The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1)

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Romayne scolded herself. Grandfather was right to keep his eye on her. Clearly she could no longer trust herself, because she let the brush of James’s hand against her nearly make a fox paw of her. If she was want-witted enough to let him seduce her, she would have no chance of regaining her reputation once this masquerade was over.

  When Clayson came in to announce that Dora had begged them to excuse her, for she was exhausted from the trip, the duke grumbled, “Damn Itchlanders! Not a hint of manners among them.”

  “Grandfather,” Romayne whispered, “the Dunbars are guests of Westhampton Hall.”

  The old man’s aged eyes showed his shock at her reprimand, but he said nothing as a maid brought the soup tureen to the table.

  “Thatcher said that Nokkums is adjusting to the stable,” said Ellen into the silence. Seated across from Romayne, she wore a smile as broad as a pig’s belly.

  “Nokkums?”

  She turned to the duke. “My dog, Your Grace. Thatcher volunteered—”

  “Miss Dunbar, I collect you will accept this criticism with the good will in which I speak it,” the old man said as he reached for his soup spoon. “In Westhampton Hall, we make it a practice not to let our dinner conversation focus on mongrels, either the two-legged or four-legged variety. I can assure you that that rule holds true among the élite in London as well.”

  Romayne bit back her fury with her grandfather when she saw Ellen’s crestfallen face. The small voice in her head reminded her that the ton could be more unforgiving than her grandfather. No one in London would care a rush that Ellen had not been groomed for years to make her entrance into Society. One mistake could create problems that would haunt Ellen for the rest of her Season. Not that the Pink of the Ton were cruel; they were bored, and any faux pas offered them a chance for a bit of gabble-mongering.

  “It is good that the Season shan’t be in full whirl for a few weeks yet,” Romayne said. “That will give us plenty of time to prepare for the gaiety.”

  “Which she obviously needs,” the duke said cynically.

  Hurriedly she asked, hoping the tears in Ellen’s eyes would not fall, “When do you plan to go to London, Grandfather?”

  “You know I never miss Mrs. Kingsley’s soirée,” he muttered as he motioned for another ladle to be added to his soup bowl. “It is in two weeks.” He looked at Ellen and sighed before asking, “Do you think you can have the child presentable in a fortnight?”

  “Yes,” Romayne answered without hesitation, although she suspected a miracle would be necessary. Not only did Ellen require more lessons in conversation and manners, but the young woman had nothing stylish to wear. As if it was of the least importance, she said, “I shall send for Mademoiselle LaBombard. She will come up from London when I explain the urgency. Also we must ask Mr. Tuckerman to join us.”

  “That needle-jerker shall not come for less than twice his normal pay.”

  “I understand,” she said quietly.

  The duke glowered at her, then at James, from under his lowered brows. “I trust your husband is plummy, and therefore, you have no worry about such things.”

  “I have no worry about such things.” On the morrow, she would send a message to the family’s barrister. Then she would discover how long she could support her extended family on the jointure left by her parents.

  The duke laughed coldly. “You are ever amusing, Romayne. However, I surmise you and your connections intend to stay at my town house.”

  “If you will agree, Grandfather.”

  “What say you, MacKinnon?”

  James put down his spoon regretfully. The vegetable soup was the best he had tasted in years, and he would have enjoyed eating it while it remained warm. Romayne had been handling her grandfather extremely well, and he had seen no reason to intrude again. Now he had no choice.

  “Your Grace, we would be delighted to accept your generous offer of hospitality in Town.”

  “Offer?” Again the old man laughed, but the icy edge had softened. “Did you woo my granddaughter with that quick wit? She has already made a great cake of herself over one silver-tongued profligate.”

  “I did not use words to court Romayne, Your Grace.”

  Hearing Cameron’s chuckle and Ellen’s giggle, James could not miss the fiery color on Romayne’s cheeks. Not of embarrassment, but of fury, if he guessed correctly. He knew he must not push this too far. Until now, she had been his ally, albeit a reluctant ally. He could not afford to provoke her into revealing the truth. It would create more problems than he wished to face until his mission was completed successfully.

