Hayley Ann Solomon

by The Quizzing-Glass Bride

  “Gracious, how can you know that?”

  A slip of the tongue, but all of London knew Sir Peter never went near his library. Warwick lied glibly. “Oh, an educated guess! The wing smells of Holland covers.”

  Fern relaxed. “You are right, of course. It is all storerooms up here. All except this marvelous library, which houses the most splendid works imaginable. I come here for solitude, though Mama disapproves of my always having my nose in a book.”

  “I suppose she must. It is such a very pretty nose.”

  Fern grinned. “You seem determined to cheer me from the doldrums, sir.”

  “I am. In fact, it is my mission. Here, I shall pick up your Scott and restore it to its shelf. Then you shall tell Uncle Rick everything.”

  “Rick?”

  Blow it, he had better be careful. He had nearly slipped up again. Lord Riccardo Warwick then lied as smoothly as if he was born to it. “Yes, short for Eric, Viscount Sandford, but we shall not stand on ceremony, you or I.”

  Fern nodded, and Warwick congratulated himself on his quick thinking. It was not such a terrible lie, after all, since Sandford was one of his lesser titles.

  “Come on, then. Why was the beautiful princess crying?”

  “I was not crying—I detest tears. I was merely sniffing.”

  “So why were you sniffing, then?”

  “It would be improper to tell.”

  “Ah.” Warwick’s eyes gleamed, but he pressed his point no further. Yes, she was blushing quite deliciously, and it was perfectly impossible to simply stand there and not take her in his arms. But he was good. He had to be, if he did not want this delightful creature to turn into a glaring virago again.

  “May I take a seat?”

  “But of course! Where are my manners?”

  Lord Warwick had wondered that several times in the last twenty-four hours, but he declined to point this out.

  “I really should go,” Fern said.

  “No, stay. You interest me.”

  “How so?”

  “Oh, you have a story to tell that is sadder than mine. I see it in those sparkling eyes. Tell as much as you can—it will help pass the time.”

  “My life is no entertainment, sir!”

  “No, but nor is it tragedy. Sometimes it helps to talk, and I, quite providentially, happen to be here. Better than a pillow.”

  “A pillow?” Fern looked bewildered.

  “Every lady of my acquaintance whispers her agonies of first love into a pillow. I am surprised you do not know of such a practice.”

  Fern laughed. “Oh, but I do! I have done so several times!”

  “You have been in love so often?” Warwick looked whimsically shocked.

  Fern held out her ungloved fingers. They were smooth and pale, healthy half-moons at the tip of each nail. He noticed this fleetingly as she began counting mischievously.

  “Indeed! With my dance master, with a great brute of a man who threatened me when I merely fed one of his horses, with . . . Oh, this is a silly game. I shall not continue.”

  “Now why am I so interested in that third person?”

  He asked this softly, almost to himself, but his eyes met Fern’s directly. “Tell me of the dance master.”

  “He was tall and gangly, but oh, his steps were heavenly and he taught me to waltz.”

  “Good God! What did Lady Reynolds have to say about this?”

  “Nothing, for she never knew. We kept it a complete secret. I was devastated when he left to become secretary to Lord Garadeen.”

  “But you came ’round, I collect? You are heart-whole once more?”

  “Oh, indeed! Until, that is, I met—oh! We shall talk of something else. This is not at all diverting.”

  “Au contraire. I am diverted. Does this mean you fell in love, again, with the brute?”

  “Yes, though I don’t know why! He threatened me quite abominably and he wore whiskers.”

  “What is wrong with whiskers? They are a mark of distinction!”

  “They are prickly.” Fern made a face. “But he had the most magnificent Arabian imaginable, so I forgave him this small defect.”

  “And the third?”

  Fern blushed. “He is not actually the third, for he is just another, more arrogant version of the second. Only older. I daresay his whiskers are uglier.”

  “You did not see them, then?”

  “No, for I am as blind as a bat without my spectacles, and Mama refused to permit them when we met for dinner. It was an unmitigated disaster.”

