The instant Fortingale stepped back, both ladies fixed their gazes inquiringly on Frederick’s face.
He studied them, then lowered his coffee cup. “Yes?” They’d been at the house when the news of his engagement to Stacie had broken, so it wasn’t merely that fact that was exercising his mother.
She heaved a put-upon sigh. “Would it have been too much to ask to have been informed of your intention to ask Stacie to marry you? Not that I’m against the move at all—indeed, I applaud it—but a little warning would have been nice. As it was, I was as stunned as everyone else.” She threw her hands in the air, then reached for the toast rack.
He weighed his options and replied, “As I hadn’t made up my mind to it before the moment, issuing a warning wasn’t possible. I am, however, pleased that you approve of my choice.”
“Of course, I approve of her—how could I not? She’s a marquess’s daughter, extremely well-connected among the ton, of a sensible age and of pleasant disposition, is attractive enough to have captured your eye”—his mother wagged her butter knife at him—“enough to hold her own against music and your books!—and she even shares something of your passion for music. At least, she understands your passion for music, which is more than most young ladies would.”
Frederick idly listened as his mother rattled on, enumerating Stacie’s many qualifications to be his wife, most of which he already knew.
When the marchioness paused to take a bite of her toast, now slathered with butter and jam, in a pensive tone, Emily said, “Of course, there is the shadow of her mother, which the poor girl has had to contend with all these many years.”
Frederick focused on Emily. “What about her mother?” When, instead of immediately answering, Emily exchanged a glance with his mother, Frederick said, “I’ve heard several older ladies mention that Stacie is the image of her mother, and last night, speaking of the evening’s entertainment, some lady said that had Stacie’s mother been alive, she would have been proud of Stacie’s success.”
His words had brought both his mother’s and Emily’s gazes back to him. He met his mother’s eyes and arched an interrogatory eyebrow. “So what don’t I know about her mother?”
His mother sighed. “Her mother, Lavinia, was her father’s second wife. She was as well-born as you or I, entirely haut ton, and was, as you can guess via the references to Stacie, very beautiful. Stacie is, indeed, almost identical in looks. Thankfully, she has shown no sign whatsoever of being identical in character—in that, I strongly suspect she takes after her father, and he was a delightful man.”
“What was it about her mother’s character that was…less than perfect?”
His mother looked at Emily. “You mentioned her—you can explain. I’m not sure I can—not without giving him the wrong impression.” She tipped her head. “And failing to give him the right one as well.”
Emily frowned, then looked across the table. “Lavinia wasn’t the sort of lady one admired. Or trusted. Not with anything. Not that she was a thief. Rather, she used people’s secrets and their weaknesses against them—she was like that from a young girl. Manipulative—extremely so.”
“You knew her.” It wasn’t a question.
Emily was the gentlest person he knew, yet her features set stonily. “Unfortunately, yes. She was a few years older, but as young ladies, we moved in the same circles. She was a viscount’s daughter and intent on moving up the social ladder. She set her sights on Raventhorne. He’d been recently widowed, and as Philippa said, he was a kind man—truly one of the old school who prided himself on his manners and his care of others. Lavinia snared him in her net—she was one of those ladies who used their physical assets shamelessly—and so she became his second marchioness.”
His mother waved her crust to get his attention. “That, in itself, was not particularly remarkable or reprehensible. It was what came later that ensured that, while courtesy of her birth and station Lavinia continued to have the entree to our circles, she could count no friends among us.”
Not knowing what questions to ask, he waited, with his gaze on the two women on the opposite side of the table, and hoped one of them would explain.
Eventually, Emily obliged. “At first, Lavinia played the dutiful wife—she bore Raventhorne four children, but soon after the last was born, she and he went their separate ways, although it was patently obvious to all who knew them that he remained besotted with her. Lavinia, however, proceeded to take a succession of lovers.”
“None of which,” his mother interjected, “made the ton blink. Not at first and not really by the fact of it, either.”
