The Bachelor Trap (8 page)

Brand obediently crossed to the dowager and kissed the papery cheek she offered him. “Your Grace,” he murmured with a respect that was tainted with irony. They both knew he was a republican at heart.

“You look more like your father every day,” said the dowager.

Their eyes met. It amazed him that he was truly fond of this battle-ax who had given him such a hard time in his youth. Age, evidently, had softened him.

“Touché,” he murmured, acknowledging the hit, and the dowager emitted a subdued chuckle.

Clarice seated herself. “So,” she said, “the Prodigal has returned. To what do we owe the honor?”

“Good morning to you, too, Clarice,” he responded pleasantly, then greeted Miss Cutter.

Miss Cutter, all in a flutter at Clarice's uncivil tone, quickly interjected, “Hardly a prodigal, Lady Clarice. Brand left the Priory and
made
his fortune, like that nice Mr. Lewis who has taken over the Sayers' place. Not that he is a local, but very civil for all that. They say that—”

The dowager took command. “Lotty,” she said decisively, “would you ring the bell for Hartley and ask him to bring a fresh pot of tea?”

“There's still tea in the teapot,” replied Miss Cutter.

“That will do fine,” said Brand.

The dowager nodded. Her gaze shifted to Brand. “Now, what's this we hear about your entering politics? Sit down and tell me all about it.”

Her Grace, as he well knew, had her own way of finding things out, so he told her as succinctly as possible what his plans were. This kindled a tepid interest until he mentioned that he had opened up his grandfather's house and would be residing there until the election was over.

His grandmother had heard that the house was being opened up but not that he intended to reside there for any length of time. “What's wrong with the Priory?” she demanded with one of her piercing stares.

His teacup and saucer were put into his hand, and Brand spent a moment or two to set his thoughts in order as he went through the motions of stirring his tea. He didn't want to stay at the Priory because he liked to be master in his own house, and there were already too many masters here.

“I would not want to put you to the inconvenience, ma'am,” he replied. “There may be gentlemen coming and going at all times of the day, taking their meals at irregular hours. I am not hosting a house party, but opening my house to my colleagues. We have an election to win.”

“Oh, please,” interrupted Clarice sharply, “spare us your excuses. You have never thought of the Priory as your home or us as your family. Why our father made you trustee of our funds is more than I can comprehend.”

“That will do, Clarice,” said the duchess in an awful voice.

Brand looked at his half sister and felt a twinge of annoyance, not at Clarice but at his father. The duke had tied up her funds in a trust. She and her dependents could live off the income, but the capital was reserved for the next generation. She could not rail against the old duke, but her trustee was fair game.

His brother-in-law was more easygoing. Oswald was a self-styled anthropologist, meaning that he loved to go digging in ruins and ancient mounds, looking for artifacts of bygone eras. Money wasn't important to him, and he would have been just as happy living in a tent as in his wife's palatial home. Brand liked Oswald very much.

He said gently, “I did not ask to be made your trustee, but since I am, you have only to ask and I'm sure I can find the funds to cover any reasonable request.”

Eyes flashing, she demanded, “Who are you to judge what is reasonable?” She got to her feet. Bosom quivering, she declared, “This is such an insult to Oswald. Oh, yes, I know what you all think of him and you couldn't be more wrong.” A note of triumph crept into her voice. “It may interest you to know that he is in London right now, negotiating the sale of one of his manuscripts. He expects to make a great deal of money on the sale.”

The dowager said, “I didn't know poetry paid that well.”

“It's a
history,
the life of Hannibal!” was her granddaughter's quick retort.

“Very nice, I'm sure.”

Miss Cutter, ever the conciliator, rushed in to smooth things over. Her cheeks puffed up in a smile. “I'm sure it's not the money that counts. It's the sense of accomplishment. How many people can write a book?”

Brand carefully stirred his tea, then set the cup and saucer down.

“I think—” said Clarice, her breath catching. She shook her head. “Insufferable!” she finally got out, and stormed from the room.

There was an interval of silence, then the dowager sighed. “She's missing Oswald. I wish he would come home soon. It's very wearing on all of us. All the same, she has a point. Andrew takes control when he turns twenty-one. Clarice is twenty-seven now, and she will always be a supplicant.”

Brand's patience was wearing thin. “Look,” he said, “Clarice is not a pauper. She has more money than she knows what to do with. Oswald is the stumbling block. He doesn't want to live off his wife's money.”

“I do admire a man with principles,” said Miss Cutter warmly. “And love—”

When the duchess held up her hand, Miss Cutter obediently fell silent. “If he had principles,” the dowager said in her commanding way, “he wouldn't have married Clarice in the first place. And don't speak to me of love. It's been the ruin of this family.” Her eagle eye was fixed on Brand. “And that brings me to Lady Marion Dane. Is it true what they say? Are you engaged to the girl?”

The question came as no surprise. His grandmother had spies everywhere. “No,” he said bluntly. “It's not true. I met her in London when she was staying with mutual friends. Since she and her sisters are Edwina's nieces, I felt the least I could do was show them the sights, especially as they are taking over Yew Cottage and we're going to be neighbors.”

