A Baron for Becky (29 page)

When Aldridge sought her out the following
afternoon, the Duchess of Haverford was resting from her exertions
over the ball, by planning the next entertainment. She had her
companion, her secretary, and three of the servants on the hop:
writing guest lists, hunting out a fabric from the attic and a
china pattern from the depths of the scullery that she was certain
would go together in a Frost Fair theme; searching through her
invitations to pick a date that would not clash with entertainments
she wished to attend; leafing through the menus of previous parties
to decide on food “that will not disgrace us, dear Aldridge, for
one would not wish to do things in a harum-scarum fashion.”

“May I have a
moment, Mama?” Aldridge asked. “It can wait if you wish.”

“Not at all,
Aldridge. My dears, you all have jobs to do. I will be with my son.
Aldridge, darling, shall we take a walk in the picture gallery?
Very chilly, today, I am sure, but I will wrap up warm and the
exercise will be good for us, do you not think? Ah, thank you, my
dear.” She stepped back into the cloak Aldridge took from the
waiting maid, and let him settle it on her shoulders.

“Now, my dear,
tell me how Mama can help.”

Aldridge
waited, though, until they were alone in the picture gallery, a
great hall of a place thirty feet wide, twenty tall, and a hundred
and twenty long. With the doors at each end shut, they could speak
in private.

“Mama, Overton
has asked me to look after his wife and daughters, if he dies
before the girls are grown and married.”

Her Grace
nodded. “And you have agreed, of course, dear? I will present the
girls, in any case. Or your wife, if you have done your duty by
then.”

Aldridge
ignored his mother’s increasingly less subtle insistence. He would
marry when he must and not before.

“Of course I
have agreed, Mama. But I am wondering if something more might be
done.”

The Duchess
tapped her index finger against slightly pursed lips, her eyes
distant.

“Something more
might always be done. Have you an idea of what?”

Aldridge
watched her closely. “It is not unknown for a daughter to inherit a
barony.”

His mother
blinked slowly as she considered the idea. Her answer was slow and
contemplative.

“Only the old
ones, dear, and if there is no son. But Overton is a relatively new
peerage. The Restoration, I believe? And if his Letters Patent
allowed female inheritance, he would have said.”

“Letters Patent
can be changed, Mama. They did it for the first Marlborough.”

“Over a century
ago, Aldridge, and I have never heard of it being done again.”

She fell
silent, her eyes unfocused in thought. “But it does seem a pity our
little Belle cannot be a baroness.”

“I wondered if
perhaps you asked His Grace...” Aldridge began.

The duchess
shook her head. “It will not serve, Aldridge. He is not popular in
the House, as you know, and the Prince Regent... well, Aldridge,
suffice to say, the information I might use to persuade His Grace
to support the Overtons has set the Prince Regent firmly against
him.”

Aldridge was
aware his mother occasionally compelled his father to an action the
duke was disinclined to take, by threatening to disclose something
he wished to keep hidden. She used the power rarely, both because
each confrontation widened the gap in their marriage, and because
very few scandals were large enough to discommode the Duke of
Haverford, who cared little for the opinions of others.

“What piece of
information is this, Mama?”

“I cannot tell
you, Aldridge. But the Prince Regent is most unhappy. How he found
out the Grenfords are trespassing on his preserves, I have not been
informed...”

No. Surely not.
Aldridge had a sudden mental picture of the beautiful woman
currently in the prince’s keeping, laughing with Aldridge at
corpulent elderly men who thought they could keep a young woman
satisfied. Laughing with him while occupied in... No... She hadn’t,
had she? With his father, too?

“Really,
Aldridge,” his mother said. “You did not think you were being
original, did you? I daresay the young lady is just securing her
future, and who can blame her? You are very nice, dear. Rich, and
by all accounts, virile. But you are not yet the Duke of Haverford.
And you are certainly not the Prince Regent.”

Aldridge felt
slightly ill. One woman wanted nothing to do with him; one wanted
his seed but not his body; one was happy to share him with his...
no. He could not think of it.

“The Letters
Patent, Mama,” he said firmly. “Could we get enough support without
His Grace? Or even against His Grace, if he insists?”

“I may be able
to help, dear.” Aldridge’s mother had an encyclopaedic memory for
the
ton
and all its major and minor branches, a network of
contacts developed over a lifetime, and the analytical mind of a
general. “Yes. That might do very nicely. And then... Yes. We will
do it. Aldridge, order the carriage. We are going to make a call on
the Duke of Winshire.”

A call on Lady
Charlotte’s uncle? Was Mama serious?

“The Duke of...
Winshire, Mama? He will certainly not help us and may even not
receive us.”

The duchess
just smiled, her eyes far away as if watching something pleasant.
“The carriage, Aldridge.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

On the day of the final
vote, Aldridge and his mother waited with Becky in the Overtons’
town-house. The numbers were tight. The vote could go either
way.