  “Poor Fern! I shall call you that, for I feel we shall be firm friends.”

  Fern sniffed suspiciously, and her eyes filled with tears. Warwick could see the blur behind her hated spectacles.

  “How do you know you love him, then, if you have not seen him?”

  “I do not, for he is arrogant and unfeeling and did not even have the decency to propose, only talking of settlements and such, just as if I were a common chattel, not a person at all!” Fern’s tone was indignant.

  “He should undoubtedly be whipped.” Warwick’s tone was perfectly serious, but his eyes danced. He had been right! She was miffed! But why in the world did she persist in believing him whiskered? Surely, when they had kissed, she had been disabused of such a strange notion? He wondered how to tactfully probe this mystery, but paused, as Fern continued.

  “Yes, he should be whipped, but I daresay he was punished enough when my tiara fell on his foot. It is solid gold and as heavy as lead, I can assure you! I shall never wear it again—it gave me a frightful headache and caused me to walk like a . . . like a . . .”

  “Like a dowager with an attitude?”

  “Precisely, though I can’t see how you should picture it all so clearly!”

  “Believe me, I can picture it.” Warwick thought he would choke on his laughter. His eyes twinkled bright with hilarity. Fortunately, the library was dark, with little natural light and several heavy velvet drapes, so Fern remained wholly unsuspicious.

  “You are very comforting. I feel you understand, which is a marvel, for my parents cannot, and I assure you if I were any younger it would be bread and water for a week!”

  “Then they must be unfeeling monsters. How came you to love this paragon?”

  “I told you, I do not love him at all! Well, only a little, and only because he seemed to understand when I said I did not want to play. He tried to cover for me. It was really very kind.”

  “Did you thank him?”

  “No, I was abominably rude.”

  “Surely not? You seem such a gentle creature!”

  “I am, in the general way, but he stirred up the most nonsensical feelings and caught me . . . staring at him with a quizzing glass. I was mortified beyond belief!”

  “Ah, those whiskers. Were they terribly bristly?”

  Fern groaned. “It was not the whiskers that arrested my attention!”

  “No?”

  “No! And don’t you dare ask me what it was that captured my notice, for I swear I shall throw that pitcher of lemonade at you!”

  “Ah. I perceive, at last, your dilemma. You were caught in unmaidenly pursuit.”

  Fern blushed fiercely at the very memory. “It was not pursuit, precisely, but interest. He is a remarkably handsome man. That is, I think he is.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, for all I could see of him was a blur, fuzzy at the edges. But he used to be passing handsome, and he has not, to my certain knowledge, grown fat.”

  “That must be a relief! How came you by such knowledge?”

  “If you must know, he kissed me on the balcony. Shocking behavior, but I don’t see what else he could have done, for my parents practically forced him into it, much to my extreme mortification!”

  “And delight?”

  “You ask too much for a stranger!”

  “We are not strangers; we are friends. Would you not confide so in a sister?”

  “Yes, but I have none!” />
  “Voilà, then! I am of some use! You may unburden your feelings.”

  “You are not my sister, but I shall not quibble. I have done enough reprehensible things this past quarter to know that one more cannot matter. You help me clear the muddle from my head, Lord Sandford.”

  “Then it is well. So tell. Did the kiss delight you?”

  “Yes, but I have no notion why, after his abominable behavior toward me!”

  “Well, he has been punished for it, as you say. Why don’t you just explain to him the matter of the spectacles?”

  “He would think I was having second thoughts.”

  “You are.”

  “I am not! I have always loved him! Well, for five years at any rate. Clandestine and odd, maybe, but real, nonetheless! I used to look for him at so many balls, but it was only once that he ever acknowledged me, and then in such a hideously toplofty manner I was crushed.”

  “So tell him. If he wants to wed you . . .”

  “That is the point! After last night, he would be a bedlamite if he did! I released him from any obligation, and if I go to him now, it will simply look as though I regret it.”

