Allen squeezed her hands again. “Seems he’s a particular friend of the Duke of Petheringstone, and that stinking lickspittle is as tight as a tick on a hog’s arse with Kirkpatrick.”
“Mind your tongue, Allen.” Mother dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. She wrinkled her nose the merest bit. “Though it’s true, Petheringstone has no more fondness for cleanliness than the captain.”
Why are they blathering on about bathing habits?
Ivonne slanted her head to meet Father’s gaze. “I don’t understand how or why the prince is involved.”
Father lifted an elaborate gold-trimmed, beribboned document clearly bearing the Regent’s insignia. “The prince has demanded an introduction to the groom, and Prinny’s announced he’ll attend the wedding.”
“Pardon?” Ivonne yanked her hands from Allen’s. “You cannot be serious. The Regent hasn’t spoken more than a dozen words to me since I was presented at court.”
All pretense of calmness splintered to pieces. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to lessen the sudden pounding in her head. She darted a frantic glance to her father. “And I don’t recall Father being a particular favorite of his either.”
Unable to sit a moment longer, Ivonne surged to her feet.
“Why would he insist on attending my wedding?” She pointed at her chest before flapping her hand in the air. “An imaginary wedding at that?”
Tears pricked her eyelids and clogged her throat.
Father came round from behind his desk. Wrapping her in his embrace, he held her head against his chest and awkwardly patted her back.
“I’m afraid Petheringstone is an old enemy. I believe he suspects there’s no groom and hopes to get us—your mother and I—deep in suds with His Highness.”
Mother stood and touched Ivonne’s shoulder. “Petheringstone never forgave your father for winning my hand in marriage.”
“That’s true.” Father’s voice rumbled deep in his chest as if he struggled with his emotions. “But more on point, he never forgave me for besting him in the duel we fought over you.”
“Duel?” Allen and Ivonne chimed as one.
Father sighed before kissing the top of Ivonne’s head. “Yes. He fired before the count finished. By the grace of God, he only nicked my shoulder.”
“A drunken one-eyed goat herder has better aim than Petheringstone.” Mother gazed at Father with admiration.
“True, the man’s always been a wretched shot, though his skill with a blade is far worse.” Father took a step away from Ivonne. “I had no desire to kill the blackguard, so I shot him in the foot, thinking the leather of his boot offered him some protection. He’s been lame since.”
“Some jealous cawker gets to dictate my future?” Ivonne couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice.
Mother grasped Ivonne’s shoulder, turning her until she faced her mother. “I’m sorry, darling. There’s no help for it. The duke, much like Captain Kirkpatrick, is a man obsessed.”
Cupping Ivonne’s face, her mother attempted a brave smile that better resembled a watery grimace.
“Petheringstone has the prince’s ear and his favor. The Regent won’t be dissuaded. That,” Mother pointed to the oval desk where the document lay, “is, in effect, a royal decree.”
“This is utterly ridiculous,” Ivonne protested. “Who does he think he is, meddling in our private affairs? This is 1818, for pity’s sake.”
Allen slapped his thigh, his expression fierce. “Once he gets a notion in his pickled head, there’s no changing his mind. His disfavor isn’t something anyone wants to be at the receiving end of, I assure you.”
He met Father’s troubled gaze. “I’m certain you recollect what happened to Lord Forester when he ignored His Highness’s suggestion that the baron ought to wed Mrs. Ellington.”
“Mrs. Ellington?” Ivonne didn’t recall her. And, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen the baron at all this Season. “Who is Mrs. Ellington?”
Allen fumbled in pouring himself a glass of sherry and splashed a few droplets on the rosewood cabinet. “One of Prinny’s ... ah ...”
“Mistresses who found herself in the family way.” Pink tinted Mother’s high cheekbones.
Ivonne fought the urge to roll her eyes skyward. For heaven’s sake, they acted like she had no idea such indiscretions occurred. Half the ton engaged in dalliances.
