The Earl's Marriage Bargain

by Louise Allen

  ‘How did she respond?’ Jane asked. ‘With another vase?’

  ‘No,’ he said wryly. ‘She laughed in my face and told me that she loved her husband, that she knew perfectly well he was a rakehell and that was what she wanted, not a dull husband like all her friends had married.’

  Like me, the man she was promised to, the man who had dared put duty before her.

  ‘She wanted adventure, freedom—’

  He sought for the least shocking way of translating Daphne’s frank admissions. ‘She had come to appreciate the joys of the marriage bed, she told me as she tugged on the bell pull and demanded that I leave. I could hardly abduct her myself, so I left to think over my tactics. I was aware that I was being followed, but thought no more of it than that she did not want to risk my return. An hour later, I was nursing a pint of ale and facing the fact that there was probably nothing I could do other than to report back to her aunts that she was not being held against her will and wanted to remain in the marriage. Then I was facing four large louts with clubs and brass knuckles.

  ‘It seems she felt that, to ensure I left her alone, I needed more convincing than her words could achieve. Or perhaps she feared that I would confront her husband. Whichever it was, she had sent her grooms to deal with me. You arrived in the midst of their very persuasive arguments for forgetting the whole thing and going away.’

  So, yes, he did want to go down to Merton Tower because he wanted to lay his hands on the best legal advice. And the man who would know how to find it—if he was not already employing it—was his famously litigious grandfather. He could go back to London and waste time trying to find the right lawyers to help the aunts with what was, almost certainly, a hopeless cause or he could swallow his pride and ask the Marquess. And, faced with Daphne Parris’s welfare, his pride was unimportant. She was in the hands not just of a rakehell, but, it now seemed, one who employed violent brutes as his grooms.

  ‘If she has lain with him, then she may be with child already,’ Jane pointed out, with far less embarrassment than a single lady should be showing when discussing such a thing. ‘And even if she is not, then surely the fact that the marriage has been consummated will make any kind of annulment very difficult, especially as she would probably protest that she was entirely willing to go with him. And if it was possible to separate them despite that, her reputation would be in tatters.’ Her brow was creased with thought as she concentrated on the problem. If she was shocked by Daphne’s story, then she was hiding the fact.

  ‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘But I promised Charles I would try.’

  And I owe that laughing, reckless, charming friend of my childhood something. If only I could believe that some trace of her remains.

  ‘And you have tried and she now knows of someone who will help her if she does repent of the match,’ Jane said.

  ‘True.’ That had not occurred to him and it was some small consolation. Daphne had shown the spirit and determination to do what she had wanted and, surely, if she came to regret her actions she would show as much determination in escaping. ‘I do need to get to Bath,’ he admitted finally as he sat down. ‘If we are careful, then we should escape detection and a scandal of our own.’

  To her credit, Jane Newnham showed neither disappointment in him for failing to extricate the deluded bride nor triumph at getting her own way and his escort. He was coming, reluctantly, to like his improbable rescuer.

  ‘That is a relief,’ she said. ‘I will feel so much more comfortable with your company on the road and I will not have to worry about you.’

  It was a novelty, to have anyone to worry about him. His mother had died when he was five, he had no siblings and his father had appeared to believe that no Merton might be vulgar enough to be shot, skewered or blown up on a battlefield and, therefore, there was no cause for concern when his only son joined the army. Ivo wondered sometimes if the late Earl had ever seen him as anything other than the fulfilment of his duty. The title had been secured, tutors and instructors would look after the boy, there was nothing for him to trouble himself about.

  As for his grandfather’s emotions, they had always been a mystery to him.

  ‘We will have our dinner soon. If we retire immediately after it, then we will be able to make an early start.’ Jane finished her tea and carried the tray to the sideboard.

  ‘It seems I have acquired a very managing sister,’ he said. He meant it for a joke and wondered at the shadow that seemed to cross her face.

