Elizabeth Powell (30 page)

“I was not thinking about Wellbourne.”

“It is no use, dearest, you may as well confess—you have not heard a single thing I’ve said, have you?”

“Of course I have. I …” Jane hesitated when she noticed her older sister’s amused. I-dare-you-to-deny-it look. She bit her lip and smiled a sheepish smile. “Not a word. I’m sorry, Pen. What were you saying?”

Penelope sighed. “I was asking you what you thought of Lord Heathford.”

Oh … the List. Jane snugged her wool shawl more tightly around her narrow shoulders and tried to bring
some order to her jangled thoughts. Heathford, Heathford … which one was Lord Heathford? Lud, she could not possibly keep track of all her sister’s admirers. “Well …” she hedged.

Seated next to her on the stone bench, Pen looked up from the small leather-bound book, pencil poised. She lifted one delicate eyebrow in a knowing arch. “You remember. The talkative gentleman with whom I danced the allemande last night at Lady Allenby’s.”

“Oh,
him
,” replied Jane, and rolled her eyes. “The looby whose cravat was so tight it cut off the circulation to his brain. If only it had cut off circulation to his tongue as well.”

Her older sister tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle her explosive giggle. “If you are trying to spare my feelings, dearest, it won’t fadge.”

Jane wrinkled her nose and grinned back. “Well, you wanted my opinion.”

“Which is as brutally honest as ever,” Pen acknowledged, still fighting her laughter. “But I had hoped for something a little more specific.”

“All right, specific it is. Merits: Viscount Heathford is rather well favored, I will admit. He has very fine blue eyes. Drawbacks: he chatters like a magpie about the most trivial matters imaginable. While you were dancing with another partner, he proceeded to quiz me on your preferences for a gentleman’s style of cravat. He then launched into an incredibly long-winded discourse on the advantages of tying one’s neckcloth in a
trone d’amour
as opposed to
à oreilles de lièvre
, or some such nonsense. I had to plead a megrim in order to escape; it was either that or run shrieking from the ballroom. Anyone who marries that idiot will never get a word in edgewise.”

Pen made a few scribbles in her book. “So noted.”

“And what did
you
think of him?”

“I?”

Jane snorted. “You are not getting off so easily, Pen. I know you dislike to speak ill of anyone, but we agreed when we started this that we each must voice an opinion, even if that opinion is not entirely flattering. You have already heard mine—now it is your turn.”

Her older sister shifted on the hard bench, her pretty features contorted in a grimace of distaste. “Of his merits—yes, I also found him handsome. His eyes are very fine indeed. But his drawbacks … he trampled my feet black-and-blue during the allemande and talked about nothing but himself and his tailor the entire evening. As much as I hate to say this, dearest, Lord Heathford has to be the greatest clunch I have ever met!”

“Oh, well,” Jane murmured. “Another one out of the running.”

The older girl finished writing and turned the page. “But enough about him. What about Lord Camden?”

Jane started. “Stay away from that one, Pen! The way he looks at you, the way he follows you with his eyes … he reminds me of a fox stalking a prized pullet. He makes me dreadfully uneasy. I cannot even give you anything for the Merit column.”

A tremor shook Penelope, and she rubbed her palms briskly along her upper arms. “I agree. The last time I encountered him, he frightened me with the intensity of his regard. And I cannot overlook his terrible reputation as a rake and a spendthrift.” She made several more notes. “I think we can take Lord Camden out of consideration.”

Jane leaned over to look at her sister’s scribblings. “Where does that leave us?”

“See for yourself,” Pen replied, and handed her the book.

Ever since their arrival, Pen had kept a catalog of her beaux, complete with a column for the perceived merits and shortcomings of each, in order to make a more rational choice of a husband. And every afternoon the two of them sought out a quiet place in the house, well away from the curiosity of the servants (and the especially prying eyes and ears of McBride, their mother’s dresser), to go over what they called the List. Today the lovely May weather had enticed them into the tiny garden behind their rented town house; dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves of the knobby elm under which they sat, and a lovely profusion of jonquils and crocuses bloomed in the sunny spot toward the center of the garden. The playful breeze twitched at the edges of their skirts and rustled through the elm’s burgeoning cloak of green leaves. But all this vernal splendor could not distract Jane from the fact that so far their search was a dismal failure. She scowled and gave the List back to her sister. “This cannot be all the eligible bachelors you have met in the past six weeks.”

