“Be sure I shall, you minx! Now come here, I have something important to discuss with you.”
“Are they marriage proposals?” Lily sounded suddenly hopeful.
“Indeed they are. Lord Wainsborough offered yesterday, and Sir Archibald Trafford, too. No, I mistake. That was for Primrose. Or was it Daisy? I shall have to check.” He clicked his hands for a list and Richmond, hovering close by, obliged. My lord searched about for his spectacles. Then, with a quivering hand, he applied them to his ears and squinted at the page. “Ah, yes. Suitors for Lily. Ten, I believe, not counting Waring, who is entirely ineligible and Barrymore, of course.”
“Barrymore?” Lily jumped up and snatched the paper from his lordship’s hand.
“Tut-tut, young lady! You are not to grab. Very uncivil of you, I am sure!”
Lily did not hear. Her eyes scanned the paper eagerly. “But, Grandfather, you have not written the viscount down anywhere!”
“He is not suitable. Now Mollington ...”
“Mollington is a great baby, Grandfather!”
“Well, then, Wainsborough....”
“... cares only about restoring his coffers. If Primmy or Daisy get your wretched bequest, he would likely have an apoplexy and die on the spot”
“How convenient.”
Lily grinned. “Yes, very, but I should prefer to not have the bother. What if I got your wretched ransom? I should be saddled with him for life!”
“You would be a countess.”
“Tsha! A pox on countesses!”
The earl smothered a laugh and coughed convincingly instead. Barrymore, as he had suspected, would be perfect for Lily, but it would be over his dead body that he admitted it. Lily was such a troublesome creature, if she caught a whiff of approval, she would turn tail and run a mile.
“I will thank you to remember that your dear grandmama was a countess, young lady!”
“Well, one in the family is sufficient, then! Besides, let Primrose be a countess! I am sure she will be perfect for the part.”
“Mmm ... excellent advice. Might I ask if you had anyone in particular in mind?”
Lily blushed, though she was glad to have turned the earl’s wrath from herself. “Nooo ... and Primrose would eat Wainsborough for breakfast! I shall ponder the matter and report back to you directly.”
“How thoughtful.” Raven’s sardonic tone was quite lost on Lily, who nodded her head gravely and set her mind at once to the weighty matter of Primrose’s suitors. She was chagrined, therefore, to find that Raven had not lost the thread of their former discussion. His next sentence made her heart sink into her pretty little sandals.
“. . . In the meanwhile, you might consider the list. The only man I forbid is Barrymore, for he is a gambler and a rake.”
Lily’s eyes flashed, her chin tilted stubbornly and her beautiful gloves reached an indignant waist.
“How unfair, Grandfather, when you might just as well be describing yourself!”
“Impudent! I am handsomer than he!”
Lily giggled, in spite of her annoyance. No one—how—ever fond they might be——could describe the Earl of Raven as “handsome.” His brows were too bushy, his complexion too sallow, and age and ill usage had taken their toll upon his rather scraggy features. Lord Barrymore, on the other hand, was the very pink of health, with the liveliest of eyes and a dreamy curve to his lips that made them quite enchanting to most young ladies and one in particular.
“Giggle all you like, little madame! I tell you, in my day I was a veritable Adonis! Ask Richmond, if he can cast his mind that far back. But we wander from the point. I forbid you to marry Barrymore.”
“That is unfair!”
“He is only after the Raven’s Ransom.”
“And whose fault is that? You know perfectly well you have dangled it as a carrot in front of every suitor we have ever had. Well, I tell you, Grandfather, I don’t care the snap of a finger for your silly ransom!”
“And Barrymore? I’ll double your allowance if he can say the same.”
Lily looked disdainful. “I won’t gamble when the odds are heaped against me. Of course he cares about the money! He would be an addlepate if he did not! All my suitors care about the money, though it is only my eyes that they write sonnets about! They are passing pretty, I believe.” Lily could not help that comment as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass. In truth, her sea green eyes were truly magnificent, encased as they were by fronds of deep, dark lashes.
