Allison Lane (2 page)

“Help me out of these infernal rugs,” he grumbled, all trace of hoarseness gone.  He scrubbed off the rice powder that had enhanced his pallor.  “There is much to be done if we are to see George wed by summer.”

And he would, he added to himself.  Andrew had been his closest friend since they’d met eighty years ago.  Ten years had passed since he’d promised to find Elizabeth a husband.  They had both known that her father would never do so.  The man was a nip-farthing who lacked any trace of family-feeling, loyalty, or conscience.  Unless he could sell the chit, he would let her dwindle into spinsterhood.  She was nearly there already.

The casement creaked as his valet opened the window to release the stifling heat.  Whitfield fished out the block of ice that had raised all those goose bumps, recoiling when he rolled onto the wet spot it left behind.

The plan was in place, and no one could discern his real motives, he decided as his valet helped him into a dry bedgown.  George’s expertise was recognized by everyone who knew rare books.  This wasn’t the first time he had investigated a manuscript.

Thus the Chaucer provided an admirable excuse to introduce George and Elizabeth.  And an excuse was necessary, for despite what many people thought, he would never coerce the boy.  If George was uninterested, he would settle Elizabeth elsewhere.

But he had little doubt that George would find Elizabeth intriguing.  Andrew’s descriptions made her sound very much like Mary, so she would bring the same joy into George’s life as Mary had brought to his.  George had crawled too firmly into his library.  He needed a change, and Richard’s accident added a new urgency to the question of the succession. 

And perhaps securing Elizabeth’s future would finally atone for the disaster he had precipitated all those years ago. 

* * * *

“Lady Luck is finally smiling on us,” exclaimed the Earl of Fosdale to his wife.  “Whitfield is sending his grandson George – Lord Symington – to buy that manuscript Father claimed was so valuable.  The boy will call here on his way to London.  He remains unwed, so we must see that he chooses Elizabeth.  It is long past time that she married.”

“She will not agree.  And what do you know about him?” asked Lady Fosdale weakly.

“He is wealthy and will one day be a duke.  What else need we know?” 
And the boy was young
, he added to himself.  Negotiating an advantageous price for the Chaucer would be easier than if he faced Whitfield or a hardheaded man of business.  An untried boy would not even recognize his manipulation.  But this was not the time for such planning.  His wife was looking mulish – a trait she should have abandoned after all these years.  “Elizabeth is nearly on the shelf,” he pointed out.  “I can give her neither a Season nor a decent dowry, thanks to Father’s idiocy.  Do you wish her to dwindle into an old maid?”

“Of course not,” she protested.  “But a duke’s heir will hardly be interested in a penniless wife, especially one who lacks impeccable bloodlines.  Nor can she claim either beauty or accomplishments.  Besides, she has shown no interest in marriage and will likely balk at the idea.”

“I have been far too lenient with the chit,” he growled, pacing his study.  And too lenient with his wife.  She should know better than to mention bloodlines.  Who did she think she was?  A loyal wife would help him instead of raising objections.  “This is the best opportunity we will ever have.  If we arrange the meeting properly, he will pay for the privilege of wedding her.”

“You cannot use force.”  Her voice rose to a squeak, then died under his glare.  But she again demonstrated a woeful faithlessness.  “Would it not be easier to interest him in Cecilia?  She is beautiful, accomplished, and vivacious – far more likely to draw the eyes of a powerful lord.  Once she is wed, she can find a match for Elizabeth.  Symington might even provide a dowry.”

“No.  This is our best chance to get Elizabeth off our hands.  Cecilia is already settled.  Sir Lewis offered for her a month ago.  We will sign the contract as soon as he returns from Carlisle.”

“Why have you said nothing?” gasped Lady Fosdale.

“Are you questioning my authority to arrange matters?” he demanded softly.

“Of course not.”

“Nor will you.”  He glared until she cowered in her chair.  Good.  The woman finally remembered her place.  “You will enjoy having her nearby.  In the meantime, you will not mention this to either of them,” he ordered firmly.  “If you are tempted to chatter, recall the advantages of obedience.  We will have a wealthy son-in-law; one with a luxurious town house, who will invite us to London for the Season.”   He flashed a guileless smile. 

