He’d lived his entire life operating more or less on impulse, by trusting his instincts; if they’d ever led him wrongly, he couldn’t remember it.
Now, those instincts decreed that he needed to do whatever was required to gain her trust. He couldn’t recall ever wanting to secure anyone else’s trust before, yet with her, for some reason, his instincts insisted that was paramount.
So he returned her easy smile with one several degrees more reassuringly charming, tossed the reins to the waiting Timson, then descended, rounded the curricle, and helped her down.
As they climbed the steps to her door, she said, “After the excitements of last night, I doubt any of the hostesses will expect to see us tonight, although I’m sure they’ll hope.”
He imagined it and nodded. “Indeed. Tonight’s events will be best avoided.” He met her eyes and smiled. “There’s only so much interrogation I can bear with in one day.”
She chuckled, and on impulse, he caught her hand and drew her nearer. Close enough that her skirts pressed against his legs.
Her laughter died. Anticipation leapt to life between them, a palpable thrill running down their nerves. He felt it and knew she did, too. An expression he couldn’t define filled her eyes. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, slowly, he raised her hand and pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles, then, greatly daring, he turned her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the skin at her wrist bared by the slit in her glove.
He heard her breath catch. Slowly raising his head, he leaned close—close enough to, if he dared, brush his lips to her cheek. Instead, he hovered there and breathed, “My tiger is watching, and so are the biddies who live across the road.”
She exhaled. “Oh. I see.”
Hiding a smile at how breathless she’d sounded, he straightened, briefly met her now wide eyes, and as the door beside them opened, released her, stepped back, tipped his head in a salute, and strolled down the steps. Without looking back, he called, “I’ll come around tomorrow morning, and we can make our plans.”
Stacie watched him leap into his curricle, take up the reins, and with a flourishing wave, drive off.
She stood and watched until the curricle turned the corner, then she looked down at the tiles beneath her feet. After a moment, she shook her head, straightened, and walked inside.
Frederick strolled into his front hall to find Fortingale hovering.
Relieving Frederick of his driving gloves, Fortingale informed him, “A message just arrived, my lord. From Raventhorne House. I placed the missive on your desk. The footman who brought it said nothing about a reply.”
“Thank you, Fortingale.” Frederick had been expecting the summons. “I’ll deal with it now, and I expect I’ll be going out again shortly.”
“Indeed, my lord. Will you require the carriage?”
Raventhorne House was in Mount Street, only a few blocks away. “No—I’ll walk.”
He strolled into his study and found the letter bearing the seal of the Marquess of Raventhorne in the middle of his blotter. After sitting in the chair behind the desk, Frederick picked up his letter knife, broke the seal, and spread open the parchment.
As he’d anticipated, the Marquess of Raventhorne requested his presence at his earliest convenience to discuss a matter of mutual importance. Frederick grinned at Ryder’s formal—yet plainly terse—phrasing. He could imagine the eldest Cavanaugh hadn’t been thrilled to have his only sister’s engagement sprung on him.
Sitting back in his chair, Frederick considered what would await him at Raventhorne House. He was acquainted with Ryder, who was actually Stacie’s half brother; he and Ryder occasionally met in the House of Lords, although neither were deeply immersed in politics.
Ryder was several years older than Rand, whom Frederick knew from schooldays and, more recently, through investing circles. As Frederick was about eighteen months older than Rand, in age, he fell between Stacie’s two older siblings. Frederick had crossed paths with Rand at Eton, but Ryder had already left the school before Frederick had arrived—suggesting that Ryder was at least five years older than Frederick.
As for Stacie’s other brothers—Christopher, who was known as Kit, and Godfrey, the only one of her siblings younger than she—Frederick knew little beyond the fact that Kit had recently found a wife.
“So,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. He tapped a finger on the edge of his desk. “Three are married, and the youngest is not.”
That might prove telling.
A few moments later, he roused himself, rose, and headed for Mount Street. Doubtless, Stacie’s brothers had questions for him, and he had questions he wanted answered, too.
He arrived at Mount Street and was promptly shown into what proved to be Ryder’s study.
