She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead harder against the glass, swallowing the panic that was becoming her constant companion. How long before the ton knew her father was teetering on the edge of penury?
She took a deep breath. Calm. She must remain calm.
Perhaps society would not find out for a few more months. She had not known until just a fortnight ago. The signs had been there, of course. She just had not seen them.
She took another breath. She needed to get out of this house before her father was completely disgraced. She needed to find a husband while she still could. She needed…
Damn. She dashed the stupid tears from her eyes. Crying never solved anything. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t even the right time of the month for her to be all weepy.
She turned from the window, her eyes sliding over the empty spot on her bureau where the little china cat had stood. She winced. How could she have been so stupid? It had taken this to make her see the facts right under her nose.
The servants had been complaining and then leaving, but her father often didn’t bother himself with paying wages on time. Certainly he would never pay a tradesman promptly. He still had his brothels, his gambling dens. He went out every night. How was she to know?
And then she’d come home from the Amberson soiree and found the china cat gone. She’d stared at the blank spot, the clear round circle surrounded by dust, and realized how many other empty circles she’d noticed recently. She’d gone directly to the earl.
At first he’d said the maid had broken it, but she’d heard the lie in his voice. His words had been just a little too smooth—and the maid had left the week before. Finally he’d told her the truth. He’d sold it.
She gripped her bedpost tightly. Why? It was just a trumpery piece of crockery. She’d only kept it because it had belonged to her mother. He couldn’t have gotten more than a farthing or two for it.
When she’d asked, he’d shrugged and said he was sorry, but he was that desperate. He’d made one bad investment too many, that was all. He would come about shortly.
Once she heard he’d gone to the cent-per-centers, she knew there was little hope of that.
What was she going to do?
Marry. A husband would solve her problems. She’d been such a fool to waste four years of her life running after the Earl of Westbrooke.
Enough. She was like a dog chasing its tail. Her senseless pursuit of Westbrooke was in the past. She had to look to the future. Quickly. Surely she could find a man to marry before her father’s financial situation became known. It could not be so obvious. The denizens of the haut ton never paid their bills on time, and the earl was still spending as if he had plenty of the ready.
She sighed. He’d had another of his parties last night. Why couldn’t he entertain the riffraff of the ton at his brothels or gaming halls instead of his home?
At least this had been a male-only gathering. The men played cards and drank themselves into a stupor. Occasionally there was a fist fight, but the commotion was nothing compared to that which ensued when a few prostitutes were added. She’d taken to arming herself with a suitably long, sturdy pin if she had to venture into the corridors during one of those entertainments.
Well, the beaux and dandies should be waking up and taking themselves off in a few hours. She would just curl up with her book and read until they had vacated the premises. With luck, the detritus of their visit would not be too disgusting to clean up.
She looked on the table by her favorite chair for the novel she was reading. It wasn’t there. She searched her sitting room. The book wasn’t by her bed or on her bureau or desk. When had she last had it?
Ah, now she remembered. She’d been reading in the blue drawing room when her father had come in with four or five loud, tipsy men. He’d asked her to tell Cook to make up a late supper. She must have put the book down when she’d gotten up to hurry to the kitchen.
She rubbed her forehead. Cook had not been happy. She was certain the woman was going to quit at any moment. It didn’t help that she, too, had not been paid recently.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was not quite ten. The men would still be asleep. She should be able to fetch her book without having to deal with any unpleasant gentlemen.
She made her way downstairs, slowing as she approached the door to the blue drawing room. Long experience had taught her to be cautious.
She heard only snoring. Good. The men were still sleeping off the effects of their carousing. If she tread lightly, she should be able to retrieve her book with no one the wiser.
She stepped up to the door—and froze.
Oh, my.
Not all the men were asleep. Viscount Bennington was standing not five feet from her, urinating into late, unlamented Great Aunt Hermione’s favorite urn.
Damn. She was going to lose another servant over this. She opened her mouth to tell the man exactly what she thought of his action.
And then she looked at the action a little more closely.
Impressive—very impressive. She never would have guessed such a short, unimposing man could be so, so…imposing. Apparently the size of a man’s nose did reveal the size of his other attributes.
Hmm. Lord Bennington might be an excellent matrimonial candidate. He certainly was well equipped to perform his marital duties.
“My lord—”
“What?!”
The viscount jerked toward her. Unfortunately he had not yet completed his previous activity. She dodged.
“Lady Felicity—ack!”
Bennington hit Mrs. Tadmon, this week’s housekeeper, squarely in the bodice. He had quite a remarkable range.
