Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “Cousin Judith? She was in London, you know, when Hugo and I were there, not long after we were married,” Katherine said. “She’s a good soul.”

  “Yes, and a better judge of horseflesh I never saw,” added Hugo. “What does she say, Mama?”

  “She writes to invite Gwennie and me to stay with them in Grosvenor Square for the Season. Isn’t that so kind, and so fortuitous? She’s bringing her granddaughter Helen, who, she says, is absolutely longing to meet you, Gwennie.”

  Gwendolyn had been listening wide-eyed. First a letter from their relation Henrietta Penhallow two years ago had brought with it marvelous opportunity, and now this from the Duchess of Egremont. Manna from heaven indeed! She said, buoyant:

  “Well, I like this! Helen’s a sort of cousin to me, isn’t she, Mama?”

  “Not strictly by blood, dearest, but through family connection, yes.”

  “Even after six years, I’m still trying to figure out the various Penhallow lines,” said Katherine with a laugh. “Cousin Judith had a brother who married Henrietta Penhallow, and Henrietta’s a cousin to you, Mama, is that right?”

  “Through my marriage, yes, Katherine dear.”

  “I’ve called her ‘Aunt Henrietta’ my whole life,” said Hugo, “which somehow seems more appropriate given she’s so much older than me. She must be nearly eighty, I daresay. And yet Judith, who’s just about the same age, is ‘Cousin Judith.’ I suppose it’s because Aunt Henrietta’s such a towering figure in the family.”

  Katherine laughed again. “She certainly is. How badly she frightened me when we first met! Is there more to your letter, Mama?”

  “Yes, Judith also says that her grandson Owen has agreed to come to London, to get a little Town polish, and also to support Helen, for at least part of the Season.” Mama’s eyes were shining as she added, “According to Judith, Owen has persuaded Francis to come too. Isn’t it lovely they’re at university together, and still just as good friends as ever they were at Eton? Oh, and here’s the postscript—it made me feel as if the weight of the world had lifted! Judith says that she herself loathes London, and if I feel the same way, I needn’t come—especially as her daughter-in-law Lady Almira, Helen and Owen’s mother, will naturally accompany them.” Mama looked up and over at Gwendolyn, her brow crinkling again. “Are you absolutely certain you won’t mind going without us, Gwennie darling?”

  Gwendolyn nodded vigorously. “I’m positive, Mama. It’ll be an adventure! I’ll miss you, of course, but Francis and Percy will be there.”

  “That’s a comfort, to be sure. I’ve been so afraid to tell you that I simply wasn’t up to going to London.”

  “I have, too,” admitted Katherine. “And I don’t care to leave the girls, either. I know they’re fine now, and I did so want to be a part of your Season, Gwennie, but I really couldn’t enjoy myself, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, it’s all settled then,” Gwendolyn said cheerfully, and gave a bit of her sandwich to Señor Rodrigo, who had been staring at her expectantly from where he perched nearby on the arm of a sofa. “Now we can really and truly plan! I shall dance every single dance there is to be had, go to all the galleries, and ride every day in the Park. And I must visit Carlton House, where I shall be suitably impressed by its staggering magnificence.”

  Next she gave some of the sandwich to Cordelia, and went on, further illuminating this delightful vision of herself:

  “I’ll crane upwards at all the ceilings, just like the provincial that I am, and go up and down the main staircase at least twice, pretending I’m a princess in disguise. I daresay I’ll bump into the Prince Regent, too. Do you think it’s true that he wears a corset, and creaks when he walks about? Oh, goodness, I hope I don’t giggle. That would be fatal. Also, of course, I’m going to meet my one true love.”

  “Come about, matey,” loudly uttered Señor Rodrigo, and little Cordelia immediately said:

  “Comma boot, mitey.”

  Everyone laughed, Cordelia proudly repeated herself, and suddenly Gwendolyn remembered the mysterious letter which had come for her; she picked it up from the low table where she had left it, opened it, and looked to the signature. “Why, it’s from Helen FitzClarence.” The letter was brief; the handwriting was poorly formed and there were several misspellings, but the tone was warm and eager. Helen reiterated her grandmother’s invitation and begged Gwendolyn to say yes.

  Do come, I know we shall be the Best of freinds, Cousin Gwendalynn.

