Barbara Metzger (2 page)

Gordon nodded. His wealth came from the land, too. “Surprised you managed to hold on to the place this long, in the condition you inherited it.”

Franny sat up a little straighter. “It’s been in the family for centuries.”

“It was your father’s family home, too. Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but he didn’t seem to give a groat about the place.”

Franny sank back into his chair, and into his misery. “Gambling fever. Fatal flaw, don’t you know.”

Gordon snorted. “Fatal is one thing, foolish is another. Spending your last shillings on silver buttons.”

Franny started to say that the buttons weren’t paid for when Max spoke up: “What you need, Franny, is a wife.”

“What, after Gordie’s tale of woe as recommendation? No, thank you. I’d rather go to debtors’ prison.”

“Stubble it, I don’t mean a wife like Gordie’s.”

Gordie was on his feet. “Now, wait a minute—”

Max waved him down. “No insult intended. Lady Halbersham is a diamond of the first water, a Toast since her come-out. But there’s no getting around that she’s an expensive piece of goods. That’s not what Franny needs. He needs an heiress.”

Franny managed a shaky laugh. “Then I’m safe. Heiresses are watched as carefully as eggs on a griddle. No rich papa’s going to let any down-at-heels baron within a mile of his precious daughter. ’Sides, I ain’t in the petticoat line.”

Max ignored the last, and continued his deliberations out loud while Gordon nodded sagely. “Not an heiress of the
beau monde
then—”

“Hold on, I ain’t about to buckle myself to some Cit’s platter-faced gal just so she can call herself baroness and try to drag her family into the
ton
on my coat-tails.”

“No, that’s not what you need. Gordie had to have a wife with elegance, social standing, a regular darling of the nobility to be his perfect political hostess.” He raised his glass in a toast to Halbersham’s absent, if erring, wife. “You need a wealthy chit from the gentry who’s used to the country and won’t mind staying there. You install her and her papa’s money at the Hall, give the old man a grandson to call heir to a barony, and you are free to take up your London life right where you left off.”

“Here, here,” Gordie seconded.

“But I ain’t in the petticoat line, I tell you,” Franny said in a near whimper.

Once again he was ignored. Max was staring at the ceiling through a smoke ring he’d blown. “In fact, you ought to go on home to Bedford with Gordie and Lady Vi. Get you away from your creditors for a time, and a chance to look at the crop of local beauties before they
make their bows in Town and get spoiled by city ways.”

Gordie wasn’t sure if his wife had been insulted again. He was so far in his cups, he wasn’t sure of anything except that he might have a chance of convincing Viola to accompany him to the country if they made a house party out of it. “There’s nothing Vi likes better than matchmaking,” he said, toasting the earl’s brilliance with another glass. “We’ll do it!”

After a few more glasses, even Franny began to see the merits of the plan. What other choice did he have? He swallowed, and nodded.

Gordie slapped him on the back. “That’s the ticket. You’ll see, we’ll all come about.” He stood to leave, anxious to confront his wife while his enthusiasm—and courage—were high. Before he left, offering Franny a ride in his coach, he turned to the earl. “I say, Max, why don’t you come along? We can get in some shooting and you can help keep Vi from missing the pleasures of Town. Besides, I really do mean to set up the stud, and there’s no better judge of horseflesh than you.”

“And you know I’ll be bound to make mice feet of any courtship. Need your advice,” Franny declared firmly, more firm than his wavering stance, held up by his sturdier friend. “Not in the petticoat line.”

Max waved them on. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.” Gordon turned to go again, half dragging Franny. He stopped at the edge of the table, temporarily propping his lordship against a passing footman, to whom Franny was confiding his anxieties about the female species, to the fellow’s disgust and horror. “Oh, by the by,” Gordon said, “never did get to ask what had you so moped. I mean, what are friends for, if not to listen to a chap’s troubles?”

Lord Blanford merely raised his glass again in acknowledgment. “Go on, get Franny home before he is arrested. It’s nothing worth mentioning anyway.”