  ‘It is about time I learned to manage and not be a mouse,’ she said, with no amusement in her voice at all. ‘I have accepted too much and not thought of alternatives.’ The alternatives she appeared to be thinking about did not seem to be making her very happy, judging by her frown.

  That sudden seriousness was a pity, Ivo thought, leaning back in the chair and trying to find a position where his bruised ribs would allow him to breathe in comfort. Jane’s voice was pleasant, but nothing out of the ordinary until she was amused, when he found it made him want to smile, even when he did not know what the joke was.

  There was clearly some difficult history behind that bitter remark, just as there was behind her quite impossible implication that she intended to earn her living from her art. He was curious, but he did not know her well enough to probe—she would, very rightly, snub curious questions. Still, pondering someone else’s concerns was a pleasant distraction from considerations of either his own future or the futility of attempting to save Daphne, the stubborn Lady Meredith, from herself. He flatly refused to let himself think any more tonight about his own feelings for Daphne.

  The maid came in with a laden tray and began to set food out on the table. She was followed by the cellarman, cobwebs in his hair and on the vast baize apron he wore, and Ivo discussed what he recommended, received a frown from Jane when he ordered ratafia for her and added a light hock to his own order of claret.

  ‘I am resolved to ask for what I want and not meekly accept what is considered appropriate,’ she said a few minutes later, wrinkling her nose in distaste over the word as she ladled out steaming oxtail soup.

  ‘Are you used to drinking wine?’ he asked, suddenly wary. Jane was a handful sober, he winced inwardly at the thought of her a trifle high-flown.

  ‘An occasional glass with meals,’ she said demurely. ‘Ratafia makes my teeth ache, it is so sweet.’

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on passing him his bowl of soup and Ivo watched her, speculating on just why she was so set against marriage. This business about setting up as an artist was obviously so much fantasy. His immediate reaction was to wonder if she had become tired of being a wallflower, but he could not believe that the gentlemen of her acquaintance would be so unappreciative of such an interesting young lady. No great beauty, of course, but perfectly passable and clearly equipped with the correct social graces when she chose to utilise them.

  ‘Your parents cannot approve of your desire to paint professionally,’ Ivo remarked when the business of passing bread rolls and butter was dealt with. ‘But they must be aware of your considerable talent.’

  ‘Young ladies learn to sketch and to paint in watercolour. Approved themes are landscape, children and rural scenes—provided the rustics inhabiting the landscape are picturesque and not squalidly poor. Serious figure painting or the use of oils is not considered suitable,’ she informed him. ‘Besides, they do not know of my ambitions.’

  ‘So how did you learn?’

  ‘I had a watercolour and drawing tutor. Then my friend Verity, the one who has married the Duke of Aylsham, held regular meetings for her friends at her home. Our parents believed we were gathering to read worthy texts. Instead we had an entire turret in the Bishop’s Palace to ourselves and our work.’ He must have shown his surprise at the word because she put down her spoon with some emphasis. ‘Female occupations may be work and just as seriou
s as men’s interests. Verity is an antiquarian. I paint. Lucy is a pianist, Melissa is a novelist and Prudence is a Classical scholar. None of us has parents who approve of our passions except for Verity. The Bishop is also a scholar and encourages her work.’

  ‘I gather that not a great deal of reading was done in your reading circle.’

  ‘On occasion Melissa reads novels, Prudence reads Greek and Latin texts, Lucy reads music, Verity studies learned journals and I dip into the lives of painters. As far as our parents are concerned we study sermons and tracts together. Although the Bishop has retired—he had a stroke, poor man—he is still sent any manner of spiritual publications. Our parents are most impressed by the tone of the pamphlets we bring home.’

  ‘And the Bishop connives in this?’

  ‘He has no idea we are doing anything of which our parents would not approve and so he has been very generous in continuing to allow us to use Verity’s tower, even though she has married and left home. He can hear the pianoforte, of course, and he would admire my sketches of the garden. He knew Lucy borrows books from his library and that Melissa writes, but then, all young ladies do these things. As amateurs. Dabbling,’ she said with a suggestion of gritted teeth, ‘is encouraged, but Heaven forfend that we become serious.’