Father nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ruined the poor man and his family. Last I heard, to keep a roof above his two sisters’ and invalid mother’s heads, Forester married another of Prinny’s cast-offs.”
Bother, blast, and damnation! Surely this is a terrible nightmare, and I’ll awaken any moment.
Father returned to his chair behind the cumbersome mahogany partners’ desk. Frowning, he read the letter from the prince again. He sighed and, apparently defeated, slouched against the leather. He gazed at her, his eyes dark with regret.
“Ivonne, I’m afraid we’re at point non plus.” His voice caught as he spoke. “You’ll have to pick a suitor to bring up to scratch. If you don’t, I will.”
She gasped and clutched Mother’s clammy hand.
“The wedding is two months from this Friday.” Father tapped the paper, his voice gaining strength. “Prinny expects to meet the groom within a fortnight.”
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Eleven
That same day, across Town
Eyes narrowed, Chance stared at Samuel Tobbins. Assistant to Franklin Belamont, Chance’s solicitor, Tobbins wiped his forehead with his limp handkerchief for the fourth time. The diminutive fellow perspired to such a degree, Chance half expected him to slosh when he walked.
“I assure you, your file hasn’t been misplaced.” The man flitted about the office like a disoriented moth, searching for the missing folder.
Arms crossed, Chance arched a brow.
“Where are they?” Tobbins bent to peer beneath a haphazard pile of papers atop an otherwise organized desk. Clicking his tongue, he scampered to another stack of files and began flipping through them. “Where in the world are they?”
“You mean to tell me you don’t believe any of my correspondence or papers are here?” Chance gestured round the tidy office. “You think, perhaps, they’ve been forwarded to Suttoncliffe? The entire six years’ worth?”
This was what came of having the same solicitor as Father and Thad.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Faulkenhurst, but yes.” Nodding his balding head, Tobbins pushed his spectacles up his reedy nose. “I’m afraid that must be the case, for I cannot find a single document of yours.”
He wrung his hands together, his watery hazel eyes huge and worried. “I expect Mr. Belamont’s return from Rochester any day now, certainly not upward of a week. He can set you straight on the matter, I’m sure.”
Tobbins riffled through another pile of papers on a shelf behind the solicitor’s desk.
“Aha,” he exclaimed holding up a letter and practically dancing with glee. One would have thought he’d found a large banknote from his enthusiastic reaction. “Here’s a letter for you.”
He scuttled to where Chance sat. With the aplomb of a royal courtier, he presented the missive.
After breaking the seal, Chance scanned the short correspondence.
Exasperated by Chance’s failure to speedily sign the marriage agreement—for God’s sake, what did Lambert expect? Chance had been in India—his lordship had foisted his daughter off on another poor sot.
Chance examined the letter’s date. April.
All his worry had been for naught.
He refolded the paper and slid it into his coat pocket. A wry grin crept across his face.
One monumental obstacle out of the way.
“Good news, sir?” Tobbins waited, an expectant look on his face.
“Exceedingly good news.”
Chance shifted in the uncomfortable, smallish chair, far more appropriate for waiting in the hall than a lengthy meeting in a solicitor�
��s office. His missing fingers picked today to ache unbearably. Every twinge reminded him of last night and the pleasure of playing the piano with Ivy.
And kissing and caressing her.
That kiss. God help him, but he’d been hard put to keep from ravishing her right there in the drawing room while her parents and brother slept above. Her response had been a precious and unexpected gift. He’d never lost control that completely or quickly. Ivy was like nectar to his parched soul, balm to his wounded spirit.
Then she’d wept, and the vile truth hit him with the impact of a cannonball. He’d tasted her tears, the salt bitter on his lips. More rancorous was the despair that seized his heart, destroying the fragile remnant of hope buried there.
She couldn’t overlook his disfigurement.
Anger and hurt had overwhelmed his good sense, and he’d been cruel.
Last night had been a calamity, and except for learning the proposed marriage agreement with Mrs. Washburn was cancelled, little about this day had gone right either. He sighed and stood.
“The moment Belamont returns, please tell him I require an immediate appointment.”