“It was the number of lovers she took and the…tone, I suppose one might say,” Emily explained. “Over the years, Lavinia became more and more brazen—and what lovers she was known to take, more and more questionable. Ultimately, it seemed as if the stench of scandal permanently engulfed her, although nothing ever got to the point of being something one couldn’t ignore.”
“For Raventhorne’s sake and that of his children,” his mother said, “the ton largely turned a blind eye—he was besotted with her until he died, but she was a viper of the first degree, and her questionable exploits and her excesses stung him repeatedly and took their toll.”
Emily nodded. “Then Raventhorne died, and Ryder—who was his son by his first marriage and who Lavinia always hated—acceded to the title, and after that, the ton had little time for Lavinia.”
“Not that she didn’t still receive invitations and attend the major functions,” his mother put in. “She was still the Marchioness of Raventhorne, after all, but we increasingly viewed her as beneath our notice, so to speak.”
“And then,” Emily said, “some months after Ryder married Mary Cynster, Lavinia died in some accident at Raventhorne Abbey.”
“Few have ever heard the details of what happened,” his mother informed him, “but of course, the ton as a whole heaved a collective sigh of relief—Lavinia’s behavior had become increasingly difficult to overlook.”
When both Emily and his mother fell silent, their expressions suggesting they were reliving the past, Frederick reviewed what they’d revealed, then asked, “How does—how did—her mother’s behavior affect Stacie?”
His mother cast a tight-lipped look at Emily, who, after a moment, volunteered, “Stacie was still in the schoolroom when her father died and Ryder inherited. Lavinia refused to remain at Raventhorne House—I suspect Ryder would have been able to exercise more control over her if she had, and there was never any love lost there—and insisted, instead, that the estate buy her a town house, and she moved there, taking Stacie and her younger brother, Godfrey, with her. For the next six or so years, Stacie lived in her mother’s house, and Lavinia kept her close, very firmly under her wing.”
“Indeed.” The marchioness nodded. “That is arguably the only good thing one can say of Lavinia—regardless of what scandals she herself courted, she was absolutely rigid in ensuring that no hint of untoward behavior, much less scandal, ever touched Stacie.”
Emily reached for her teacup. “Stacie was reared quite strictly by modern ton standards. As far as the ton saw, while with Lavinia, she lived a structured, tightly controlled, and utterly blameless life. And since Lavinia’s death, she’s lived rather quietly under her half brother Ryder’s, and of course that means Mary’s, wing.”
“Which is to say,” his mother declared, “that despite her advanced age and her years living with Lavinia, Stacie enjoys an utterly unblemished reputation within the ton.”
“Indeed.” Emily nodded decisively. “So one can safely state that despite anything you might hear regarding her mother’s indiscretions, Stacie herself is considered by all as above reproach.”
Frederick studied the ladies’ faces, then slowly nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Well!” His mother folded her arms, leaned them on the table, and looked at him expectantly. “Now we have that settled, and we’ve all agreed that Stacie is the perfec
t bride for you, when is the engagement ball to be?”
He stared at her, then, thinking furiously, refolded The Times and set it aside. “As you might guess, our announcement was…brought forward by circumstance. Neither Stacie nor I have had time to decide what we wish to do regarding such things—our inclination, at this point, is to proceed slowly.”
“Slowly?” His mother sat up. “But you’re already thirty-two!”
“Precisely my point.” Frederick edged back his chair and rose. “We are both beyond the age of impetuosity, and I won’t have Stacie harassed. There is to be no talk of engagement balls or any similar event until we’ve had a chance to decide what we wish.”
With a brief nod to his mother and another to Emily, he beat a hasty retreat and took refuge in his study.
After tossing the newspaper on his desk, he dropped into the chair behind it. “An engagement ball—good Lord!”
He stared unseeing across the room while he reviewed all his mother and Emily had revealed of Stacie’s life. Nothing in anything he’d heard to that point answered the question of why his supposed-bride-to-be was so set against marrying.
