The Scoundrel and the Debutante (23 page)

Oh no, she would not allow him to bait her. “I have quite a lot to tend to, my lord.”

His pale blue gaze swept over her, assessing her. “Very well, I shall come to the point.” He gestured to the settee near the window. “Will you at least sit?”

Prudence didn't want to sit, she didn't want anything to do with him. But she dared not show him any fear or reluctance, either. She moved stiffly to the settee and sat, her hands folded on her lap.

Stanhope flipped his tails and sat beside her. He smiled kindly, as if he were a friend. They weren't friends, they were nothing to one another, only mere acquaintances, and uncomfortably vague ones at that. He meant to extort her, so what was the point of smiling? “Yes?” she prodded him, wishing he'd get on with it. Her palms were damp, her heart racing.

“No pleasantries? No remarks about the weather, no inquiries about my safe return from Weslay?”

Her heart skipped at the mention of Weslay. “Are pleasantries really necessary? I know why you're here.”

He actually laughed at that. “Do you, indeed? I suspect not, Miss Cabot. I've come with a proposition for you.”

A proposition! She could only imagine what it was. She shifted uncomfortably.

“It's not an indecent proposition, if that's the idea you have.”

“I am happy to hear it,” she said coolly. “What is your proposition?”

He sighed as if dealing with a temperamental child. “I had imagined a gentler moment, but I see I won't be granted one. So I'll speak plainly—I think we might help one another.”

Help.
What an odd thing to say. Prudence frowned doubtfully. “How?”

“You are very comely,” he said, his gaze wandering over her. “Any gentleman in this town would be very lucky to have you as his wife.”

A self-conscious heat began to rise in Prudence's cheeks. “You said it wasn't indecent—”

“Hear me out,” Stanhope continued undaunted. “It is no secret that scandal and your mother's unfortunate madness have made you rather untouchable, is it? And I think it obvious to you that if anyone were to discover your
recent foray into the English countryside, it would be impossible for any gentleman of note to offer for you.”

Prudence's humiliation crawled up the nape of her neck. “I certainly can't fault you for refusing to flatter me, my lord. Did you come expressly to humiliate me?” she asked evenly. “If so, you've wasted your time. I am not easily humiliated, thanks to all the reasons you've so candidly listed.”

“Humiliate!” he said, surprised. “Quite the opposite, Miss Cabot. I've come to offer for your hand.”

That
brought Prudence up short. All rational thought flew out of her head. She stared at him, confused as to what scheme he was perpetrating.

“Naturally, in doing so, I am prepared to overlook all of the reasons I've listed that make you an unsuitable match for anyone else. Frankly, I couldn't care less about them. I find you appealing in many ways. And, as it happens, my estate is entailed to such an extent that I am in need of a sizable dowry. I suspect yours will do.”

Prudence suddenly couldn't breathe. She was indignant, but unsure why. The truth was that had it not been for Roan, she could imagine herself being strangely grateful to Stanhope. Of course she would have hoped for something a bit less transactional about this offer, but that was the way of her world. No matter how people dressed it, marriages were made for connections and financial and social gains. Sometimes great affection was tied to it. Sometimes, not.

Of all the things she had expected from Stanhope, an offer of marriage—to an
earl
, no less—was wildly beyond anything she might ever have imagined. And yet there was something so mercenary about it that Prudence couldn't help recoil from it. She didn't want a bloodless transaction. She suddenly realized how desperately she wanted love.

“You will not have heard a word against me, I suspect,” he blithely continued as if he assumed she agreed with his reasoning. “You will be the Countess of Stanhope and all the attendant privileges that brings. I will cherish you as a husband ought, honor you, father your children and keep you in society as you are accustomed. Who's to say? We might even grow to genuine affection.” He smiled.

Prudence couldn't believe it.

He cocked his head to one side and looked at her curiously. “I know this must come as a shock, but you can't disagree, can you?” he asked, his gaze falling to her lips. “Ours is as good a match as either of us might expect to make at this point, isn't it?”

“No,” she said, her voice a bit breathless.

“No?”

“No, my lord, it's not. I won't accept your offer.”

