The Angel of an Astronomer

by Sande, Linda Rae

  George finished the last bit of toast on his plate and washed it down with a sip of tea. “Who says I have?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You, if you’re inviting a young lady for a ride in the park in the middle of winter. What’s really going on here?” she asked.

  Folding the note into the shape of a small envelope, George addressed it and then had the butler summon a footman. “Once you’re married, I think I should like to be as well. Besides, I’ll need a hostess,” he reasoned.

  As much as she liked the idea of Lady Anne as a sister-in-law, Angelica still wondered at her brother’s motivation. “You’re awfully young to be marrying,” she argued.

  “I’m not yet betrothed,” he reminded her. “But I will not delay a match as long as our father did.”

  “A quarter of a century,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “That’s the amount of time between your current age and that of Father’s when he took Mother to wife,” she said. “I suppose I would have expected you to marry at some age halfway in between.” She seemed to do a calculation in her head. “Three-and thirty or so.”

  George made a sound of disbelief. “I think that is far too old to be starting a nursery,” he argued.

  Angelica’s eyes widened. “And yet, Sir Benjamin is older even than that!”

  Unable to argue with her reasoning, George allowed a huff. “I rue the day Father decided he wanted an educated daughter,” he stated under his breath. He allowed a long sigh, wondering at her objection. “You should be happy for me. And glad that I am not of a mind to hire a mistress, or seek a woman’s attentions at a brothel.” He clamped his mouth shut, mortified that he had actually said the last out loud. “I apologize. I...” He sighed again.

  Angling her head to one side, Angelica allowed a wan smile. “I am happy for you. I adore Lady Anne. I am merely worried that by marrying early, you will tire of your wife and then hire a mistress, or seek a woman’s attentions at a brothel.”

  “Angel!” he scolded, shocked she would use his very words against him.

  The footman happened to have arrived in the breakfast parlor the same moment she was making her point. George handed him the folded note, hoping the servant wouldn’t mention his sister’s comment to the other servants. “Take this to Trenton House in Curzon Street. I rather doubt you will be allowed to wait for a reply,” he said.

  Once the footman had bowed and took his leave, George turned his attention back on his sister. Before he could say anything, though, she said, “I apologize. You should marry Lady Anne. As soon as you can. Although she’s just making her come-out this year, she is sure to have a half-dozen suitors and probably end up married before the end of it if you don’t make your move first.”

  George allowed a chuckle. “I said the same thing about you a few years ago.”

  Angelica’s face bloomed red with sudden anger, and George backed his chair from the table, mostly to protect his arm from being punched. “Remember, Father made sure none of your suitors at the time could have you,” he reminded her quickly. “And since he is the one who has made the overtures regarding a potential match with Sir Benjamin, at least he won’t object to him.”

  But Angelica wasn’t remembering those other suitors.

  She settled back into her chair and recalled her time with Mr. Fulton the night before. Recalled the brief kiss under the mistletoe. Recalled his final kiss and how warm it had made her feel.

  She stood up and her brother quickly followed suit.

  “What is it?” he asked in alarm.

  She glanced at him and gave her head a shake. “Nothing. I will see to writing those invitations now,” she murmured, and then she took her leave of the breakfast parlor and headed to her salon.

  Would her father object to Ben Fulton if he decided to offer for her hand?

  It was far too soon to be thinking of marriage to the astronomer, but wouldn’t his nights be more interesting than an older knight’s nights?

  Chapter 21

  An Invitation Arrives

  Meanwhile, at Trenton House in Curzon Street

  Having finished her breakfast and a cup of tea, Sarah, Countess of Trenton, was deciding between accepting another cup of tea or going to her salon to write letters.

  The arrival of her daughter had her accepting the tea.

  “You’re up awfully late this morning,” she commented as Anne stopped to kiss her on the cheek.

  Anne moved to take her regular seat at the table and allowed a brilliant smile as a footman moved to fill a plate for her. “I was having the most amazing dream and decided I didn’t wish for it to end,” she said.

