Copyright © 2020 by Jennie Goutet
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About the Author
Seasons of Change Books
1
October, 1810
A brisk gale swept through Royal York Crescent in Bristol, sending brown and yellow leaves scurrying down the street and through the wrought iron gates where they collected below at the windows and door of the servants’ quarters. Phineas Stropford, the Viscount Hayworth, knocked at no. 17 and presented his card. It took only one glance for the butler to drop his quelling regard and open the door wide to admit Phineas.
“Mr. Stokes is expecting you, Lord Hayworth. I will make him aware of your arrival. Please step inside. May I take your hat and coat?”
Phineas divested himself of these and waited while the butler moved with quick steps to a room farther down in the corridor. Phineas wasn’t nervous—he would not allow himself to be, despite the fact that he was here to set an irrevocable seal on his future. He brushed the creases out of his sleeves and glanced down. His cream pantaloons were impeccable, but there was a smear of mud on his Hessians. It annoyed him, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, he supposed he did not need to impress Erasmus Stokes.
The butler returned within minutes. “Mr. Stokes will see you. Will you please follow me?” He led Phineas to his master’s study, and Stokes stood as soon as he entered.
“Come in, my lord.” Stokes bowed then advanced to meet Phineas, who took the room in at a glance.
There was an imposing desk at one end where Stokes had been sitting, and a Sheraton table beyond it that boasted an intricate model of a sailing frigate. Two bergère armchairs, brocaded in green and gold threads with mahogany armrests, were comfortably placed before the fire, and a large painting that Phineas guessed to be by Joseph Turner sat above the mantel, depicting a sloop lost on a stormy sea. He wondered whether Stokes’s tastes were naturally elegant or whether he had furnished his home with the intention of impressing his guests.
“You are looking at the Turner, I see. It was not easy to get my hands on one, but I was determined. I will have nothing but the best.” Stokes rubbed his hands as he chuckled, and Phineas had his answer. Stokes owned the art to impress.
Phineas turned and acknowledged Stokes’s comment with an inclination of his head. The servant was waiting by the door, and Stokes barked out orders for him to bring brandy then gestured for Phineas to sit in one of the chairs facing the fire.
He did so, and Stokes took the other chair. “I will not hide the matter from you, my lord. I was highly gratified that you would condescend to consider my offer, once I’d learned you were in search of a wife.” Stokes frowned suddenly and—much in the gauche manner Phineas expected of him—barrelled forward. “Not that you’re doing me any favors, mind you. Kitty is no eyesore, and I’ve sweetened the cream pot to a degree you must admit is handsome. Why, when I told my associate what I was paying—”
“I should hope you are not bandying about your sister’s name in such a public way. I assure you, I am not accustomed to having my own name spoken of so openly.” Phineas dropped Stokes’s gaze for fear his disgust over the nature of their dealings would become apparent.
“No. That is to say…” Stokes floundered. “I’ve told one or two of my closest associates, but I would not call it bandying anything about.”
“I would be much obliged if you would keep the details of our negotiations private. You may use my name in your business dealings, as I am sure you have every right to do. My name is what you purchased, after all.” Phineas paused. The whole of it was distasteful, but he would be frank this once. “However, I would like to stipulate that my private life—even when it is joined with your sister’s—will not be open for scrutiny.”
“Of course, my lord,” Stokes replied hastily. He cleared his throat and frowned at the painting as an awkward silence settled between them.
When the door opened, Stokes leapt up and gestured for the butler to place the flat-bottomed crystal decanter on the table in front of them. Phineas studied the strange design, coming to the conclusion that it might be meant for a ship captain’s use to keep the decanter from tipping over on the rolling seas.
Stokes picked up the glass of brandy his butler had poured for him. “When the French border was still open, I purchased enough of these bottles to fill a cellar. There are not many left, but I don’t think you will find anything to complain of, my lord.”
“No indeed,” Phineas said, taking one sip then another. “It is rather good. I have nothing like it myself, although I believe my father has a few bottles.” This seemed to please Stokes. He smoothed his mustache, hiding a smile in the process.
Although Phineas had received regular reports from his man of business, he had been trying to take Stokes’s measure since he’d walked through the door. This first and final meeting would do much to determine Phineas’s future happiness, after all. He concluded that Stokes was only happy if he could boast about possessing more than others—then curled his lip at the thought. And I am no different.
“You have had a chance to look over the contract, and since you are here, I assume everything is all right and tight.” Stokes placed a jeweled hand on the armrest. “Kitty is not here, as I warned, but I’m sure you must have some questions for me. She’s a good girl. You won’t regret the arrangement.”