“Baggage! I believe I shall buy you a looking glass for a wedding gift.”
“Then I may marry Barrymore?” Lily’s voice was surprisingly eager. The earl nearly relented, then considered he would be needlessly depriving himself of a great deal of fun. The little chit would doubtless dream up something outrageous to keep him entertained if he forbade her her way. The Chartley sisters were spirited things, if nothing else. He had no doubt, however, that in the end, all of them would marry well. If Lily became the Viscountess Barrymore, he would not complain. Or he would, of course, but purely as a matter of form.
Now that he had suitably provided an income for the viscount—and one that he had no doubt would bear fruit, for Lord Barrymore was more acute than many gave him credit for—there was certainly no rhyme or reason why his dearest little granddaughter should not become his bride. There was no reason to tell her that, though. He beetled his brow menacingly and glared in what he hoped was a suitably fierce manner.
“Certainly not! You may review my list and decide from there. If you have not made your decision in three days, I shall wrest the matter from your hands and decide for you.”
Lily squealed. “Grandfather! You cannot be so curmudgeonly!”
“Can I not?”
“No!” But Lily knew Lord Raven could. He was notorious for his sharp tongue, malicious temper, and stubborn turn of thought. That he had always been singularly kind to his orphaned grandchildren did not weigh with her in the least. Kind he may have been, but quarrelsome, too! She tilted her chin in a manner he secretly adored, and glared at him stare for stare.
“Grandfather, if you persist in your stubbornness, I shall not answer for the consequences.”
Lord Raven inclined his head regally, though his stomach hurt with the effort to force down a spate of rumbling laughter.
He nodded regally, and waved her away with a great sweep of his bony fingers.
“Just remember, Miss Lily, you are never quite too old to be taken over my knee. I may be in my dotage, but I believe I am still quite capable of making a derriere smart.”
“Oh!” Speechless, the youngest Miss Chartley turned on her heels and fled.
It was perhaps an hour later that her indignation had subsided enough to locate an inkpot in the jumble on her chamber desk and pen a rather daring—and hasty—note to Denver, Lord Barrymore. It was underscored several times and was precisely the type of letter that would have incurred the rather rigorous punishment outlined by the earl earlier.
Nevertheless, Lily was nothing, if not brave, and decided that since her life would be worthless without at least making a push to engage Lord Barrymore’s fabulous attentions, the risk was minimal next to the gain.
Sad to say, there was no excusing such forwardness in a female, even in one as vivacious and ingenuous as she. Had Primrose—or even Daisy—discovered her intent, they would undoubtedly have advised her against this shocking venture and burned the billets-doux in the flickering grate. As it was, they were both strangely wrapped in thoughts of their own—it was as if a fever was about the place—and hardly noticed Lily’s prolonged absence. Thus it was that with the help of Annie—a most romantic, if rather foolish maid, the note managed to pass the beady scrutiny of the Raven under butler and make its way, via two grooms, a footman, and a rather curious valet—to Lord Barrymore himself.
What this eminent personage said or thought when he read the note was anyone’s guess, but it was observed by several people in his household—Mrs. Quiver
s not the least of them—that he was rather more cheerful at tea, partaking of at least two portions of her grouse and perigord pie, and recommending the rest of the staff to do the same.
When he left, not soon after, he was brandishing one of his finer canes and whistling something rather jaunty. Hoskin sighed. He was glad his lordship was in spirits, once more, but he did so wish he could remember his position. Viscounts ought never, upon any occasion, so far forget their lofty rank as to emit anything but a regal hum at most.
Twelve
“Gareth, be a dear, will you, and ride over to Lord Raven’s residence? I have just finished inscribing an invitation to the Chartley sisters, and have missed the mail.”