They had spent
weeks lobbying those who would be considering the Duke of
Winshire’s bill to change the Letters Patent. Becky had visited the
wives, mothers, and sisters of every member of the House of Lords,
and many of those in the House of Commons, accompanied by Her
Grace, or the Countess of Chirbury, or Winshire’s niece the Dowager
Marchioness of Barchester. Overton, Aldridge, and Winshire himself
canvassed the menfolk. And Her Grace of Haverford directed all,
keeping track of the supporters, the waverers, and the adamantly
opposed.

Overton had
taken his seat today, of course. His presence might convince some
of the waverers, though he would abstain from the vote.

“If the bill
passes, it still needs the Prince Regent’s seal,” Becky said.

“Winshire says
he is in favour,” Aldridge said.

“Even knowing
he will lose the barony?” Becky asked, as she had a dozen times
before.

Her Grace
repeated again. “A small barony, far in the future, when Overton
and His Royal Highness are both dead, compared to a large and
valuable present from the Orient, here and now.”

“Rugs, lamps,
and furniture from His Grace of Winshire,” Becky agreed. “He has
been very generous. And I’m grateful, too, that His Grace of
Haverford has withdrawn his opposition.”

Aldridge and
Her Grace exchanged glances. Aldridge had no idea what his mother
had said, but His Grace had taken himself off to Margate, after
telling his supporters to vote in favour or abstain.

“You and
Winshire are old friends, seemingly,” Aldridge said to Her Grace,
expecting the comment to be ignored, as it had been every other
time he’d made it these past weeks.

But Her Grace
surprised him. “It is not a secret, Aldridge. Enough people must
remember. We met when I was seventeen. He danced with me at my
first ball, and from that moment, I had eyes only for him, and he
for me.

“But he was a
second son. My father accepted Haverford and rejected James... Lord
James Winderfield, he was then. James, foolish man, challenged
Haverford to a duel. Swords. They were both wounded, and it was
thought Haverford might die. Lord James’s father sent him overseas.
There was a great scandal.”

She paused.
Aldridge thought she had finished speaking.

“James... we
were told he had been killed by bandits. So I married Haverford,
and I have you and Jonathan, Aldridge, dear, and you have both been
a great joy to me, so no doubt it has all been for the best.”

And now the
rejected second son had come home and was Winshire. No wonder he
and his successful rival had barely spoken to one another these
past two years.

The door was
flung open, and they didn’t have to ask Overton for the news; it
was written boldly on his face.

“We won!”
Aldridge said, beaming, but Overton disagreed.

“You won,” he
said to the duchess, and forgot himself enough to give her a great
hug. “Thank you, thank you.” He then recollected himself and
stepped back, shifting from foot to foot as he apologised. “I beg
your pardon, Your Grace.”

The duchess,
though, was flushed and beaming. “Not at all, dear Overton. I quite
think of you as a son, you know. Which is to my advantage, of
course, since if you and Becky are my adopted children, then your
daughters are my grandchildren, just as it should be. And our dear
Belle will be a baroness.” She smiled with great satisfaction. “Who
would have guessed that, Becky, my love, when we first met?”

“Not I, Aunt
Eleanor, certainly,” Becky returned. She had only part of her
attention on the duchess, stealing looks at Overton, who was not
even pretending to listen, simply grinning at his wife like a
fool.

The duchess
laughed at them both. “Go and kiss your husband, child. It does my
heart good to see you together.”

Becky needed no
further encouragement, and she and Overton were soon locked in an
embrace that did Aldridge’s heart no good at all. It made him
maudlin. He’d need to be either drunk or properly bedded, and soon.
Both, probably.

He started when
his mother touched his arm. “You did a good thing, Aldridge,
putting the two of them together. Overton needed her, and she
needed him. You did well.”

He smiled,
then. Yes. Mama was right, as always. Overton and Becky were good
for one another, and his daughter—his goddaughter, he corrected
himself, careful even in his thoughts—would grow up heiress to a
barony. And all because Becky had dared to dream, and Aldridge had
made her dream come true.

Suddenly much
happier, he grinned. He had a dream of his own, the same one Becky
had outlined for him long ago. If he dared reach for it.

Meanwhile, the
world was full of beautiful women just waiting to be pleased—or at
least pleasured—and the Merry Marquis was the man for the job.

Epilogue

Home was best.

London had been
a triumph, and Becky had thoroughly enjoyed the house party at
Longford Court afterwards, as had the girls. The weather was
glorious, the schoolroom on holiday, and the visiting families
mustered nearly two score of children between them. The nursery
floor was crowded to overflowing, and Lady Daisy Redepenning was
promoted to a second-floor bedchamber which she shared with Sophie,
Sarah and Antonia.