The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “I know the other properties were sold off.” She waved a careless hand at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that; word gets out. I’m assuming Parsley lent you the money you needed to save the family estate?”

  Max had no intention of telling her, but apparently his aunt could read his mind. She frowned. “Why didn’t you take a mortgage out on the London house?”

  “Because I didn’t choose to.” No need for her to know how close to homeless she’d come.

  She made an exasperated noise. “Why not come to me, then? I have plenty invested in the funds. My father placed my fortune in a trust, safe from Gilbert’s greedy hands.”

  Max rose and strolled to the window as if bored. “There is no point discussing any of this; it’s all done and—”

  “Oh, my God, he did it, didn’t he? Broke the trust?” She didn’t wait for his confirmation. “He always was determined to find some way to do it. Was there anything left? Stupid question, of course there wasn’t—Gil never did things by halves. If there was a shilling to spend, he’d spend a guinea and promise you the rest. Good gad!” She slumped back against her pillows and was silent for a long moment.

  “And of course no reputable source would lend you the funds, not with everything mortgaged to the hilt, and Gil’s reputation. It’s all clear now. You poor boy, faced with such a horrendous mess. Why did you never tell me?” She didn’t wait for his response. “And so you went to Parsley, who I expect was only too delighted to ensnare a green boy.”

  “He did not ensnare me. The interest was very reasonable.”

  “The interest.” She snorted. “You can’t tell me that a promise to marry his daughter isn’t akin to a pound of flesh—and more. And a title into the bargain.”

  She had another thought and sat up again. “Just a minute—where did my allowance come from, if Gil had already broken the trust? And don’t lie to me, because I know my husband—he would have cleaned it out and not left me a penny.”

  Max didn’t say anything.

  “Parsloe!” She hissed it. “And that’s why he was so dratted familiar about Davenham House. Said he’d wanted to get a look inside it for nine years—the cheek of him! Holds the mortgage on it, does he?”

  “He owns it,” Max admitted. No point keeping it a secret any longer. Aunt Bea was too shrewd for words. “On the condition you could live in it as long as you wanted.”

  “And that’s why you moved me here.”

  “You’re better off here anyway. It’s a better location. You don’t miss Davenham House, do you?”

  She shook her head. “You can afford it?”

  Max nodded. “I can now. The trading company has been very profitable.”

  “Parsley spoke of pulling Davenham House down.”

  Max shrugged. “He probably will. Will you mind?”

  “Not at all. I was never particularly happy there until those gels came to live with me. This place is much more fun. So, have you paid Parsley back his money?”

  Max nodded.

  “And the interest?”

  Again, Max nodded.

  “Good, then that’s the end of it. Send the fellow about his business and tell him you won’t marry that little chit.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort. I made the man a promise and I intend to keep it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why? A promise like that, extracted from an eighteen-year-old boy? You hadn’t attained your majority, and can’t be held to such an agreement by law.”

  “It’s not a matter of law; it’s a matter of honor.”

  “Honor!” His aunt made a rude noise. “It’s money, not honor that fellow cares about. And having a titled son-in-law to impress his cit friends.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s my honor we’re talking about, and I care about that.”

  “Oh, pish-tush, a lot of masculine nonsense! One little broken promise, and an unfair one at that. Who will care?”

  He groped for a way to make her understand. “Aunt Bea, a gentleman’s word of honor is the invisible fabric on which the very foundation of our civilization rests. It’s not a matter of law, or . . .” She wasn’t listening, so he tried another tack. “Men from London to China, India and beyond know that my word is my bond. It took years for these men—who did not understand the code of an English gentleman—to learn to trust me at my word, but now they do. That trust was hard-won.”

  “So it’s about business?” she said incredulously.

  “No.” Max gritted his teeth. “It’s a matter of respect. More than that, it’s self-respect.”

  “And that’s your final word, is it?”

  “It is.”

  “You’re determined to marry this chit and make everyone except Papa Parsley unhappy.”

  “You’ll get over it,” Max told her. “And if you don’t want to live with her I’ll buy another house for us to live in.”

  She glared at him. “I’m not talking about me! I’m not unhappy; I’m furious—there’s a difference. You can’t tell me you’ll be happy with that chit.”

  “You cannot know that,” he began.

  “And though I care nothing for the gel, she’s barely out of the schoolroom and doesn’t deserve to be made unhappy for the ambitions of her papa.”

  “You don’t know she’ll be unhappy.”

  She snorted. “What female can be happy knowing her papa forced her husband into marrying her? And that since she was nine years old she had no choice in the matter of her own husband? Mind you, if she had any kind of spine, she would have rebelled.”

  He said stiffly, “Arrangements like that are not uncommon.”

  “Among our class, not hers. Cits are used to marrying for love. We are not always given the choice—or we weren’t, in my day. But times are changing, and you could have it if you weren’t so stubborn.”

  “I’ll treat her well.”

