The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “And it’s not as if Lady Bea can introduce us to society,” Jane added. “Everyone knows she has no nieces.”

  “And we’re using a false name,” Daisy reminded them. She’d never approved of the false name, even though she accepted its necessity.

  “So we’ll probably have to leave soon anyway,” Jane finished. “And a handsome sum would have helped. You needn’t think of it as a bribe, Abby—why not look at it as a farewell gift, a thank-you for helping Lady Beatrice?”

  Because it was a bribe, Abby thought, but she didn’t say it. Her sisters’ disloyalty shattered her. No, not disloyalty, she decided—thoughtlessness. They were young and eager to get on with their lives. Jane, in particular, was desperate to meet young men and fall in love, and Abby couldn’t blame her for that in the least—in fact she rejoiced in the knowledge that Jane had emerged from that vile place unscathed.

  None of them cared what Lord Davenham thought of them. All they were thinking of was their future. And they’d lived so close to disaster for so long that they were willing to snatch at any chance. Just as she’d risked everything to burgle this house.

  “Well, it’s too late now,” she said. “I rejected it in no uncertain terms.” And left him stinging with insult into the bargain. The lowering thought occurred to her that if he tried to bribe her a second time, she’d fling it in his teeth just as hard. Harder.

  Regardless of what her sisters wanted.

  Because, she realized slowly, she did care what Lord Davenham thought of her.

  And that was the most lowering thought of all. She had no reason to care. He was nothing but a rude, insulting, arrogant Viking!

  * * *

  “Good God, it’s a pirate!” Freddy Monkton-Coombes declared by way of greeting. He grinned as he wrung Max’s hand hard and thumped him on the back.

  Max did a bit of grinning and thumping of his own. “If you think I look like a pirate, you won’t know what’s hit you when you meet Flynn. He’s arriving in London in a month or so, weather permitting.”

  Freddy snorted. “I care nothing for Flynn. But you!” He eyed Max with a mock-critical expression and shook his head. “You’ve fallen to pieces in the last ten years.”

  Max raised his brows and glanced down at himself. “Odd, and here I thought I was quite an impressive specimen.”

  “Of piratehood, perhaps,” Freddy said dismissively. “Don’t they carry razors or scissors on ships anymore? And is that a leather thong you’ve tied that mop back with?” He shuddered.

  Max pulled the thong off. His hair fell around his face. He inspected the thong. “Yes, it’s leather. Well spotted.” He tossed it to Freddy, who caught it deftly, then dropped it disdainfully on the floor.

  He eyed the length of Max’s hair and said dryly, “Just in time. Any longer and you’d look more like a mermaid than a pirate!”

  Max laughed.

  “It’s no joking matter; you used to look almost elegant,” Freddy informed him. “Almost. You never could come up to my standards.”

  Max stood back and inspected Freddy’s attire. “Is that what you’re wearing? Standards?”

  It being a mere hour or two after the crack of noon, Freddy had only just woken. He was attired for his breakfast in a black silk dressing gown embroidered with scarlet dragons. On his feet were a pair of red leather Turkish slippers.

  “I am setting a fashion,” said Freddy with an air of great dignity.

  Max pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re dining alone where nobody can see you.”

  “Well, good God, you don’t think I’d wear this in public, do you? It was a gift from a lady. Besides, I’m not dining alone. You’re here. What will you have? I can recommend the sausages. Pork with a hint of fennel and a touch of hot spice. Made especially for me by an Italian butcher.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Max said, sitting down in the place hastily set by Freddy’s man. A lot had happened since his first breakfast, and he was ravenous. He poured himself an ale from the jug on the table. “Ahh, good English ale, how I’ve missed it.”

  “So, are you back in England for good?” Freddy asked as he tucked into his breakfast.

  “I am.” Max chewed with relish. The sausages were all Freddy had claimed.

  “And what brought you back early? You did say when you left you’d be away for ten years, did you not? Or have I misremembered?”

  “No, I’m back nearly a year early. My aunt. She hasn’t been well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. How is she now?”

  “Out of danger and improving.” As they ate and drank, Max filled Freddy in on all that had happened.