  ‘But you have left your remaining friends, and your tower of sanctuary, and are travelling to stay with a relative.’

  ‘Yes.’ She tore the bread roll in half with a vicious twist that made Ivo wince. ‘In disgrace.’

  ‘Might I ask for what reason? Not, I assume because of an unwise...er...friendship with a man, from what you have said about your views on marriage.’

  ‘Oh, it was a man,’ Jane said blithely. ‘Arnold the under-footman.’

  Ivo froze, soup spoon halfway to his lips. ‘A footman?’

  ‘He has quite remarkable muscular development—apparently he boxes in his own time—and I wanted to draw him and he was perfectly willing to strip off for half a guinea.’

  ‘You were drawing him in the nu—? Nak—? Without clothes?’

  ‘Of course. That is, he was without clothes, I was not. But how else am I going to learn about male anatomy?’ she asked with sweet reasonableness.

  Ivo dropped his spoon. Regrettably there was still soup in the bowl and the result was not helpful to his general appearance. ‘From books?’ he suggested, attempting to remedy matters with his napkin. ‘Prints of art works? Statues?’

  ‘It is not the same as real flesh and blood,’ Jane pointed out. ‘It was remarkably useful to see your back under tension, for example.’ His expression must have finally registered because she added, ‘Naturally, I will give you the drawing if you wish. I am aware that I was carried away by the opportunity and should have asked your permission first. But it was so useful to see your spine close to,’ she said wistfully.

  Ivo reflected—inappropriately, given present company—that women had expressed appreciation of his body before now, but never in quite those terms and none of them had seemed remotely interested in his vertebrae. ‘Please, keep it,’ he said, dropping the napkin back into his lap. ‘Feel free.’

  Jane looked up with such eagerness on her face that he was irrationally glad of the napkin’s coverage, even though there was the table between them. ‘I meant,’ he said repressively, as much for himself as for her, ‘feel free to keep the picture. Although not to draw any more of me.’ Her face fell. ‘Not in any absence of clothes, at any rate.’

  The room was becoming remarkably hot and he wished he could mop his brow.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her smile was sudden, sunny, and he found himself smiling back despite the fact that she was going to prove a confounded nuisance and a worry he could well do without.

  But she saved you from a much worse beating, his conscience reminded him.

  The maid came in to clear the soup and Ivo changed the subject abruptly. Things were bad enough without informing the inn’s staff that his ‘sister’ drew men in the nude. ‘I suggest we stop at Newbury tomorrow night. That is about fifty miles. I imagine that you will not want to travel further in one day.’

  A roast fowl and a carving knife were set in front of him along with a pie with a flaking golden crust. A dish with the rich aroma of cream and onions was placed in front of Jane. The maid deposited a bowl of vegetables in the middle of the table and made way for the cellarman with his bottles.

  ‘Fifty miles sounds quite far enough,’ Jane agreed. ‘We will be lucky to do it in six hours, I imagine, and with your injuries that is quite long enough to be bounced about in a chaise. Game pie or veal? They both look very good.’

  ‘Some of each, please. Would you care for some chicken?’

  My goodness, we are both managing a very good appearance of gentility—me with my bruises and she with her scandalous intentions.

  * * *

  Jane cut into the pie, placed a generous portion on a plate, added a slice of veal and some sauce, leaving room for vegetables, and pushed the plate across the table, receiving a chicken wing and a slice of breast in return. She helped herself to peas and carrots, with a mental lecture on eating too much—there was apple pie still to come—and took a sustaining sip of wine, then another appreciative swallow.

  ‘I beg your pardon? I am afraid I missed that.’

  ‘I was merely moaning,’ she confessed. ‘With pleasure.’