Stanhope frowned for the first time since she'd met him. “Why? What option do you have?”

“Surely that is obvious to you. I intend to marry Mr. Matheson,” she said, and she meant it. She loved him. She loved him desperately, and she would risk everything to be with him rather than remain here and face men who had the same motives as Stanhope.

His eyes widened with surprise. And then narrowed as if he didn't understand. “Pardon?”

“I am marrying—”

“Yes, I heard you. Do you mean you'll leave your family behind? Or does the Yankee think to remain in England?”

“I will go there,” Prudence said.

Stanhope rubbed his chin. He looked as if he were working something out in his head. “What does your family think of this?” he asked. “Beckington, Merryton, Easton. What do
they
say to it?”

Prudence didn't answer that question.

She didn't need to. Stanhope understood her. “I see. They either are unaware of what you intend or are unhappy with your choice.”

“It doesn't matter what anyone thinks,” Prudence said. “I love him.”

“Ah,
love
!” Stanhope scoffed, sweeping his arm out as if he were on a stage. “A roll in the proverbial hay is not love, Miss Cabot! You are naive if you think so.”

Prudence surged to her feet. “What is it to you?”

Stanhope gained his feet, too, and stood so close that Prudence was forced to tilt her head back. “You're being foolish. I have offered you a solution to your troubles.”

“What you've offered me is a heartless transaction, my lord. Not an offer of marriage.”

He nodded as he considered her. “Rethink your response, Miss Cabot,” he said, his voice low and cool. “Give my offer the courtesy of serious consideration. I'll call again in forty-eight hours.”

Prudence bristled. “Come in forty-eight hours if you like, but I will still refuse you.”

Stanhope shrugged and glanced down at the carpet. “Isn't your sister due to enter the Lisson Grove School of Art?” he asked idly, and slowly lifted his gaze.

Prudence froze. It felt as if her heart skipped several beats before it found its rhythm again. “How dare you. She has
nothing
to do with you or me,” she said, her voice shaking with indignation.

He was not bothered by it. “You may not be aware that my grandfather endowed that school. One word from me, and that would end Miss Mercy Cabot's hopes of drawing bowls of fruit.”

Prudence began to quake deep within herself. She thought of Mercy, of the way she'd spoken with great excitement for weeks about that school. She had her paints ready, her canvases. She had made a list of all the things she would take with her. She studied books of art and practiced her talent every day. “You wouldn't
dare
,” she said breathlessly.

“It seems to me that it would be much easier for all concerned if you would see how advantageous my offer is,” Stanhope suggested mildly. “You'd be a countess with two houses to see after. I'd have your dowry. Your sister would have her school.” He shrugged as if it were as simple as that.

“If it's a dowry you want, my lord, then offer for someone else!”

“Ah, but I am not as heartless as you think. You are the one who inspires me, Miss Cabot. I find
you
appealing.”

Her mind was whirling; she felt as if her heart was incapable of absorbing what was happening. “You're despicable,” she said low. “Why would you punish Mercy? What purpose would that serve?”

“It's called vengeance, Miss Cabot. If you take this opportunity from me, I will take one from your family.”

She gaped at him. “You're a beast.”

He shook his head. “I'm practical.” He touched her chin. “I want you to be practical, love. There were four and twenty at Howston Hall. Sooner or later, memories will be revived. Even if you have your way and sail for America, what will become of those you leave behind when tongues begin to wag? What will become of young Mercy Cabot, with no art school to occupy her?” The shine in his eyes had changed—he looked almost triumphant. “I'll see myself out,” he said, and with a bow of his head, he walked out of the study.

Prudence stared blindly at the space he'd vacated, her mind racing, her heart beating as if she'd suffered a great fright. She couldn't move, she could scarcely think.

Finnegan appeared. He frowned at her and poured a tot of whiskey, which he put in her hand. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” Prudence muttered. She suddenly whirled around and rushed to the window. It was still raining. She watched Stanhope get on his horse.

Had he really just come here and offered her marriage?

“Is there something I can do for you?” Finnegan asked, his concern evident.