  “You do.” The logic was unarguable.

  Fern sighed. “Yes, but for the right reasons. He will suspect the wrong ones.”

  “That you are an unconscionable little fortune hunter with nothing but rank in your heart?”

  “You put it severely, but I must thank you. Yes, that is how he would see it. He would think I was merely regretting my fit of bad temper.”

  “You will not give him the benefit of deciding for himself?”

  “No, for I will be mortified either way. He does not love me, you see. He cannot, if he chooses to ignore me all these years, then haggle with Mr. Potters over bits of land!”

  Warwick, who knew perfectly well that he had not haggled, had not had the remotest interest, even, in settlements, bit his tongue. He could not defend himself for fear of giving away the game. And somehow, he did not feel that this particular game had played itself to its conclusion.

  “What shall you do, then? Closet yourself away with your potions?”

  “No, for Mama will wear me down to the bone. If I do not marry him, I shall never live down the disgrace.”

  “Then you should remove immediately to London! Have you no relatives?”

  “None at all. Or none who would bear the cost of an extra mouth to feed when I have been so undeserving! No, I shall have to do something more drastic, I fear. I shall disguise myself as a boy—for I am not so green as to think London a safe place for a lady on her own—and I shall seek work of some kind. Perhaps as a scrivener, for my handwriting is as neat as ninepence even if I say so myself.”

  “Your parents shall die of mortification!”

  “They might, but more likely they will wash their hands of me. It is better than spending the rest of my life in their black books, I think, being a pensioner in my own home.”

  Warwick thought not, but he did not wish to quibble at so interesting a point. So he asked the obvious. “Why not just simply a marchioness?”

  Fern looked up sharply. “So! You guessed the identity of my suitor?”

  “But naturally. It is the talk of the neighborhood and I am judged, in some circles, to be quite astute, Miss Reynolds.”

  “Well, you are. No, I can’t be a marchioness. The poor man is probably thanking his lucky stars for his narrow escape. You have not heard the worst.”

  “Good Lord, there is more?”

  “Indeed. I attempted Bach’s air on G. A trifling little piece, I assure you, though pleasant—Bach is always pleasant.”

  “How unexceptional. I fail to perceive the problem!”

  “The problem is that I was seated farther from the harp than I thought, so started on the incorrect note! I tried frantically to make the correction, but succeeded only in a series of excruciating twangs that must have sent his lordship into whoops! Or spasms of despair, since he was honor bound to marry me!”

  “So you cried off?”

  “Of course! There was no other option!”

  “You could have explained—”

  “And sounded like a whining little ninnyhammer? I think not. No, I shall leave on the next chaise for London. If I simply disappear, he need feel no qualms about terminating the arrangement. If I stay, Papa will doubtless threaten to sue for breach. I would sink with mortification, then!”

  “Yes, I see that. But all the same, Miss Reynolds, I cannot permit you to take the stage by yourself, disguise or no.”

  “Well, I agree it is not . . . convenable, as my French governess would say, but there is no other option.”

  “There is. You shall disguise yourself as a page in my household and travel under my protection. I assure you, the path of a viscount is smoother than that of the common stage. And the carriage, I might mention, is a great deal better sprung.”

  Fern jerked up her eyes. They were so expressive, it was like watching a mirror, framed, of course, in iron, like the ubiquitous spectacles. Doubt warred with hope. Excitement warred with flat despair. He waited in stillness, for much hung on her answer, and he feared she might waver or doubt his pure intentions. Which were, by the way, pure, unlike his desires. These he steadfastly ignored, despite their obtrusive nature.

  It seemed he would like nothing better than an illicit day of pleasure with his bride-to-be. His “quizzing-glass bride,” he liked to think of her, though she would have gasped in horror. The patience paid off.