He’d expected to face Ryder and, possibly, Rand; instead, he discovered all four Cavanaugh brothers lounging about the room. Ryder sat behind his desk, which was set before the bow window, which left Ryder’s face poorly lit.
Rand was seated in one of the two large armchairs angled before the desk, while Kit sat propped on the wide sill of the bow window, behind and to Ryder’s left.
Godfrey had been drifting down the room, perusing the books on the shelves; he’d halted and whirled to stare at Frederick when he’d stepped into the room.
Frederick had paused for a split second, sweeping his gaze over the room, taking in the brothers’ strictly impassive faces. Brows faintly arching, he walked on into their midst; he heard the door click shut behind him and had to battle an urge to grin.
Rand rose, as did Ryder, and Kit pushed to his feet. Ryder nodded. “Albury.”
There was not the slightest intonation in Ryder’s voice to give Frederick a clue as to the brothers’ thoughts. In urbane fashion, he nodded back. “Raventhorne.” With his gaze, he acknowledged the other three men, noting that Godfrey had shifted to take up a position by the window, opposite Kit and flanking Ryder.
Ryder waved Frederick to the armchair opposite the one Rand sank back into. Frederick sat, crossed his legs, rested his hands, relaxed, on the chair’s arms, and gave his attention to Ryder.
Ryder sat, clasped his hands before him, and fixed his hazel gaze on Frederick. “It came as…something of a surprise to learn that you and our sister have formed a tendre and decided to marry—indeed, coming out of the blue as it did, to say the news came as a shock would be an understatement.”
Very real surprise, aggravation at being caught unawares, yet acceptance rather than rejection—Frederick noted all three emotions emanating in varying degrees from each of the brothers.
He blinked. Clearly, contrary to Stacie’s belief, her sisters-in-law had failed to alert their husbands to the true state of affairs. He rapidly revised his assumption of how much the four male Cavanaughs knew. “First,” he said, in reply to the implied question of what the hell he’d been thinking springing such an event on them, “I take it none of you have met with your ladies this afternoon.”
Ryder frowned and glanced at Rand, who shook his head, then at Kit, who, looking mystified, shook his head as well. Ryder turned back to Frederick. “We were all out at lunches and meetings. We convened here less than half an hour ago. So no, we haven’t spoken to our wives since breakfast.”
Frederick inclined his head. “In that case, there’s rather a lot you need to hear. However, before we go further, allow me to point out that I have two sisters of my own, so I fully appreciate your position.” He hadn’t come with any definite plan of what to say, but instinct prodded, and he smoothly continued, “It is, therefore, imperative that you understand the true situation between myself and Stacie.”
He proceeded to describe the fateful events that had taken place in Stacie’s private parlor toward the end of her musical evening. “After everyone else had left, I remained behind, and we discussed the situation and decided on our way forward—specifically, that we will continue as if engaged until July and, once the ton has scattered, will quietly let it be known that we have, in t
he end, decided we don’t suit.”
All four brothers had listened to his tale without interrupting. As the full meaning sank in, he could almost see them deflating.
It was Godfrey who put their disappointment into words. “So it’s not real?”
Frederick considered, then replied, “It might be a necessary fiction, but in execution, it’s real enough, and we must never forget that, in order for Stacie and, indeed, myself to emerge from this situation without the slightest whiff of scandal attaching to our names, the engagement must, to all intents and purposes, be real.”
Ryder’s eyes had narrowed. “Until you—together—end it.”
Frederick met Ryder’s hard gaze, inclined his head, and allowed his gaze to fall. Assessing the atmosphere in the room, he let a heartbeat pass, then added, “That said”—he raised his gaze to Ryder’s face—“in working alongside Stacie over the past weeks, through her endeavors to convince me to support her enterprise and through the preparations contingent on putting on last night’s entertainment, I’ve come to value your sister for her unique qualities, for herself. In short, I would not oppose the notion of converting what has commenced as, in her words, a sham into a reality—provided, of course, that Stacie herself agreed.”
Until that moment, he hadn’t known he would say that—admit that—yet now he had, he knew without question that it was the right step.