  “So she’s being looked after now by this young woman and her sisters? Pretending to be nieces but they’re no relation, you say? Odd, that.”

  “Yes, but I’ll get to the bottom of that little mystery.”

  “Pretty?”

  Max looked up. “What?”

  “Any of them pretty?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Freddy shook his head mournfully. “Max, Max, Max! What did they do to you out there in the Wilds of Foreign, apart from making you—both of us—delightfully rich, that you fail to see the importance of whether the girls your aunt has taken in are pretty or not? It’s of the first importance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I might want to meet them.”

  Max thought about his handsome, charming and elegant friend meeting Miss Chance and decided he didn’t want Freddy anywhere near her. Or her sisters. “You don’t.”

  Freddy’s face fell. “Dull?”

  “Very.” It was for Freddy’s own good, Max told himself.

  “Ugly?”

  “Plain as a box of toads,” Max said, warming to his theme. “But kindhearted. Sweet natured. Very . . .” He tried to think of something that would quench Freddy’s interest once and for all. “Very earnest. They read a lot.” That was true. From what he could gather, they read lurid novels by the boxful, aloud to his aunt.

  Freddy pulled a face. “In that case, they’re your problem.”

  “You don’t intend to help me?” Max feigned mild indignation.

  “Not with a bunch of muffin-faced bluestockings,” Freddy said callously. “I’ve met the type before. For some reason they always want to reform me. Through marriage.” He shuddered. “Horrible thought.” He slathered a piece of toast with butter and marmalade, glanced at Max and said, “The mater has started to harp.”

  “On marriage?”

  Freddy nodded. “Wants me to settle down with a nice serious girl. A serious one! What would I do with a serious girl, I ask you? I’m frivolous to the bone.” He contemplated his toast for a moment, then bit into it. “The mater wants to reform me too. Talks wistfully of heirs, and dandling babies on her lap before she dies. She’s barely fifty, not that she’d admit to it.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “How?”

  “Since when have you ever taken a scrap of notice of your mother’s desires?”

  Again Freddy pulled a face. “I know, but she’s gradually wearing me down. Women are good at that. It’s exhausting.” He took a reviving mouthful of ale. “So, where are you staying?”

  “Davenham House, for the moment. With my aunt.”

  “With a houseful of muffins?” Freddy said, shocked. “You can’t! You’ll come out of your bedchamber one morning in your smalls and a dressing gown and next minute you’ll find one of them shrieking the house down that you’ve compromised them. And demanding marriage.”

  Max laughed. “That sounds like the voice of experience.”

  “It is,” Freddy assured him. “House party last year. I’d spent a very pleasant evening in the arms of a lady who shall remain nameless—married, of course, and horribly neglected by her fool of a husband—and was returning to my room in the wee small hours when a dratted muffin saw me—though what the devil a supposedly respectable spinster was doing creeping around the corridors at that
hour, I’d like to know.” He thought about it and grimaced. “No, I wouldn’t. Anyway, she set up such a screeching anyone would think I’d murdered her in her bed.”

  “And yet you escaped wedded bliss with this, er, muffin?”

  Freddy grinned. “Her father was one of those fire-and-brimstone types. Was horrified at the prospect of a notorious rake—did you know? I’m notorious, apparently!—marrying his precious virgin daughter. Gave me a blistering lecture about my morals and told me to begone at once. Well, I didn’t need to be told twice, did I? I damned well bewent as fast as my curricle would take me. Had just taken possession of my grays. Beautiful movers they are—and fast! You’ll be green with envy. Sixteen miles an hour.”

  Max threw back his head and laughed. It was so good to see Freddy again. ”That reminds me: I’m in need of a carriage and pair. I’ve no transport. Want to come with me to Tattersalls tomorrow?”

  “Delighted to, but if it’s a pair you want, Simpson is selling his matched bays—poor fellow is rolled up. Lovely goers, nearly as good as my grays. Certainly better than anything coming up at Tattersalls. I’ll take you to see them tomorrow if you like, make a day of it. They’re at his place out at Richmond.”