  After several moments of painful deliberation, Miss Fern made the hardest and bravest decision of her life. She would alienate her family, disgrace her name, but surely, surely, save the man she loved from annoyance. He would not be forced to marry her. Neither would he be dragged through the courts for breach. Fern smiled brilliantly at Viscount Sandford. Her lips curved delightfully, but in the translucent green of her eyes, there was no answering laughter.

  Five

  Fern struggled through a note to her parents, then sealed it quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. They would never understand her reasoning—she hardly did, only she knew for certain it would be a shabby thing to do to foist herself upon Warwick. Of course, she told herself crossly, if he had only taken the time to get to know her, he might have saved her a lot of bother. He would never, most likely, have proposed, and therefore never exposed himself to issues of breach.

  She had little doubt that Sir Peter, stuck with a daughter whose first season had been an unmitigated disaster, would stop at nothing to get her firmly established. He would undoubtedly therefore threaten breach, knowing full well the famous Hargreaves dislike of scandal. All very well, but the direct consequences of all this conniving would be that she was foisted upon a man who despised her! And if he didn’t now, he soon would, when he was leg-shackled forever in such distasteful circumstances.

  A small voice told Fern that she was foolish, that she should seize her chances and marry the man of her dreams. Unfortunately, it was not just she who dreamed of him, but also half the unwed ladies of London. The wed ones, too, if rumor was correct. The Marquis of Warwick, she suspected, was a rake. Which brought her full circle again. Rakes do not take kindly to having their hands forced. He would hate her, hate her spectacles, and hate her pet parrot, Kate. She simply could not bear that, for she and Kate went way back to the fourth county fair, where she was purchased for threepence from a sailor.

  Her language had never been expurgated, of course, but oh, she was the most intelligent creature alive! Fern could not imagine life without her. Even Mimsy indulged her, which was saying a lot, for she did not normally hold with birds and had been severely disapproving from the first. Now she and Kate had called a truce.

  Kate no longer squawked “Washerwoman washerwoman!” when Miss Garret entered Fern’s chamber, and Miss Garett, upon occasion, poked seeds in through the bars.

  The parrot, blue tailed and bright, eyed Fern suspiciously. “Squawk! Squawk!” she said.r />
  “Yes, of course you shall come! I cannot think that one extra piece of luggage will burden the viscount a great deal. He seemed a very pleasant gentleman!”

  The parrot, satisfied, stopped squawking and cocked her head against the bars.

  “Yes, you are wondering what is to be done. So am I. But if we keep wondering, we shall lose our nerve. I shall take all of my pin money for the next quarter and pray that something comes up. Why, we might even apprentice ourselves to an apothecary! I have always been interested in potions. Or I could seek work as a clerk. There is always a need, I am perfectly certain, for educated gentlemen who can read and write. It might be fascinating, Kate! What say you?”

  But the words that Kate squawked were not suitable for a young lady’s ears. Fern ignored her, therefore, and finished her final note—addressed to Mimsy, this time—painstakingly dotting each i and blotting her work so that it would not smudge from either ink or tears.

  It was not until her baggage was safely stowed—Kate conveniently covered on the floor between them—that the coach had made its first jolting start. The shudder was due, Fern realized, more to a rut in the road than to any defect with the carriage itself. This was very tastefully outfitted, in dark royal blue velvet with squabs that were functional rather than flowery. A man’s chaise, for though it paid painstaking attention to detail, it was not extravagantly embellished like Lady Reynolds’s was. It was paneled in oak with copper trim and made the other occupant seem larger and more intimidating than he had seemed before. Also, rather more immaculate, for he was dressed for driving, in a coat that sported four capes and fitted his form rather too perfectly for strict maidenly comfort.

  Fern tried not to stare, then revised her strategy to trying not to be caught staring—there was no doubt about it, she had underestimated Viscount Sandford. He was a magnificent specimen of a man.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I only wondered if I passed muster. You have been staring at me through those spectacles of yours these five minutes past!”

  “Oh! How impertinent of me! I must beg your pardon, of course.”

  “Not at all. I find the situation quite novel. It is usually I, you see, who does the scrutinizing.”