The Marquis of Rochester’s heart missed a beat. He eyed his mama narrowly, for in truth his thoughts had been wandering to the matter of the Chartley sisters—or one in particular—all morning. Lady Rochester had not missed the mail, for there was a stack of cream-colored wafers upon the mantelpiece, all neatly embossed in red with the wax seal of the Dowager Marchioness of Rochester. If she had looked closely enough, she would have seen there was another, upon the stack. That was his own, in slightly darker paper, and franked with an equally heraldic crest.
“Mama, you may be the most wonderful mother in existence, but you are also a brass-faced liar! Don’t cozen me into believing you’ve missed the mail, for I shall simply not believe you!”
The marchioness grimaced. “Sometimes, Gareth, you are just like your father! I could never cut a wheedle with him, no matter how hard I tried.”
“It is fortunate, then, that he was so besotted with you that you always got your own way anyway!”
The marchioness’s eyes misted over. “Oh, Gareth, I miss him!”
“I, too, Mama.” There was a moment’s shared silence, as Lord Rochester closed his book and ambled up to the fireplace. He placed his hands behind his ample, rather muscular back and contemplated the flames for a moment.
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you are right. It is time I set up a nursery.”
Lady Rochester refrained from jumping from her seat and throwing her arms about her wayward son. No need to frighten him into fits! Gently does it ...
She picked up a tapestry—some paltry thing she despised, but it was simple enough—and sewed a few stitches. She could always throw the horrible thing away later, or give it to one of the housemaids.
“Really, Gareth? Do you have a young lady in mind, or shall I just pick for you, as we have agreed upon? Miss Lambert is well enough, though I fear she has something of a temper. Still, you do not want too meek a wife, or I could suggest Miss Tilbert ...”
Gareth’s eyes lit up in sudden amusement. “Mama, I thought we had agreed you cannot cut a wheedle with me! You know perfectly well none of those young ladies interest me in the slightest!”
“But Miss Chartley does?”
“Miss Chartley does.”
Lady Rochester breathed a long sigh of satisfaction and eyed Gareth closely. Should she mention Primrose, or would that be too precipitant? Too precipitant, she thought.
“Miss Lily Chartley shall be perfect for you! Such a beauty, with her wild, black locks and exotic countenance! You shall doubtless be the talk of the Ton for you, Gareth, are uncommon handsome yourself!”
For a moment, Lord Rochester stared at his mother in blank incomprehension. Miss Lily? Surely she did not think he would fall for an ingenuous youngster several times his junior, who, whilst undoubtedly beautiful, had none of Primrose’s ready wit and steady poise? He stared at her closer. There were laughter lines about her mouth. Little minx! She was bamming him! Well, two could play at that game! He smiled sweetly and announced that undeniably, Miss Lily was supremely well favored.
Lady Rochester seemed taken aback for a moment, which made him whistle, happily, between his teeth.
“Shall I take the invitations over now? I shall speak to Lord Raven upon the subject myself. I will need to fix my interest at once if I am to have a chance. Half of England has designs on her already.”
“Fix your interest?” Lady Rochester dithered. Though she had a burning desire to see the marquis wed, she only hoped Gareth was not about to tumble into some terrible mistake. Lily was undoubtedly beautiful but she was hen-witted and rather vain—oh, not copiously so, but just sufficient to try the patience a little. Lady Rochester had a feeling Gareth’s patience did not need trying at this stage of his manhood.
“Is that really necessary? Lord Raven would have to be madder than I give him credit for if he does not hedge all his bets and wait for the greatest prize. And you, Gareth, without wishing to turn your head, must surely rank as that!”
Lord Rochester lifted his shoulders eloquently. “Mama, you are a doting parent!”
“Nonsense! Unless the Chartleys are being courted by princes and dukes—and if they are, Emily Cowper would have been bound to tell me—you have the decided advantage of rank!”
“Not to mention fortune . . .”
“Precisely.”
“And good looks . . .”
“Now, Gareth, you are teasing me. I know perfectly well that though you are passing handsome, you care nothing for such matters. Poor Reece, how he puts up with you, I cannot conceive!”
“Reece is contented enough, when I don’t have a fancy to be a coachman. But Mama, we stray from the point.”