  “Excellent,” Max said.

  “So, why aren’t you putting up at the club?”

  “Can’t. Haven’t been a member for nearly ten years.”

  Freddy looked appalled. “Well, you can’t stay with your aunt and the muffins. Stay here tonight. You can have the sofa. We’ll dine at the club and I’ll put you up for membership immediately.”

  “I can’t. I told my aunt I’d be back at dinnertime.”

  “She’s an invalid, ain’t she? It’ll be soup and toast on a tray in her bedchamber for her, so you won’t be dining there unless it’s with a pack of muffins. Why not drop in on Lady Beatrice, do the pretty for five minutes and then come out with me?”

  Max considered it. It wasn’t as if his aunt would be alone. And an evening in Freddy’s company, eating good English food at the club, was very appealing. “Good idea.”

  Freddy jumped up and rang the bell for his manservant. “But before you go anywhere, I’ll have my man give you a shave and a decent haircut. I’m not taking a blasted pirate to the club. They’d blackball you in an instant. Where are the rest of your clothes? Still on board the ship? I’ll get someone to fetch them. Not that they’ll be suitable, I suppose. I’ll make you an appointment with my tailor.”

  Max grinned. “I can’t wait for you to meet Flynn.”

  Chapter Nine

  “A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  “Jane tells me you’re planning to go to Bath soon. You’re not leaving me, are you, Abby?” Lady Beatrice demanded later that afternoon. Abby had brought her a cup of tea and some fresh-baked ratafia biscuits, and when she’d entered the room, Jane had hurried out with a slightly guilty expression. Now Abby knew why.

  “That’s not quite true,” Abby began. “Jane is just—”

  “Frightful place, Bath. Went there once. People claim the waters are good for you. Pack of nonsense. Nothing that tastes so foul can possibly be good for you,” the old lady declared. “Give me good red claret every time. In my youth Bath used to be all the rage—the influence of Beau Nash, you know, even though he was dead by then—but these days I hear they let anybody in.”

  Abby smiled. “Actually, that’s why we thought of going there in the first place.”

  Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette. “To mingle with riffraff?”

  Abby had to laugh at her outraged expression. “Not quite. But we did think we’d have a better chance there. Bath society is limited enough that Jane can meet eligible gentlemen.” The highest Bath sticklers probably would consider Abby and her sisters, if not precisely riffraff, certainly representative of the “anyone” they let in these days.

  “Make a splash, you mean? Get the gel a husband?”

  Abby nodded. “But we don’t plan to go to Bath for a good while yet.”

  The old lady snorted. “Don’t need to go to Bath for a beautiful gel like that to meet gentlemen.”

  “No, but I’d prefer her to have respectable offers,” Abby said dryly.

  Lady Beatrice considered that thoughtfully. After a moment she said, “Don’t blame the gel for getting restless, then. Natural for a young gel to want a bit more excitement than sitting with old ladies, reading novels and ladies’ papers and sewing.”

  “Jane enjoys your company—”

  “Oh, I know that, my dear, and she’s a dear, sweet gel. But it shouldn’t be all she does. Not right for pretty young gels to be cooped up all day; they should be out meeting other young things—young men, in particular—going dancing, attending the theater, having fun. I can’t bring her out myself, of course, but—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking it of you,” Abby assured her. She knew it was out of the question. People sponsored only close relatives into society, and by doing so they vouched not only for the character and virtue of the girl, but the quality and lineage of her family.

  They did not sponsor girls they met when they climbed in a window, or girls who used false names, let alone girls with shady pasts and brothel connections.

  Lady Beatrice patted her hand. “I know, m’dear, I know. You’re a good gel. But I don’t see why you need to go to Bath to find the gel a husband—unless you want one with one foot in the grave.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “Is that what she wants, a rich old man who’ll quickly pop his clogs and leave her a wealthy widow?”

  “No, ma’am, not at all.” Abby laughed. “Jane’s a romantic.”

  “And what about you, Miss Burglar, are you a romantic like your sister? Do you not dream of a husband and family of your own?”