  Ivo narrowed his eyes at her. For some reason there was colour on his cheekbones. Perhaps the roast fowl had been very hot.

  ‘The wine,’ Jane explained. ‘Delicious.’ She waited while he added chicken and vegetables to his loaded plate—clearly the military habit of eating well when one had the opportunity had not left him. ‘I had not expected such good food. And the Pelican at Speenhamland, just outside Newbury, has a very good reputation, I believe, so we should eat well again tomorrow night.’

  ‘The Pelican is extortionately expensive.’ Ivo poured red wine into his own glass. ‘There is a rhyme that says it is called the Pelican because of its enormous bill.’

  ‘We can afford it,’ Jane said, with an airy wave of her wine glass. The hock was really exceedingly good and eating alone with a gentleman had all the pleasure of novelty.

  ‘You should be saving your resources. Naturally, I will repay you as soon as possible, but splashing your blunt around at the Pelican, as though we were Admiral Nelson—’

  ‘He is dead,’ Jane pointed out. Perhaps she would try a little of the game pie as well, it did smell delicious, and the food was just slipping down with the aid of the wine. It was so pleasant not to have Mama sending her warning looks down the table.

  ‘A lady eats like a dainty bird. A lady has the most refined appetite. A lady drinks half a glass of wine at the most...’

  ‘Do you think ladies should just peck at their food and not show an appetite?’

  ‘No.’ Ivo sounded definite. ‘For a start it is a waste of the effort the cooks have put into preparing the food and food should not be wasted. Going hungry is no joke. Besides, a lady with a healthy appetite for food usually has a healthy appetite for—’ He broke off, coughing. ‘Sorry, a crumb in my throat. For life, I was going to say.’

  ‘Are you all right? You have become quite pink.’

  ‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’ Ivo topped up his glass. ‘To get back to what we were discussing: Nelson might be dead, but everyone who is anyone calls at the Pelican.’

  Jane shrugged. ‘But I am not anyone, I am merely an unknown lady from Dorset. And no one will recognise you with those bruises if they are not expecting to see you. We must think of a surname if we agree to continue as brother and sister.’ She scanned the table for inspiration and fixed on the vegetable dish. ‘Pease? Pomeroy? Pomfret? Poppinghall?’

  ‘Preposterous. We are Mr and Miss Turnham who will be taking a private parlour—and going off to find an inn in Newbury if there is no
privacy to be had at the Pelican, believe me!’

  ‘Yes, Ivo,’ Jane agreed meekly, earning herself a suspicious look. It was a novelty to get her own way about anything, almost as much as this whole adventure was new and exciting. Mama and Papa were loving parents, but they were also exceedingly conventional ones, in her opinion. And Mama was ambitious. Jane would be a pattern book of good behaviour if constant nagging could achieve it—and as a consequence of this behaviour she was confident that Jane would find herself an eligible partner. Even a titled one might be possible because, as Mrs Newnham kept repeating ad nauseum, ‘Look at what Verity Wingate has managed.’

  Jane had pointed out that there were no eligible dukes presently available, but that had merely sent her mother back to the Peerage to check each ducal line for unmarried heirs, or sons of heirs. But none was in Dorset and it was too much for even the most optimistic mama to hope that any would stray into the path of Miss Newnham, so her parents, who had treated as mere politeness previous vague invitations from Aunt Hermione in her letters, had decided to see what might be achieved.

  ‘Poor dear Hermione has not been well, it seems. We really should make the effort to visit her now she has recovered. And she has such a generous nature,’ Mama had murmured.

  Jane had no trouble in translating that as, If we play our cards right my wealthy sister-in-law will fund a come-out.

  Her father’s younger sister was inclined to approve of her niece, it seemed, and the hoped-for invitation for Jane to make her somewhat belated London debut next Season was on the verge of being made, if the hints Aunt had dropped were to be believed. And then, one naked footman later, Jane was on her way to the sedate safekeeping of Cousin Violet whose sole male indoor servant was sixty if he was a day.