Courting the Country Miss

by Donna Hatch

Leticia let out a noise of derision. “You and that woman were very chummy.”

  “Ohhhhh”—amusement danced in his eyes—“you think Mrs. Hunter and I—”

  “I don’t care!”

  He chuckled. “You sound like a jealous lover, Tish.”

  “I do not. I….” Why was she so upset? “I think you could do better.” She stared straight ahead so he wouldn’t see too much of her expression.

  “You’re right. She’s not my type.”

  “She’s exactly your type; a young widow seeking a lover.”

  “Then why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry,” she lied. “I’m…disappointed. I wish you’d court someone respectable and think about settling down.”

  He choked. “I’m twenty-three. I don’t plan to settle down for a long time, if ever.”

  “If ever?” She studied him then.

  Silently, he stared at something far ahead.

  Captain Kensington astride a bay rounded the bend and caught up to them. “Good morning.” His gaze danced between them. “Am I interrupting?”

  Tristan replied, “Not at all. Leticia was telling me how much she’s looking forward to the Season.”

  Leticia choked.

  The Captain focused on Leticia. “Ah, yes. The infamous London Season.”

  “You’ll be there, I trust?” Leticia said.

  Captain Kensington inclined his head, looking somehow more elegant than before. “I’ll be in London on official business, but I doubt I’ll attend many social events.”

  Leticia smiled. “By choice, you mean, of course. Surely you aren’t implying that you won’t receive invitations by the cartful?”

  “A bit of both.” His tone suggested an end to the topic.

  Leticia plunged ahead. “Shame on you, Captain. Think of all those hostesses who’ll need you to even up their numbers, and with a military hero, no less.”

  His lips curved. “I’m confident they’ll survive the blow, Miss Wentworth.”

  As she opened her mouth, Tristan sent her a quelling glance. She raised her brow at Tristan, who shook his head. Later, his look stated. Why so secretive?

  She changed tactics. “To be honest, Captain, I’m not attending the Season for the reason you suppose. I’m accompanying my sister who’s having her first Season, and to seek pledges to help us fund the opening of a school for the poor.”

  The captain nodded. “Lady Averston already wheedled a pledge out of me.”

  “Very sensible of you, Captain. We’d have to hound you the entire time, else.”

  He smiled. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  A chill wind blew and they quickened their pace back to the stables, seeking the warmth of a fire. The guests gathered in the drawing room and, after enjoying some refreshment, began a game of charades.

  Mrs. Hunter took a seat nearby. Leticia stiffened and managed a civil incline of her head.

  “Miss Wentworth,” the widow said with a low voice. “I feel I owe you an apology.”

  Taken aback, Leticia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  The temptress glanced about. “I didn’t realize you and Tristan Barrett had an understanding. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have flirted with him.”

  Leticia let out a weak laugh. “Oh, no, there’s nothing between Tristan and me. We’re merely childhood friends.”

  “You don’t say? Then you don’t mind if he and I become…involved?”

  Leticia looked down and strove to keep her tone even. “Why would I mind? It’s his business, after all.”

  Mrs. Hunter paused, her gaze heavy on Leticia. “Are you quite certain?”

  “Yes,” she ground out.

  “Then why are you angry?”

  Leticia drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to rein in her temper that always seemed to flare at the sight of the beautiful, sultry woman. “I’m not angry.” She mustered a smile and turned to the woman. “Forgive me if I haven’t been friendly. I’m preoccupied.”

  A moment passed. The game of charades went on around them, but they ignored it. Then, Mrs. Hunter spoke. “I’m not after his money, if that’s what worries you.”

  “No, you don’t strike me as a fortune hunter.” To be a fortune hunter, she’d have to be after marriage, clearly not on her agenda.

  Mrs. Hunter nodded but her eyes reflected sadness. “Do not judge me, Miss Wentworth. Life can alter one beyond what you may imagine.” She folded her hands together until the tips of her fingers turned white.

