Barbara Metzger (3 page)

“And what did you tell him?”

“That we hadn’t decided yet, but it was an excellent idea.”

“What, getting him out of Town?”

Thistlewaite was applying the damp towel now. “No, finding him a wealthy bride. When a gentleman reaches a certain age, he owes it to his lineage to—”

“Please, Thistlewaite, no lectures this morning.”

“Very good, my lord.” The valet replaced the towel and other equipment on the shaving stand. “Perhaps a bit of boot polish would do.”

Max sat up, too suddenly for his aching head. “What the devil…?”

“Here, this bare spot in the back. If we cover it with blacking, perhaps no one will notice.”

Max jumped up and craned his neck around toward the mirror. “The back? You mean there’s a bare spot on the back, too, not just the receding hairline?”

Thistlewaite silently held up a hand mirror so the earl could see his back’s reflection. “Oh Lud.” He sank back into his chair.

“The boot polish, my lord?”

“What, and have it drip down my back as soon as I break a sweat at Jackson’s? No, just comb it across as best you can,” Max said with resignation.

“Very good, my lord. I suppose we cannot consider some rice powder for the, ah, forehead then, to take away the shine?”

Max grabbed for the mirror again. “Shine? There’s no blasted shine. It’s the light, that’s all.”

Thistlewaite stared at the wall behind his employer. “When a gentleman reaches a certain age…”

“I know, I know! Dash it, I’ve already decided to look around at the available chits Lady Halbersham trots out for Franny. Better get the job done while I still have some grass in the meadow.”

“Excellent plan, my lord. There are some fine country families in Bedford.”

Max stood up to have his coat fitted across his broad shoulders. “I’m glad you approve. For a moment I was worried you’d hold out for a bride from the social columns, some starched-up aristocrat.”

Thistlewaite brushed at the sleeves. “Since a dowry is not the first consideration, although not to be disdained if one is available, character is more important in our countess. A kind heart, a loving nature.”

Those were more or less the requirements Max had arrived at, since he’d not yet stumbled across a woman who inspired eternal devotion. Of course, he couldn’t admit to his valet that he was willing to settle for comfort instead of passion. “Why, Thistlewaite, you old dog you, I didn’t know you had such a soft streak. I thought you’d have me make one of those dynastic arranged marriages of titles, lands, and money. Lud knows you’ve been nattering on about this debutante ball or that duke’s daughter for ages.”

“Exactly, my lord. And nothing came of it.”

“Oh, so now you are willing to accept a lesser mortal, to see me in parson’s mousetrap. Female, fertile and friendly, that’s all, eh? Well, I suppose a fellow could do worse.” Max gave one last swipe of the comb across his head, then looked longingly at the hairs left in the comb’s teeth. “A lot worse.”

Thistlewaite followed his eyes. “Perhaps it is time to consider a hairpiece, my lord.”

“What, a wig?” Max practically shouted. “Never!”

“Not an old-fashioned full wig, just a subtle addition to your own hair. The ladies do it all the time, with false curls or added braids for height.”

“Good grief, I’m not that vain, man.”

“But we do have an appearance to maintain. It’s not like buckram wadding to broaden our shoulders, or, heaven forfend, sawdust to pad our calves. We have no need to resort to such subterfuges. But a discreet bit of hair…”

“Dash it, I’m not going to wear a dead rat on my head! I’d be the laughingstock of London.”

“In London, perhaps, but in Bedfordshire, where no one knows us? ’Twould make a better impression on the young ladies.”

Max thought of some sweet young female cringing at his looks, forced by her family to accept his suit. “So I make a better impression. What happens after the wedding night when my new little wife goes to run her fingers through my hair? Surprise, sweetheart, your husband is as bald as a baby’s behind?”

Thistlewaite clucked his tongue. “We wear a nightcap for a month or two until she grows used to it.”

“Blast it, we’re not getting into bed with some silly chit who’s going to set up a screech when she finds she’s married a plucked goose. I am!” Max snatched up his gloves and headed toward the door. His last glimpse was of Thistlewaite pulling hairs out of his brush, shaking his head. “Deuce take it, I’ll think about it. But don’t go cutting off the tails of my horses.”

