by Claudia Dain
CONTENTS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Copyright
One
London 1802
MISS Penelope Prestwick stood in the middle of the conservatory of her father’s Upper Brook Street home and stared at the roses. The roses were a disaster.
The roses, purchased to make a pleasing and, one hoped, impressive display of her horticultural talents to the marriageable men of the ton, none of whom had any need to know she did not possess horticultural talents until one of their number was securely married to her, had not done the job at all. All her roses had done was to somehow become involved in getting Lady Amelia Caversham married to the Earl of Cranleigh.
Which, actually, was perfectly lovely as Lady Amelia had been rather obviously on the market for a duke. As Penelope was also on the market for a duke, it would certainly have become awkward very quickly. Her roses, ruined now, had done a good bit of work, now that she considered it.
Penelope Prestwick was a girl who considered everything, a trait she found quite admirable and certainly useful. Her future husband had no need to know that either. Men were so much more pleasant, which is to say, manageable, when they did not understand too much.
“What will you do to them now?” her brother, George, asked her, rather ironically, given the direction of her thoughts. “Throw them down some distant well?”
“Don’t be absurd, George,” Penelope said stiffly. “How can I get rid of the evidence of my spectacular talent with roses? I must save them, somehow. I can’t simply get rid of them, can I?”
“They did serve their purpose. What point in keeping them, Pen?”
“George,” she said with strained patience, “everyone at our ball, indeed, everyone in Town, knows that I keep roses and that they dwell in my conservatory. Having played a part in Lady Amelia’s marriage, how can I ever be rid of them now? Besides, everyone thinks I’m rose mad. I shall have to continue on with it, shan’t I?”
“I don’t suppose you could simply inform people that they’d died of some malady. That would be too simple by half.”
“Who would ever believe a word of that? These roses are famous. I can’t be rid of them now. No, the thing to do, obviously, is to use them somehow. I wish I could think how.”
“As to using things, there’s that shawl.”
Yes, there was that shawl. Of course, it was quite well-known that Lady Amelia, a duke’s daughter, had behaved in quite questionable fashion and that a scandalous satire had been done of her, and of Penelope’s roses. As a result of all of it, or a part of it, no one was quite certain, Lady Amelia had been promptly married to Cranleigh.
It was, to put it mildly, a scandal.
Penelope had the shawl, ripped, and the roses, ruined, and knew she had to do something with both, but was not at all sure what.
Lady Dalby would know.
Yes, that was undeniable. Something had to be done. And when something had to be done, particularly concerning men, Sophia Dalby was the precise person one should see. Of that, Penelope had no doubt whatsoever.
“George, we’re going to see Lady Dalby,” Penelope said firmly. “You, of course, will wait for me outside. I do not think this will be an appropriate conversation for a gentleman to hear.”
“Going to talk marriage, are you?” George said wryly.
“Precisely,” Penelope said as she walked away.
She was going to change her dress. She was not going to face Sophia looking even slightly less than perfect. That it was coming on five and the Duke of Edenham had an appointment with Lady Dalby for six o’clock was not a coincidence to be ignored. Indeed, Penelope did not believe in coincidence. All could and should be arranged to suit oneself beautifully. Relying on coincidence was for spoilt girls, and she was no such thing. She was a determined, logical, precise sort of girl, and she had determined to marry a duke, or an heir apparent at the very least. Logically, she had made it a point to overhear Edenham make his six o’clock appointment with Sophia. She planned to arrive at Dalby House at precisely half five. There was no need to look too precise about running into the duke, was there?
Of course not.
DALBY House was quite lovely, though the Dalby House butler was not. He was a rugged-looking man, not at all what one sought in a butler as to physical appearance, and he was of somewhat irregular demeanor and perhaps just slightly indiscreet in his responses, which was also not at all desirable in a butler. Why, he very nearly grinned when he accepted her card. And then he was bold enough to stick his head out the door and twist his neck around until it was perfectly obvious he’d spotted George loitering across the street, fussing with his waistcoat, most like.
