Allison Lane (18 page)

“You have no cho—”

“Please join us, Mr. Randolph,” said Elizabeth, interrupting Lady Fosdale when he appeared in the doorway.  She seemed relieved to see him, which boded well.

“Thank you, my lady.”  He accepted coffee and sat down where he could catch Elizabeth’s eye.  “It always amazes me when people assume that a problem has only one solution.  That might be true of numbers – summing a pair of twos must always yield four – but most situations can be resolved in many ways.”

“Such as whether to wed?”  Elizabeth’s eyes challenged him.

“Exactly.”

“B-but, of course she must wed,” sputtered Lady Fosdale.  “Society will shun her if she does not.”

“A grievous result, to be sure,” he agreed calmly.  “But that is my point.  Whether one weds is a choice.  Every choice has a variety of effects.”  He stared at his audience.  “
Every
choice.  If one wishes to choose wisely, one must understand the consequences of each option.  I have found that no two people weigh the consequences in quite the same way.  Yet that does not make any choice wrong.  It merely demonstrates the differences among people.”

Elizabeth was frowning, as if she mistrusted his words.  Neither of the girls took him seriously, because neither yet understood where their current paths would lead.

But again he backed off.  Pressing too blatantly would put their backs up.  He had given them something to mull.  Later, he would add new ideas.  But for now, he would content himself with stirring up a little trouble and pushing Lady Fosdale’s thoughts in another direction.

He turned to her.  “If his lordship is set on obtaining a special license, Lady Cecilia could be wed in two or three weeks.  Will you be holding a betrothal ball or will you settle for a simple wedding breakfast?”

“I-I hadn’t considered,” she said, floundering.

“You have little time for planning.  A man of Symington’s stature usually weds with considerable pomp.  Whitfield would be appalled if the niceties were not observed.”

“We must have a ball!”  Cecilia was so excited at the prospect that she all but leaped to her feet.

“It would be a woeful affair,” countered her mother.  “Few people live nearby.  And in this weather, it would take weeks merely to send out invitations.  I expect nearly everyone would decline.  Not only are we unknown outside of this valley, but traveling is impossible just now.”

“Symington’s standing would guarantee a large attendance,” insisted Cecilia.

“Whitfield’s might,” he said, correcting her firmly.  “If he were to attend, but that is impossible given his current state of health.  Symington lives as a recluse, so his name would hardly draw a crowd.  Everyone knows he disdains frivolity.”

“Besides, your father would never allow the expense,” admitted Lady Fosdale, flushing with embarrassment at revealing such a truth to a virtual stranger.

“And not just the expense of a ball,” said Elizabeth.  “You know we haven’t enough linens to furnish more than a dozen bedchambers.  Nor do we have the stabling or servants to handle more than a few guests.  Where would these mythical visitors stay?  Raven’s Rook?”

“Then we must wed in London during the Season,” decided Cecilia.  “You said that Whitfield has already ordered Symington to Town.”

“Only to settle his betrothal.  Since that is no longer necessary, he need not comply.”  He shrugged.

“Discussion is pointless, because Fosdale will never agree,” said Elizabeth.  “Lord Symington will have to reconcile himself to a wedding without pomp.  If that annoys him, he must accept that even great lords must sometimes make sacrifices.”

“He will be delighted,” said Randolph.  “Avoiding a formal celebration might be enough to make this match attractive.  He will be able to immediately return to Orchards and resume his studies.”

“Orchards?” shrieked Cecilia.

“His estate.  He leaves it only when summoned to Whitfield Castle.”

“But surely he visits London often!  A lord of his stature must live there much of the year.”

Obviously she had not believed a word he had said.  He suppressed a sigh.  “Why would he?  Only those seeking brides frequent the Marriage Mart.  You have saved him from wasting months of his valuable study time.”

Cecilia’s temper shattered.  “Papa might cheat me out of a wedding, but I will not give up my rightful place in Society.  I will spend the Season in London, even if I must go alone!”  Without another word, she stormed out of the drawing room in tears.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Lady Fosdale, trailing after her.  “She will work herself into a migraine.”  She sent a reproving look over her shoulder before quitting the room herself.