  As Gwendolyn looked down at the childish handwriting, a memory flickered. Several years ago, Francis and Percy had gone on school holidays to stay with Owen FitzClarence at his home in Northamptonshire, where they had met Owen’s sister Helen.

  What had they written home about the visits? Oh yes, horses and riding and steeple-chasing, and Percy saying that Helen was a superb rider, and Francis complaining about Helen hanging about bothering them and trying to pinch him. How long ago that seemed! Gwendolyn wondered if Helen would even remember Percy and Francis after all this time.

  “Papa, eat,” said Rosalind, generously attempting to insert her little wooden bear into Hugo’s mouth. He pretended to chew on it, enchanting his fascinated offspring, and then beguiled her with a ginger biscuit, this simple distraction allowing him to pass round the plate again to both Katherine and Mama, looking at them with such innocent supplication—this being his version of ruthless bullying—that they couldn’t help but laugh and each take a biscuit, thus neatly and collectively averting the dread possibility of Cook’s wrath.

  Chapter 3

  London, England

  May 1818

  It was some two weeks after a notice had appeared in the Gazette announcing the betrothal of Miss Gwendolyn Penhallow and the Earl of Westenbury that, on a cloudy spring morning, two men, former neighbors in Whitehaven, met by chance in Hoare’s Bank.

  Christopher had just stepped into the high vaulted interior but abruptly checked when he was hailed by a friendly voice:

  “I say, Christopher! Christopher Beck!”

  A very tall young man with bright gold hair and vivid blue eyes, and clad in the distinctive black and scarlet uniform of the Royal Horse Guards, came toward him at a rapid clip and held out his hand.

  Christopher stared and shook the hand extended to him, recognition coming after a stunned moment. Good Lord, one of the Penhallow twins! Not Francis—the other, the Army-mad one, of course. He said with a sudden rush of gladness at seeing someone he knew: “Percy! How do you do?”

  “Lieutenant Penhallow, at your service,” replied Percy, whipping off his tall hat, a dark blue bicorne dashingly embellished with gold ribbon, and gave a deep mock-bow. He straightened, grinning, and with military precision tucked his hat under his arm. “I say, it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other! What the devil happened to you? You look like hell, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Pirates,” said Christopher, briefly. “Just off the coast of Portugal.” There was no point in mentioning just how bad three of the pirates looked after he got through with them. All that brawling at university and elsewhere had, apparently, proved useful.

  “Pirates! How ripping. Aren’t you the lucky one. Well, I daresay those stitches will heal well enough,” said Percy cheerfully. “Gives you a wonderfully Gothic appearance. The ladies’ll swan over you like anything. Speaking of which, come to a party tonight and liven it up, won’t you? Bound to be a dreadfully staid affair, thrown by a relation of mine, the Duchess of Egremont. Frank—my brother Francis, you know—is due to arrive today and show up there as well—he’ll be delighted to see you, of course—and my cousin Owen, too. A splendid fellow, I assure you. But bear in mind, if you want something strongish to drink, have it before we get there. That’s what I’m doing, at any rate.”

  Christopher hadn’t planned on staying in London. He’d arrived at dawn and thought he’d stay on just long enough to visit his bankers and go . . . somewhere. But now he found himself saying:

  “Th
anks. I’d like to come. If you’re sure the Duchess won’t mind?”

  “Not a bit of it. She’s a brick—not at all high in the instep. Come by the Windsor barracks around seven or so—I’ll tell ’em you’re expected—we’ll have dinner and go on to Grosvenor Square together. Well, must dash—off to White’s, to settle a bit of a faro debt, and then over to Berkeley Square, to visit a lady-friend.” Percy laughed. “By Jupiter, we’ve all grown up, haven’t we? It’s awfully jolly being my own man, I must say. Ah—a word of advice, if you’re going on the Town. Stick with the married women, the unmarried ones would as soon clamp the old ball-and-chain on you as look at you. See you later on, then.”

  He hurried away, and more slowly, Christopher proceeded into Hoare’s. When he emerged an hour later, he was considerably plumper in the pocket—pleasant evidence that he had, at long last, come into his fortune. Bless old Uncle Dan, the mysterious, much-maligned eccentric of his mother’s family, who had shocked them all by secretly making a great deal of money as a supplier to the British Navy and then leaving it all to his nephew Christopher, then ten years old, following the untimely death of his sister—Christopher’s mother—whom he followed to the grave in quick succession.