She would never accept such an invitation, of course.  Her continued intransigence did not entitle her to such a reward.  The real goal was to attach a man with bottomless coffers, who would be embarrassed by his father-in-law’s penury.  A man with access to the most powerful gentlemen in the country.  “He will arrive tomorrow, or possibly the next day,” he added, noting that the rain continued.  Travel would be difficult.

* * * *

Lady Elizabeth Walton gritted her teeth to control her outrage.  How could even Fosdale hate his own children? 

But why are you surprised? asked a voice in her head.  You know he cares for nothing but himself. 

Yet his attitude went far beyond selfishness.  His antagonism was so overt that she could no longer even think of him as her father.  He had become an enemy.  A stranger.  Fosdale.  Childish, perhaps, but she could no longer acknowledge the blood tie.

She and Cecilia had been in the morning room when their mother entered the study across the hall.  The study door had not latched, allowing them to overhear the entire exchange.  Now they stood out of sight on either side of the doorway, their horrified eyes meeting across the opening.

Lady Fosdale quietly closed the study door, slinking away like an abused dog.  It was her typical reaction to orders from her husband.  She was miserably unhappy in her marriage but lacked the backbone to stand up to Fosdale.  Sometimes Elizabeth suspected that his sole purpose for denying her wishes was to break any hint of spirit that might have survived five-and-twenty years under his thumb.

Cecilia silently closed the door to the morning room.  “How can he accept Sir Lewis without even consulting me?” she hissed.

“A rather silly question, don’t you think?”  Elizabeth paced the floor.  “He wants us off his hands and out of his purse as quickly as possible.  Sir Lewis is available and genuinely cares for you.  You are unlikely to find another suitor.  You heard Fosdale.  He will never take us to Town.”

“I cannot wed Sir Lewis!”

“Why?  You get along well with him.”

“Don’t you understand?”  Her voice was rising, but a gesture dropped it back to a fierce whisper.  “I will die if I stay in this godforsaken valley.  I must see London.  I must!  I need Society’s excitement, its vivacity, its approval.  I need to be with people of my own class.  But Sir Lewis leaves his estate only to visit his mother in Carlisle.  How can I survive even one more year of stultifying boredom, let alone a lifetime?  Look at how we pass our days – skulking about the house with nothing to do, or drinking tea with village women who barely qualify as gentry.  Even their conversation is boring, for they repeat the same stories over and over again.  Merciful heavens!  They still chatter about Peter Finchley eloping with Flora Matthews, and that happened two years ago!”

Elizabeth had read enough London newspapers to know that visiting and gossip were the mainstay of Society everywhere.  “London is no different,” she pointed out, hoping Cecilia would listen this time.  Her complaints were old ones, but escaping the valley would change nothing.  “From what I have read, ladies gossip in Town as well.”

“Fustian!  Who would waste time telling trite tales when there is so much to do?  I must escape, Elizabeth.  My beauty is wasted here.  What good does it do to play the harpsichord like an angel or paint delightful watercolors when there is no one capable of appreciating my skill?  In London, I would be a diamond, with gentlemen falling at my feet in droves.  They would write poetry in my honor, overwhelm me with gifts, vie day and night for my favors.  I would have at least three escorts to every party, dance until dawn in luxurious ballrooms, attend the races, ascend in balloons, drive with royalty.  I would wed a handsome prince and live happily ever after, dashing the hopes of hundreds of beaux.”

Her eyes had taken on a faraway expression that was all too familiar. 

Elizabeth bit back exasperation.  She had heard this recital too often, but nothing could convince Cecilia that it was naught but imagination embroidering wishful thinking.  “Pull your head out of the clouds, Cecilia.  Reality rarely matches expectations, as you should know merely from watching Mother.  She was just as beautiful as you, and her accomplishments were quite as spectacular.  But like us, she lacked money and prestige.  Has she ever attained a single dream?”

Cecilia glared, unwilling to admit the truth, so Elizabeth did it for her.

“Of course not.  Nor will you if you do not pursue more realistic goals.  London’s standards of behavior are far more rigid than we adhere to in the country.  You would never be allowed to attend a race or risk your life in a balloon.  Not that it matters.  Fosdale will never take us to London, and if he has already accepted Sir Lewis’s offer, you will have no choice.  Unless you agree, you will have to endure his wrath for the rest of your life.”