Chapter Three

Bachelors in the neighborhood! Bachelors in the neighborhood! It didn’t have quite the ring of “For God, King, and Country,” but as far as battle calls, it was an effective rally cry. Every proud mama in Bedford, every despairing papa, took note as soon as Lady Halbersham’s instructions were delivered to her housekeeper at Briarwoods, the Halbersham estate.

The housekeeper had a cousin, the butler had a crony at the Spotted Dog. A footman was walking out with a maid at Squire’s place, and the potboy went home to his mum in the village at night. Every servant in the county soon knew Lady Viola’s plans, and every cottager, local merchant, and so on, until word reached those most interested, the wellborn or well-to-do—and their daughters. In the country where every eligible
parti
was known since leading strings, strange gentlemen were noteworthy indeed, especially if they happened to be London swells.

From Lady Halbersham’s designations of the rooms to be aired, it was understood that Lord Halbersham’s boon companions were to attend. The usual sources—afternoon teas, whispered conferences at the lending library, hasty searches through the back issues of social
columns—immediately ascertained that the higher-ranking Lord Blanford was a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, and a confirmed bachelor. No matter. No one is more hopeful than the mother of a pretty girl. That he was reputed to be something of a rake merely added spice. Lord Podell was said to be most unfortunately pockets-to-let, likely on the lookout for an heiress. The poorer girls sighed, for the baron was reportedly as handsome as he could stare. Still, there were bound to be parties and dinners, and even a ball to look forward to in the middle of winter.

Parents started praying, dressmakers started stitching. The local merchants and draymen all found cause to toast Lord Halbersham and his friends. The house party was a success before anyone arrived.

And to Miss Audrina Rowe, it was a godsend. She’d heard at the little vicarage where she called every day to wish her father good morning and make sure Mrs. Dodd had his breakfast eggs cooked just the way he wished. Mrs. Dodd knew all about the house party, from her nevvy who was groom at Briarwoods Manor. Jem Cochlin, delivering the bread, added his bits of information, and even young Master Timothy from Squire’s come for his Latin lesson was bursting with the news.

While Audrina was helping Vicar Rowe with his sermon, they even discussed if he should write in a welcome to the strangers to the congregation, for he was liable to forget without his notes.

“I’m not sure such fine London gentlemen will attend our tiny village chapel, Papa. From what I hear, they are not precisely the devout types.” Her mind was already full of scraps about gambling, drinking, womanizing, horse-racing. “No, I do not expect to see them in St. Margaret’s.”

The vicar patted his beloved daughter on the hand. “Now, Audrina, we mustn’t listen to gossip, you know, or prejudge guests to our community. I’m sure our Lord Halbersham only knows fine, upstanding gentlemen.”

Since anyone, even his eighteen-year-old daughter who’d never been farther afield than an assembly in Upper Throckton, was more worldly than Vicar Rowe, his opinion was suspect. Dree wanted to disagree, but she knew better than to argue with her father, who’d find some good in Lucifer himself. She merely kissed the vicar good-bye.

“Yes, hurry along, Audrina. I’m sure your cousin Carinne will be needing you.”

No, Carinne didn’t need Dree, except to hand over fresh handkerchiefs to mop up her tears. What Carrie needed was a miracle, and Dree might just have found it—or him. Audrina didn’t care if those London toffs were pagan fire-worshipers or peep-o’-day boys. They were young and titled. Either one had to make Carinne a better husband than Lord Prendergast. Now all she had to do was convince Carinne’s father, Uncle Augustus Martin, of the fact.

On her way back to White Oaks, her uncle’s estate, Dree pondered ways to convince him, since Uncle Augustus was even more set in his opinions than dear Papa. Papa could never hold with thinking ill of anyone; Mr. Martin could never hold with anyone else’s thinking, particularly not a female, and a harum-scarum young female to boot. Audrina reminded herself to try to put her flyaway hair in some kind of order before scratching on the door of his library. She shuddered, and not from the cold winter wind.

