by Anne Gracie
Great-uncle Oswald here in Bath? And how could he know to come here, to the abbey, at this time? Prudence swung around and met Lord Carradice’s gaze with a silent question. Had he told Great-uncle Oswald? Lord Carradice shook his head. It seemed he was as surprised as anyone.
Had Grandpapa come, too? Prudence was filled with misgiving. Great-uncle Oswald was beaming, she told herself. Could she trust his smiles? He’d said “I do.” It wouldn’t be a trick, would it? Her anxious gaze swept the church behind him. Nobody followed him in.
“Grandpapa?” Prudence asked as he reached the small wedding party assembled at the altar.
Great-uncle Oswald shook his head and patted her shoulder. “Safely back at the Court,” he said in a low voice. “Doesn’t know anythin’ about this little aff—” He stopped suddenly. “Good God! Is that Gussie Manningham? I thought she was in Argentina.”
“Er, yes, I suppose it is, if you mean Edward and Gideon’s aunt, Lady Augusta Montigua del Fuego,” Prudence said, considerably surprised by the sudden change of subject.
“Where’s her husband?” whispered Great-uncle Oswald.
“I believe she was widowed last year and returned to England some months ago,” responded Prudence, distracted. “Great-uncle Oswald, how did you know about the wedding? How did you find us?”
“Widowed, eh?” muttered Great-uncle Oswald. He raised his voice. “Well, get on with it, Chuffy. I’ve already said I’d give this beautiful great-niece of mine in marriage, so let’s finish this weddin’.”
To everyone’s amazement, the immensely dignified bishop responded mildly, “If you’ve finished nattering, Ozzie, I shall. Thought you’d never get here. Never bored a congregation so badly in my life.” He winked at Prudence; then, returning to his usual sonorous tone, continued with the wedding service.
Prudence blinked. Chuffy and Ozzie? The bishop’s sprawling speech had been a delaying tactic. He must have sent for Great-uncle Oswald. But how did he know they’d run away? And why send for Great-uncle Oswald and not Grandpapa? And why was Great-uncle Oswald suddenly more interested in Lady Augusta than in his great-niece’s runaway wedding? It was all very confusing.
Chapter Eighteen
“Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
“GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE!”
The carriage rumbled away down the street, piled high with baggage, the Duke of Dinstable and his brand-new duchess waving from the windows. Prudence, the twins, and Grace spilled out into the street, calling farewells and exhortations to write. Lady Augusta and Great-uncle Oswald watched from the steps of the house. Lord Carradice leaned against the railings of his own house, watching the departure, an odd, twisted smile on his face. Prudence wondered for a fleeting moment what that look betokened, but the excitement of her sister’s departure pushed it from her mind.
They watched until the coach swung out of sight. Feeling suddenly bereft, Prudence turned instinctively toward Gideon. She had barely spoken a word to him at the wedding, and Charity and the duke’s decision to set out for Scotland immediately had meant an abbreviated wedding breakfast, much to Lady Augusta’s frustration. It was the first real opportunity to speak to Lord Carradice.
But how did you ask a man whose wonderful gesture had brought magic to your sister’s wedding day, if he wanted to make you his mistress? And if he did, what would she say?
She needed to repay him for the sapphires, too. She hoped she had enough money left.
Before she could speak to him, however, Great-uncle Oswald called her over. “Now young missy, I think you have some explainin’ to do. Shall we step into the sittin’ room and over a soothin’ cup of tea you shall explain to me why the deuce you didn’t tell me you’d run off from the Court in the first place!”
“Tea, Great-uncle Oswald?” Prudence asked in an effort to distract him. “I thought you didn’t approve of tea.”
“I’ve given Gussie’s cook a packet of my best chamomile, so enough roundaboutation, miss, and into the house with you!”
Meekly, Prudence preceded him into Lady Augusta’s house.
“You were protectin’ me?” uttered Great-uncle Oswald in amazement. “You thought I was dependent on my brother?”
“Aren’t you?” Prudence asked, puzzled. “He was always complaining of how much it cost to keep you.”
“He what?” Great-uncle Oswald’s eyebrows rose.