“I shall, sir, you can be certain.” His relief tangible, Tobbins attempted a smile and opened the office door.
“I’m staying at Viscount Wimpleton’s residence. Please send word to me there.” Chance slapped his hat on his head. He didn’t have a card to offer with the Wimpletons’ address on it. “Do you know the place?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Tobbins continued to bob his head, reminding Chance of a nervous quail. “Berkeley Square in Mayfair.”
With a curt nod, Chance made his escape. Lost in thought, he set a brisk pace for several blocks. He crossed the street, dodging a landau stuffed with giggling misses. He recognized two of the fivesome, the Dundercroft sisters. He’d made their acquaintance last night.
Poised beneath her lacy parasol, the younger smiled and waved to him.
The elder swatted her sister’s hand and, after sending him a glare of reproach, scolded her sister soundly.
It seemed one of the Misses Dundercroft had taken distinct exception to him and the other a definite fancy. He executed a mocking half-bow and allowed a droll smile to tilt his mouth.
A young Corinthian astride a magnificent Arabian trotted by.
Chance needed to purchase a horse—a serviceable, though not expensive, stepper. Perchance Allen could be imposed upon to accompany him to Tattersall’s tomorrow.
And perhaps he had an acquaintance who, for a nominal fee, could investigate Robinson and locate his place of business in London for Chance as well. He must at least attempt to regain his lost funds. He blew out a long puff of air. He had about as much chance of that as a jellyfish surviving in the Great Thar Desert.
Rounding a corner, he strode in the direction of St. James Street. He’d sold his lieutenant’s commission an hour ago and, after depositing the nominal amount in the bank, had continued on to his solicitor’s. Chance had wanted to be on his way to Suttoncliffe the day after tomorrow. By Sunday at the latest, but Belamont’s absence complicated matters.
Perhaps Chance wouldn’t remain in Town after all. He’d waited this long to speak with the man. Another week seemed insignificant. Besides, his curiosity was aroused. Were his papers and correspondences at Suttoncliffe Hall?
If not, where the devil were they?
He flicked his pocket watch open. Quarter to five. He was late, but White’s was only a couple of blocks farther along this street, and Allen would linger. After all these years apart, their friendship hadn’t waned. Nevertheless, Chance increased his pace.
The morning and afternoon hadn’t gone as anticipated.
First, he’d overslept. No surprise there.
After seeing Ivy partially dishabille, a seductress in that clingy purple gown and robe, he’d given in to the urge to kiss her senseless—something he had yearned to do for years. He didn’t regret kissing her. Never had a woman’s lips tasted sweeter, made all the more so by his unprofessed love for her.
Love he didn’t have the right to proclaim.
Had her tears been born of pity and disgust?
Last night, that notion fueled the anger he’d kept repressed regarding the war, his injuries, his lost fortune, and his father’s meddling. His stride slowed. He’d believed Ivy different than the other women who scorned him because of his disfigurements. Her joy upon seeing him in the arbor had given him momentary hope. Her responses to his kisses had fueled his corkbrained optimism further.
Lying awake in the plush, oversized bed, the most comfortable place he’d rested in six years, his thoughts repeatedly turned to her asleep in her room. Why had she come below stairs in the first place? She’d seemed as eager to see him as he’d been to see her. She had enjoyed their kiss too.
Now they were estranged, and he had only himself to blame.
Chance couldn’t bear to have her angry with him. If she refused to speak to him ever again, he wouldn’t blame her. He’d been an ass of the worst sort. He must to make amends and apologize to her before he left for Suttoncliffe.
Actually, his time in England might very well be limited altogether.
Something Sethwick’s viscountess had said at the ball last night piqued Chance’s interest. Her late father had built a shipping conglomeration, which she now owned. Stapleton Shipping and Supplies had offices around the world, including Boston, Massachusetts. Chance was of a mind to inquire if any positions were available in the American offices.
Seeing Ivy again had made him realize why he’d left England the first time; aside from needing a fortune to entice her father that is.