What a perfectly horrid beginning to what was certain to be an awkward exchange once she put her request to Lady Dalby in the flesh.
In the flesh was not the sort of expression common to Penelope, but when one was dealing with Sophia Dalby, it was the expression that sprang most vigorously to mind. Sophia Dalby was, without question, the most famously seductive woman that anyone in two generations had occasion to know. Even Penelope’s father, Viscount Prestwick, who did not know Sophia personally, knew nearly everything about her and found her fascinating. It was one of the main reasons that Lady Dalby had been included on the guest list for the ball. One of his main reasons. Penelope’s sole purpose in wanting Sophia to attend was that if a woman was as famously seductive as Sophia was reputed to be, and indeed she was, then all the most interesting men in Town were certain to follow her about like cats after cream.
And so it was.
Very nearly everyone who had been invited, and her guest list had been aggressive and high reaching, had attended. Hence the horrid crush of people. Hence the attendance of two dukes and one heir apparent. She hadn’t dared to even hope for that, but come they had, trailing in Sophia’s wake. Penelope was far from being outraged or insulted or alarmed by Sophia’s blatant allure, for what good would that do? Besides, Sophia had married well and had provided the proper heir to the Dalby earldom, what need had she for a husband now? No, Penelope was nothing so foolish as to be jealous of Sophia. What she intended was to make use of such a valuable lure. How could she not? With so many perfectly eligible men of the proper rank buzzing around Sophia like so many bees, it would make catching her own man so much easier, wouldn’t it? It was a perfectly logical and, dare she admit it, nearly effortless way to get a man.
But naturally, she did not want just any man. She wanted a duke. And for that, she rather suspected she would require expert assistance. If any woman was an expert in getting a man, that woman was Sophia Dalby.
Penelope was no fool. She wanted the best, both in husbands and in aid. Sophia was the best. Penelope had absolutely no qualms at all about seeking the proper help.
Although, perhaps, just perhaps, she did have the slightest qualm about actually putting into words what she wanted when faced, well and truly, by Sophia’s perceptive gaze.
Which was precisely the situation she found herself in when the Dalby House butler, with quite a bit of cheek, announced her to Lady Dalby and she entered the famous white salon.
It was a beautiful room, famously done up
in white damasks and white velvets, pale blue braid here and there. An exquisite and clearly priceless Chinese porcelain vase in celadon green was the strongest spark of color in the pale room. Penelope, as diligent as anyone in listening to pertinent gossip, and surely it was all pertinent, had known of the famous porcelain in the famous white salon, though she had supposed the porcelain to be white, which only proved that gossip was not as reliable as it ought to be. Still, it was Chinese porcelain and it clearly was the centerpiece of the room, so she was not too disappointed in the reliability of casual gossip. According to the most popular report, the vase was a gift from Pitt the Younger for some aid she had done him in the Commons two decades past, but another version had it that it was a gift from the Prince of Wales for one night in her bed.
Penelope did not have an opinion on the matter one way or the other. Of course, there were many more speculations on the origin of the vase, which in some reports was a bowl or even a cup, but there was the porcelain and Sophia had done something to earn it, and that was quite enough information for Penelope.
She made her curtsey to Lady Dalby with the grace she had been tutored to display, sat prettily on the edge of her white upholstered seat, arranged her crimson shawl attractively over her arms, and proceeded to the task at hand.
“Lady Dalby, thank you for receiving me,” she said, mentally commanding herself to hold Sophia’s dark gaze. It was most peculiar, but she had the most uncomfortable sensation that Sophia not only knew why she had come, but found it utterly amusing.
“How lovely of you to call, Miss Prestwick,” Sophia said. “You are quite recovered from hosting your wonderful ball? Truly, it may be remembered as the event of the Season.”
