An Unlikely Countess (8 page)

“Better than Cousin Fred, at least.”

He hadn’t meant to speak that aloud.

“Cousin Fred?” Perry asked.

“My father’s cousin. Next in line.”

“Bad lot?”

“Not at all. Solid, good-hearted family man. But he’d move into Keynings with his brood and expect Mother and Artemis to move out. Mother in particular would hate that. It’s her home.”

“Then it’s good you’re around to take over. If necessary.”

That “if necessary” hurt. He truly had never wished his brother dead, but now he feared he might resent a baby boy.

No, he’d make sure not to commit that sin.

And even then . . . If there was an infant Earl of Malzard, Cate would be the natural guardian, with the excuse, almost the requirement, to live at Keynings and supervise its management.

“What of La Rumford?” Perry asked.

Cate almost said, “Who?” He was ashamed of his rush of relief that Georgiana and her family would have no further part in his life, but there it was. He’d wooed her for her ability to give him what he wanted—a country estate as a substitute for Keynings. He didn’t need that anymore, and so he didn’t need her.

He was certain she didn’t yet love him, though she was definitely in love with the idea of being wife to the brother of an earl. She would probably weep and wail over how closely she’d missed becoming a countess.

Even if she did love him, he knew he’d take the same course.

If he was Earl of Malzard, the one thing he could do right would be to marry a perfect countess. A woman of his own station, one trained in all the duties and responsibilities of high rank, one ready to be mistress of gracious households. She would have dignity and elegance, and be comfortably part of the web of noble families. Even better, she’d be able to help him take his place in that web of social complexities and share the burdens of his new responsibilities.

And, of course, as best as could be judged, she must be likely to produce sons.

“Y
ou need food,” Perry said, climbing out of the coach.

They’d stopped at yet another inn for yet another change of horses. Pray God the ones available here were better than the last lot of spavined nags, and the road ahead better than the road behind.

“It can’t be far now,” Cate said. “We’ll press on.”

“And you’ll tuck into dinner as soon as you arrive? Have sense. Better to face your family with food in your belly.”

Even with four horses and a light chaise, they’d been five days on the road. They should have ridden, but he’d thought he’d be able to sleep in the carriage. That hadn’t proved true, so they’d had to sleep a few hours every night. Short sleep and hurried meals perhaps hadn’t been wise, but he’d been unable to do anything else.

Too late, too late, too late.

But it had already been too late when Jeb set out for London.

Cate was definitely light-headed, so Perry, damn him, was right.

He climbed down, noting that Perry was still in perfect order. His dark gray suit was hardly wrinkled, his linen white, his hair within the confines of its ribbon and bag. Even his nails were buffed to a shine. Cate had always assumed his elegance was the work of his valet, but in a great sacrifice, Perry had left Auguste to follow with Jeb and the extra luggage so he and Cate could travel at best speed.

Perry’s clothing was also suitable for mourning, which Cate’s was not. For bride hunting, he’d laid out his limited funds on fashionable finery. Perry would have lent Cate anything in his wardrobe, but unfortunately he was half a head shorter than Cate and of a more slender build.

Cate was wearing the soberest clothes he had—his riding clothes. Leather breeches, brown jacket, plain buff waistcoat, and boots were acceptable country wear, but hardly funereal, even with a black band on his arm and black gloves. Perhaps he should attempt to buy some other clothes here, wherever it was. He looked up at the inn sign. The Golden Lion.

He was in Northallerton.

Memory stopped him in his tracks. He turned, and there, surely, was the narrow lane on which Hera lived. Or had lived. If all had gone well with her, she’d be in Darlington now with her brother.

How long had it been? Six weeks . . . No, more . . .

“Cate?” Perry asked.

“Order a meal. I’ve remembered a matter to take care of.”

He had to know. He crossed the wide road between passing coaches. He had money, now. Apart from the earldom’s wealth, he had about twenty guineas about his person, all he’d had left, before. If she was still here, still in difficulties, perhaps she’d accept some of it.