  “If we go to London a few weeks early,” Romayne said into the thickening silence, “we need not ask the modiste and the tailor to join us here at Westhampton Hall. We can have them call on us on Grosvenor Square or visit them at their shops.”

  “You would be wise to learn to be a nip-farthing,” the duke said as the soup bowls were taken from the table.

  James watched his unfinished soup vanish through the doors to the passage to the kitchen and sighed. Once he had captured his man, he would not soon be enjoying such a repast again.

  The duke continued, “You may well succeed in finding Miss Dunbar a match on the Marriage Mart, Romayne. After all, Philomena Boumphrey, whose father was ready to wear a green bonnet, found a match.”

  “Her father wore a bonnet?” asked Ellen, her mouth round with amazement.

  Romayne smiled gently. “It means he was without financial means.”

  “Bankrupt,” James added. “You will have to forgive Ellen, Your Grace. In Scotland, we prefer to state things plainly as lief couch them in euphemisms. When a man is bankrupt in the Lowlands, we say so.”

  Before the old man could retort, Romayne said, “I have no doubts that a young lady as sweet and genuinely warm as Ellen Dunbar shall have no trouble finding a match.” She smiled at the younger woman. “Mayhap even several men who are more intrigued by her smile than the state of her family’s purse.”

  “A bumpkin in a fashionable gown is still a bumpkin,” pronounced the duke.

  James almost chuckled as he looked from Romayne to her grandfather. Both of them leaned forward as their contest of words raged about the table, and they were having a grand time trying to discover who would be the victor. He could comprehend why Romayne had been so lonely for her grandfather, for the bond between them was deep and strong enough to overcome even the anger that exploded between them so often.

  “But Ellen will be ready to be fired off.” Romayne flashed another smile at Ellen and Cameron, who was listening with an expression that suggested he would prefer to be almost anywhere else. “While her gowns are being prepared, I shall give her tuition in conversation and etiquette.”

  Looking at the meat Blum was placing in front of him, the duke snapped, “The next thing you will want is a caper merchant.”

  “I can teach Ellen to dance, Grandfather. It will not be difficult, for even you must own that she is as nimble as a spring wind.” When the younger woman smiled tentatively at her, Romayne added, “I think you shall find us all better after we have had a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sleep? Is that what you plan for tonight?” The duke stabbed at his venison. “You are quite the peculiar bridegroom, MacKinnon, to be so newly married and so disinterested in the pleasures of matrimony.”

  Feeling the heat of embarrassment climbing her cheeks like the flames on the hearth, Romayne started to answer. James’s hand over hers silenced her. Coolly he said, “I would be the vulgarian you’ve named me if I did not think of Romayne’s condition first.”

  “Romayne!” gasped Ellen, clapping her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Calm yourself,” James said with a laugh. “I meant nothing more than the fact that we are sapped by our trip. Unless, Romayne, you have failed to mention something to me as well …”

  Unsure whether to frown at him or laugh at his attempt to lighten the tautness in the room, Romayne turned the conve
rsation back to the Season. She knew she was babbling, but it filled the silence. Ellen listened, captivated, but Romayne noticed her grandfather hunching in his chair. He had lost any interest in the whirl of the Season after her grandmother had died, although he attended a few parties out of habit.

  She paused as the plates were removed. Ellen pelted her with more questions, and Romayne was astonished at her grandfather’s continued acceptance of the talk that must fill him with ennui.

  “You shall see for yourself, Ellen,” she said when she realized that Ellen would continue to monopolize the conversation with this eager interrogation. “Mayhap it would be best if we travel on to London once we have recovered from our journey from Struthcoille.”

  Cameron intruded to say, “I suggest a delay here. There are signs that we could find good hunting, James.”