Arrangement. It was such a clinical word for marriage, even when marriages were nearly always an arranged event. His father would have done the same thing for Phineas if he had allowed it, but he was not his father’s puppet. Or, at least, after he married Miss Stokes, he would not be.
“I don’t have any questions. None that come to mind,” Phineas admitted.
“Good. Your mind is settled then. That is the kind of man I wish to do business with. I am such a man myself. My word is my bond. I’m a man that can be counted on.” Stokes smoothed the cravat around his thick neck then tapped his hand on the armrest of his chair. “Kitty is in Bath, visiting our sister, but I have a miniature of her right here. You can take a look.” Stokes made as if to rise, but Phineas put out a hand to stop him.
“That will not be necessary. My agent has done all that is required to ascertain that she is agreeable in form and figure. Nothing else is needed for me.”
Stokes drew his brows together. “You do not wish to see her portrait? I’m not a man to take my investments sight unseen.”
Phineas bunched his hand at his side, releasing his fingers when he realized he was letting his annoyance show. “As I mentioned, I have given the matter wholly into Carter’s hands. You�
��ve met him, and you know him to be a capable man, I believe. We will let the matter rest.”
“Very well, my lord.” Stokes fingered the side of his brandy glass. “And the Society papers?”
“Carter will see that the announcement goes in, and he will make sure the banns are read. You have nothing further to do.”
“Except show up at Bath Abbey on the eighth of November with your bride in hand.”
Phineas gave a nod. He took another sip of brandy, more to be polite than from any real desire to drink. His stomach was roiling in an unpleasant way. He needed to bring this interview to an end. “If you have nothing else…” Phineas stood.
Stokes shot to his feet and bumped the table, nearly spilling Phineas’s largely untouched brandy. Perhaps there was another reason for his ship’s decanter. Phineas repressed an urge to smirk.
“There is one other matter, my lord,” Stokes said, a bit of red creeping up the flesh above his neat cravat.
Phineas turned and raised an eyebrow. “Well? What is it?”
“I would like to call you Hayworth, and have you call me Stokes,” he said in a rushed voice. “It won’t look right to be calling my own brother-in-law ‘my lord.’”
Phineas gave another nod. “Very well.” Anything to get out of this stifling room and into the fresh air, though he wondered what devil’s bargain he was tangling himself into.
“Well then”—another nervous chuckle followed—“we will meet in a month’s time, and I will have your new bride waiting for you. I’m sure you can have no cause for complaint.”
“Excellent.” Phineas had to force the word out of his throat. He extended his hand and encountered Stokes’s warm, fleshy hand in his own. Phineas could not leave soon enough, and as he stepped outside and walked down the stairs to where his father’s undergroom was standing with the horses, he took in gulps of air.
“Ringham, let us go.”
The undergroom handed him the reins and climbed up on the step behind the phaeton, and they were off.
Phineas had soon cleared Bristol, but it was some time before he could relax. This was only part of the battle—to abase himself and seek a wife for the sole purpose of building his fortune. Oh, perhaps for the purpose of securing an heir as well, but that did not bear thinking of yet. If he was going to be mercenary, he may as well put aside all chance of regret and accept the bargain for what it was. He trusted Carter to have done the work to make sure she was pleasant enough to look at. In any case, what was done was done.
Now Phineas had only to break the news to his parents, who were currently residing in their townhouse in Bath. He would need all the time the trip to Bath would require before he was ready for that meeting—to gather his resolve. Phineas couldn't wait until all this was over so he might settle into his new life with the bride he had chosen. She came with a fat enough purse to finally free him from the strings his father held. It went against the grain that choosing a wife came down to such grasping ways, but it was no less than the truth.
Phineas arrived at his parents’ townhouse at half-past four, forcing himself to take even, steady breaths to calm his nerves before the butler opened the front door. “Where might I find my parents?” Phineas asked, avoiding Seamus’s gaze. “I wish to speak with them.” He removed his hat and gloves and handed them to the butler.
“Lord Midlington is in his study, but Lady Midlington is taking the waters in the Pump Room,” Seamus replied, setting the hat and gloves on the table and helping Phineas to remove his coat.
This did not surprise Phineas, but it did put a chink in his plans to get through the unpleasantness of their upcoming conversation. He paused, and the butler waited for instructions, which Phineas did not give quickly enough.
“Shall I tell Lord Midlington you wish to see him?”
“No, there’s no need to announce my presence to the earl. I will change out of my travel clothes and wait until Mother has returned,” Phineas told Seamus. He took the stairs and went to the room that was reserved for him when he stayed in Bath. The one whose green paper-hangings curled at the edges, not having once been changed in his lifetime. Soon, he would have his own house in Bath and would not need to spend his time at his parents’ like an indigent relative. In fact, he thought with satisfaction, I shall not need to come to Bath at all. He could keep to the estate his grandmother had bequeathed him in Castle Combe or purchase a residence in London.