  She made an impatient gesture. “I know that, you stupid boy. But shopkeepers treat you well; people treat horses and dogs well. I’m talking about happiness, joy, love!” She shook her head. “And it’s you I care about, not that dreary child. You’ve never had the happiness you deserve in life, dear boy, and now, for once, you have it in your grasp. Yet for the sake of this senseless masculine sense of obligation—”

  “Honor.”

  “Stubbornness! Fine words and noble sentiments about the invisible fabric of civilization are all very well, but mule-headed masculine stubbornness is what this is. And for the sake of it you’ll shackle yourself for the rest of your life to a dreary little stick who can only bleat commonplace nothings at you and will, no doubt, prove in time to be as vulgar as her papa.”

  “It’s not just fine words,” Max snapped. “It’s who I am. When I had nothing, when I discovered my uncle had left us with nothing—less than nothing—that cit, as you call him, vulgar as he is, saved us—my skin and yours—with a loan secured by nothing more than a promise—my promise. And I will not go back on it.”

  “No matter that it was an unreasonable requirement, and you were a green boy, well out of your depth?”

  “No.”

  She shrew up her hands in exasperation. “Then more fool you to keep it and make the three of you miserable!”

  “Three?”

  She gave him a dry look. “Are you really so blind, my boy?”

  No, he wasn’t. But he was by no means sure that there were three in the equation. It wasn’t something he would discuss with his aunt.

  Besides, there was no point.

  * * *

  The more Max thought about what his aunt had said about the arrangement not being fair to Henrietta, the more it made sense to him. He hadn’t actually ever considered her point of view—well, he hadn’t seen her since she was nine, after all, and she hadn’t made any impression on him at the time. But when he’d spoken to the Parsloes’ housekeeper in Manchester she’d informed him that Miss Parsloe had gone to London to order her bridal clothes. Naturally he’d assumed she was looking forward to her wed
ding.

  But what if she wasn’t?

  Mr. Parsloe could be extremely persuasive, as Max very well knew.

  If Henrietta didn’t want to marry him he couldn’t, in all conscience, allow her to be forced, or even bullied.

  His aunt had called her spineless. If she were being bullied . . .

  Making three people miserable . . . could that possibly be true?

  He couldn’t let himself hope. Not yet. But he ought to discover Henrietta’s true feelings without delay.

  He bathed, shaved and changed his clothes and headed for the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly. He hadn’t been informed where the Parsloes were staying, but the Pulteney was the favored choice of royalty, which would greatly add to the appeal of the place for Mr. Parsloe, so he’d try there first.

  His instinct was correct; on his arrival a message was sent up to the Parsloes’ suite, and shortly afterward Max was ushered upstairs.

  “Max, my dear boy!” Henry Parsloe came toward him with his hand outstretched, then withdrew it abruptly. “Ah, but I mustn’t call you that now, must I, Lord Davenham?” He bowed.

  “It’s been Max since I was sixteen, so I see no reason to change it now, Parsloe.” Max held out his hand and the two men shook.

  “You were a boy then, and now you’re a man,” Parsloe said. “And here’s my little Henrietta. Make your bow to his lordship, puss.”

  Henrietta curtsied. She was a pretty young girl, the kind of pretty young thing that Max usually found a dead bore. He hoped he was wrong.

  “Now sit down, do, my lord, and tell me—tell us—all about what you’ve been doing in the last nine years. You must have had some adventures, eh? I must say, you’ve grown into a fine-looking man, don’t you think, puss?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, more in obedience than agreement, Max thought. Hoped.

  “Life at sea must have suited you.”

  “It did.” Eventually.

  “And from all I’ve heard, you’ve done very well in business, very well indeed. I’m proud of you, my b—my lord, I should say.” He proceeded to question Max about his financial and business dealings in a manner that would normally have caused Max to poker up and give the questioner a blistering set-down, but behind the vulgarity and intrusiveness was a sincere pride in what Parsloe obviously saw as his protégé’s achievements.

  In the nine years that had passed since Max had seen him, he’d forgotten that he was actually quite fond of the man. When they’d first met, at a steam power exhibition, the successful manufacturer had been very kind to a sixteen-year-old shy schoolboy, and had given generously of his time and advice, using his connections to get Max into demonstrations of the latest mechanical marvels that weren’t open to the general public.

  Max’s own father had shown no interest in anything Max did; nor did his uncle. Henry Parsloe’s willingness to listen was why Max had turned to him when he was first confronted by the extent of the financial disaster he’d inherited.

  So Max was not going to snub this bluff, kindhearted business shark by refusing to tell him what he dearly wanted to know.

  He owed him, after all. Had Henry Parsloe not lent him the money and sent him off to sea to become a trader—showing an enormous amount of faith in an untried, green boy of eighteen—Max and Aunt Bea would be in a very different situation today.

  Besides, the man was entitled to make inquiries about Max’s financial standing—he was going to be Max’s father-in-law.

  Unless . . .

  Max glanced at Henrietta, who had sat through the conversation without saying a word. Was she even listening? It was hard to tell. Her face was smooth, blank and impenetrable.

  When the conversation reached a natural hiatus, Max said, “Would you mind, sir, if I talked with Henrietta in private?”