  Bless them both, he thought. Would they be proud of the person he’d become? He hoped so. He was far from perfect, he was still restless, his life’s course as yet unknown—but he had come a long way, both literally and figuratively, from the rough-spoken, intractably sullen youth he’d once been.

  Christopher paused on the busy sidewalk of Fleet Street. All around him people went to and fro; the street was filled with carts and carriages, riders on horseback, the occasional two-wheeled velocipede barreling past and pedestrians crossing the street whether with reckless speed or due caution. It was noisy and crowded, the air was damp and a little dank, heavy gray rainclouds loomed overhead, and suddenly he broke again into a smile.

  Jolly old England.

  It was good to be back.

  He thought, now, about the evening ahead. A party hosted by a duchess, and no doubt attended by the crème de la crème of Society. He pictured himself back at Mauro’s only a few months ago, his boots ankle-deep in horse manure and his hair likely strewn with hay. You’re flying high, lad, he thought to himself, amused, recalling his hostile and unruly schoolboy days among the British elite. Back among the nobs, eh? Try not to pick any fights or otherwise embarrass yourself.

  Well, if he was going to be traveling in elevated circles again, he’d need some proper clothes. Lodgings, too. But—most pressingly—something to eat. He was hungry. He wanted eggs, kidneys, chops, liver. India tea, scalding hot, pungent and familiar.

  Still smiling, Christopher went off in search of breakfast.

  Gwendolyn took a last quick look at her reflection in her bedchamber mirror, happy that this new gown—made of simple white crepe over a white satin slip—had arrived in time for the evening-party the Duchess had organized to celebrate her engagement to the Earl. Her hair was gathered high at the back of her head à la Grecque, with soft strands let free to fall about her ears and frame her face.

  She suddenly remembered the illustration in La Belle Assemblée over which Diana had sighed, three years or so ago, and smiled. How shockingly underdressed she was in comparison to that fashionable lady! No gauzy silk headdress or low-set wreath of glittering brilliants on her head; only a simple garland of tiny pink roses. And rather than exposing a good portion of her slip, the hem of her gown lay demurely above her white satin slippers, no ribbons dangled from her bodice, and her only ornament was the beautiful pearl ring the Earl had given her.

  “Thank you, Lizzie,” she said to her maid, who placed about her shoulders a soft shawl of fine white net silk, and then she went with a light step downstairs—feeling as if she could float with happiness—and into the big drawing-room where their guests would shortly be assembling. Soon she’d be seeing her love! She could hardly wait.

  Gwendolyn paused just past the threshold. Helen stood by one of the windows and Gwendolyn was struck by what a delightful picture she made, with her red hair blazing in the bright luminescence of the many candelabra, and her heart-shaped face, with its charming riot of freckles and retroussé nose, in stark profile as she gazed out the window.

  She said, sincerely, “How pretty you look, Helen!”

  Helen started and half-turned away from the window. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in,” she said in her gruff little voice. “I was—I was checking—to see if it was raining, you know.”

  “Is it? I hope not.” Gwendolyn went to stand next to Helen, and peered outside.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.” Suddenly Helen gripped Gwendolyn’s hand in hers. “I’m so looking forward to the party!”

  “Are you? I’m so glad. I don’t think I’ve heard you say that about any event we’ve attended.”

  “This is different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Because—because—” Helen flushed a vivid scarlet. “Those other events were rubbish. Oh, how pretty you look!” She squeezed Gwendolyn’s hand. “I say, I’m terribly glad you came to London! I was sure we’d be the best of friends.”

  Gwendolyn smiled, hoping that would suffice as a cordial, if not entirely reciprocal, response. Even after living under the same roof for several weeks, Helen was rather a puzzle to her. She was relentless in her compliments and listened with an appearance of fascinated attention to whatever Gwendolyn said, even the most banal remarks; when Gwendolyn picked up a book and settled in for an hour’s happy diversion, Helen did as well (though it didn’t seem as if she were turning any pages). If Gwendolyn didn’t care for a particular dish at supper, neither did Helen.