  Sarah arched an elegant eyebrow. “Oh, my. Do you remember any of it?”

  Grinning, Ann acknowledged the footman who poured her tea with a whispered “thank you” and said, “I was on a ride in Hyde Park with Viscount Hexham. It must have snowed, for everything was white, and the snowed glittered in the sun.”

  “Hexham?” Sarah repeated. “You mean George Grandby, the heir to the Torrington earldom?”

  Anne blushed. “I do. He would make a most excellent husband, do you not think?”

  Sarah regarded her daughter with appreciation. “I suppose he would.” She was about to say more, but Barclay appeared on the threshold. “Yes?”

  The butler held a silver salver in one hand. “A footman just delivered this for Lady Anne.”

  Her eyes widening in surprise, Anne said, “Who even knows we are in London?” she asked as Sarah indicated she would take the note.

  The countess’ brows furrowed as she regarded the handwriting on the outside. Without opening it, she handed it over to her daughter. “There’s no seal,” she said as she turned her attention back to the butler. “Was the footman instructed to wait for a reply?”

  Barclay gave a slight shake of his head. “He was told an immediate reply would be doubtful.”

  Sarah frowned at hearing this. “Did you recognize the livery?”

  He nodded. “Torrington’s, my lady,” he said, at the very moment Anne let out an exclamation of excitement.

  Barclay had to step aside when Trenton entered the breakfast parlor at the same moment as Anne’s yelp.

  “A note from Hexham?” he guessed.

  “Indeed,” Anne replied, her attention on the missive. She looked up in surprise, though. “How did you know?”

  Her father bussed her mother on the cheek and then took his usual place at the table. Not about to admit he had heard her conversation with Gabe the night before, he merely shrugged. “I am your Father. I’m supposed to know these things,” he replied, finding it difficult to keep a straight face. “Tell us what the future Earl of Torrington has written.”

  Anne read the letter aloud, knowing if she did not, her mother would merely take it from her and read it herself. “It’s a dream come true!” she added as she held the note to her breast. “I can go, can I not?”

  Sarah inhaled and looked to her husband, realizing he knew something she did not. “I’m sure your horse could use the exercise,” she reasoned, her attention still on Trenton. “What say you, darling?”

  Trenton gave a shrug as his plate was set before him. “I have no objections,” he replied. “I suppose a groom should accompany you.”

  “At the very least,” Sarah whispered.

  Trenton gave her a knowing grin. “It snowed last night. Everything is white, and it’s dashed cold. I rather doubt Hexham would try anything untoward.” He lifted that morning’s copy of The Morning Chronicle from the table and pretended to read.

  Anne’s smile was brilliant as she stood up and moved to kiss him on the cheek. “You are the very best father,” she murmured, just before she attempted to take her leave of the breakfast parlor.

  “Did you hear that?” Trenton asked as he regarded his countess. “I do not believe I have ever held that title before today.” He turned his attention to the retreating back of his daughter. “Despite you’re having dubbed me
so, young lady, you will sit back down and eat your breakfast.”

  Anne gasped. “Might I send my answer with a footman first? I shouldn’t like to keep the viscount waiting.”

  Trenton rolled his eyes as Sarah dimpled. “You may.”

  Before Anne returned to the breakfast parlor and made her way back to her seat at the table, Sarah turned her attention on her husband. “You knew she was going to receive that invitation,” she accused. “How did you know?”

  He chuckled and returned his gaze to the newspaper. “I find I learn the most when no one knows I am in the room,” he murmured. In a louder voice directed to Anne, he said, “You’ll have plenty of time to decide on a riding habit after you’ve finished eating.”

  “Yes, Father,” Anne replied, immediately tucking into her meal when she retook her seat.

  As for the riding habit, she already knew which one she would wear. Her concern was making sure she was ready for conversation with the viscount.