That library was where Uncle Augustus was wont to shout at servants, scold his daughter, and upbraid his niece for Carinne’s shortcomings, as if Dree could make her dear cousin into anything but the loveliest, sweetest girl in all of Bedfordshire. No, Audrina Rowe did not want to face her foul-tempered uncle, but she would, for Carrie’s sake.

How could she not, when she owed her cousin so much? Why, the warm cloak she wore right now was a gift, as was the made-over dress she had under it. Dree
could never forget the broths and healthful foods Carrie sent down to the vicarage when Papa was so sick last year, and how sometimes she’d sent Dree a coin or two, from her pin money, she said, because the vicar would give his income away in charity. And she did it all despite the wishes of a father she was petrified of, a man who didn’t have an ounce of charity in him.

Uncle Augustus gave Audrina room and board now, not out of the goodness of his heart, but so he wouldn’t have to hire a companion for his daughter. Not that Dree could show her older cousin how to go on; the fancy boarding school Carrie had attended was supposed to have accomplished that. Dree’s purpose was to satisfy conventions, that Mr. Martin’s daughter was not traipsing unchaperoned about the countryside like a hoyden. The fact that his niece had to complete the two-mile walk any time she wished to check on Papa mattered naught to Mr. Martin, certainly not enough to permit one of his footmen to accompany her, or a groom to hitch up a pony cart for her. Dree kicked a rock out of her way. She supposed she should be grateful he didn’t put her to work mucking out the stalls on the stableboys’ half days off. As it was, she already helped the housekeeper with the mending and the butler with the polishing, menial jobs Carrie was never permitted to do as they were considered less than ladylike.

Audrina didn’t mind, really, since this was the least hard she’d ever worked in her life. And she did feel lucky to be close to her cousin while helping Papa with the pittance Uncle Augustus gave her, instead of tending someone’s spoiled children or testy grandmother. Besides, she’d promised her aunt when that lady passed on that she’d stand Carinne’s friend, for Aunt Estelle knew that her sweet-natured daughter would never be able to stand up to Augustus Martin. No one did.

Aunt Estelle and Audrina’s own mama were sisters, but what different paths their lives had taken. They were pampered daughters of a marquis, but one with six
girls to marry off, and precious little interest in providing them dowries. Aunt Estelle was bartered into an arranged marriage to the head of the Martin Shipbuilding firm in Portsmouth, who wanted the noble connection enough to come down handsomely for his bride. He grew bitter when he realized his wellborn bride brought him nothing but cuts, even from her own family. Dree believed he shouted Aunt Estelle into an early grave.

Audrina’s own mother refused to wed the man her father chose, instead running off with the young vicar. She was happy, except for never seeing any of her family again. They disowned her as quickly as they repudiated the daughter with a husband in trade. Mama had died from exhaustion and lack of medical care, despite unanswered pleas to the current marquis, her own brother. Dree did not have much esteem for the nobility.

Not so Uncle Augustus, who was determined to have his daughter rise where he could not, to show those blasted in-laws of his. His birth couldn’t open aristocracy’s door a crack; his fortune could. Dree didn’t think much of wealth either, if it could only buy the likes of Lord Prendergast.

Prendergast was old, unwashed, and frog-eyed, with protuberant white-rimmed orbs that stared and stared. But he was a marquis, the same as Uncle’s despised brother-in-law. Mr. Martin didn’t care that three wives had predeceased Prendergast, nor that the man had gambled away all three of their dowries. That was why, Dree surmised, he was now sniffing around Carrie and her rich portion. His house was ancient and unimproved, sitting in the midst of an undrained swamp. It looked more like something out of a Minerva Press novel than the setting for delicate, sensitive Carinne, who simply did not have the courage to be a heroine. Which was why Carinne was upstairs weeping, and Audrina was about to knock on her uncle’s door.

“What is it, girl? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Uncle Augustus did not look up from his papers.

Dree smoothed the creases on her gown. She only hoped her cheeks didn’t still appear reddened from the cold. “I only need a moment of your time, sir. It’s about the house party at Briarwoods.”

Augustus looked up from his desk and frowned, whether at her usual unkempt appearance, the interruption, or mention of an event that might entail an outlay of funds on his part, Audrina did not know.