Countess by Coincidence (24 page)

Margaret flew to her and nearly crushed her sister with hugs of happiness. "This
is
wondrous! You two were made for each other."

John waited for the all the hugging to cease, then offered his congratulations. "I suppose this means Perry will no longer have to pretend to pay you court."

Clair nodded. "I must express my appreciation to him. I owe my joy to Mr. Perry."

Margaret shrugged. "I suppose Mr. Perry no longer will have a reason to come to Almack's or the like."

Caro glared.

For reasons Margaret could not comprehend, she felt compelled to aggravate her favorite sister—likely because Caro was so thoroughly didactic. "You must know my husband and his friends do not enjoy assemblies and balls—not when there's the camaraderie of other males and the pursuits that bring them so much more pleasure."

Caro stomped her foot. "I refuse to believe that—not when Mr. Perry is possessed of such excellent dancing skills."

John gave the sisters a quizzing expression. "Perry dances divinely?" He started to laugh. "Hidden talents, I daresay. Wait until I tell Arlington and Knowles."

"We shall see," Margaret said to Caro. "Mr. Perry may still call upon you. After all, did you not tell me that men favor such topics as you last discussed with him?" How shocking that Caro had actually told Mr. Perry that she felt as if he'd peeled off every article of her clothing. Had she no sense of shame? The very thought made Margaret's cheeks hot.

Yet she admired her sister's gumption in going after what she wanted.
If only I could be more like Caro.

Tonight, I will
.

"Oh, dear," Clair said, "I hope that if Mr. Perry begins calling upon Caro, Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley does not deduce their scheme that caused him to propose."

Caroline gave a haughty air as her gaze circled them. "If Mr. Perry should prove to be interested in engaging my affections, I shall instruct him to say he transferred his affections from one sister to the other."

John laughed again. "Perry's never been one to be dictated to, but far be it from me to know what goes on in that man's mind. Where Perry's concerned, you, Lady Caroline, proved me wrong once before."

"But, my dear husband, my sister is more than a match for your friend. Caro always gets what she wants."

The sisters' gazes locked.

Caroline tossed back her head and laughed. "La! I could not be so presumptuous that I would attempt to manipulate a strong-willed man like Mr. Perry." She obviously spoke for John's benefit.

And she obviously did not share her sister's reverence for the truth.

By then several of the widows—especially those with sons—gathered around them, all the young boys eager to play cricket with his lordship. Mrs. Weatherford turned to Clair and curtsied. "Allow me to congratulate you, my lady, on your upcoming marriage. I pray you're as happy in matrimony as I was."

The way the widow spoke, it sounded as if she might still be in love with her husband. Had the woman's attraction to John been nothing more than jealous assumption on Margaret's part?

As the boys gathered around John, Margaret met his gaze. "I'm off to teach at the pianoforte, and I'm vexed with you that you've stolen Robbie away from me."

John shrugged. "Can I help it if lads prefer cricket to all else? It was the same with me when I was a boy."

"It still is!" She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his cheeks as she went to climb the stairs.

Clair looked at Abraham but spoke as if she were making an announcement of great portent. "I would say I'm going to work with Carter and the household accounts, but methinks the student has surpassed the teacher."

"That's not true, my lady," Abraham Carter said, shaking his head. "But the student most certainly had an excellent teacher."

"I know firsthand what a fine student you make, Carter," Mrs. Hudson said. "There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you. Would you do me the goodness of accompanying me on a stroll around the square?"

"Certainly, madam."

* * *

Whilst his wife and her sister went to see the new Haverstock babe, John went home. Sanford, a troubled look on his face, met him in the entry corridor. "I pray I've done the right thing, your lordship. Your female caller insisted that she wait for your return."

A female caller? He hoped to God it was not Mary Lyle. From his butler's disturbed look, something told John this female wasn't the sort he was accustomed to seeing at a fine home in Mayfair. "What is the female's name?"

"Miss Margaret Ponsby."

He hadn't thought on the Windsor spinster's name in several weeks. How had she found him? He'd been careful to only use his family name of Beauclerc on the contract. How had she learned that the man she had planned to marry was the Earl of Finchley?