The change in atmosphere was marked, the brothers shifting from being cast down to considering what they plainly viewed as an acceptable and hopeful possibility.
Ryder’s thinning lips told Frederick that his subtle manipulations weren’t going unremarked, yet judging by Ryder’s carefully controlled yet considering expression, not even he was immune to the tug of Frederick’s lure.
After a long moment of regarding each other, Frederick arched a brow in silent question.
Ryder’s lips thinned even more, then he shifted his gaze to Rand, then turned to look at Kit, then Godfrey.
Finally, Ryder swiveled to face Frederick again, stared at him assessingly for several heartbeats, then said, “Rand has already informed me that, financially speaking, you and the estate are in excellent shape.”
Frederick cut an amused glance at Rand and saw faint color tinge Rand’s cheeks.
Returning his gaze to Ryder, Frederick tipped his head in confirmation.
“As for all the rest,” Ryder went on, “if you were sitting on this side of the desk and the lady in question was one of your sisters, is there anything—any point at all—that you, as her guardian, would wish to know, prior to giving your agreement to this suit?”
Frederick’s brows arched spontaneously. “That’s a shrewd and cleverly phrased question. Regardless, there is nothing that comes to mind about my current life that in any way impinges on my suitability to offer for Stacie’s hand.” He met Ryder’s eyes. “Is that what you wished to know?”
“It is.” Ryder paused, then nodded. “If you can persuade Stacie to accept your suit, you’ll have our blessing, our backing, and should you need it, our active support.”
Frederick nearly allowed his surprise to show; a promise of backing and active support was far more than he’d expected.
“I take it,” Ryder said, “that I should place an announcement in the Gazette.”
Frederick agreed. “Better it comes from you than me.”
Ryder nodded. “I’ll do it today.”
Frederick hesitated, but they had offered to help. “Accepting that we are all in favor of the same end goal, what can you tell me about Stacie’s reasons for holding so firmly against marriage?”
Ryder glanced at his brothers. “I know she’s avoided encouraging any gentleman, but is she truly set against it?”
“More to the point,” Kit said, “is it marriage per se or marriage to you that she’s so set against?”
“I’ve asked,” Frederick returned, “and she insists it’s the former. She’s adamant that marriage, the institution, is not for her. And yes, I’ve asked why she believes that—her reply was that her reasons were too difficult to explain.”
Ryder grimaced. “Mary, and more recently Felicia and Sylvia, have started to suspect that there’s something”—he gestured—“more profound behind Stacie’s avowed disinterest in matrimony. But as for what that might be?” He shook his head. “I have no clue.”
Frederick arched his brows challengingly. “So guess.”
After a moment, Kit said, “We’ve always known she was dismissive of marriage in relation to herself, but it seems she’s hardened her stance into outright refusal.”
“Or perhaps,” Rand said, meeting Kit’s eyes, “she was always of that mind, but found it easier simply to avoid the subject rather than state—and argue—her case.” He looked at Frederick. “You and this engagement—sham or not—has forced her to state her position plainly.”
Godfrey shifted. “I doubt any of us have ever asked her directly whether she wished to marry or not.”
Ryder grunted. “Few would have, and even so, she’s adept at skirting around the subject.”
“Remember,” Kit said, “when Stacie caught Sylvia’s bouquet at our wedding breakfast? Sylvia was up on a chair and had the best view. She said that when the bouquet landed in Stacie’s hands, she looked more horrified than delighted.”
“God, yes! She nearly bit off my nose when I mentioned it later.” Godfrey paused, then added, “She was upset and even angry over having caught the bouquet.”
Frederick waited, but when the brothers appeared sunk in thought and volunteered nothing more, he prompted, “It seems we’re all agreed that the Stacie I’m now dealing with has a deeply entrenched aversion to marrying. It’s not some whim assumed to make herself interesting or in pursuit of the label of eccentric but a sincerely and deeply held belief. Do you have any insights into how long she’s held that view?”