The narrow lane looked both better and worse by daylight. Children played under the eyes of women working and gossiping in their open doorways, but daylight revealed the meanness of the houses.

Which house was hers? His memory wasn’t clear and he was attracting attention. The chatter had stopped and wary eyes watched him.

Her house had been on the right and just a few doors in. He chose a door and knocked.

“No one’s there, sir.”

He turned to a thin, homely young woman who’d come to the open door of the house alongside. “She’s away from home, ma’am?”

Now the neighbor was interested, but still uncommunicative. He knew why. A gentleman inquiring for anyone here, but especially a woman who lived alone, could be up to no good. He wished he knew Hera’s name.

“Would it be possible for us to talk in private, ma’am?”

Her eyes widened, but then she grinned. “Come on in, then, but we’ll leave the door open, and people’ll ’ear if there’s trouble.”

“Warning taken. I mean no offense.”

Her door led straight into a small front room, as Hera’s had, and in the same way, the kitchen lay to the back, but in every other way this house was an improvement.

The front room was furnished, in simple style but in comfort. There was even a covering on the floor. Some sort of rough carpet made of rags, but better than nothing. The room was clean and dusted and there were even flowers in a jug at the small window. Whatever was cooking in the kitchen smelled good.

Hera’s house had felt dismal, but the people who lived here had hope.

He’d long since learned that some of the poor were as clever and quick as others. This young wife was no fool.

“My name is Burgoyne, ma’am, and I’m seeking news of the lady who lives next door.”

He hoped she’d supply the name, but she folded her arms and said, “Why?”

“When last I heard from her she was in somewhat difficult circumstances.”

“You a friend of ’ers, sir?”

“To an extent.”

“She didn’t seem to have any friends, sir.”

That might be a subtle accusation of neglect, but he’d noted the past tense.

“Has something happened to her?”

“Something always ’appens, dunnit, sir? But yes, she’s left. Gone to her brother’s in Darlington.”

“Ah, then all is well.”

Cate acknowledged some disappointment. Hera had sent her letter, her brother had repented of his carelessness, and she was now comfortably situated. He’d wanted to be her benefactor. Wanted her appreciation and gratitude. Now he wasn’t needed and had no excuse to linger. Perry would be worrying.

Yet something in the woman’s face held him in place.

“I hope her brother’s well.”

“You a friend of
’is
?”

The emphasis was clear guidance. “’Struth, no! In truth, I have no great opinion of Aaron.”

His use of a name changed everything.

The arms unfolded. “Begging yer pardon, sir, but who are you? Prudence never mentioned any gentleman to me.”

Prudence. The name didn’t suit her at all. Not surprising if Prudence-Hera had concealed their encounter, but he was surprised by the suggestion of conversations, even friendship, between her and this young woman.

“I’ve been in the army until recently.”

That seemed to satisfy her, but she still considered carefully before saying, “She wrote me a letter, sir. From Darlington. The vicar read it to me.”

“May I see it?”

Again, he was weighed, measured, and dissected, but she turned and opened a pretty wooden box to take out the obviously precious letter, neatly returned to its original folds. She passed it over reluctantly, so he handled it with care.

The paper was of good quality. Another excellent sign. He glanced at the address on the outside. Hesther Larn, White Rose Yard, Northallerton. The handwriting was neat and without flourishes, but conveyed a distinct impression of the strength he remembered. He unfolded the sheet and suppressed a smile of satisfaction. At the top, as he’d hoped, was her direction.

Prospect Place, Darlington.

An auspicious address.

Prudence Youlgrave.

He had all the details he needed, but they were of no moment. She was miles from here and content, and he had pressing business elsewhere.

He refolded the letter and passed it back. “She does seem well settled. I’m glad of it.”

“She was a while in ’ardship, sir,” Hetty Larn pointed out.

“I was in the army,” Cate reminded her.