“Edwina Gunn!” said the dowager with asperity.

His grandmother had never approved or understood his close ties with his former teacher, and he had never bothered to explain it. Edwina had mothered him. The concept was foreign to the dowager. She did not believe in spoiling children.

Before the conversation could change direction, he said casually, “Edwina had another sister, didn't she? Hannah? Marion asked me about her”—and that was stretching the truth—“but I don't remember her at all. Did you know Hannah, Grandmother?”

“Not well,” his grandmother replied. “She was a governess, was she not?”

“I remember her,” said Miss Cutter. “She used to walk her little dog in our park.” Her brow puckered. “I heard that she was a headstrong girl and a great trial to Miss Gunn.”

“In what way?”

Miss Cutter looked at him blankly. “I can't remember.”

He swallowed a sigh. No use badgering Miss Cutter. He said gently, “What happened to Hannah? Where is she now?”

“I presume,” said the dowager, “that she found a position somewhere else. She's probably happily married with a brood of children to her credit.”

“No,” said Miss Cutter, “she eloped. I'm sure I heard that she had eloped. Oh dear.” Miss Cutter's face crumpled. “Or was that Mary Streatham? It happened so long ago. Have I become muddled again?”

“No,” asserted the dowager firmly. “As we grow older, we have more to forget, that's all. Now, where were we before Brand arrived? Oh, yes. You were going to speak to Cook and tell her that there will only be three for luncheon, unless…” She looked a question at Brand.

“Thank you, but I have things to do at the Grange,” he said. “But I'll hold you to that invitation for another day.”

“You don't need an invitation,” retorted the dowager, then she added with a complacent smile, “but do invite Lady Marion and her sisters. I should like to meet them. Go along, Lotty. Remember, only three for luncheon.”

Miss Cutter excused herself and left the room.

As soon as the door closed, the dowager's smile slipped. She was silent for a moment or two, then said heavily, “There's no such thing as growing old gracefully, and don't let anyone tell you there is. Everything fades—looks, health, appetite—but the affliction we fear most is the loss of our mental faculties.”

This little speech took Brand by surprise. He'd never seen his grandmother look so vulnerable. Old Ironsides, he and Clarice had called her when they were children. Everyone went in terror of her except her loyal and devoted companion.

“They tell me,” he said finally, “that Edwina's mind had begun to wander, too.”

All traces of vulnerability vanished and her expression was as resolute and intelligent as ever. “Rubbish,” she declared. “When I spoke to her after church services, she was as argumentative as ever. If I said something was black, she was sure to say it was white. This isn't the first time you've quizzed me about Miss Gunn's state of mind. I told you at her funeral and I'll say it again: She was as sharp-tongued and as eccentric as ever she was. What's going on, Brand?”

“Nothing,” he replied mildly, “nothing at all.”

She pointed her finger at him. “And don't go harassing Lotty by asking her questions she can't answer. It only confuses her all the more.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

When Miss Cutter returned to the morning room, it was to find that Brand had left and the dowager was alone. When the dowager looked up, Miss Cutter's cheeks turned pink.

“Come and sit down, Lotty,” said the dowager pleasantly, “and let's see what we can make of this.”

Miss Cutter took her place at the table. “I wasn't muddled this time,” she said earnestly. “I've thought about it and I really do remember that Hannah Gunn eloped.”

“That's what I want to talk to you about.” A moment went by, then the dowager said, “Of course, if someone asks you about Hannah, you must say that you remember her, but there's no need to embellish your memories. That's the trouble when we get to our age. When we forget, our imagination fills in the blanks.”

Miss Cutter looked chastened. “Not you,” she said. “Your mind is as sharp as a needle. Everyone says so. And I don't
think
I make up stories. But…I know I get confused.”

The dowager nodded sympathetically. “It's all right, Lotty. Don't worry about it. Just be careful. Think before you speak. I think Lady Marion may be trying to find Hannah, and we wouldn't want to raise false hopes, now would we?”

Now Miss Cutter looked really worried. “But I don't know
anything,
” she cried.

“Of course, you don't. And neither do I.”

They fell silent when a footman entered to clear the table. The dowager looked at her companion with a mixture of pity and affection. They'd been together since they were adolescent girls, first when Lotty came to live with the dowager's parents, and later, when the dowager married. They'd had little in common then, except that they were related by blood. Lotty had been a mousy sort of girl, afraid of her own shadow, while the dowager had been a little too headstrong for her parents' comfort. Now they jogged along, quietly devoted to each other, in a somewhat placid, uneventful existence.

Her Grace sighed. She hoped the past was not about to catch up with them and shatter their small world.

Brand spent a pleasant evening at the Fox and Hounds. At the end of the workday, that was where most of the locals gathered to exchange news and meet their neighbors before going home to their wives and families. Both the magistrate and constable were there, but they saw nothing sinister in the ink on Edwina's fingers. She might have written a letter and thrown it in the fire for any number of reasons. They had heard that Edwina had been acting strangely weeks before the accident, but neither had firsthand knowledge of it. Hannah's name raised only a mild response. No one, it appeared, had any clear memories of her.