“No, thank you, Finnegan. I'll be fine. But I need to lie down. Will you excuse me?” she asked, and hurried out, retreating to the privacy of her room.

If only Roan would come back!
she thought desperately. He would know what to do. She needed someone to lean on, someone who could help her make sense of all that had happened, of what was the right thing to do.

But Roan didn't come. And as the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly apparent to Prudence what she had to do.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

G
RACE
AND
M
ERCY
darted in from the rain just behind Honor and her children, and as Honor sent her children to their nursemaid, Grace and Mercy bustled Prudence into the drawing room and fluttered and chattered around her, demanding to know where she'd been and what she'd done.

Mercy's blue eyes were bright with excitement. She held a long, slender, highly polished wood box as she demanded the minute details of Prudence's adventure and then hung on to every word, laughing at inappropriate times, gasping in unison with Grace.

Neither of them seemed particularly surprised by what Prudence told them, and she suspected that they'd already heard the worst of it from Honor or Augustine. When Prudence finished her story, Grace gave her a fierce hug, then set her back. “Now that I've seen with my own eyes that you are quite all right,” she said, her hazel eyes darkening, “I can ask you if you've lost your bloody mind.”

“Grace!” Mercy said.

“You cannot imagine the distress you have caused me and my husband with your deception!” she continued. “Merryton has been nothing but generous with you, Pru, and only asks that you think of your virtue and the family name in return. How could you be so careless? How could you be so defiant?”

“How were
you
so defiant?” Prudence shot back.

Grace gasped, her eyes widening. “Don't you dare throw my mistakes in my face! I may have been wrong, but it was obviously divined. Merryton and I are quite happy now, aren't we? And besides, my situation is very different from yours. I was trying desperately to save us all.”

“You and Honor both seem to think you have the exclusive right to bad behavior. Is my situation really so different?” Prudence asked calmly. “I want only to save myself.” Grace could flog her for all Prudence cared—her heart was too heavy to muster much interest. “You and Honor are married. Mercy has her art school. I had a thirst for adventure.”

“Look,” Mercy said, and opened the box she was guarding so closely and held it up to Prudence. “Augustine gave them to me.” Inside the velvet-lined box were four paintbrushes of varying sizes. The handles were inlaid with pearl. “I think they came at a very dear price. The bristles are sable, you know. Those are the best sort of brushes.”

“Mercy, not now,” Grace said wearily, but Mercy was single-minded and had been for weeks. Prudence looked at her younger sister as she pushed her spectacles up on her nose and admired her paintbrushes. Her face was glowing with pleasure, and Prudence imagined how devastated she would be if she were denied the opportunity to attend the Lisson Grove School.

“Did you know that over one hundred artists applied for six available chairs?” Mercy asked, looking up from her brushes. “Can you imagine, Prudence? It's the most prestigious art school in all of England, and I have one of the six chairs for new students!”

“Really, Mercy, now is not the time. Prudence has gone off and done something wretched and we really must address her,” Grace said irritably.

Just then, Honor came into the room. “Address what?”

“I have asked Prudence to explain her behavior and she won't.”

Prudence shrugged. “What would you like me to say, darling? That it was wrong of me? All right, it was wrong of me. But I don't care that it was.”

“Pru!” Grace exclaimed with great frustration.

“I have apologized,” Prudence reminded them all. “What more can I do? I can't turn back the clock.” The good Lord knew how desperately she wanted to turn back the clock, to go back to that day at Ashton Down and never step on that stagecoach. If she hadn't, she would have spared herself the pain of a broken heart.

“Oh!” Grace said, throwing up her hands in surrender.

“Do you think,” Mercy asked, peering at Prudence through her spectacles as if she were a specimen in a museum, “that you are feeling yourself? It really is unlike you to go off like that.”

“No, Mercy, quite the contrary. I am at
last
myself. For the first time in four years, I am not defined by what Honor and Grace did, don't you see?”

Grace gasped as if she'd slapped her. Mercy said, simply, “Yes, I do. I understand completely.”

Grace looked to Honor for help.

Honor shrugged. “She's right.” But then she turned to Prudence and said, “Well? Are you going to tell them?”