Randolph looked at Elizabeth.  “Is this good or bad?”

“Good, if we react correctly.  Cecilia has long used tears, hysteria, and megrims to manipulate people.  When she falls into one of her states, gentlemen usually trip over their feet in their haste to ease her woes.  Mother believes every word she says.”

“But you don’t.”

“Nor do you.”  She grinned.  “Tell Symington to ignore her histrionics.  He must join us for dinner tomorrow.  And now that we have established that he dislikes London and has no intention of living there, we can start revealing the truth of London itself.”

He accepted a second cup of coffee.  “Is part of her determination a wish to escape your father’s tyranny?”

She nodded.  “He is stricter than he needs to be with all of us.  He even forbids Mother to be at home to callers, claiming that the tea and cakes they consume deplete his purse.  That means she must limit her calls on others, because she cannot reciprocate people’s hospitality.  Since money figures into every refusal he makes, Cecilia is determined to marry wealth.”

“Wealth and her fantasies of London.  Both are ways to escape a domineering father.”

“But she refuses to accept that her husband will be just as domineering.”

“Not necessarily.”  He held her gaze.  “Cecilia has exaggerated many ideas, but so have you.”

She jerked as if he had kicked her.

“Exactly.  All men are not alike.  Do not eschew half the world’s population because your father is a tyrant.  Few wives become slaves.”  Raising her fingers to his lips, he headed for Sedge’s room, satisfied that he had given both girls something to consider.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Randolph frowned as he made his way toward Fosdale’s study.  The summons had not been unexpected, especially after he had ducked any tête-à-têtes over port.  But it was unwelcome just the same.  Discussing marriage settlements while he was embroiled in this imposture was pointless.  Once the truth was known, he would leave the negotiations in the hands of his solicitor.  Fromish would leave no loopholes for Fosdale to sneak through.

But in the meantime, he had to avoid the subject.  And he had to do so without lying about his financial affairs or abandoning his pose as a poor relation.  He blew out a long breath.  Nor could he give any hint of his ultimate stand:  A bride must come with a dowry, no matter how the betrothal arose.  He would settle for her library, of course, but the demand would throw Fosdale off balance.

Marriage was not the only touchy subject just now.  The Chaucer was another.  He had abandoned the idea of demanding it as Elizabeth’s dowry.  Antagonizing Fosdale might push him into abusing his wife.  Whatever her weaknesses, she did not deserve that.

But Fosdale would want an estimate of its value, which he was unprepared to give.  Aside from the damage that could do to the sales negotiations, adjusting the price upward might mollify Fosdale enough to ease the marriage settlements and keep him off Elizabeth’s back in the future. 

He shook his head.  The entire situation was so delicate that even the most minor of slips could compromise it.  So he did not look forward to this meeting.

But fate handed him a reprieve.  As he rounded the last corner, Fosdale burst from his study and hurried away, the steward close behind.  An emergency must have arisen on the estate.  Perhaps this latest storm had worsened the flooding.

He stepped into the study so he could truthfully say that he had complied with the summons.  He was turning to leave when he spotted a well-worn ledger lying on the desk.

Manners forbade prying, but he needed all the information he could get if he was to counter Fosdale’s scheming.  And this time ignoring convention proved beneficial.  Within moments he was seething.

Unscrupulous, manipulative bastard!  The ledger did not contain estate records.  Instead, it held details of Fosdale’s personal investments and accounts.  Even a cursory glance revealed that the earl had amassed a fortune.

Randolph frowned, paging through the book from the beginning.  Unlike most boys, Fosdale had saved a portion of each quarter’s paltry allowance, building a small nest egg by the time he was twenty.  That year, his allowance had significantly increased.

But why?  The man had already been at university for two years.  Twenty was hardly a milestone age.  The only explanation that seemed reasonable was that the elder Fosdale’s finances had improved, for there was no hint of illegal activity.

Yet the family knew nothing of a change in fortune, so perhaps Elizabeth was wrong about her grandfather’s affairs.  His disastrous losses could easily have included debts.  Perhaps he had lost the London house as well, which would have forced him to borrow operating capital for Ravenswood.  Pride would have kept him quiet.  Twenty years later, he paid the last debt, boosting his disposable income.  His first act had been to raise his heir’s allowance.