Max poured himself another glassful, alone there in the corner. Nothing worth mentioning, right? His life was over, that was all, but no, it wasn’t worth mentioning.

Chapter Two

Max could not have opened his budget to Gordon or Franny anyway. His problem was not something to discuss even with one’s best friends; they couldn’t understand, not having the same experience. Besides, it was so terrible, so personal, so blasted depressing, Max didn’t want to talk about it. Gordie’s marriage was in peril and poor Franny’s finances were at
point non plus,
earning them both his sympathy and compassion…but he, Maxim Blanding, Earl of Blanford, late of His Majesty’s Cavalry, was going bald.

Oh Lord, bald! His hair wasn’t just receding, it was retreating with the lightning speed of one of Wellesley’s tactical withdrawals. At this rate, he’d be—No, it didn’t bear contemplating.

Max told himself, not for the first time, that it wasn’t just vanity that made him wince with every hair left in the teeth of his comb. He never thought his looks were much of an asset in the first place, with a crooked nose from a long-forgotten cricket match and new scars from the more recent army days. Always dark-complexioned, he now had a weathered appearance, like an unpainted shutter.

The incipient resemblance to a hen’s offering didn’t even bother Max as a
memento mori.
He’d faced death on the battlefield often enough to accept his own mortality. No, he saw each fall of dark thread, each ebony remnant on his pillow slip, as a sign of betrayal. His body was playing him false by growing old. Old. Max Blanding, first cricketeer, Lieutenant Lord Blanford—growing old? How had that happened? He was only two and thirty. He couldn’t be old yet.

Max had studied his friends this evening, searching for signs of decay. Gordie was gaining some girth, but he was still the rosy-cheeked lad from school days. And Franny, despite his affectations in dress, was still a blond, blue-eyed cherub. They were all of an age, so how was Max the only one getting old?

He pondered the question while he waited for the footman to bring another bottle to the table. At this rate, he estimated, in less than a decade his teeth would be coming loose and his stomach would be straining toward his knees, no matter how hard he worked at Gentleman Jackson’s. He sucked in those muscles with a gasp.

“Are you all right, my lord?” the worried servant asked.

Max scowled the waiter away. He didn’t feel old, that was the rub. Gordie could settle into middle age with his career and his flighty wife; Max wasn’t ready. Perhaps because he’d given three years to Wellesley’s campaign, he felt cheated. There was too much he hadn’t done, like secure his own succession, for one. Here he was chiding Gordie, and he had naught but a chinless cousin to inherit. He’d thought to have plenty of time, at least until he was forty, before starting his nursery. Now who knew how soon before he lost that, too? Zeus, by the time he found a suitable bride, he’d likely be wearing whalebone corsets and ivory teeth. Held together by dead creatures, by George, he’d creak when he stooped to one knee to make his offer, and have to be helped up by some
smirking chit who’d have to shout her acceptance into his ear trumpet.

Not that Max doubted she’d accept, whichever woman he chose to bear his sons. He was still an earl with deep pockets, no matter that he was nearing his dotage. Unfortunately, he was enough of the dreamer to regret being accepted for his title and wealth alone. Name, fortune, and an acceptable appearance made a much better bargain. A shiny pate was no more acceptable to Maxim than stains on his linen.

He sighed. Perhaps he should take the advice he’d so blithely offered to Franny and find himself a comfortable wife now, while there were still strands long enough to pull across his forehead. Hair today, groom tomorrow.

The glittering London belles held no appeal for him. He’d dread seeing his scalp reflected back in his fashionable wife’s cold, disapproving eyes. No, he’d think about going into the country with his friends to look over the provincial possibilities—tomorrow. For tonight he had to concentrate on getting home without looking like he couldn’t hold his liquor anymore, either.

He made it across the floor without mishap, and waited with studied nonchalance for the doorman to hand over his hat and gloves.

“Best to bundle up, my lord,” the man offered with a smile. “It’s cold enough out there to freeze the whiskers off a rat.”

Hair jokes? Was he now to be the butt of hair jokes? Lord Blanford changed the doorman’s tip to a smaller coin, crammed his curly-brimmed beaver down over his ears, and stalked off into the night.