He couldn’t ignore the increasing compulsion to view learning the truth as a personal challenge—a gauntlet she had unwittingly flung at his feet. He was determined to learn what she had against marriage and, once he had, if she still featured as the perfect wife for him, to persuade her to change her mind.
By eleven o’clock on the morning following her first musical evening, Stacie was deeply regretting not having asked Pemberly to stay behind; poor Hettie wasn’t up to the task of repelling the horde of determined ladies who had started to ply the knocker and present their cards shortly after ten-thirty.
And when one breached their defenses, the others followed.
Even with Ernestine assisting as best she could, Stacie felt she was slowly sinking beneath the tide of eager and often-arch questions. All the ladies were keen to learn every detail regarding her unheralded engagement to a gentleman who, Stacie now realized, featured as one of the ton’s greatest enigmas.
For these ladies, the pinnacle of her musical evening’s success had been the announcement of her and Frederick’s engagement.
“So terribly romantic,” old Lady Culpepper declared.
“You can rest assured, my dear,” Lady Holbrook said, “that all those who were not present will be kicking themselves.”
“I, for one,” Mrs. Wyshwilson stated, “will never forget the evening. The music—so sublime!—and then the announcement!”
Lady Moreton, a music lover, assured Stacie, “The entire ton will be talking of your musical evening, which will, at least, ensure that your next musical event will be as well attended as you might wish.”
There was that, Stacie supposed—a single hint of silver lining in what was otherwise stormy gray.
While she dealt with the countless queries as to the engagement, determinedly turning aside the many that bordered on the impertinent, she felt her face setting into a strained smile. And then there were the inevitable comparisons to her mother, and the repeated refrain of how very proud Lavinia would have been had she lived to see her only daughter snaffle a marquess, just as she had.
Despite the way those comments grated on her nerves, Stacie had to admit they were true. Had she been alive, her mother would have been in her element, manipulating and orchestrating the entire event to her own benefit.
Thankfully, her mother was dead.
Ernestine was visibly flagging and Stacie was wilting when, at a quarter to twelve, Hettie walked into the drawing room with a genuinely bright smile on her face and announced, “The Marchioness of Raventhorne, my lady. Mrs. Randolph Cavanaugh and Mrs. Christopher Cavanaugh.”
“Thank God,” Stacie breathed. Reinforcements had arrived.
Mary walked in, surveyed the room, took note of Stacie’s harried state, and smiled. “Ladies. In the circumstances, I’m sure you understand that I and Lady Eustacia’s sisters-in-law have much to discuss with Lady Eustacia and Mrs. Thwaites.”
“Oh, of course, my dear Lady Mary.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
“We’ll just be on our way.”
“Such delightful news—we had to drop by and congratulate Lady Eustacia, but now we really should get on.”
Stacie could only marvel. Mary didn’t have to say or do anything more to prompt the ladies to set down their teacups and beat a path to the door.
As the last straggler bustled out into the hall, Stacie collapsed into an armchair. She looked at Mary. “I don’t know how you do that, but I want to learn.”
Mary smiled, patted her arm, and moved to sit on the chaise opposite. “You’ll learn the knack soon enough. But I should have realized how it would be and come earlier.”
“I’m grovelingly glad you came when you did,” Stacie assured her. “If it had gone on for much longer, I might have screamed.”
Hettie appeared in the drawing room doorway. “That’s the last of them gone, my lady.” She glanced at the tea trays scattered about the room. “Would you like me to bring a fresh tray?”
“Please.” Stacie gestured to the other trays. “Have Rosie help and take these trays away. I haven’t actually managed to have a cup myself yet.”
“Nor I.” Ernestine had claimed one of the other armchairs. “That was…an experience. And not an altogether pleasant one.”
“Oh?” Mary looked her question.
Ernestine waved. “Nothing truly nasty—just a great deal of over-inquisitiveness.”
Felicia and Sylvia had sunk onto the chaise alongside Mary.