  Something melted inside Leticia. “It’s not my place to offer judgment.”

  Mrs. Hunter stood. “Thank you for your reassurance regarding Mr. Barrett.”

  Leticia glared at the woman’s back, then chided herself. Tristan could conduct himself as he saw fit. If he wanted to spend time with an attractive widow, his earlier words notwithstanding, Leticia had no business interfering. Besides, the school should be Leticia’s first priority. Tristan’s quest to seek out a suitable husband for her might help him meet enough upright men to have a calming influence on him, but she rather doubted it. While she’d love to put saving Tristan at the top of her list, it all came down to whether or not Tristan wanted to be saved.

  Chapter Six

  Several weeks after the Sherwoods’ house party, Tristan stood on the sidewalk and took one last glance at the bow window next to the front door of White’s, one of London’s most respectable gentlemen’s clubs. He’d requested membership a few years ago, on principal, but hadn’t entered since—too full of boring stuffed shirts trying too hard to prove their self-importance by pontificating about politics. After another bracing breath, Tristan waded through the London fog and up the stairs to the door.

  Inside the club, a porter wearing a stylish tailcoat met him. He stopped short, blinked, but recovered his astonishment. “Good evening, Mr. Barrett. May I take your hat?”

  “Of course.” Tristan offered a weak smile, surprised the man knew him after all these years. After surrendering his hat, Tristan sauntered into the main room as if he came here every day.

  A gentleman glanced over his newspaper, took a second look, blinked, and lowered his paper. A group of men in conversation abruptly stopped talking, while two others whispered, eyes riveted to Tristan.

  Perhaps coming here had been a bad idea. Still, he had come for Leticia’s sake and he would see this though—even if it killed him.

  “Tristan.” Richard’s voice boomed across the room. His brother strode to his side. “I’m….glad to see you here.”

  Tristan lifted a brow. “Surprised, you mean.”

  Richard’s smile flashed. Tristan looked away, hoping Richard didn’t see how much his rescue meant.

  “Do join us. We were about to order beefsteak.”

  Richard led the way back to a circle of peers. “May I introduce my brother Tristan Barrett? This is the Duke of Suttenberg.”

  Tristan bowed to the young duke who had a blond streak running through his dark hair. Keen intelligence glittered in his eyes. Tristan had heard Suttenberg lauded as a paragon of an Englishman but had never met him until now. Richard launched into introductions such as, “I’m sure you remember lord thus and such, and of course you know lord so and so.” And on it went with gentlemen too old for Leticia.

  Within moments, Tristan dug into an excellent beefsteak as conversation roiled around him. Keeping his mouth full and ears open, he resumed his hunt for potential husbands for Leticia, ruling out those married and those too old to be suitable.

  “…got what was coming. Can’t go around destroying expensive equipment, after all,” one lord said.

  “No, but capital punishment?” Richard shook his head. “That’s too much. The fellows didn’t kill anyone, merely damaged some looms.”

  “It’s the law,” the first man stated.

  “The damage cost the factories thousands,” added a second, “in replacing the equipment and loss of business.”

  Richard nodded. “Yes, yes, I agree that
they committed a crime with significant losses, but execution is too harsh. After all, they didn’t commit murder or treason. Besides, they are desperate; their jobs were replaced by machines. How are they to support their families?”

  The first man snorted. “Not by destroying property.”

  “No, but how else are they to be heard? If they remain silent, no one will learn of their plight. Nothing will change for them.”

  Tristan stared. Who knew his brother would be sympathetic to the Luddites?

  “There’s a price to progress.” A third man thumped the tabletop.

  Tristan leaped into the discussion. “And while everyone is busy crowing about the advantages of automated looms, they fail to consider the consequences to skilled laborers. Rich factory owners get fat while their former laborers starve.”

  Five pairs of eyes trained on Tristan. He raised his chin in silent challenge.