“And your extravagant ways.”
He snorted. “Well, that I can believe. Always was the nipfarthingest fellow when it came to spendin’ money on the good things in life. But when it came to business, now—”
“Business?” Prudence repeated. “I thought his business was hugely successful.”
“Hah!” snorted Great-uncle Oswald. “Was until he and I parted ways more than ten years ago. Without me to prevent his wild schemes and mad speculation, the company went steadily downhill! No head for business at all, you know. Throws good money after bad on the most ludicrous ventures.”
“But—”
He shook his head again in wonder. “Can’t get over it—you were protectin’ me! Five little gels, runnin’ off to who knew where, exposin’ yourselves to horrible danger, only to protect me!” He took out a large handkerchief and blew noisily into it.
Prudence was touched. “Of course we wanted to save you from Grandpapa’s wrath, Great-uncle Oswald. He was forever reading of your appearance at some society event, and he would invariably rant and rave and threaten to cut you off without a penny. And then when we came to you, you were so kind and generous toward us, taking us in without a murmur, and it can’t have been easy for you.”
“But it was delightful, m’dear,” Great-uncle Oswald said, shocked. “Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed so much excitement as I have since you gels came to enliven my home. M’life was dwindling into lonely old age before you arrived.” He blew his nose again, a long, quavering trumpet of emotion.
Touched, Prudence prompted him into less emotional waters. “Er, the business, Great-uncle Oswald. You were saying it was failing…”
“Oh, couldn’t let the family company fail—bad business for a start, even if it was nothing to do with me—bad for all of us! Employees who’ve been with us thirty years and more. Bought out your grandfather a few months back. Flatter myself it’s on the up-and-up now.”
Phillip had said much the same thing, Prudence recalled. Only he had not mentioned Great-uncle Oswald at all. “Do those employees know of your involvement in the company now?” she asked.
“No. No need to make a fuss o’ things. Don’t like it widely known I’m in trade at all, though it did get me my handle.”
“Your handle?” Prudence was puzzled.
“Well, good gracious, gel, don’t you remember anything from your schoolroom lessons? I’m Sir Oswald Merridew, ain’t I? The younger son of a baron ain’t usually a knight, is he?” He sat back in his chair with a satisfied air. “No, nothing of mine came to me from my father or my brother. Earned it all myself—includin’ the knighthood.” He noticed Prudence’s confusion and explained, “Services to the Crown, say no more,” and laid his finger along the side of his nose.
Prudence sat back in her chair, astounded. “So you do not depend on Grandpapa’s charity?”
Great-uncle Oswald snorted. “I should say not! Boot’s on the other foot, if you want to know the truth. Old fool’s speculations left him without a feather to fly with. Was in debt to his eyebrows until I towed him out of the River Tick.”
“Grandpapa was in debt?” Prudence was stunned. “So you have supported us all along? Even before we came to London? We owe you so—”
“Nonsense, nonsense. Owe me nothin’ at all! Such foolishness,” he blustered in embarrassment. “What else am I going to do with my money, eh? Childless old widower like m’self. It’ll all come to you gels in the end, so don’t fret about anyone owin’ anything, m’dear. But if anyone’s a pensioner on somebody’s charity, ’
tis your grandfather, and so I told him when he arrived in London last week, blowin’ sound and fury.” He snorted again. “Sent him packin’ back to Dereham with a flea in his ear and a warning that if he left the Court again without an invitation from me, I’d be cuttin’ him off without a penny!” He glared at Prudence indignantly. “D’ ye know, he was makin’ threats against you that would make your hair curl! Has he done that before? Laid a finger on any of you gels?”
Prudence could not speak for the relief flowing through her. She jumped up and hugged Great-uncle Oswald fervently. She’d been half expecting Grandpapa to arrive at any minute; instead he was back at the Court to stay. She felt so much lighter and freer. Charity was married and happy, Grandpapa was no longer a threat to them, and their future, for the first time in years, looked rosy. She felt Great-uncle Oswald’s hand patting her on the back, soothing, awkward, a little uncertain. She collected herself and stepped back.