The question clearly made the brothers uncomfortable. They exchanged looks, and eventually, it seemed to fall to Rand to reply. He appeared to gather his thoughts, then, reluctantly, met Frederick’s eyes. “We can only guess, but I think all of us suspect that any…adverse view of marriage Stacie holds would have been formed during the years she spent under our mother Lavinia’s wing.”
Frederick held up a hand and looked at Ryder. “She wasn’t your mother.”
Ryder shook his head. “Lavinia was our father’s second wife. However, the pater and she had gone their separate ways long before he died—at Lavinia’s insistence. For her part, Lavinia attached herself to the most racy and ramshackle set—she took great delight in sailing as close as she could to the line the ton would tolerate.”
“Our father died when Stacie was thirteen,” Rand said, “and thereafter, she lived with Lavinia.”
“When I came into the title,” Ryder explained, “Lavinia insisted on moving out of this house. She demanded the estate buy her a town house, essentially as her dower house in Mayfair, and to keep her quiet, I did.”
“At first,” Kit said, “we four all theoretically lived with her, again, at her insistence, but of course, the three of us—Rand, me, and Godfrey—spent most of our time away at school.”
“And later,” Rand said, “as soon as we were old enough, Kit and I moved out and shared rooms.” He paused, then said, “Lavinia openly consorted with a small horde of lovers in those years.”
After a moment of silence, Godfrey said, “Stacie was with Mama virtually all the time. Mama kept her close. But how much she knew of Mama’s…activities, that I don’t know.” He looked at Rand, then at Ryder, and grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to—or could—guess what she might have seen.”
“Or heard.” Kit’s tone was harsh. He looked at Ryder, then at Rand. “Mama, I’m sure, had plans for Stacie—matrimonial plans. I do know that Mama would never countenance Stacie attending concerts—I once heard her refusing Stacie on the grounds that it wouldn’t do for anyone to start imagining her a blue stocking.” Kit shifted his gaze to Frederick. “Wh
en a concert Stacie particularly wanted to attend was on, she would plead illness and remain in her room, and with the staff’s help, I would smuggle her out and take her to the concert. That was the only way she could indulge her love of music.”
Frederick noted the exchange of looks—the silent discussion—that was going on between Ryder and Rand. Clearly, there was something more. Thinking to ease any reluctance on their parts to speak of it, he volunteered, “If it’s any help, my mother and her companion, Mrs. Weston, gave me the benefit of all they knew of Stacie, including their view that Lavinia was assiduous in ensuring that no hint of scandal ever touched Stacie. If Mrs. Weston, who is not prone to gossip but is, nevertheless, one of those to whom others appear to whisper all their secrets, says Lavinia was strongly protective of Stacie, then she was.”
Ryder arched his brows and looked at Rand. “Your choice.”
Rand studied his hands for a moment, then raised his gaze to Frederick’s face. “Lavinia was a fiend. She had plans for all her children’s futures—if she’d lived long enough, she would have attempted to sell our names and hands to the highest bidders. That was her attitude to us—it was always based on our potential use to her.” He paused, then went on, “Being the eldest of her children, I was the one she sought to exploit first, but she realized that my matrimonial value would be greatly increased if I was the marquess rather than Ryder’s heir. She concocted a scheme to murder Ryder, and Mary as well, thus installing me as the marquess.”
Frederick blinked.
Rand continued, “Her plan, obviously, came to naught. You’ve no doubt heard that Lavinia died in an accident on the Raventhorne Abbey estate. She fell to her death from an upper-story window while attempting to flee justice. We were all there that evening, Stacie included. She was there earlier, too, and saw Lavinia kill one of her henchmen in cold blood by ramming a hatpin through the man’s eye—that was the sort of person Lavinia was.”
After a moment, Rand said, “Prior to our father’s death, he and Stacie were particularly close—she was his only daughter. And as Godfrey and Kit said, we have no way of knowing what Stacie saw and heard while she lived under Lavinia’s wing. But that she might have, through all that, and most especially through Lavinia’s abiding view that marriage among our class was nothing more than a transaction, formed an adverse view of marriage is, perhaps, not to be wondered at.”
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 15