She didn’t need to hear the woman scream to know she’d soon be trying to fill that position, too.
“Lady Isabelle, Lady Claire, and Miss Peterson, my lady.”
Meg stepped past Bentley, the Earl of Westbrooke’s butler. She didn’t want to be here, but when she’d received Lizzie’s note this morning, she’d known there was no help for it. Lizzie was quite capable of hunting her down at some society affair to ferret out whatever information she wanted. Best to see her now, in the privacy of Westbrooke House. Hopefully the girls’ presence would keep the conversation from becoming too uncomfortable.
Of course, if she were really engaged, she’d be dying to discuss the details with her best friend.
“Thank you, Bentley.” Lizzie put down the letter she’d been reading. “I see you’ve brought the girls, Meg. How lovely.”
Lizzie raised her brows, giving Meg a very pointed look. Meg tried not to flush. So, Lizzie had seen through her subterfuge. Well, she’d known it was a weak plan.
“Would you bring our guests tea and cakes, Bentley? I assume you’d like some refreshment, ladies?”
“Yes, please.”
“No, thank you.”
Claire skipped over to take a seat by Lizzie. “Don’t pay any attention to Isabelle, Lady Westbrooke. She’s practicing being perfect for her come-out.”
“I am not. My come-out’s not for four years, Claire.”
“Well, you’re worrying about it already. I can tell.” Claire rolled her eyes. “You’re always trying to be extra good and grown up. You’re like a mouse with a cat staring at it, afraid to move.”
“That’s not true!” Isabelle’s face turned red.
“Yes, it is.” Claire smiled at Lizzie. “Cakes would be lovely, Lady Westbrooke. I ’specially like poppy cake. Do you suppose you have any in your kitchen?”
“Claire!” Isabelle said. “You have no manners at all. What would Emma say?”
“She’d say I was acting just as I should.”
“She would not.”
“Would, too.”
“Girls!” Meg felt like rolling her own eyes. “Please do not argue.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Meg, Lady Westbrooke. It’s just that Claire—” Isabelle pressed her lips together, obviously holding back a few choice words.
“Sorry.” Claire shrugged, then grinned at Lizzie. “I would like tea and cake, Lady Westbrooke, if it’s not too much trouble. I do get so hungry, you know.”
Lizzie laughed. “Yes, I can see that you do.” She looked up at her butler. “Bentley, could you see if Cook has any poppy cake?”
“Certainly, my lady.”
Bentley left to search out provisions. Claire tapped Lizzie on the knee.
“Where’s your baby, Lady Westbrooke? I was hoping to see him.”
“He’s up in the nursery, Claire, sleeping. Nurse should be bringing him down in a little while, though, as it’s almost time for his next feeding.” Lizzie turned to Isabelle. “You’ve changed so much since last I saw you, Isabelle. You look very much like a young lady now.”
“That’s because she’s grown breasts, Lady Westbrooke,” Claire said. “It makes her shape all different.”
Isabelle’s face grew even redder, assuming the color of a very ripe apple.
“Claire! I would not have brought you if I’d realized you lacked any sense of decorum.” Meg frowned. She felt a surge of sympathy for Emma. She knew her sister loved her nieces as much as her sons, but raising a thirteen-year-old girl and an eight-year-old had to be challenging. She certainly felt challenged at the moment.
Claire crossed her arms and pushed out her lower lip. “I don’t see why you are in such a miff, Aunt Meg. It’s just us ladies. I wouldn’t have said it if Lord Westbrooke were here. Isabelle is quite proud of her breasts—she studies them in the mirror all the time.”
Isabelle made a strangling sound.
“Claire,” Meg said, “you are not making things better.”
Lizzie bit her lip, her eyes dancing. “It is my fault for broaching the subject. I apologize, Isabelle. I do remember what it was like to be thirteen, though I didn’t have the…joy…of having a sister.”
“You were very lucky, Lady Westbrooke.”
“You may be correct, Isabelle, but I did want a sister desperately.” Lizzie smiled at Meg. “I made do with a good friend.”
“Friends are much better than sisters.” Isabelle glared at Claire.
Claire stuck out her tongue. “I don’t know what you are so upset about, Isabelle. Most women like their breasts. I’m looking forward to having a pair.”
“You are?” Meg had always thought Claire precocious, but surely she was much too young for such concerns.
“Of course. I want to have babies and feed them like Emma does Henry. I’ll need breasts to do that, won’t I?”
“Well, er, yes.”
Fortunately Bentley returned just then. Claire grabbed a cake before the butler could set the tray on the table.