“Well, missy? Did he mistreat you?” His kind, old face was crumpled with worry and not a little guilt.
She didn’t want to lie anymore now that the need to lie had passed. On the other hand, to tell this sweet man how terribly Grandpapa had treated them would make him even more upset than he was. He would feel responsible and be racked with guilt. She could see no point in raking up old grievances. Better to let it go.
“He was a harsh disciplinarian,” she said, recalling Phillip’s view of the matter, “but then, having five young girls to deal with probably tried his patience severely. Let us talk of him no more, dear Great-uncle Oswald—or should I call you Great-uncle Ozzie? You are very sneaky, you know, turning up like that at the abbey.”
He chuckled. “Surprised you, didn’t I? Thing is, went to school with old Chuffy. Can’t believe he’s turned into a bishop, of all things. Was a shockin’ loose screw at school. Anyway, when Dinstable and young Charity applied for the license, Chuffy smelled a rat. Recognized the name, of course. Knew I had my great-nieces staying with me in London, so wondered how one of them came to be in Bath applying for a weddin’ license. Sent me a note, and I came posthaste. Can’t have you gels getting married without me there to give you away, can I?” His smile died away, and he pursed his lips in a dissatisfied pout. “Didn’t think much of the wedding itself, though, Prudence. The abbey is a fine big church, and good to have a bishop do the deed, but apart from that, bit of a hole-in-the-corner affair for a duke and a diamond like your sister, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, m’dear.”
“Oh, but it was exactly how Charity and Edward wanted it,” Prudence assured him. “Small and private with only family present. I know Charity was thrilled you came. We all were.” She rose from her chair and kissed him warmly on the cheek. “You are very dear to us all, you know.”
He pulled out the handkerchief again and blew another long, emotional blast. “You’re a dear good girl yourself, and when we fire you and Carradice off, we’ll do it in grand style, what? St. George’s, Hanover Square, and we’ll get Chuffy down to officiate—he looks good in purple, have to say it—and then a ball to celebrate. And o’course, a ball beforehand to announce the engagement—when was it that the Welsh great-aunt died again? Carradice’s mourning should be done by then, surely?”
Prudence swallowed. The time had come for her to confess the betrothal to Lord Carradice had been a stratagem. Not a very nice stratagem, she thought guiltily, looking at the beaming elderly man before her. He was such a dear. He would feel dreadful to discover his well-meaning effort to get her settled before letting her beautiful sisters loose on society had, in fact, been a source of much anxiety to them all.
She opened her mouth, but Great-uncle Oswald, clasping his damp handkerchief, smiled at her with such benevolent affection that she could not do it. And with her future relationship with Lord Carradice still unclear, she could not leave things as they were.
“Lord Carradice and I have quarreled,” she blurted. “There will be no wedding in Hanover Square or anywhere else, I’m afraid.” There, it was out. Not the whole truth, but enough.
To her amazement, Great-uncle Oswald only chuckled and tucked his handkerchief away. “Pooh! Lovers tiff,” he said. “Happens to all newly betrothed couples, once the initial excitement wears off. What happened—Carradice balkin’ at the prospect of parson’s mousetrap? Shouldn’t let it worry you—fellow was a rake. Bound to feel a few qualms about relinquishin’ his freedom, but—”
Prudence shook her head. “No, it wasn’t that.”
“You, is it, gettin’ cold feet? Now that does surprise me. A rake, now, that’s understandable. But you…” He peered at her shrewdly. “Not gettin’ missish on me, are you, Prudence? If it’s…er…conjugal matters worryin’ you, Gussie will set you right.”
“No, no!” she assured him, embarrassed to find herself discussing such matters with an elderly male.
Great-uncle Oswald shook his head decisively. “In that case, just a tiff, mark my words. Boy was smitten. Swear to it on my life. And the glow in your face whenever Carradice walks in the door, m’dear—could light a candle with it.”
Oh, dear Lord, had she been so obvious? That was what came of Gideon’s way of looking at a girl as if…as if she were the only girl alive in the world. As if she were the only one he cared about…It was those velvet dark eyes of his that did it…made a girl feel…special, loved…cherished. Wanted.