To have the object of his affection this close, yet always unattainable was unbearable. The bowels of Hades boasted lavish comfort in comparison to the torment. He wasn’t confident he wouldn’t blurt his feelings to her at some point.
Her repugnance toward his injury was painful enough to tolerate, but that she wasn’t ever allowed to accept his love, even more so. Lord Wimpleton had made it clear that Chance wasn’t worthy of his daughter.
No, that was unfair.
Increasing his pace, Chance switched his cane to his other hand then immediately transferred the staff back again. Blast, so easy to forget he wasn’t whole anymore.
Wimpleton hadn’t refused his proposal outright. The viscount had told him to return when he had something to offer. Chance had failed in that respect.
If Ivy had even hinted last night that she returned his regard with the same fervency he felt toward her, he would ignore his circumstances and ask her to marry him. She was of age, and Wimpleton didn’t seem the sort to disown his daughter for marrying without permission. But was she the sort of woman to openly defy her father?
Her response to Chance in the drawing room gave him little confidence Ivy was smitten enough to cause a scandal. Besides, she’d lived a life of luxury and privilege. While not a spoilt tonnish damsel, she would find the meager existence he could provide more than difficult. She deserved the finest life had to offer, and he couldn’t give her that.
He wasn’t the sort to tap into her marriage settlement to make ends meet, either. Those funds belonged to her, to do with as she wished. So, he found himself precisely where he’d begun six years ago.
In love and without a means of providing for her.
Only a fool believed love was enough to make a go of it.
Oh, but he would play the fool a thousand times over for one chance to make Ivy his. He’d gamble his life for that opportunity and worry about how to care for her afterward. He would bury his pride and accept any employment offer that came his way.
Chance smiled as a ragged urchin raced down the street, a scraggly black dog at his bare heels.
He didn’t understand Ivy’s lack of suitable beaus. He might not be able to claim her, but, as long as he had a breath in his body, she’d ever settle for the likes of that piss maker, Kirkpatrick.
Ever.
White’s came into
view. The Duke of Argyll and Lord Worcester sat in the bow window, no doubt making ludicrous wagers on everything from where a bird dropping might land on the pavement to whether a passerby might sneeze or fart.
Chance supposed those with deep pockets didn’t think twice about wasting funds. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d wagered on anything, unless he counted the investment fiasco with Robinson. Men with pockets to let, such as he, didn’t toss coin about like cracked corn to chickens.
He entered the exclusive establishment, seeking Allen and the others who’d been apprised of Luxmoore’s calamity. Sorrow for his long-time friend gripped him.
Where were they?
He perused the interior, spying the group at a table in a secluded corner. Heads bent near, as if they didn’t want their conversation overheard, only Harcourt, Sethwick, and Allen conferred at the table. Two chairs sat empty, Lord Wimpleton evidently having departed already.
Chance closed the distance with long strides, suddenly famished and eager to see his friends. By God, he’d missed them these past years. Smiling, he opened his mouth in greeting.
Allen’s words stopped him cold.
“Prinny’s adamant. Thanks to Kirkpatrick’s meddling, my sister must produce a groom within a fortnight and wed within two months.”
Bloody hell.
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Twelve
Seated on the arbor bench, Ivonne kicked at a small pebble. It pinged against the lattice then rolled beneath some foliage. After the devastating announcement in Father’s study, she’d flown straight here, to her sanctuary.
Damnation.
Pick a suitor to marry. Just like that. As if she selected a new bonnet or a pair of slippers instead of a husband. How could the Regent make such an absurd demand? Interfering fat toad. This wasn’t the Dark Ages, for pity’s sake.
Produce a betrothed and invite me to the wedding or ... or ... off with your head.
Suffocating waves of dread choked Ivonne. She closed her eyes, fearing she would swoon.
Dear God. She must pick a man to wed, or Father would pick for her. This was real, not some horrid nightmare she’d awaken from. What was she to do? She couldn’t marry any of the men interested in her. She just couldn’t.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 28