  Parsloe chuckled. “The eager bridegroom, aren’t you, my lord? I’m not surprised. My little girl has grown up into a very pretty young lady, haven’t you, puss?”

  Henrietta smiled briefly but said nothing.

  “But I’m not sure about leaving you two alone together, ha, ha. She’s been very strictly raised, my Henrietta, and has never been alone with a man.” He wasn’t joking, Max saw.

  Max rose. “We’ll sit in the next room, where we will be under your eye and can still have speech in private.” He held his hand out to Henrietta. “Henrietta?”

  “My lord.”

  When they were seated in the next room, Henry Parsloe watching curiously from a distance, Max said, “Miss Parsloe—Henrietta, do you wish for this marriage?”

  She blinked. “Yes, my lord.” No hesitation at all. Damn.

  “Is it because your father wishes it?”

  “Yes, my lord.” She was quite composed.

  “But if left to your own choice, and nothing to do with your papa—if you had complete free will, would you still wish to marry me?”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Are we not betrothed?”

  “Yes, yes, but I want to know whether this match is repugnant to you in any way. Am I not too old, for instance?”

  “No, my lord.” The chains closed around him. He gave it one last try.

  “Tell me honestly—and do not fear to tell the truth; I promise I will fix it with your father—is this betrothal your own choice, as well as your father’s?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “Right. Good.” He inclined his head stiffly. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t being constrained to marry me.”

  “Constrain me, my lord?” She gave a little smile. “Papa could never do that.”

  “Very well.” He tried to think of what else to say. “So, er, I gather you want a spring wedding?”

  “It is the most fashionable season, is it not, my lord?”

  “Yes. And the ceremony—St George’s, Hanover Square?”

  “It is the most fashionable place, is it not, my lord?”

  “Yes,” he said heavily.

  They sat in silence for several more minutes. “And is there anything you wish to ask me?” he said at last.

  “No, my lord.”

  So that was it. No way out. And fair enough, he told himself.

  Parsloe had not only loaned him the money he’d needed—albeit at a commercial, though reasonable, rate of interest—but he also had freely offered the kind of solid, shrewd advice that had enabled Max to make sense of the mess, to slowly but surely pull himself out of the financial mire.

  Of course, Henry Parsloe hadn’t lost by it; Max had repaid the loan with interest—all but the marriage. Parsloe made no bones about the condition: “In business all men are opponents, so make sure you always get something extra for yourself.”

  In this case the something extra was Max as a son-in-law. It wasn’t just the title itself the man valued—though he did love the idea of a titled son-in-law. It was Max himself he wanted: a son to pass the business on to, who was as interested in mechanical innovation as he was, who was excited by the possibilities of steam power and who had proved, now, that he could succeed in business.

  Any way Max looked at it, he owed it to Henry Parsloe to keep his promise. Dammit. And Henrietta Parsloe was willing—more than willing.

  He’d made his bed and now he’d have to lie in it. With Henrietta.

  At least she wouldn’t chatter brightly at breakfast, he thought gloomily.

  Max stood. “Thank you,” he said—although for what, he had no idea—and took his leave of the Parsloes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Do not give way to useless alarm; though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  Max arrived home to a chaotic scene; half his household seemed to be standing in the entry hall talking animatedly with three complete strangers. In the middle stood a knot of upset females.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Abby emerged from the clump of women. “Someone just tried to abduct J
ane.” The knot parted to reveal Jane, pale, disheveled and a little red eyed.

  “Who was it?”

  A babble of explanation rose from half a dozen throats. Max held up his hand. “One at a time. Miss Chance?”

  “We don’t know,” Abby said. “Two men jumped out of a carriage and tried to force her in.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Outside, in Berkeley Square,” Jane said in a shaky voice.

  Abby added, “Damaris jumped on one of the abductors from behind and hit him about the head while screaming at the top of her lungs.”

  “And then I got my mouth free—he’d stuffed a horrid rag in my mouth—”

  “And then these three gentlemen ran to help, which drove the villains off,” Abby finished, indicating the strangers, three nattily attired young sprigs of fashion.

  The young men bowed, looking modestly heroic. “We heard the screaming,” the first one said. “Utter disgrace, something like this happening to a lady—and in Berkeley Square.”

  “The fight you put up, ladies, dashed if I’ve ever seen such heroines.”

  “The least we could do,” said the third. “Just sorry we didn’t apprehend the villains.”

  Max clenched his fists. How the devil had such a thing happened after the precautions he’d taken to protect them? But he couldn’t give vent to his feelings in front of strangers. They stood there making goo-goo eyes at the girls.

  “Thank you for you assistance,” he said curtly. “I’m very grateful. We won’t delay you any longer.” He nodded at Featherby, who immediately opened the front door.

  The three young men were clearly reluctant to leave. “Er, should we not wait and ensure that the ladies are quite recovered?” one of them began.

  Max wanted to take him by his highly starched shirt points and toss him out into the street, but it was not the way to repay someone for what he had to acknowledge was a signal service. It wasn’t the young idiots’ fault Max was furious.

  “My butler will show you out,” he grated.