  Of course she had never danced with him at a ball. Never had an opportunity to speak with him other than those few minutes in the park the month before.

  How could she learn more about him? Especially since her brother had already taken his leave of the house to go to the museum?

  When she finished her meal, Anne took her leave of the breakfast parlor, nearly running in her haste to get to the library.

  Surely there would be something there to help her.

  Chapter 22

  A Knight Considers an Invitation

  Later that morning, at Bradford Hall

  Peters regarded his master with a critical eye and stepped forward to adjust Ben’s cravat. “That should do it, sir.”

  Ben nodded, not yet comfortable having Peters as his valet and butler. With such an empty household, though—just him and nine servants—it didn’t seem necessary to employ a separate valet when Peters insisted he could fill the role. “I know I’m up a bit earlier than I expected, but could you see to a morning meal?”

  “Breakfast is ready, sir, and your correspondence is on the table,” Peters replied, his manner all business.

  “Ah, very good.” Ben paused a moment. “May I inquire as to how it is you knew I had a visitor last night?”

  The butler angled his head, and seemed to think on the matter before he said, “I was about to deliver your tea when I saw her ladyship enter the observatory. She seemed... most determined.” An eyebrow arched up, as if to emphasize the word ‘determined.’

  Ben cleared his throat. “There was a... a misunderstanding, is all. Tell me, do you know much about her family? Apart from the obvious, I mean.”

  Once again angling his head to one side, Peters seemed about to respond and then angled his head to the other side. “Her father is the Earl of Torrington, her mother is the sister of the Marquess of Devonfield, her brother has accepted a writ of acceleration and will attend Parliament come spring, and she has been out in Society some three years.”

  Furrowing his brows, Ben wondered at that last bit. One-and-twenty years old, and not married? Three seasons and no offers?

  Then he remembered the letter from Torrington. He had dissuaded any potential suitors as unsuitable.

  Could she be waiting for someone in particular?

  The thought of ‘me’ had him rolling his eyes. She hadn’t even known he existed until she was scolding him.

  Despite how shocked he had been by her presence, he hadn’t minded being scolded in the least.

  “I cannot believe she is not betrothed,” Ben murmured, even as he considered the contents of the letters he had reread the night before. If the Earl of Torrington’s words were to be believed, Ben understood he already had the earl’s permission to marry her.

  “She is not,” Peters intoned.

  Did she intend to remain unmarried? Become a spinster? Given the fortune she was probably due to inherit—or might already have—she could certainly afford to flaunt convention and spend her days doing whatever she wished to do.

  Hire a companion and travel. Take up gambling and spend her blunt at a gaming hell. Buy up entire streets of townhouses and become a landlady. Start her own stables and raise racehorses. Build her own observatory and stargaze.

  This last had Ben coming to his senses.

  “Sir, if I might inquire as to your plans for the holiday?” Peters asked as they made their way down the stairs.

  “Holiday?”

  “Christmas, sir. Will you be here in town, or will you return to Suffolk?”

  Ben entered the breakfast parlor and shook his head. “I do not wish to be at home in Suffolk,” he replied, thinking he would prefer to be as far from his nieces and their mother as possible.

  He wouldn’t mind spending time with his brother, if only so he could punch Benedict in the jaw for the news contained in his letter. He knew it was unlikely they could escape the rest of the family, though. “I prefer to be here.” He took a seat as a footman saw to filling a plate.

  “Should the servants expect a Twelfth Night celebration?”

  Familiar with the idea of serving a cake baked with a pea and a bean to the servants on the twelfth day of Christmas—the two who received those slices would then be king and queen for the night—Ben thought the practice rather silly. “What if I simply gave them the day off? Christmas as well?”

  Peters’ eyes widened a fraction before he could get them under control. “That’s very generous of you, sir. But... what will you do? And what about Boxing Day?”

  Ben gave a shrug. “If the skies are clear on Christmas Eve, I shall spend the night in the observatory and then sleep Christmas Day. Do the same that night and on Boxing Day.”