She shuddered as she said the words, for it was precisely what she feared for her own future.  So far, she had avoided a forced marriage.  It had not been difficult, for poverty tied them to Ravenswood, and she had discouraged every eligible male in the area.  No one was willing to put up with her.

“Lewis hasn’t signed anything,” Cecilia reminded her, rebellion sparking in her eyes.  “And Mama is right.  I stand a far better chance of attracting Symington’s interest than you do.  Why would a duke’s heir look at a bluestocking spinster whose countenance is so plain she would be considered an antidote in Town?  I can offer beauty, charm, and every female accomplishment he could ever want.  Thank God for Lady Mitchell’s illness.  Lewis cannot return for at least a fortnight.  By then I will be promised to another.”

Elizabeth started to object, but Cecilia swept on. 

“It is perfect, Elizabeth!  We will live in London and never see Cumberland again.  You heard Papa.  Symington is wealthy and heir to a great title.  No more unfashionable gowns.  No more antiquated carriages.  No more pitying looks from merchants’ daughters whose wardrobes are newer than mine.  I will be a duchess, with all the world at my feet!  Imagine the power – and the good I could do for the less fortunate,” she added, abandoning her baser motives for the moment.  Oddly enough, her generous gestures were every bit as genuine as her selfishness and blind stubbornness.

“I see nothing wrong with flirting with him,” agreed Elizabeth.  “He may fall madly in love with you.”

“Of course he will!”  She was back to her usual self.  “Every gentleman I meet is smitten by my beauty.  Symington will be no different.”

“We all know that you are the local diamond.  But be careful.  Fawning will likely disgust him.  London gentlemen dislike girls who are too coming.  The heir to a duchy will be accustomed to girls who throw themselves at his title.  If you act like every other scheming miss, he will brush you aside without a second look.”

Cecilia frowned.

“And you had best not let Fosdale suspect your plans, or he will lock you in the attic until Symington leaves,” Elizabeth added.

For once Cecilia did not protest the warning.  They had both heard the determination in his voice.  “I will wed him,” she vowed, grasping the door handle.  “And you will do nothing to stop me.  You have to admit that you don’t want him.”

Elizabeth gave up.  “As you wish.  But at least take the time to honestly consider the future.  You have always liked Sir Lewis.  He cares about your happiness and will make a devoted husband.  Symington might prove to be an ogre, no matter how dazzling his wealth and status.”

Anger flared, but Cecilia suppressed it.  “Very well.”

Elizabeth grimaced.  Calculation had remained in Cecilia’s eyes.  But it really wasn’t her affair.  She had done her best to point out the difference between fantasy and reality, but Cecilia’s dreams were too deeply embedded.  As was her skepticism. 

Since neither of them had traveled beyond Cumberland, Elizabeth’s voice carried no more authority than if they had been discussing the exact population of heaven or the fashions currently popular in China.  And Cecilia considered herself irresistible.  Elizabeth could only pray that the girl would do nothing stupid.  Trickery would lead to the same barren existence that plagued their mother.

She sighed. 

Cecilia considered London a glittering paradise.  Her imagination had woven twisted images of Society into a vision of opulence, frivolity, and male adoration that could not possibly be true.  Her success with area beaux made her think she was a modern Helen of Troy, capable of inciting wars – or at least duels – and winning the devotion of every gentleman she met.  Rejected suitors would dedicate their lives to mourning their loss.

Such improbable fantasies were absurd, of course, but Elizabeth did not have time to tilt at Cecilia’s delusions today.  Her own problems were too critical.

Fosdale was not stupid.  Tying her to Symington would require a compromise and could only be accomplished within minutes of the guest’s arrival, for he must know that she would be on her guard as soon as she recognized his motives. 

She had no intention of marrying anyone.  Her mother was miserable – reason enough to distrust so permanent a union.  The fact that a wife had no control over any aspect of her life merely confirmed her antipathy.  Marriage was not for her.  Let Cecilia have Symington.

She had already planned her own future, for remaining under Fosdale’s control was equally repugnant.  Yet she needed more time to escape.  She had not yet amassed the wherewithal to support herself.