  Friends—in Gwendolyn’s opinion—ought to be kind to each other, and honest, and real. Not behaving as might a courtier to a queen.

  So when Helen said, “I do wish I had straight hair like you, yours is so much nicer than mine, Gwendolyn,” she suppressed a quick pang of annoyance and only answered lightly:

  “Well, I do admire curly hair, like yours. Lizzie keeps wanting to try the hot irons on me, but I’ve told her it’s no use. My hair can’t hold a curl for more than an hour.”

  “Oh, your hair is better. Such a lovely gold color! And I wish I had blue eyes like you, Gwendolyn! You’re so tall too. You look just like—I mean—that is, you look so much like your brothers.”

  “Not too much like them, I hope,” Gwendolyn replied, heartily disliking Helen’s fawning words of comparison and wishing Helen were satisfied with her own very attractive looks, then was annoyed again when Helen nodded.

  “Oh yes, you do. When do you suppose—when do you think Percy and Francis will arrive? Won’t they be pleased to see what great friends we are?”

  Gwendolyn was spared the necessity of thinking up a tactful response when from behind them came a breathless voice:

  “Girls! Here I am! Right on time!” Lady Almira, Helen’s mother, fluttered into the drawing-room, the fringed ends of her India silk shawl dragging on the floor behind her. “Oh, ma’am, don’t the girls look marvelous?” she exclaimed to her mother-in-law the Duchess, who had followed her in, issuing some last-minute instructions to the butler Tyndale, and Gwendolyn took the opportunity to disengage her hand from Helen’s and go toward them.

  “Cousin Judith, is there anything I can do to help?”

  The Duchess, tall and thin, with a kind, weather-beaten face and a great mass of thick gray hair only partially subdued beneath an unfussy silk toque, concluded her remarks to Tyndale with “And do remind the footmen to look after the horses,” then turned to Gwendolyn and said in her brisk pleasant way, “Thank you, m’dear, but I believe all is in order. Almira, what’s the matter?”

  Lady Almira’s wide-set brown eyes were brimming with tears. “Oh, ma’am, if only my dear departed Lionel were here! Your precious son, gone from us too soon! How proud he would be of his only daughter!”

  “Mother, will you stop saying that?
It’s so tedious,” said Helen, in her gruff little voice more than a hint of a growl. “I’m sure Gwendolyn is tired of hearing it.”

  “And if only my dear Philip were here as well,” Lady Almira went on, referring to the son of her first marriage who, engulfed in both scandal and debt, had fled the country some five years back. “How proud he would be as well! His beloved half-sister making her London debut! I know he would have liked nothing better than to lend his support!” She gave a lingering sob, her shawl slipped from her shoulders and fell unnoticed to the floor, and Helen, from her place by the window, snorted audibly and said:

  “Philip lend his support? Ha! He’d be asking all of us for money, Mother, you know he would!”

  “Oh, my dear Helen, how unfeeling you are,” said Lady Almira reproachfully, then, as Gwendolyn picked up her shawl and handed it to her, she brightened. “Thank you, Gwendolyn dear! What a lovely gown! Just like Helen’s! I declare, you two look just like twins!”

  Startled, Gwendolyn turned to look again at Helen and now realized that their two gowns were, in fact, so similar in style and fabric as to nearly be identical. Seeing Gwendolyn’s eyes upon her, Helen flushed bright red again and said:

  “I asked Madame Hébert to make my new gown like yours, Gwendolyn. I—I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Good heavens, Helen,” said the Duchess to her granddaughter, “what on earth were you thinking? This is Gwendolyn’s evening, not yours.”

  Helen hung her head. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll go change.”

  But before she had taken a few steps, Tyndale announced the presence of the first guests, and so the moment was lost; Helen retreated to her post near the window, by an unfortunate mischance Lady Almira dropped her fan into a large vase of flowers and struggled to extricate it, and then Gwendolyn forgot all about duplicate gowns in the flurry of greeting people and, soon, in came the Earl of Westenbury, serene, unhurried, devastatingly handsome in his elegant dark evening-dress—and a smile just for her in those entrancing, deep-green eyes of his. Gwendolyn watched as from all around came the usual admiring glances sent his way; she heard the little murmurs of appreciation. Which the Earl never seemed to notice. It was another thing she loved about him.