawyer chose to look elsewhere for protection."
"Because you would not come up to snuff."
There was an inkling of an ache behind his left eye that Eastlyn thought he would do well to suppress. He massaged his temple with his fingertips and said calmly, "You seem to know rather a lot about it."
"One hears things."
"You will never tell me how. Promise me you will never reveal how you come by your intelligence. I am certain it would be lowering to know that my life is grist for the mill."
"We discuss South and Northam, too."
Eastlyn groaned softly, both amused and resigned, and the ache behind his eye became a throb.
Franny saw the flicker of pain in her son's eyes and understood what was at the source of it. "Shall I ring for a compress?"
He shook his head. "It will pass." At least he wanted to believe it was so. He needed all his faculties when he confronted Annette. "More tea, perhaps." He said this not because he wanted any, but because he knew his mother would need to fuss. It was better to direct her in a fashion he could tolerate. His patience was not infinite by any means.
Franny poured and passed the cup and saucer. "There is one thing I do not understand," she said.