When Phineas heard the sounds of his mother’s arrival, he asked a footman to request that his parents honor him with their time. The footman returned presently with the news that they would receive him in the drawing room and that tea would be ordered. Everything communicated in the proper way, of course.
When he entered the drawing room, his parents sat across from each other in perfect silence. His mother was studying her hands on her lap, and his father was opening and shutting his snuffbox with rhythmic clicks.
“I assume you have something to announce,” Lord Midlington said, looking up as Phineas entered. His mother began pouring tea from the pot that had been steeping, stirring in the sugar while his father continued. “I hope you have come with an explanation for the fields left to fallow, which I asked you to look into at Midlington.”
Phineas shook his head and took a breath to begin, but his mother handed him a cup. He could only nod his thanks and take his seat on the settee, waiting for his father to finish.
“Although why you would need your mother here to tell me that, I don’t profess to understand.” His father reached his hand out for the tea she served him, eyes on Phineas.
He rarely saw his parents in the same room, but that was no surprise since he knew they each held the other in little affection. Phineas sipped the tea and set it on the saucer, every movement deliberate to hide his twinge of nerves. It would not do for that to show. A man of twenty-eight ought to know how to run his own life, after all. “I do have news, and it has nothing to do with the fields. I will look into that matter as promised, but perhaps not as soon as you would wish. There is work to be done on Giddenhall as well.”
His father's face hardened. “And with what money do you plan to accomplish the work at Giddenhall? My boy, if you're going to inherit my estate one day, you will need to learn how it runs. When I tell you to look into a matter, it’s with good reason, and I expect you to do it. There will be time enough to see to the affairs of Giddenhall, which is in a sad state of shambles.”
Phineas studied the tea leaves in his cup that had escaped the strainer. The urge to lash out was strong—to inform his father that he would no longer be needing his monetary support, and therefore his father need not regard him as assistant to the steward. But Phineas had long decided he would be a better man than his father and would control his temper. When he looked up, he was nearly certain none of his emotions could be read in his expression. The handful of friends who claimed to know him had spoken of his glacial regard.
“I gave my word that I would consult the steward regarding that affair, and I will do so,” Phineas responded with deliberate calm despite the pulse leaping in his throat. “But I will not have time to carry out a prolonged examination, for I am to be married.”
His mother's teacup clattered on its saucer, and his father raised his heavy brows in surprise.
“I would have appreciated it if you had given me a signal that you planned to offer for Lady Jane before I had spoken to her father. You knew I had arranged to discuss terms with Lord Leighton as early as next week.” Lord Midlington shifted in his seat and shot a rare look of complaisance at his son. “However, I am pleased that you have taken matters into your own hands. It won’t do for a young man to be coerced to the altar. Our families will benefit from this connection, and you have shown yourself to be surprisingly obstinate in the past. I shall invite the Leightons over as soon as it may be arranged. And I will have Parkson send a letter to The Gazette.”
Phineas had expected as much, and if his visit with Stokes had been unpalatable,
this encounter was by far the more difficult. “Father, I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension. I have not offered for Lady Jane. I informed you it was not my intention to do so. I have contracted an alliance with Miss Katherine Stokes—”
“Miss Katherine Stokes—” His father stared open-mouthed at Phineas for several seconds as though stunned. “Who is she?”
Phineas continued as though he had not been cut off. “—and have already desired my man of business to put a note in the Society papers. I will see that the banns are read without delay so that we may be married in a month.”
“Miss Stokes is not of the ton. Who is she?” his father asked again, his face taking on a purplish hue. “Is this a love match? You foolish boy. I told you nothing good comes of that.”
Phineas darted a glance at his mother but read nothing in her expression. He knew those words could only hurt, for theirs had been a love match at the beginning. If anything were needed to strengthen his resolve to arrange a marriage of convenience, a look at his parents’ “love match” was proof enough.
“No, Father. It is not a love match. I have never met the girl. Her brother, Erasmus Stokes, runs the largest shipping business in Bristol. Carter arranged this marriage for me, and the settlement money is not to be despised. It will give me what I need to fix up Giddenhall.”
“What sort of girl is—” his mother began.
“What am I supposed to tell Lord Leighton now?” His father stood abruptly. “They will be expecting your offer to come for Lady Jane.”
“Say nothing, Father. I told you I did not plan to offer for Lady Jane, and if the Leightons are harboring expectations, it is not from anything I have said. If I have looked elsewhere, it is quite my own choice.”
His Disinclined Bride (Seasons of Change Book 7) Page 1