“Well,” Pen sighed, “these are all the
titled
ones I have met. Botheration. If only Mama were not so insistent that I marry a lord. I have made the acquaintance of several amiable, untitled gentlemen, but Mama would fly up into the boughs if I even considered a mere ‘mister,’ or even a younger son.”

Jane noted the dejected droop of her sister’s lips. Pen was right—and their mother’s temper was legendary. She took Pen’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We have been in London little more than a month, and we have over a month left. Give yourself time. I am certain you will find someone to your liking before then.”

“You mean, find a
lord
to my liking. Why have I not hit upon the right gentleman? Something must be wrong
with me, Jane. Or am I being too particular?” Penelope’s anxious gaze searched her sister’s face.

“Of course not,” Jane replied with asperity. “It would be easier if you could select a potential husband like you would a horse—check the soundness of his legs, look at his teeth, judge his gait and his disposition—but in this case you’re perfectly justified in being particular. After all, you will be joined to this man for the rest of your life, so you may as well hold out for someone whose presence you can at least tolerate.”

“But what if I do not find anyone who wants me for who I am and not for my money?” Pen’s question came out as a thready whisper.

“Stop talking nonsense. Goodness, you have half of the men in London at your feet already! Dozens of your beaux crowd into the drawing room almost every afternoon, and they send you flowers by the greenhouseful. You have to all but fend off the admiring throngs with your parasol when you venture out of doors. You are this Season’s Incomparable, Pen. You will meet someone soon, I am sure of it.”

And if she did not, Jane would eat her new bonnet, ostrich feathers and all. Penelope was an acknowledged beauty; her ebony curls, perfect oval face, and stunning green eyes attracted men by the score … as did her dowry of twenty-five thousand pounds. But she was also sweet, demure, and even tempered, if a little on the shy side. At twenty, she was perhaps a trifle old to be making her debut, but that could not be helped. Besides, her age seemed to matter only to the jealous misses whose suitors Pen bewitched. Although he possessed no title himself, their late father was the younger son of a viscount, and their family name went back to the age of Queen
Elizabeth. Pen
would
make a suitable match. It was simply a matter of finding a suitable gentleman.

Pen closed the ledger with a small sigh. “You are right, Jane. I must not let myself become blue-deviled. Still, I wish I might meet at least one lord who meets all our criteria. I am beginning to think no one like that exists.” She paused, tilted her head to one side, and regarded Jane with a searching gaze. “But I still hold out hope for you.”

Oh, no. Not this again. Jane averted her eyes. “Don’t, Pen.”

“Have you even thought about it? You have, haven’t you? You’re blushing.”

Jane fought to extinguish the heat blooming in her cheeks. “Stop talking nonsense. I am betrothed to Augustus.”

“That addlepate,” Pen muttered. “And you are
not
yet betrothed, not formally. He has not come right out and asked you to marry him, has he?”

“He asked me if I would consider it.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I would.”

“Nothing more?”

Jane fidgeted. “Well …”

Pen’s eyes rounded. “What did Mama say?”

“She looked me up and down and wondered why any man would ever want me.”

“Oh, Jane.” Her sister reached out a consoling hand. “Why did you not tell me?”

She shrugged. “Because I knew you would try to talk me out of it. I cannot afford to be a romantic, Pen.”

“Perhaps, but that does not mean you must settle for the first man who offers for you! Especially a man who indulges in gossip and delights in ruining reputations.
There is still time to change your mind. Mama will not approve Mr. Wingate’s suit until I am married off.”

Jane concentrated on twirling a lock of her stubborn, straight-as-a-pin hair around one finger. Seeing her eldest daughter married to a count, a marquess—or even, in her wildest flights of fancy, a duke—was Lady Portia Rutledge’s fondest wish. Her hopes for Jane, however, were another matter entirely. “With Augustus I shall be well settled, and with a minimum of effort.”