  Richard had never needed Tristan’s help in a fight, except one year in school, when fifteen-year-old Richard had been targeted by a group of boys who had jumped him without warning. Tristan, only a first-year student, had sprung to Richard’s aid without hesitation; his brother’s tormenters outnumbered him, and Tristan had acted. He’d received a bloodied nose for his trouble, but Richard’s surprise and gratitude that Tristan had entered the fray for his sake—against much older boys, no less—had left Tristan puffing out his chest for days.

  That same surprise and gratitude also shone in Richard’s eyes when Tristan and Kensington had freed Richard from the clutches of the criminal ring run by Mr. Black. Of course, that act of heroism earned Tristan a bullet in the shoulder, but the bond it strengthened between them had been worth the pain.

  Surprise and gratitude reappeared in Richard now. With luck, today’s encounter would not result in Tristan losing any blood.

  His brother shifted his posture and moved his gaze back to the other men. “I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but if we keep our minds open to options, a better solution can be found to the problem.”

  The first man nodded. “Perhaps.”

  The second let out a humph. “Next thing, you’ll be noising about how you think we should educate all the poor and free all the women in prison.”

  Richard gave him a cold smile. “One battle at a time, Lord Petre.”

  The first man nudged Lord Petre. “Averston’s wife is already crusading for that.”

  Lord Petre made a sound of disgust. “Reformers. I thought so. Although, I’m as surprised as I am disappointed to find a reformer in a Tory. Are you trying to start a revolution here, too? Complete with Madam Guillotine?”

  “No, of course not,” Richard said.

  Petre addressed the Duke of Suttenberg, “What do you think, Suttenberg?”

  All eyes turned to the Duke of Suttenberg, who’d been quiet throughout the exchange.

  The young duke sipped his wine and set down his glass as if placing it in a precise location. “Education and reform are one of the many ways we can prevent a revolution—help them raise themselves up out of poverty so the privileged and the impoverished aren’t so far apart. In medieval times, landowners were duty-bound to protect serfs from invaders and ensure they had adequate crops and shelter. Today, our duty is to help raise them out of poverty. Allowing them at least a rudimentary education seems a reasonable method.”

  Lord Petre’s face reddened and he started to rise out of his seat. “You can’t be in earnest. Why—”

  “Let’s all agree to disagree, shall we?” Richard waved at a passing waiter. “Another round of brandy for these fine gentlemen, here.”

  The duke and Richard exchanged glances, and by the time the brandy had arrived, the conversation turned to less volatile matters such as stories of card games, outrageous dares and wagers, fencing, riding and the hunt. Tristan had more in common with these men than he’d assumed. Except for the overly pompous Lord Petre, they were a likable set of chaps—for a bunch of stuffed shirts, that is.

  Later, as the others dispersed, Tristan remembered his reason for coming. Over two hours had passed since his arrival, and he’d actually enjoyed his time in the club. As he sipped his drink, he scanned the main room, noting those of the proper age and rank for Leticia.

  Richard leaned in, a teasing smile playing around his mouth. “Why are you here? Really? Surely not to help me debate the Luddite issues?”

  Tristan shifted. “Can’t I enjoy food and drink with my brother and his peers?”

  “Now? After all these years?” Richard’s eyes conveyed disbelief.

  Tristan sighed. He’d rather go for a swim in the Thames than confess to his brother, but dash it, he needed Richard’s help; he had the right kind of connections. Tristan offered a wry smile. “It appears I’ve taken on the job of matchmaker.”

  Richard gaped.

  “For Leticia,” Tristan clarified. “I feel after my involvement in the house party last year that I, er…well, I owe her a husband.” He cleared his voice and resisted the urge to loosen his cravat.

  “I…see…” Richard said.

  “Since none of my friends are good enough for her, I’m searching for someone high in the instep and disgustingly respectable—like you—so she won’t have to live out her life as a spinster. She seems to have made up her mind that such is her future.”

  A small crease formed between Richard’s eyes and he stared down at his drink, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly, but enough to reveal his dismay at the future of the girl he’d once planned to marry. In a low voice, Richard asked, “What would you ask of me?”