“Tell us what?” Grace said. “What else could she possibly tell us?”

All three pairs of eyes fixed on Prudence, waiting for her answer. She looked at their faces, at their hope mixed with a bit of trepidation of what she'd say. There was no one closer to her than these three. They'd been a troop since they were small, one for all and all for one. Her sisters were pieces of her, and she pieces of them; they understood each other completely.

A rush of heat swept through Prudence as she thought about life without them. Her gaze moved to Mercy, who was clutching her box of paintbrushes. Mercy had spent the entire summer wrapped in her plans for the art school. For her, everything depended on that one opportunity.

“Pru! You have us on tenterhooks! What will you tell us?” Mercy demanded.

“I've had an offer,” Prudence said. Her voice sounded distant to her, as if it were coming from someone else.

Grace gasped. Mercy stared at her. “From who?” Grace exclaimed. “Not this...this
man
you've been cavorting with?”

“Yes,” Prudence said. “From him. But I've had another.”

“What?” Honor all but shouted. “What are you talking about? I left not three hours ago, and you've miraculously gained another offer in that time?”

Prudence nodded. “From Lord Stanhope.”

A moment of stunned silence was followed by sheer pandemonium. Prudence's sisters were talking at once, questioning her, claiming disbelief and pressing her for details.

Prudence told them everything...everything except that he'd threatened to take Mercy's position at Lisson Grove. She knew what Mercy would do if she heard what Stanhope had threatened, because it was the same thing Prudence would do. Mercy would remove herself from the school and therefore remove the power of Stanhope's threat to force Prudence to his will. Either way, the girl standing before her, clutching her box of paintbrushes, would lose.

Mercy would not lose. These were Prudence's consequences to bear. If she'd never stepped foot on that stagecoach, Mercy would never have been threatened.

“I don't believe it!” Honor's voice was full of wonder. “What did you say?” she asked Prudence.

Prudence did not answer—they heard a commotion downstairs at the door at that moment, and Honor whirled about. “It's George!”

All four of them rushed from the room, flying down the stairs to the foyer.

George was there, all right, the ends of his dark hair dripping with rain. He handed a wet coat and hat to a footman and removed his dress coat. “It's a bloody deluge,” he said apologetically.

Prudence ran past him, to the open door, peering out.
Where was Roan?
There was no one else outside, save the boy who was taking George's horse around to the mews. Her breath caught in her throat; she whirled around to George.

“We've been beside ourselves with worry, darling. Where have you been?” Honor asked, throwing her arms around her husband's neck as he tried to untie his neckcloth.

“I'm sorry to have worried you,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“Where is Matheson?” Prudence asked.

“He'll be along within an hour or two, I expect.” George succeeded in untying his neckcloth and the ends dangled down his waistcoat. “I see the virtues have gathered,” he said, and kissed Grace and Mercy hello. “Where's Merryton?”

“He'll be along later,” Grace said. “What happened?”

“Give me a warm whiskey and a fire and I'll tell you everything,” he said. He seemed exhilarated as he slipped his arm around Honor's waist and winked at Prudence. “Shall we go up?”

“You can't keep us in suspense!” Mercy cried as Honor and George began to move up the stairs, Prudence quickly on their heels.

“Mercy, you won't believe the day we've had. What madness,” George said cheerfully, and glanced over his shoulder to Prudence. “I can't believe I have cause to even utter these words, but, Pru, you are
not
the most willful young woman I've encountered this week.”

“George Easton,” Honor said as they entered the main salon. “Will you please tell us what has happened?” She went directly to the sideboard to pour him a whiskey.

“All right, all right,” he said with a grin. “I'll tell you everything. Matheson and I went this morning to the Villeroys', as you know, and he wasted no time inquiring after his sister. Villeroy confirmed that indeed, Miss Aurora Matheson had been a guest in their house for several weeks, and that the entire family had only recently returned from a country house visit to Howston Hall.”

“What were they doing at Howston Hall?” Honor asked curiously.

“Never mind that,” Prudence said. “Thank God, you found her.”