“Oh, what fustian,” Penelope persisted. “We are in
London
, dearest, and surrounded by some of the most illustrious bachelors in England! We have dreamed of this for years. You can do so much better than an overpadded, gossipmongering oaf like Augustus Wingate.”

“It’s not as though I have suitors throwing themselves headlong at my feet,” Jane replied, more sharply than she had intended. She saw her sister flinch, then softened. “I’m sorry, Pen, but you must understand. Papa wanted me to wed a man who would maintain the stables as they are and help me to run them. I cannot marry someone who would do as he pleases with the land and destroy everything that Papa worked so hard to achieve. Wellbourne means the world to me, and I would do anything to keep it … even marry Augustus.”

“Will you be happy with him, dearest? Truly?”

Jane shrugged. “Happy enough.”

“Can you be certain of that?” Pen demanded. “Dearest, Mr. Wingate wants to marry you because his lands march with yours. He wants nothing more than to expand his holdings and line his own pockets.”

“I know.” The skin around Jane’s eyes tightened, and her fingers curled convulsively around the smooth edge of the bench. Her sister had not meant the comment to be hurtful, but it stung just the same. No one glanced twice
at a drab little thing like her when Penelope’s beauty blazed so brightly. She realized from the moment he had proposed that her lands, not her looks, had attracted Augustus Wingate. “I am not looking to make a love match, Pen. My marriage to Augustus will give us both what we want. He will gain ownership of the property, but he has agreed not to interfere with my management of the stables. He barely knows a cart horse from a race horse.”

A worried frown creased Penelope’s brow. “Can you trust him to follow through, dearest?”

“We have an understanding.”

“I wish you would reconsider; I hate to see you hold yourself so cheaply. There are other fish in the sea more amiable and broad-minded than Mr. Augustus Wingate.”

Now that she thought about it, Augustus, with his slightly receding chin and round-eyed stare, did bear a rather pointed resemblance to a brown trout; it wasn’t too difficult to imagine him with gills and fins. Not the sort of husband she had imagined for herself, but she must be practical. As plain as she was, she doubted she would receive any other offers.

Jane swallowed around the lump in her throat, then tried to smile. “We hardly need fret over my prospects, Pen, when we have our hands full with yours. At any rate, Mama would have my head if she thought I was trying to compete with you for a husband.”

Penelope was not convinced. She frowned. “But—”

“Please, Pen,” Jane entreated, “we have been over this before. Arguing serves no purpose; I have quite made up my mind.”

“But at least consider someone else—”

Sudden movement caught the corner of Jane’s eye; a prim, scowling visage disappeared behind a window on
the ground floor. She held up a warning hand to stem the flow of Penelope’s indignation.

“We had best go inside,” she said in low tones. “McBride is becoming suspicious.”

Pen’s eyes widened with alarm. “Do you think she knows what we are doing?”

“I’m not sure, but I caught her eavesdropping outside your chamber door yesterday. She suspects we are up to something, and, knowing her, she will not rest until she discovers exactly what it is.”

Pen paled. “If Mama finds out about the List, she will have fifty fits; she is still upset that I did not accept the Earl of Haydon.”

Jane made a moue. “Even though he is seventy years old, gout-ridden, and smacks his lips whenever he sees you. For shame, Pen. He was such a catch, too.” Observing her sister’s distressed expression, she quickly added, “I was joking, you goose. All right, here is what we shall do: give me the List, then go back in the house. McBride is sure to follow you, so I will hold onto the List until it is safe to return it to you.”

“Oh, dearest,” murmured Penelope. She surreptitiously slipped the small journal to Jane. “You are the best of sisters.”

“Make haste, before she notices we have made the switch,” Jane murmured. “I will follow in a few moments.” Turning her back to the house, she tucked the book snugly into her sleeve.

Penelope rose and took her leave; Jane watched her make her way back into the town house. She breathed a sigh of relief. The List was safe, for the moment. She rose, shook out her skirts, then wandered over to admire a patch of fragrant hyacinths that grew by the garden wall. She would stay outside a little longer so that Pen
might send McBride on a merry chase. Rather like playing hunt the slipper, only with a slipper that would never—could never—be found.

Then a voice intruded on her solitude.

“Dammit, Alex, why did you leave me alone with him?”