  Abby felt her cheeks warming. “Well, of course I do, but I’m also practical. Poor, plain and past my first youth—I’m hardly anyone’s ideal bride,” she said lightly. “Jane, on the other hand—”

  “Yes, yes, but I’m not talking about her. She’ll do very well for herself. It’s you I’m concerned about—I want to see you happy, my dear.”

  Sudden tears pricked at the back of Abby’s eyes. She blinked them away and hugged the old lady. “There’s no need to worry about me, dear Lady Beatrice. Once Jane is safely married, I shall be free to look around for some worthy man, a widower, perhaps, with a tribe of children desperately in need of a mother.”

  “Pfft! We can do better than that for you, I hope. You’re not the least bit plain when you smile, you know, and your eyes are quite beautiful. And in those dresses young Daisy has made, you look both elegant and desirable. No, don’t screw up your nose like that, Miss Burglar—you’re a dear, sweet girl and you have a heart that any man would be lucky to win.”

  Abby’s eyes misted over again. She tamped down on the surge of unexpected emotion, saying, “Oh, you flatterer,” as she straightened the old lady’s cushions.

  There were other reasons, though she’d never told a soul. Laurence had destroyed more than just her dreams.

  Why would I marry you?

  The old lady’s shrewd gaze was on her and Abby managed a laugh. “Very well, once Jane is married, I shall look around me, I promise.”

  Lady Beatrice gave a brisk nod. “Very well, if that’s what you want. We can do better than Bath for her here. Don’t need a come-out to meet eligible gentlemen. Dear Max should be able to round up one or two for a start. They generally run in packs, bachelors. I’ll mention it to him.”

  Abby thought of the last exchange she’d had with the old lady’s nephew. “Dear Max” was more likely to throw Jane and her sisters in Bridewell Prison than help her to marry one of his friends.

  “Your nephew has changed quite a bit since that painting was done.” She indicated the watercolor portrait that had hung on the wall of Lady Beatrice’s bedchamber ever since Abby had known her.
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br />   “Oh, that.” Lady Beatrice glanced at it. “It never was much good in the first place. I had that done just before he went away. I would have preferred something in oils and from a better artist, but he was in a rush to leave, so it was the best I could manage in the time available. The artist made a few sketches and Max left the next day. The fellow had to finish it from memory.” She sniffed. “As you can see, the chin isn’t right. And the eyes are blue, whereas Max has the most beautiful gray eyes.”

  Beautiful wasn’t the word Abby would have used. Chilling, flinty, even hard would suit, but beautiful? Hardly. But she didn’t say so. Lady Beatrice obviously doted on him. “He looks quite young there.”

  “Just eighteen. Still a boy, though he wouldn’t have admitted it at the time. Too young to go off adventuring.” She sighed. “And far too young to become betrothed.”

  “Betrothed?” For some reason the news came as a shock.

  Lady Beatrice shook her head. “Never officially announced—not yet—but Max told me before he left that he had an understanding with the gel and her father.” She wrinkled her nose. “He was very scant with the details. He only told me about her at the last minute, I think in case something happened to him.”

  “I see,” Abby said. Eighteen did seem rather young for a man to become betrothed. “But he still went away?”

  Lady Beatrice nodded. “You’re thinking it’s hardly the act of a young man in love, but personally I was delighted to see him putting an ocean between them. And, of course, having a few adventures and sowing a few wild oats. It almost reconciled me to his going away. . . . Almost.”

  “You didn’t approve?” She’d meant about his leaving, but Lady Beatrice misunderstood.

  “Max was a schoolboy when the harpy got her hooks into him. As I understand it, her father introduced Max to her when he was just sixteen.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  “I know nothing about her. I’ve never met the gel or her father,” Lady Beatrice said in a fair-minded manner that deceived Abby not at all. “Max made me promise not to contact either of them while he was away—unless, of course, the worst happened, which thank God it didn’t. I kept that promise, though I confess I’ve prayed almost daily for news of her. Fatal news. Complete waste of time—apparently the wretched gel continues to thrive.” She sighed. “I suppose we’ll meet her soon enough now he’s returned.”