“Ma! Ma!” Two small children ran in, excited about something in the lad’s hand, a small dog at their heels.

Children and dog halted to stare at the stranger, but then Toby came forward, tail wagging.

“Looks like ’e knows ye,” Mistress Larn said.

“We met once. He has no discrimination.” She clearly didn’t understand. “He doesn’t know friend from foe.”

She chuckled. “That’s the truth, sir. But does that mean you’re a foe?”

“No, on my honor. But Toby has no reason to know that. Thank you for your assistance, Mistress Larn.” He took out some coins, deliberately choosing two shillings. “May I give you these for your children?”

She studied him a moment and then took the coins. “Thank you, sir. Would you happen to be traveling to Darlington, sir?”

“No, but if you see Miss Youlgrave, kindly give her my regards. The name’s Burgoyne,” he reminded her.

“Right, sir, I’ll do that.”

Cate walked back down the yard and crossed the wide high street to the Golden Lion, putting away his irrational disappointment.

Only ten miles to Keynings, his heaven and his hell.

 

Prudence studied her hands—her smooth, soft, lady’s hands—and maintained an impassive face. “Mr. Draydale, Susan? He is a little old.”

And fleshy, and robust, which were not in themselves faults, but not really to her taste. Cate Burgoyne was to her taste—lean muscled and strong, and gentle at times. Henry Draydale didn’t strike her as gentle.

“He’s only in his forties, Prudence, and more than fits your requirements. He rivals my father in wealth and is of higher birth. His brother is a baronet.”

But the brother had the manor house, not Mr. Draydale, merchant of Darlington.

They were taking tea in the small room Susan called her boudoir. Prudence had been living in Darlington for six weeks now, and had to admit that Susan had kept their unspoken bargain. Her place in the house was that of sister, not some indigent relative. She had new gowns, hats, footwear, and everything else necessary for her presentation as a lady.

As far as the merchants were concerned, Aaron was paying the bills, but the money came from Susan. In a marriage everything should be his, but by some legal device her brother had only an allowance. The rest of Susan’s marriage portion was secured to her and the children of the marriage. Trustees oversaw it, but her father held ultimate command.

Prudence felt for her brother, but didn’t blame Susan. In this unfair world, a woman had to seize every chance to control her destiny. As Prudence herself had done.

Henry Draydale, however, was not quite what she’d had in mind.

“He’s twice a widower,” she said, “and has four children.”

“A blessing to have a family from the first, and evidence that you’ll soon add your own babies in the nursery. More tea?”

Prudence realized that she’d neglected her cup and sipped. It was cold. True, she wanted children, but Draydale . . .

“I fear he could be a difficult husband, Susan.”

“Difficult? Not if you are a good wife.”

Good probably meant obedient. Prudence knew she wasn’t a submissive woman.

“What did his first two wives die of?”

“Lud, sister, are you imagining a Bluebeard! His first died in childbirth, which is a danger we all must face. His second of some fading disease. An odd, nervous creature, as I remember, though she came from a good family and was well dowered. No wonder he’s willing to forgo a handsome portion in favor of robust health.”

Perhaps, Prudence thought, she should have resisted the excellent food here.

“Don’t tell me you think to reject such a flattering offer!” Susan exclaimed. “In truth, sister, Draydale is better than I hoped for you. Good birth and connections, thriving business interests, and considerable wealth.” When Prudence didn’t respond, she added, “He currently lives in town, but perhaps, if you wished, he might buy a country estate nearby.”

Clearly she’d let slip her wistful memories of Blytheby Manor. Perhaps Susan had already dropped hints to the suitor, for Prudence remembered Draydale mentioning a vague plan to buy a country property when last they’d talked.

That was a consideration, a serious consideration. She’d enjoyed town life, but her sweetest memories were still of Blytheby. Perhaps if she and the children were installed in the country she would rarely see her husband, who did seem to have a finger in every business pie in the town.