Yes, but what did “wanted” mean? If Gideon didn’t plan to marry her, she wouldn’t allow him to be trapped into it by her own scheming and her well-meaning great-uncle’s enthusiasm.
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Great-uncle Oswald, but our betrothal—Lord Carradice’s and mine—is definitely off. And now I must…I must retire for a moment. Thank you for coming to the wedding. And you cannot know what a relief it is to me that you have dealt with Grandpapa for us, so thank you for that, as well.” She kissed him on the cheek again and hurried from the room.
What a tangled web she had woven herself into. She had just severed two betrothals; no wonder her head ached.
She hesitated. Upstairs was her bed, narrow and cold and private. Lord Carradice would be with the others in the front parlor. She needed to talk to him but at the moment, there would be no chance to be private. There was a wedding to reminisce about and Great-uncle Oswald’s arrival to exclaim over. She would have to sit there politely, as if the doubts were not burning her up inside, chatting of trifles, while his dark eyes caressed her and his honeyed tongue teased.
She turned toward the stairs. What she needed was a cup of hot chocolate and a good cry.
“We have been invited to a small party this evening by my old friend, Maud, Lady Gosforth,” announced Lady Augusta, brandishing a note that had just arrived. It was the day after the wedding and they were all sitting in the parlor after tea. “I knew Maudie in the old days, before I left for Argentina. I haven’t seen her for aeons. Her note says she arrived in Bath a day or two ago and and has just this minute learned I was here. She sent this around, urging me to come and saying if I had houseguests, to bring them, too.” She set down the note on the mantelpiece. “How delightful. Maudie was always the one to know all the latest gossip! Oswald, you know Lady Gosforth, don’t you?”
“Should say I do. All the world knows Maudie.”
“It is exactly what we all need, a little entertainment to cheer us up, for there is nothing worse than a wedding without a proper party to make one feel sadly flat! Gels, you must come, too—not you, I’m sorry, Grace, dear, you are too young as yet. But Faith and Hope certainly, for though you are not yet out, a small, private party in Bath in the home of a family acquaintance is perfectly comme il faut. Now hurry along, girls, we leave at eight. Oswald, may I request your escort?”
Great-uncle Oswald bowed. “Delighted to, Gussie, m’dear, delighted. I shall go next door and change immediately.” The duke had given him the use of his house while he and Charity were away, so it was only natural that Lady Augusta had invited him in to tea. Lord Carradice,
too, had been invited, but to Prudence’s relief, some other engagement—or discretion—had kept him away.
She didn’t know whether she wanted to see him or not. How could she keep him at arm’s length to talk when all she wanted was to throw herself into his arms?
Faith and Hope followed Great-uncle Oswald from the room, excitedly discussing which dresses to wear. Prudence rose, uncertainly. She had promised Phillip she would not go about socially in Bath for a week and there were three more days to go.
Could a small, private party be called “in public”? No, Prudence decided, and Phillip’s doubts about the respectability of Lady Augusta and the duke had always been nonsensical. In any case, she would have the escort of Great-uncle Oswald, and nothing could be more respectable than that.
Prudence went upstairs to change into a party dress.
“You look beautiful, my Prudence,” a deep voice said as she came down the stairs a little before eight. “But then, you always do.”
She looked down at him. Gideon. Lord Carradice. Gazing up at her, his dark hair gleaming, his eyes were dark and warm upon her. Her throat tightened, and she felt suddenly close to tears. Of course, it was just his way, but oh, when he looked at her like that, with that midnight gaze that caressed and heated her from within, she truly felt beautiful. And her dress really was beautiful, deep blue with a silver tissue overlay and silver trim. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize you were coming, too, Lord Carradice.”
How did you ask a man, “Oh, by the way, did you ask me to marry you the other day or were you merely suggesting I become your mistress?” Formality was the key to surviving this, she hoped.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, smiling faintly, dressed in black satin knee breeches, striped stockings, a white waistcoat, and a black waisted coat with long tails, looking darkly elegant. He must have dispensed with the bandage, for nothing spoiled the line of that elegant coat. The thought gave her relief; he was healing from the injury she had done him.