*

Gordon, Lord Halbersham, managed to convince his pretty young wife to leave the gaiety of the capital without too much effort. Viola was already contemplating a visit to Bedfordshire anyway, with London so thin of company. With all those starchy dowagers giving
her gimlet looks, Viola thought she’d do well to let memories of that New Year’s party fade a bit lest she find certain doors closed to her at the start of the real Season.

So Gordie merely had to promise her a new set of diamonds, the refurbishment of Briarwoods, his country seat, in time for a lavish Valentine’s Day ball, and the management of Lord Podell’s love life.

“Let me see. There’s Lord Craymore’s daughter. Ten thousand a year. She’s been on the shelf so long, even Franny’s empty pockets should look good.” She chewed on the stub of her pencil, adding names to the list. “That awful Mr. Martin’s girl should be out by now. He’s in trade, rich as Croesus, but the mother was acceptable. And Pamela Feswick is always on the lookout for a husband.”

“Dash it, Vi, the Feswick woman is thirty if she’s a day, and a shrew. Think of poor Franny.”

“Exactly. Poor. And awkward around strange women.”

“That Feswick woman is as strange as they come. Remember we’ll have to entertain them now and again. Don’t mean to give up Franny’s friendship.”

Pamela Feswick was crossed off the list. “Too bad it’s not Blanford looking for a wife. There’d be no trouble there finding any number of acceptable girls.” And her house party would be the most notable success of the year, instead of being a humiliating repairing lease.

Gordie laughed. “There have been acceptable and not-so-acceptable females throwing themselves at Max’s head since he was out of short pants. He wouldn’t need us to find him a bride, were he looking to get legshackled. Which he ain’t, so don’t get that look in your eye. Max ain’t one to put up with anyone meddling in his personal life.”

“Still, if he came, we could attract more women for Franny to look over. Max is definitely a prize worth pursuing, even if he doesn’t permit himself to be caught.”

“Dash it, I hate having my friends put up as bait.”

“And I hate your making marriage out to be a fate worse than death,” she replied with a scowl.

Gordie cleared his throat and made a strategic retreat. “Not at all, my dear. Not at all. It’s just that Max will do what he wants to do. Always has. Went and joined the army, didn’t he, even though he was the old earl’s heir? No, you worry about Franny.” His lordship meandered about the sitting room between their bedchambers. “Ah, Vi, it’s late. You can fret about the party tomorrow. Why don’t you, ah, come along to bed now?”

Viola shooed him off with an absentminded wave of her beringed fingers. “You go on, Gordie. I’m going to write an invitation to Max begging him to come. For Franny’s sake.”

*

Viola’s note reached Max about noontime the next day, along with his morning coffee.

“Are we ready to arise, my lord?” his valet inquired.

“We are ready for the last rites, Thistlewaite,” Max groaned from the depths of a pounding headache. He was definitely too old for this.

Thistlewaite left to return with a potent, noxious-smelling brew calculated to cure hangovers, or kill the sufferer. “Drink up, my lord. We’ll feel more the thing after a shave.”

Only if he could hold the razor to Thistlewaite’s throat, Max thought, but he drank while the valet bustled about with hot water and lather. Thistlewaite had been in the family forever, like the suits of armor in the hall. The man was about as companionable as those clanking hulks, but Max could no more get rid of the servant than he could sell off the family plate. He’d tried. Thistlewaite wouldn’t go, looking after the Earls of Blanford being his God-given mission in life, according to Thistlewaite. At least he gave a good shave.

While dabbing warm lather on the earl’s face, Thistlewaite asked, “Shall we be exercising at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon this afternoon, my lord?”

“
I
shall be going a few rounds with the Gentleman himself.
You
shall start packing.” He indicated the invitation he’d set aside as the valet approached with the razor. “I am thinking of joining Lord and Lady Halbersham at their Bedfordshire property.”

Making firm, even strokes, Thistlewaite commented, “Very good, my lord. Lord Podell will be relieved. He called earlier this morning to discuss the invitation.”