  “Not much—a few introductions so I can assess their suitability, then perhaps present one or two of them to her. She seems to think this is a game. She doesn’t know how determined I am to clear my conscience.”

  Richard looked up then. “Your conscience will be clear once she’s wedded?”

  Tristan kept his tone light. “Of course. You and Elizabeth are sickeningly happy, and Leticia deserves that, too.”

  “Yes, she does.” Richard didn’t smile but rather took on an intent expression.

  “I, on the other hand, consider wedded bliss akin to a fate worse than torture, but each to his, or her, own.” Tristan smirked.

  A grin tugged at the corner of Richard’s mouth. “Trust me, nothing about wedded bliss is torturous.”

  “As I said, to each his own.”

  “Very well, come to our dinner party Tuesday next. Perhaps you can find someone there who satisfies your requirements.”

  “Thank you. I shall, if you don’t think that will upset the numbers.”

  Richard grinned. “I don’t believe finding one more lady to even things up will be a problem. Getting enough men to attend is always Elizabeth’s biggest concern.”

  “Very well, Tuesday then.” Tristan stood and turned.

  “Tristan.”

  He paused, looked back.

  Richard eyed him with something like—surely not, but it appeared to be—approval. “I think what you’re doing for her is admirable and honorable. I commend you for your efforts.”

  Tristan nodded in reply. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d earned Richard’s approval doing something that didn’t include bleeding.

  Chapter Seven

  Sitting next to Elizabeth on a settee in the small parlor of Mrs. Goodfellow’s institution in London, Leticia folded her hands in her lap to conceal her nervous excitement. Elizabeth looked serene as usual, every inch a countess. Though still fatigued from the journey to Town, Leticia had agreed to accompany Elizabeth as they met with a like-minded individual who might help them with their school. How, remained a mystery, but Leticia trusted Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth glanced at Leticia, her eyes sparkling. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m confident Mrs. Goodfellow will help our cause.”

  Leticia twisted her gloved hands together, eyeing the tiny stain on the end of her index finger. “Isn’t she already depending on donations to keep her agency open? How
could she give us funds?”

  “Not funds,” Elizabeth explained. “She may have contacts who would help us.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow appeared. The plump, matronly woman wearing a lace cap over salt-and-pepper hair strode in with firm, confident steps. “Lady Averston, delightful to see you again.”

  “Thank you for receiving us, Madam. May I present Miss Wentworth?”

  They exchanged greetings, and Mrs. Goodfellow poured tea. “How can I be of service, my lady?”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “Miss Wentworth and I have a new venture; we have decided to open a school.”

  “Oh? Do you need servants to help staff it?”

  “Perhaps a few, but that’s not the reason we’ve come to call. We’re forming a foundation to fund a charity school for girls—especially orphans—to teach them to read and write and perform basic mathematics. It will be similar to your efforts, but more academic.”

  “Academic? For girls?” Mrs. Goodfellow’s incredulity seeped out of her voice.

  Leticia added, “What you’re doing, is of course, of great value. But think of it; if they had a basic education, they could also work in shops—perhaps own a shop of their own someday. Those who wish to become house servants could obtain higher positions. It would give them a tremendous advantage over the general populace who cannot read.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “True, but you will meet with much opposition.”

  “We already have,” Elizabeth said.

  Leticia nodded. “Lord Petre called it a fool idea that would lead to our ruin.”

  “We’re not going to let people like him stop us,” Elizabeth said.

  Mrs. Goodfellow set down her tea. “It’s a grand idea. How can I help?”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “Introductions to a few of your benefactors who you think might support our cause as well.”

  “What have you tried to raise money?” asked Mrs. Goodfellow.

  “Approaching people directly has worked well so far,” Elizabeth said. “We will have a dinner party where we will address the whole group.”

  Leticia added, “We also plan to have a subscription ball with all proceeds going to the foundation.”