He didn’t really like this explanation, but it accounted for the entries in the ledger.  And whatever their reasons, it was obvious that both Fosdales had consistently lied to the family about their circumstances.  Had hoarding his windfall been the younger’s reaction to his father’s losses?  Some men who had experienced poverty became obsessed with building a large reservoir of cash to prevent it from ever happening again.  The money itself became the focus of their endeavors.  Thus they refused to spend any of it.

Returning the ledger to the position in which he had found it, he left.  But questions boiled through his mind.

On such brief acquaintance, it was impossible to tell whether Fosdale was merely a miser or was inflicting hardship on his family for a more sinister reason.  It wasn’t a question he could ask Elizabeth, at least not until they reached a closer rapport.  But the contents of that ledger would profoundly affect his marriage negotiations.  There was no question now of inflating the price of the Chaucer.  And no point in mentioning Elizabeth’s library as an asset.  If Fosdale wanted this connection, he would have to pay.

His smile bore no hint of humor.

Fosdale himself had offered the perfect explanation for his new knowledge.  While he had undoubtedly exaggerated Whitfield’s hints, no duke would consider connecting the families through marriage without first investigating Fosdale’s background, including his finances.  And Fosdale could hardly deny an arrangement with Whitfield after announcing it yesterday.

A more natural smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Fosdale was about to receive a well-deserved comeuppance.  There would be no advantageous marriage settlement.  His initial stand would remind the earl that his own standards were impeccable, regardless of any scheming by Whitfield.  Only an inadvertent compromise would force him to overlook Lady Elizabeth’s paltry breeding.  How could a girl whose mother was a baron’s daughter and whose grandmother was a squire’s chit aspire to wed a duke?  He had no choice now, but he would expect a dowry worthy of a duchess in return.

Don’t hurt Elizabeth,
whispered his conscience.  And it was right, he conceded, pushing anger aside.  Fosdale’s plots must fail, but he would discuss it with Elizabeth first.  She might even know of other grievances he could address.

But that must wait until she accepted him. 

Heading for the stables, he turned his thoughts to his baggage coach.  If he could not intercept it, the fat would be in the fire. 

He had taken the precaution of penning a request from Symington that Mr. Randolph be given a mount – which had revealed that he still wore the Symington signet ring.  He’d immediately turned the seal toward his palm and prayed that no one had noticed.  At least the dining room had been ill-lit at dinner.

In the end, he didn’t need the note.  The servants were delighted to help Lady Elizabeth’s young man.  They even gave him a decent horse.

Clouds hung heavily overhead, though it had ceased raining for the moment.  Not that it mattered.  Time was too short to quibble over the weather.  It was more important to learn the lay of the land and find the best spot to waylay his coach.  At least the wreckage of his carriage no longer blocked the drive.

He made a leisurely circuit of the park.  It was walled along the road, but only a ha-ha separated it from fields, river, and the mountain rising beyond the lake.  Half a dozen paths led in various directions, but none could be traversed by a carriage.

Which made his job easier.  He need only watch one road.  The gatehouse was in ruins, but it would offer shelter while he waited.  He would stop the coach, make sure the servants understood his orders, then ride into the village to complete the errand that explained this ride.

He encountered Elizabeth near the gatehouse.

“You are out early.”  He dismounted, for she was again on foot.

“Mrs. Wilson’s throat is still bad.  And Mr. Duncan was injured while working on that debris clog last night.  He lives in the village.”  She shrugged.

“Do you make healing rounds every day?”

She nodded.  “There is no one else to see after them.  Are you enjoying your ride?”

“Very much.  I am not accustomed to staying indoors all day.”

“Odd for a scholar.”

He grimaced, but she was watching a hawk and did not see.  “I often ride.  And my father’s estate needs periodic inspection.”

“Your father owns an estate?”  This time she made no attempt to hide her surprise.

Cursing this new slip, he almost claimed that it had come from a distant uncle, but he could not afford too many lies.  One was bad enough.  “It will be mine in time, though I do not live there.  But I must inspect it often.  Father suffered an injury last year that confines him to bed.”