  A spasm of consternation twisted her stomach as she glanced at James. While trying to find her way through the maze of this uncomfortable meal, she had forgotten the truth. James might hope for his cousin to make an excellent match, but that was secondary to his determination to find the traitor.

  “Aye,” James answered, squeezing her hand. She was unsure if it was a warning to remember their deception, or solace. “I would like a chance to see what Yorkshire has to offer to the sport-minded gentleman.”

  “You hunt, MacKinnon?” asked the duke with sudden interest.

  “Incessantly.” He flashed Romayne a conspiratorial grin.

  He was enjoying this! He was delighting making a May game of Grandfather! She pulled her hand away. Let him play his games without making her a part of them, beyond what she had promised. If he did not realize how difficult explaining all of this to her grandfather in the aftermath of capturing the turncoat would be, she must inform him posthaste. The duke was not a man who took humiliation cordially.

  “I suppose you have never ridden with the hounds?” her grandfather continued.

  “My hunting usually is on foot, although I had my horse with me the night I chanced upon Romayne.”

  “You were hunting in the middle of a blizzard? I thought even an Itchlander had more sense than that.”

  “Grandfather, I would prefer you not use that term.”

  He laughed and held up his wineglass to be refilled. “You should let your husband fight his own battles, Romayne. One would think you cared deeply for him when you jump to his defence with such fervor.”

  “Ellen and Cameron are from Scotland as well.”

  The duke bowed his head in Ellen’s direction. “I beg your pardon, Miss Dunbar. It was not my intent to insult you, young lady.”

  Romayne sighed silently. Grandfather was incorrigible, and when she saw James’s smile, she knew they were two of a kind. She considered chastising one or both of them, but had no chance. Clayson entered the room and cleared his throat to draw the duke’s attention.

  “Your Grace, a caller.”

  “Clayson, we do not wish to be disturbed,” the old man said without moving his gaze from James. “Now, MacKinnon, tell me what you were hunting in a blizzard.”

  The butler looked disconcerted for the second time that day. As his gaze shifted toward Romayne, he said, “I understand you keep this as a private hour, Your Grace, but this is an extraordinary situation.”

  “Bah! Nothing is so extraordinary that you need bother a man over his supper. Send the caller on his way. Tell him that I will see him tomorrow.”

  “The caller is for her ladyship. I believe she would consider it urgent.”

  The duke refused to be moved. “Let him cool his heels for the night and come back when she is at home. I can think of nothing that cannot wait until the morrow.”

  “Grandfather,” Romayne whispered, when she saw the stricken look on the butler’s face, “if you will excuse me, I can deal with this and return quickly.”

  “Are these the customs you learned in your husband’s house? Jumping up from the table like a common hoyden to run to answer the door?”

  James lowered his fork as he said, “Your Grace, your granddaughter wishes only to give you a peaceful meal after the many nights she knows you have been concerned for her.”

  “I don’t need to hear your carney, MacKinnon.” With a wave of his hand, he ordered, “Go then, Romayne, if you wish. Be back before the next course, or I shall have your food removed without you eating it.”

  Romayne smiled as she saw the twinkle in her grandfather’s eyes. She wanted to warn James that the duke was delighting in this chance to hoax him, but the Duke of Westhampton was not the only crafty fox in the covert. She hoped that Ellen and Cameron realized that, unable to express how pleased he was to have her home and safe, her grandfather was using his crotchety ways as a guise. Not that he was pleased with her marriage, but he had forgiven her. She placed a quick kiss on his dry cheek before she turned to follow Clay-son.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw James’s smile. She wondered if Grandfather had finally met his equal, after out-smarting those around him for decades.

  “Mrs. Dunbar had a hot meal delivered to her rooms, I collect,” Romayne said as the butler led her along the broad passage toward the front of the house.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” she said to the butler when Clayson pointed to the small receiving room where he had put the caller. “Do see if there is something in the kitchen for our guest. You could see as well as I that Grandfather has no wish for another person at his table this evening.”