“Oh, we found her, all right,” George said jovially. “Thank you, my love,” he said to Honor as he accepted a whiskey from her. He took a good long sip before continuing.

“Naturally, Matheson assumed he'd found her,” he continued. “He asked that she be made aware of his presence and called down to the salon at once. But the Villeroys gave each other a very curious look and neither of them responded straightaway.”

“No?” Mercy asked as she sank down onto the settee.

“No,” George said, and sipped from the glass. “In fact, it was very apparent to me that the Villeroys were intentionally talking circles around the central question of where, precisely, was Miss Matheson. Mrs. Villeroy said it was early yet, and her husband asked if the breakfast had been put away, perhaps they shouldn't have been so hasty, and they engaged in a bit of a quarrel over breakfast.”

“I don't understand,” Prudence said.

“Well, neither did Matheson,” George said with a laugh. “I feared he would put a fist through the window as the Villeroys sorted out their breakfast.”

Prudence gasped.

“Calm yourself, Pru, he didn't do that. But after several minutes of listening to the Villeroys bicker, he rather firmly insisted they bring down his sister. That is when Villeroy admitted that she had gone.”

Prudence's heart seized. “Gone?”

“Yes,
gone
.” George paused and looked at Honor, then the rest of them and smiled as if he had a secret. “Along with their son,” he added in a low voice. He arched a brow and then drank more whiskey.

The Cabot sisters all gasped at the same moment.

“Villeroy explained that their son Albert had taken quite a liking to Miss Matheson. He'd offered for her hand, Miss Matheson had accepted. I'll tell you that Matheson had to turn and walk to the windows then, and I could see from the grip of his hands that he was working very hard to keep his wits about him. But Villeroy went on to say that he and has wife thought, and wisely so, that it was passing strange for a young woman from America, without benefit of family, or a firm fix on her dowry, to accept that proposal. They told their son he could not marry her.”

“So she ran away!” Prudence cried.

“She
and
Albert ran away,” George said. “To Gretna Green.”

“Oh dear God,” Honor said. “What a disaster.”

“Matheson wasn't aware of Gretna Green or the significance of it, and it fell to me to explain to him that his sister was eloping with the Villeroy lad. He suffered a bit of apoplexy at first—he was quite unable to speak. But then Villeroy said that they'd been discovered missing only that morning. They'd also found a note their son had left for them, professing his undying love and devotion to Miss Matheson and telling him of their intention to wed.”

“Oh! It's terribly exciting, isn't it?” Mercy asked from her perch on the edge of the settee cushion.

“Well,” George said, his eyes shining with the scandal of his tale, “Roan Matheson wouldn't accept that. He said to me, ‘Which way to Gretna Green?' I pointed him north. Then he asked if I might sell him a horse. I was about to tell him that I couldn't very well sell him a horse, but Villeroy stood up and said if Matheson intended to go after them, then so would he, and he had a horse Matheson could ride.”

“So you all went to Gretna Green?” Honor asked, her disbelief evident.

“I couldn't very well let them go off, could I, a Frenchman and an American? Who knows what trouble they might have met? I thought it was my duty to see them safely through, so I sent a footman for my horse.”

“But...” Honor looked confused. “You couldn't possibly have gone to Gretna Green and come back in a single day.”

“No, indeed,” George said, clearly enjoying himself. “Luck was on Matheson's side, I tell you. The rain has made the roads to the north nearly impassable, and the progress of the coach the young lovers had taken was slowed considerably. We caught up to them in Oxford.” George suddenly laughed. “You've never seen such a look of surprise as was on the face of Matheson's sister when she saw her brother riding up alongside that coach. He was in quite a fury and I think if anyone had tried to stop him, he would have tossed them off the earth.”

Prudence realized she had both hands pressed to her chest. “Oh my God,” she said nervously. “I can't bear to know what happened then.”

“I'll tell you. Villeroy took his son in hand, and Matheson his sister. They are all returning to London. Miss Matheson had quite a lot of things to be gathered from the coach and from the Villeroy house, apparently. I invited them to stay here, darling,” he said to Honor. “Matheson intends to depart for Liverpool by week's end.”