“That you need to make an offer? It is a nonsense! Bring the girls out and see how they do. You may look them all over if that is your wish.”
“Aha!” Gareth chuckled.
“What?” Lady Rochester sounded pettish, but Gareth only smiled provokingly. If his mama did not want the older and more judicious Primrose for a daughter, he would eat his elegant beaver. Since he was reasonably certain he would not have to resort to such drastic measures, he retrieved it from the occasional table where it had lain, and thrust it, rather, upon his head. It looked singularly debonair, a fact that was not lost on his eagle-eyed mama.
“You will not do anything rash?”
He regarded her innocently, but she was in no way reassured, for a telltale dimple had appeared on his chin. The boy was so like his father, he was impossible to scold.
“My lord?” The butler interrupted their conversation with a murmured apology.
“There is a gentleman below stairs who desires speech with you. I informed him you were not at home to visitors, but . . .” The butler shrugged his shoulders in as expressive a way as he was able, for he was not a man not given to excessive displays of emotion.
“Does he have a name, this mysterious personage?”
“Ah, yes! I would not have bothered you else. It is the Viscount of Barrymore, my lord.”
“How intriguing! Show him up, if you please! Though I have pressing business”—he glanced teasingly at his mama—“I believe it can wait.” So saying, his lordship stuffed three beautifully gilded invitations into his perfectly fitting morning coat of emerald superfine. Had Reece, his redoubtable valet, witnessed this specta cle, he would surely have fainted. Thankfully he did not, for the act was followed by something equally unforgivable—the removal of his beaver, which was flung rather unceremoniously onto a hat rack. Sadly, it missed.
“The proposition is fascinating. Is your backer reliable?”
“Impeccable.”
Lord Rochester raised his brows slightly. He would have to be, given the scale of the project Barrymore was outlining. Despite the fact that he and the viscount tended to move in different circles, he found he rather liked the man. Denver, Lord Barrymore, was a neck or nothing kind of man. A gambler, undoubtedly, but a whimsical one at that. Rochester was one of the few to suspect him of not taking his attire nearly as seriously as his fame suggested. He had that slightly satirical look about him that Gareth suspected was a kind of mocking salutation to society and its foibles. Though fastidious, his eyes gleamed with a certain wry amusement that belied outward appearance. Now, he toyed with a wineglass,
fingering the rim so that it emitted a high, rather soprano note. He grinned and set it down.
“Oh, don’t look so superior, Gareth! I may call you that, may I not?”
The marquis surprised himself by nodding amiably.
“My backer is no other than Lord Raven himself.”
Gareth’s eyes sharpened. He made no comment as he reached for the crystal decanter and poured himself another glass of smooth, amber-shaded liquid.
“Lord Raven? Now why would he be interesting himself in newfangled nonsense like railways?”
“It is not newfangled nonsense! Raven has a Midas touch and a positively indecent knack for sensing where there is money to be made. He doesn’t believe it beneath him to be making money on anything but rents from his land.”
“No, but there are many among us who do.”
“Then we must look to our laurels, for it will be the merchants and the industrialists who take over the power of England, you mark my words!”
“You have a point. I have often thought we are an archaic bunch.”
Lord Barrymore, for once, was serious. “It is you and I, Gareth, as peers of the realm, who can make a difference. Let us blacken our hands a little with hard work—what of it—we shall see the rewards tenfold in wealth, but in more than that—in being at the forefront of a great new dawn, where man is limited not by the number of his horses, but by the power, only, of his imagination.”
“That is a very sweeping comment.”
“It can be substantiated. Only think! If we can develop a steam-driven engine with the power of forty horses, coal can be extracted and carried into British homes at so much less time and cost. It will mean even the poorest tenant can have fires in their grates, and warmth in their homes. God! It can mean that other steam-based engines can be designed, for there will be the coal to fuel them.”
“And you own the mines.” Lord Rochester’s tone was dry, but there was a sympathetic crease to his brow that reassured Barrymore, a little.
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