Why had she come today? It suddenly occurred to him that the woman had never received the hundred guineas he'd promised her.

He strode to the library and opened the door. She had not taken a seat but was perusing the books in his library. "Miss Ponsby?"

She turned around. The woman was old enough to be his mother. Possessed of black hair lightly threaded with gray, she was ugly. What a contrast the two Margarets were!

His thoughts flashed to how distraught he'd been after he'd wed Maggie. Now, he realized that a Higher Power must have known what was best for him that day, must have guided the most flawless creature to become his wife. What had John ever done to deserve such blessings?

"Lord Finchley, I believe you're guilty of being in breach of contract with me."

"Pray, be seated."

He sank into a chair by his desk and regarded her. "I beg your forgiveness. I am under an obligation to pay you a hundred pounds. You shall have two hundred. I'm sorry you've had to come all the way from Windsor." Obviously, the woman knew the Beauclercs were the Earls of Finchley.

She glared at him. "I want an annuity."

"I am not a wealthy man. The reason I wished to marry was to get my hands on my grandmother's money. I've not been successful."

"But now you've married an heiress. A duke's daughter. I think you'll pay. I'll tell your grandmother—and the Duke of Aldridge—about your matrimonial scheme."

She was bluffing him. Outside of himself, no one knew about his matrimonial scheme except for Maggie, Perry and his solicitor. All them were completely trustworthy. Anything she thought she knew was pure conjecture. Even if she had hit the nail right on the head. "You're at liberty to do so. But then you'll not get a farthing from me."

Her shoulders sank. She looked pitifully defeated. He did feel beastly that he'd forgotten to send her the hundred quid. She looked as if she could use it. "It was unforgiveable of me not to send you the money." He unlocked the desk drawer where he kept a pouch of sovereigns. At least a hundred of them. "Pray, Miss Ponsby, I beg that you accept this in partial acceptance of the debt I owe you. There are a hundred here. I'll have my solicitor bring you another hundred in Windsor this week." This time he would not forget the unfortunate woman.

He stood and strode to her.

She stood and accepted the pouch, then began to leave the room. When she reached the door, she turned back. "You've fallen in love with Lady Margaret, have you not?"

His eyes widened. And he nodded.

John Beauclerc, the Earl of Finchley, never lied.

* * *

Margaret and Caroline went to Haverstock House to see the new babe. The marchioness, in white lace, sat propped up in her bed surrounded by those who loved her. The marquess sat on the side of the bed, holding his wife's hand. Was it the sunshine streaming in through the casements illuminating them like deities in Renaissance paintings, or did the two of them actually glow, Margaret wondered.

Their babe slept in a cradle near the bed, with Lady Lydia giving him her full attention.

"You just missed the duchess," Lady Haverstock said. "She's been here all day, but Aldridge insisted she go home to rest."

"My friend," Lord Haverstock explained, "worries about the babe my sister's carrying."

"He's as bad as Morgie was," Lady Lydia said, shaking her head.

"Where
is
Morgie?" Lord Haverstock asked.

Lydia smiled. "He decided he wanted to take his son for a ride through the park. He won't own it, but he's exceedingly proud of little Simon."

Lord Haverstock rolled his eyes. "He may not own it, but he's one proud papa. Everyone at White's knows the little fellow's first word was Papa."

Now Lydia rolled her eyes. "I daresay everyone's grown tired of hearing how Simon is possessed of extraordinary athleticism because he walked at so early an age."

Margaret moved to stand over the cradle and gaze upon the sleeping babe. Like his parents, he was dark haired, only his little wisps of hair were much finer, like down. He was so small, even though he was big for a newborn. He lacked the reddish complexion of those who've just left the womb. With his smooth, fair skin he did look he was a month old. He was awfully precious. "You two have a beautiful babe."

"Thank you," the marchioness said in a low voice. Then she eyed her sister. "I can stand it no longer. I daresay it's been half an hour since I've held our little lamb. Please bring him to me."