As the Duke of Aldreth’s daughter, the inconvenient Amelia, had been nearly ruined at the Prestwick ball, Penelope should not be a bit surprised. Of course, it would be remembered as the most disastrous event of the Season, but Sophia was too experienced at conversation to make such a bald statement.
“Yes, that would be lovely,” Penelope said absently.
There was simply no point in discussing the ball. It had not yielded the desired fruit: no duke or heir apparent had considered her as a prospective wife. She knew enough of men to know that, at least. Men got a certain look when they were considering a woman, for anything. No man had looked at her in any fashion beyond the bare necessity of civil conversation. It was very nearly insulting.
Oh, very well, it had been completely insulting, and she was such a handsome-looking girl, too.
“And how are your marvelous roses doing?” Sophia asked. “Not damaged in any way when poor Lady Amelia became entangled in them? Roses are fragile, are they not?”
Oh, bother; this is just the sort of nuisance that the roses were clearly going to become in Society. Everyone now would expect her to practically give horticultural lectures on the peculiarities of roses. And what was she to say? That she was fairly certain they required watering on some sort of regular basis? That she thought the blooms quite pretty, when they could be bothered to appear? All the roses were to have been was a point of interest laid at her very petite feet; she was not supposed to be required to actually discuss them upon command. This was all Lady Amelia’s doing, without question.
“Even with their thorns?” Lady Dalby continued, a certain malicious light in her dark eyes. “Of course, the very reason roses have thorns is because they are so fragile, or so I have surmised. Would you agree?”
“I would, Lady Dalby,” Penelope answered. Anything to end the flow of words, and pointed questions, about roses. She very nearly regretted buying the stupid things in the first place.
“Then your roses have quite recovered?” Sophia asked, displaying a rather bold streak of cruelty, as it was perfectly plain that Penelope had no wish to speak of her annoying roses.
“They give every appearance of being so,” Penelope said tartly, quite unable to stop herself and nearly unapologetic about it.
Sophia gave her a considering look, her eyes twinkling, and then asked, “How do you take your tea, Miss Prestwick?”
Bother. Now, if the pattern held, Sophia would engage her in a perfectly pointless discussion about various teas for the next quarter hour. The Duke of Edenham was due to arrive at Dalby House in less than thirty minutes, but if Penelope did not have Sophia firmly in her corner by then, Edenham would prove useless. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. Unless aided by Sophia, there was not a duke in Town who would fall into her very deserving lap. They hadn’t yet done, had they? Without the proper aid, they clearly never would. Sophia, as annoying as she could clearly be, was the proper aid, indeed the only aid. That was more than clear.
“Lady Dalby,” Penelope said, ignoring the subject of tea entirely. “I am quite aware, indeed, all of Society is quite aware, that you have a particular talent, one could even say a passion, for matchmaking.” Penelope paused briefly to study the look on Sophia’s face. She looked not one whit alarmed, or even surprised. She did look entertained. Penelope was perfectly willing to be the source of humor for Sophia, as long as she got her duke in the end. “You have done so, quite obviously, with three women of gentle birth in the past month, one of them your own daughter.”
“But of course with my own daughter, Miss Prestwick,” Sophia interrupted, needlessly. “How else was she to marry without my guidance and permission?”
Penelope shook her head in annoyance and continued. “Clearly true, Lady Dalby, I was only recounting my observations. If I may continue?” She was not asking permission, which was perfectly obvious to both of them.
“Please do,” Sophia said with a smile, leaning back against the cushions.
“If one includes Mrs. Warren, which I feel I must as she is a close family friend, then the number jumps to four. Four women within a month. Four women who have made stellar, if not to say unexpected, matches with respectable and honorable men. Is that an accurate recounting of events, Lady Dalby?”