  “My lady.” A pained expression crossed his face. “If you would like, I shall remain here.”

  “Whatever for?”

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Confused by Clayson’s behavior that was unquestioningly peculiar, she opened the door. The elegant room was one of her favorites in the Hall, for she often had come here as a child to admire the family crest which had been set in stone over the massive fireplace. A half-dozen settees and chairs surrounded the hearth, but the room did not seem crowded.

  Romayne looked across the room to a man who stood where moonlight traced the window’s diamond-shaped mullions onto the stone floor. Because his face was concealed by the shadows beyond the lamplight, she could tell nothing but that he must be of a height near to James’s.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said. “I understand that you wish to speak with me.”

  As the man turned toward her, he smiled. “Romayne! You truly are here! I didn’t dare believe it was true that you are alive!”

  “Bradley!” She could say nothing else as she stared at what must be a ghost.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Bradley stepped toward Romayne, the light from the lamp on the closest table gave life to his flaxen hair. She was not mistaken! This must be Bradley Montcrief. Above his smile, his gray eyes twinkled warmly. His hands, edged by the lace cuffs of his sleeves, reached for hers. Pulling away, she shook her head. She did not want to touch a dead man.

  “My sweet Romayne, you cannot comprehend the depth of my delight when I chanced to hear that you had returned to Westhampton Hall,” he continued as calmly as if she had welcomed his touch. “When I think of that harrowing night and the sight of those bridle-culls stealing you away, I knew I must not delay a moment in coming to the Hall to beg you to forgive me.”

  He paused, clearly waiting for her response, but words were impossible. She continued to stare at him. His voice sounded the same. The elegant cut of his burgundy coat that he wore over a bright green waistcoat made him as much the sprig of fashion as ever. From the top of his thinning hair to the tip of his brightly shining shoes that peeked from beneath his pantaloons, he was the Bradley Montcrief she had mourned for.

  This could not be. James had told her that Bradley and his man were dead and buried in the cemetery of a nameless Scottish church. James would not have lied to her about Bradley … would he? Hadn’t she already agreed to play a part in this scheme? She was unsure.

  “Romayne, my sweet, sweet Romayne,” he murmured as he
took her hands again. “Can it be that you find it impossible to forgive me? I vow to you that I sought you through that hellish storm, but those squires of the pad had vanished with you into the Scottish night.” He pressed his hand to the ruffles cascading from his collar. “Think of my agony when I imagined you suffering their abuse! Now to see you, so unchanged, my heart cannot begin to contain the joy within it.”

  “You’re alive!” she finally managed to whisper.

  “Although they left me with no carriage and no provisions, I found help. We returned to the carriage, hoping to see some sign of you. All we found was Scribner’s corpse and the remains of one of the damned highwaymen.” He hurried to add, “Forgive my crude words, my sweet.”

  “Of course,” she whispered, unaware of anything she said. Bradley was alive! Then why did she feel only the emptiness she had when she had assumed he was dead? She should be deliriously happy.

  “Our search for you lasted for days, but nothing led us to you. Then I returned here to give your grandfather the terrible tidings that you had vanished.” His smile faltered. “Another night I care not to recall.”

  “I thought you were dead. I heard gunshots. I saw—” Her voice shattered on the razor-sharp memories.

  “What you thought is over, my sweet. The nightmare is past for both of us. We can begin again. We still have our plans to marry.”

  “Bradley—”

  He put his finger to her lips. “No, my sweet, listen to me. We were foolish to hie out of Yorkshire. No elopement this time. Somehow, we shall convince your grandfather of the wisdom of accepting our love.”

  “Bradley—”

  Again he interrupted her. “Say nothing, my sweet. I wish only to look at you and hold you to my lips.” He smiled with the teasing light in his eyes that she had loved so dearly and took her hand. His expression wavered when he noted the circlet of gold around her fourth finger. Dropping her hand, he looked past her, his lips tightening.