Lydia beamed. "Any excuse to pick him up." She reached down and tucked a thin blanket around the sleeping babe, then lifted him, cooing and planting soft kisses atop his head as she gave him to his mother. "It seems like it was just last week when Simon was that tiny."

Lady Haverstock's cooing and kissing of the slumbering babe were indistinguishable from Lady Lydia's, Margaret thought. What a beautiful mother she was, all in white lace, her dark tresses curling about her beautiful face. The picture she presented as she gazed adoringly at her infant, her loving husband leaning over the pair of them, was worthy of a Rafael.

How Margaret would have liked to hold the babe! But Lady Haverstock had waited so long for this day to come, Margaret hadn't the heart to take him away. Perhaps next time.

"I do hope he has his mother's fine looks," Lord Haverstock murmured.

Lady Haverstock shook her head, laughing. "I wish for him to be the image of his papa."

"It matters not what either of you want," Lydia chastised.

As she stood there in the marchioness's chamber, Margaret was seized with an intense sense of emptiness. She wanted John to love her as Haverstock loved his Anna, as Morgie loved Lydia. She wanted a son, a son borne of their love. Like the Haverstocks and Morgans. As she stood there amidst such happiness and merriment, she had never felt more alone.

When she returned to Finchley House she told herself her veil of melancholy might be lifted if John were there. She was determined to force herself to act as if she were Caro. She would gather her courage and tell him of the desire that strummed through her whenever she was with him. She knew enough of men and their needs to know that it would be difficult for a man to not jump at such bait.

When she arrived home, the house was quiet. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, hearing no sounds that would indicate John might be there.

From habit, she went first to her room. Annie had left a candle burning beside the bed, and a fire burned in the grate. Her eye darted to her dressing room—which abutted her husband's dressing room.
I must act as Caro would
. She drew a fortifying breath.

Emboldened, she strolled through her dressing room, through his, and came to his bedchamber, where his valet was scooping her husband's boots from the floor.

"Oh, my lady, you've just missed his lordship."

"Has . . . has he gone for the night?"

"Yes. He told me not to wait up for him."

Now she felt even lonelier, were that possible. Her secret hopes of consummating this marriage tonight were crushed.

* * *

White's was thin that night. "Where in the bloody hell is everyone?" John asked Arlington.

Knowles responded. "The House of Commons is voting tonight on the tax bill."

Though heretofore he had little interest in the political arena, John realized his wife's sister would soon be married to the powerful Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley, and John didn't want to be the family fool. "What do you say we go sit in the gallery there tonight?"

Perry's brows lowered. "Have you not known me for two decades?"

"I have," John responded.

"And in those two decades have I ever demonstrated the slightest interest in the affairs of government?"

"You've demonstrated interest only in drinking, gaming, and whor- - -"

Knowles cut off Arlington. "Certainly you never demonstrated an interest in your studies."

Perry took a long look at the faro box on the next table, then glared at Knowles. "Pray, enlighten me as to why it's necessary in life that I speak in Latin. Or Greek. I've been gone from university for almost seven years and cannot remember a single instance when I needed such knowledge."

Knowles shrugged. "It's one of a gentleman's necessary accomplishments."

Perry laughed. "I'd rather be a rake." He turned to meet John's gaze. "In that vein, I have a most decided treat in store for you, old boy."

"What would that be?"

"We're all going to Brighton tomorrow to see the steeplechase from Brighton to Hove. I've let a house there for us—and we shall have all the feminine comforts a man could desire. Do you know, Finch, Mary Lyle says she wants you back. I've arranged for her to come."

"And," Arlington added, "I doubt Aldridge has spies down on the coast. You can cavort to your heart's content."

If he wanted to cavort.

As John stood there facing his longtime friends he began to feel an outsider. He did not want to go to Brighton. He never again wanted to see Mary Lyle or other women of her ilk. He would rather be watching the action in the House of Commons tonight than standing there at White's with his dissolute friends, drinking brandy and playing faro.

Since he'd been a boy of eight or nine he'd been dictated to by the popular Christopher Perry. But no more.