There. She had got it all out without further interruption. Penelope was aware that she was holding her breath, her spine very straight as she held Sophia’s gaze. It was, surprisingly, not a particularly awkward moment. Sophia made it so, of that she was certain. No huffs of outrage or looks of offended dignity; no, she was completely at ease, calm as a shallow pond. Strangely, Penelope realized she had expected nothing less.
“I am completely charmed,” Sophia said softly, “that you’ve taken such trouble, Miss Prestwick. I do think, however, that if your accounting is to be precise, the true number is four women in not quite three weeks. You seem to be a woman who values precision.”
And indeed she was. How unusual and how pleasant for someone to have noticed that about her. But then, she was under the rather firm impression that Sophia noticed everything about nearly everyone.
“I do, Lady Dalby,” Penelope said. “I also value results, which I suspect you do as well.”
To which Sophia Dalby nodded and smiled in clear delight. Perfect. Things were going so well and so very quickly, which is just as things ought to go. Penelope plunged in to the full; whatever hesitation, and indeed she had nearly none to start with, cast away in the pure pleasure of such plain speaking.
“Then, Lady Dalby,” she continued, “I have come to ask if you will help me as you’ve helped the others. Will you make it five, Lady Dalby? I should like a husband. I have only one requirement, and having met that, he can be whomever you think best.” A gamble, certainly, but the events of the past three weeks had proven sufficiently to Penelope that Sophia was a woman to gamble upon. “I am quite convinced that you know what you’re about. The women who have sought your aid seem to me to be entirely delighted by, if not the chain of events, their conclusion. Will you help me, Lady Dalby?”
There was no taking the words back now. No, nor the wish. She wanted a duke. She didn’t see any reason at all why she shouldn’t have one. Having come to Sophia for aid, it would have been a ridiculous bit of foolishness to not be
forthcoming about what she wanted, wouldn’t it? Penelope had decided her course and she would hold to it, with Sophia’s help or not. But she did so want Sophia’s help as her own efforts had produced not a solitary duke or heir apparent. Surely, she could do no worse with Sophia on her side.
Sophia, far from looking shocked, such a relief, leaned forward and stared in some fascination at Penelope.
“And what is your one requirement, Miss Prestwick? I confess to being curious.”
Penelope suspected rather strongly that there was no mystery as to her one requirement, but she played along, not a bit put off by plain speaking, as should be perfectly obvious to the most obtuse of persons, which Sophia Dalby clearly was not.
Penelope leaned forward upon her seat, matching Sophia’s pose nearly completely. “I want a duke, Lady Dalby,” she said calmly and clearly.
Sophia did not so much as blink. “Many girls want dukes, Miss Prestwick. Indeed, I should say all girls would like one. Why should you get your duke?”
Penelope smiled and tilting her head playfully, said with the utmost earnestness, “Because I can afford one, Lady Dalby.”
Sophia blinked. “Darling,” she said with a smile, “we are going to get along famously.”
Oh, she did hope so. She did so very much want her duke, or heir apparent; she was not unreasonable, after all.
Two
“AS you can afford a duke,” Sophia said, leaning back against the milk blue damask sofa and studying the lovely young girl before her, “you can almost certainly afford me.”
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Prestwick said. She did not stammer, that could be said in her favor, but she did look more than a bit surprised. Small wonder, really. These young things, they did seem to think that life ever should fall their way with such very little effort on their part. It was most unfortunate, to be sure, that life was not nearly so accommodating. “Afford you, Lady Dalby? I do not comprehend you.”
“Then allow me to clarify,” Sophia said. “I have, or have not, aided the women you have observed; we shall not be so crass as to name them, shall we? Their privacy is as important to them as yours is to you. Being indiscreet is so rarely good form, though sometimes … but never mind that now, Miss Prestwick. The point must be that, while I did or did not aid certain women in attaining the men they desired, or at least deserved, my interests were also served. How am I to be served if I choose to aid you, Miss Prestwick, that is the question. I do nothing for … nothing. Or had you heard otherwise?”