Stacie regarded the three ladies. Along with Ernestine, they were her closest friends. She drew in a breath and let it out with, “There’s something I have to tell you all—to explain—but let’s wait until the tea tray arrives.”
All four regarded her sober expression, which stated very clearly that her news wasn’t something they were going to be happy to hear, then Felicia nodded and said, “While we’re waiting, I can report that Rand had quite a conversation with the master of the music school, Mr. Protheroe. There were several gentlemen present last night who invest with Rand, and as a group, they were so impressed with the quality of the young musicians’ performances that they floated the notion of starting a series of musical scholarships to be administered through the school.”
“So,” Sylvia said, with an encouraging smile, “that’s one unlooked-for benefit that has come from your very first musical evening.”
“Even Ryder, who I regret to say is not terribly musically inclined, was impressed,” Mary said.
“Kit, too,” Sylvia added. “He said to tell you that hearing the performances last night made all the evenings he spent sneaking you out of your mother’s house to attend concerts worthwhile.”
Stacie had to smile. “I’m glad he enjoyed the evening.”
“Everyone who attended enjoyed the evening,” Mary informed her. “Although your culminating announcement might have drawn attention from your principal purpose, absolutely everyone present was captivated by the music—they might be temporarily distracted, but they won’t forget the experience.”
Stacie sighed. “I hope not.” She sat up as Hettie appeared, bearing a fresh tea tray. Rosie, the younger parlormaid, slipped into the room in Hettie’s wake. After Hettie set the fresh tea tray on the low table before Stacie, the maids made short work of collecting the other trays.
When the door closed behind them, Stacie looked at the teapot, wondering where to start.
“Tea first,” Mary said, not unkindly. “Here—I’ll pour.”
Stacie sat back and let Mary do the honors.
When all five of them had teacups in their hands and had taken their first sips, Stacie began, “There’s no easy way to say this. The engagement Frederick and I announced last night is a sham—one forced on us by a totally innocent circumstance.”
“Oh!” Ernestine put her fingers to her lips. “I knew you
wouldn’t have been doing what you were doing in the parlor like that. His lordship has been so very correct in all other respects—it seemed so odd.”
“It was odd,” Stacie said. “It was an accident, but then Lady Hernshaw and Mrs. Meethe saw us, well, grappling like that, and there was nothing Frederick could do other than declare we’d become engaged.”
Mary, Felicia, and Sylvia looked puzzled.
“What exactly happened?” Mary asked. “All we heard was that Ernestine, Lady Hernshaw, Mrs. Meethe, and several other ladies walked into the parlor and surprised you and Frederick in an embrace consequent on you having accepted his suit.”
Stacie arched her brows. “How very restrained of them all. The truth was rather more gossipworthy. As you know”—she tipped her head at Mary—“I went in search of Frederick to convince him to rejoin the guests. He was in the parlor, biding his time, I assume until everyone left. He wasn’t terribly thrilled at the notion of coming back out, but then something I said struck the right note, and he came to his feet—I believe to return to the fray with me. Only I was standing too close, and I stepped back too quickly and caught my heel in my hem. I started to fall, but he caught me, but that put him off balance, and both of us fell—thanks to his efforts, we landed on the chaise, with me on top of him.”
“Oh,” Felicia said.
“Indeed. That was when the door opened and Ernestine brought in Lady Hernshaw and Mrs. Meethe. They were inside the room before they looked up and saw us.” Stacie gestured weakly. “So Frederick helped me up and told them all—the other ladies were about the door, looking in—that I’d just accepted his offer of marriage. After that, of course, everyone was all smiles.”
“Oh, dear.” Ernestine had raised both hands to her cheeks. “It’s all my fault—I shouldn’t have taken Lady Hernshaw to your private parlor.”
“Nonsense,” Stacie chided. “It wasn’t your fault—or anyone else’s, either. My private parlor was the obvious place to take an older lady needing to lie down.”
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 13