The Baron’s Dangerous Contract
Page 25
Lord Mendbridge tore it open and scanned its contents. A smile spread over his features.
“Gentlemen, I suppose you will be the first to know. My sister marries a certain Mr. Thornbridge. You may have met him while he was here. A pleasant enough fellow, though he doesn’t know a thing about horses.”
Lord Mendbridge read on to the second page. The paper fluttered to the table.
“Lord Cabot has asked for the hand of my daughter!” the lord said, his surprise evident.
Both Lord Grayson and Lord Dalton stared at one another from across the table. In unison, they said, “Of course he has!”
They likely said it louder than they meant to, and perhaps Dalton said it with more than a tinge of disgust.
“And, she has accepted him,” Lord Mendbridge said.
“Of course she has,” Lord Dalton muttered.
“Eh, Dalton?” Lord Mendbridge said. “You knew it was in the works? Cabot never said a word to me, although my daughter is convinced that he has. She writes, I know you have already given your hearty approval.”
Lord Mendbridge paused, staring at the paintings of his beloved horses that lined the wall. “Penny is to marry. Well, I suppose Cabot’s got a fine enough stable.”
*
Lord Cabot had found a tailor as soon as he could and had suitable clothes made. It was well that he did, as he could not very well spend every waking moment at Miss Darlington’s house, or escorting Miss Darlington round the town, as disheveled as he had been on the day he’d first arrived.
It had been decided between them that they would forgo a wedding trip. Neither of them were remotely interested in wandering around the continent, only to return and bore their friends with tales of this or that museum.
Rather, they would take Cabot’s soon-to-be freed funds and Penny’s not inconsiderable dowry and remake his country house in Dorset. It was not so far from Lord Mendbridge’s estate that they could not go back and forth easily. Further, it had the recommendation of already beginning with good-sized stables. It was the stables, it surprised nobody, where their efforts would be concentrated. They had a plan of becoming the preeminent horse breeders in England.
If a lord looked for a particularly fine horse, they wished everyone to say, “You had better go and see Lord and Lady Cabot.”
They would go to London during the season, of course. But not for the entire season. They would make more of an effort to attend the races, wherever they might be held. They were, after all, horse people.
Kitty eventually came round to the idea that Penny was to marry Lord Cabot. Though, it had come as a shock. The first thing she’d said about it was, “But I thought you did not like him!”
Penny had laughed and said, “I loved him. You see, that was the problem.”
Kitty would eventually warm to him and delight in reminding him that they had once called him the ox head, on account of his having a horse named Bucephalus.
*
Freddy was able to retrieve Mackery’s notes and take them to the gentleman in Italy. He’d had a vague idea that he’d trade them for a career as a valet or some such employment. As it turned out, the contessa’s son took a shine to him and Freddy would end up managing that family’s finances. He found he liked the Italian sun and he liked their way of going on. Gone were the stiff manners of England, and in were the passions of the continent. One might be forgiven anything if only one were loved, and he was very much loved for his talent for figures. He also had a great fondness for the food and where once he had been slight, he ended on the more portly side of things.
Both Rupert and Doom followed Penny to her new house and Doom would eventually become the stablemaster after Rupert retired. He always kept an eye out for some unfortunate youth who might be molded into something. This led to no end of situations and scrapes and irate neighbors who needed to be soothed. After all, it was no simple trick to take a hardened boy from the street and turn him into something sensible. But, it had been done for him, and so, he would press on with the idea. He kept the name Doom, though, and never went back to using Daniel. He found the name inspired a proper amount of fear in anybody young and recently employed, which was always helpful.
Mr. Farthingale found himself ruined. He’d counted on Mackery’s notes to pull him through, but discovered them gone. He instantly understood what had happened and knew there was little point in chasing Freddy to Italy. Rather, he gathered up what he could and sold what he could and sailed to America. This ended up far better than he had hoped, as such a bunch of rubes he had never dreamed of encountering. Had he known that his English manners would paint him as some kind of duke to the society of the environs of Cincinnati, or Queen of the West, as the Americans hilariously called the town, he’d have emigrated years before. He started a gentlemen’s club in the English manner and ended very comfortably in his own house. He’d become the arbiter of all fashion and manners to people who wouldn’t know the proper way of going on if it hit them over the head. To his surprise, he developed a fondness for his new people and eventually married one.
As for Jarvis, he would never admit to indulging in a short period of lording it over Mendbridge’s servants when it was discovered that Miss Darlington had accepted his master. He might not admit it, but he did it. And gladly too. When he was relocated to Dorset with the new Lady Cabot and her maid, Dora paid dearly for all of her prior insults. Those were happy days—his chair closest to the fire, his tea hot, and not an end of meat in sight. He and Dora would eventually come to an uneasy truce after having to live in close quarters, but not before their squabbles had almost unhinged Lord Cabot’s butler.
The dowager sent a letter upon hearing that her grandson had engaged himself to Lord Mendbridge’s daughter. It was the usual scolding, but Henry was pleased to see it signed, Your more sanguine grandmother.
Lord Cabot did, from time to time, find himself on the road shouting, “I am a beast and do not deserve Lady Cabot.” That only changed when he had to shout that he did not deserve her grace. In truth, Penny thought he got off rather easily for his occasional bruising of feelings and she was not sorry for it. For one, she did her own bruising on occasion. For another, they spent most of the time in the country, so very few people ever heard him shout it. In any case, she had three lovely tiaras and had learned a vital lesson—her feelings, whatever they might be, would not kill her.
That was something she’d have to explain more than once to her daughters, as they were veritable copies of her and cried if they were even looked at askance. She did not surround them in a cocoon as she had been, as she wished to prepare them for the wider world and the knowledge that they could withstand anything. On the other hand, she was often amused, as her poor lord could never comprehend why somebody was always weeping somewhere in the house.
Weep they would, for now. But when they went to London for their own seasons and met their own Lord Cabot, there would be far less drama and angst about it.
At least, she hoped so.
The End
About the Author
By the time I was eleven, my Irish Nana and I had formed a book club of sorts. On a timetable only known to herself, Nana would grab her blackthorn walking stick and steam down to the local Woolworth’s. There, she would buy the latest Barbara Cartland romance, hurry home to read it accompanied by viciously strong wine, (Wild Irish Rose, if you’re wondering) and then pass the book on to me. Though I was not particularly interested in real boys yet, I was very interested in the gentlemen in those stories—daring, bold, and often enraging and unaccountable. After my Barbara Cartland phase, I went on to Georgette Heyer, Jane Austen and so many other gifted authors blessed with the ability to bring the Georgian and Regency eras to life.
I would like nothing more than to time travel back to the Regency (and time travel back to my twenties as long as we’re going somewhere) to take my chances at a ball. Who would take the first? Who would escort me into supper? What sort of meaningful looks would be exch
anged? I would hope, having made the trip, to encounter a gentleman who would give me a very hard time. He ought to be vexatious in the extreme, and worth every vexation, to make the journey worthwhile.
I most likely won’t be able to work out the time travel gambit, so I will content myself with writing stories of adventure and romance in my beloved time period. There are lives to be created, marvelous gowns to wear, jewels to don, instant attractions that inevitably come with a difficulty, and hearts to break before putting them back together again. In traditional Regency fashion, my stories are clean—the action happens in a drawing room, rather than a bedroom.
As I muse over what will happen next to my H and h, and wish I were there with them, I will occasionally remind myself that it’s also nice to have a microwave, Netflix, cheese popcorn, and steaming hot showers.
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