  “But, what about meals?”

  “I can raid the pantry, I suppose. I can boil water. Make my own tea. It’s not as if I’ll go hungry.”

  Peters seemed unsure before he finally gave a nod. “Very good, sir. I’ll let the servants know during this evening’s meal.”

  Ben gave a sideways glance at the footman who set a filled plate on the table. He was tempted to remind the butler he wouldn’t need to—the footman would have the news relayed to everyone else in the household before they took their tea later that day.

  After the butler departed, Ben read his correspondence. There was a short note from his brother congratulating him on the telescope, which meant Benedict had received the invoice. As he ate his coddled eggs, he noted his brother made no mention of the matter of his last letter.

  Smart man. He had probably paid for the telescope as a bribe.

  Next was an invitation to a special auction at Tattersall’s, which promised a diverting afternoon admiring racehorses. Downing a rasher of bacon, he thought it unlikely he would ever have the funds to own a racehorse, let alone the stables and grooms required for such a sport.

  The next letter was most welcome. That is, until he opened it.

  An invitation to Somerset House for the next general meeting of the Royal Society, where twenty Fellows would be elected.

  His name was not among those nominated.

  Apparently, his discovery of a comet and subsequent knighting were not enough in the way of accomplishments in the eyes of those who chose the Fellow nominees.

  Remembering Torrington’s letter and the mention that Ben should get the honor, he ate another rasher of bacon. Having Torrington, his godfather, as his father-in-law was sounding better, but since the earl wasn’t a member of the Society, he rather doubted the earl had much influence over the nomination committee.

  Disheartened, Ben regarded the last two missives. They appeared identical, except in the manner in which they were addressed. One was made out to ‘Mr. Fulton,’ while the other was addressed to ‘Sir Benjamin.’ He opened both and laid them side by side.

  Written in a feminine hand, the invitations gave off a familiar floral scent, and all thoughts of the Royal Society left his head.

  Dear Mr. Fulton,

  I am writing on behalf of my brother, George, Viscoun
t Hexham, to respectfully request your company at a Dinner Party at Worthington House, Friday, December First, Eighteen-hundred and Thirty-eight, at Seven o’clock in the Evening. The Favour of a Reply is Requested.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lady Angelica

  Post scriptum

  The biscuit was indeed a good idea. And it was delicious. Thank you.

  Ben blinked before a brilliant smile replaced his sour expression. His attention went to the second.

  Sir Benjamin,

  Milton, Earl of Torrington, requests the honor of your company at a dinner party to be held at Worthington House in Park Lane, Friday, December First, Eighteen-hundred-and-Thirty-eight at Seven o’clock in the evening. Although the earl will not be in attendance, his son, George, Viscount Hexham, will host in his stead. The favour of a reply is requested.

  There was no signature, and given the two invitations, he realized two things at once.

  Lady Angelica had no idea he was Sir Benjamin.

  Lady Angelica had no desire to meet Sir Benjamin.

  For a moment, he wondered how he would respond.

  As Sir Benjamin?

  Or Mr. Fulton?

  Or both?

  If he sent replies that he planned to attend on behalf of both names, there would be an extra, empty chair at the dining table. If he replied as Sir Benjamin, would he then send regrets as Mr. Fulton? Or vice versa?

  He quickly finished his breakfast and hurried into his study to pen a response, deciding he rather liked how he was invited in the missive addressed to Mr. Fulton. Lady Angelica had obviously never met Sir Benjamin—he would know if she had—but then, neither had her brother.

  He thought of the letters from Benedict and the Earl of Torrington, a mischievous grin forming. If he was to court Lady Angelica, he decided he would do so as a commoner. If she spurned him, then he would know it was better Sir Benjamin not consider her for matrimony.

  The thought of her spurning him as Mr. Fulton had him almost changing his mind. A knight trumped a commoner, after all. But then he remembered her kiss, and he took pen to paper.