“Claire, Lady Westbrooke will think you are starving.”
“I am starving, Aunt Meg,” Claire said around a mouthful of cake. “It’s been hours since breakfast. And Lady Westbrooke’s Cook will be offended if we don’t eat some of her treats.” Claire popped the last of the cake into her mouth and reached for a biscuit.
“Would you care for something before your sister eats it all, Isabelle?” Lizzie asked. “Cook is a very good baker.”
“No, thank you, Lady Westbrooke.”
“A cup of tea, then? Meg?”
Claire licked her fingers. “I’d really like to see your new baby, you know, Lady Westbrooke. If Nurse doesn’t bring him down soon, do you think we could go up to the nursery? After we finish the cakes, of course.”
A mouthful of tea went down the wrong way. Meg coughed. “Claire!”
Lizzie laughed. “Once you’ve assuaged your hunger, Claire, we can—”
“Waaah!”
They turned to see the Earl of Westbrooke standing in the doorway holding a small, screaming bundle.
Meg felt a sudden, sharp pain around her heart. How would Parks handle a baby? Their baby.
What a ridiculous thought. She would not be having any babies with Mr. Parker-Roth.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Robbie said, “but Lord Manders is hungry.”
“So I hear.” Lizzie held out her arms. “Why are you bringing him? Where’s Nurse?”
The earl flushed slightly and handed the wailing viscount to his mother. “She’s in the nursery. I just happened to stop by when the baby woke up.”
“I see. Did you, perhaps, wake the baby?”
Robbie grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps. He was so quiet, I needed to be certain he was still alive. And Nurse said it was almost time for him to eat.”
“Hmph.” Lizzie adjusted her clothing and offered her son her breast. He stopped crying immediately.
“Ah,” Robbie said. “Peace at last.”
Lizzie smiled slightly. She was looking down at the viscount, stroking his tiny hand. She had a completely besotted expression on her face.
Meg felt another odd stab of pain. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. What was the matter with her? She’d never felt maudlin when she’d watched Emma nurse Charlie or Henry.
She looked at Robbie instead, but that didn’t help. His expression was even more besotted than Lizzie’s. It was such a mix of love and joy, wonder and pride, it made her want to cry all the more.
Robbie had been forced to marry Lizzie. Perhaps if Parks—
No. Her situation was not the same at all. Robbie and Lizzie had known each other forever. No one had been able to understand why they hadn’t wed years ago, when Lizzie’d made her come-out.
Parks barely knew her. He had no feelings for her at all.
She flushed, remembering with painful clarity their activities in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.
Well, yes, he had those sorts of feelings, but they meant nothing. They weren’t feelings, really—they were urges. Animal instincts. Appetites. He would feel the same…frenzy with any female.
She swallowed a sob.
Robbie tore his gaze away from his wife and son. “Did you say something, Meg?”
“Oh, no. A crumb got stuck in my throat.” She took a sip of tea.
“Oh.” He looked at her searchingly and then smiled at the girls. “Forgive me for not greeting you when I arrived, ladies, but as you saw—or heard—I had other issues to deal with.”
“We understand completely, my lord,” Isabelle said.
Robbie grinned. “Did you have a pleasant trip up to Town, Lady Isabelle?”
The girl’s thin face flushed and she sat even straighter. “Yes, my lord. Very pleasant.”
For once Claire didn’t squeeze into the conversation. She was still sitting by Lizzie, watching Viscount Manders.
“The weather has been unexceptional, don’t you agree, my lord?”
Meg hid her smile. Bless Robbie. He didn’t laugh at Isabelle’s attempt at conversation. He was treating her as if she were indeed a society lady.
“Yes,” he said. “I—”
“Bwaaap!”
Claire—and even Isabelle—giggled.
“My lord, your manners!” Robbie said. “Don’t you know it is impolite to belch in the presence of ladies?”
Lord Manders gave his father a wide smile, dribbling a bit of milk down his chin, before returning to his meal.
“Did you know,” Claire said, “that he has red hair?”
“By George! So he does!”
“Robbie…” Lizzie gave her husband an intense look. He grinned back at her.
“I guess it is no surprise, since many people say my hair is red.”
“It is, my lord,” Isabelle said seriously.
“Do you think so, Lady Isabelle? Then it must be true.” The earl sat back, his smile growing broader. “But enough about me and mine—what do you think of Miss Peterson’s approaching nuptials?”
Dead silence met this query.
“Oops,” Robbie said.
“Aunt Meg is getting married?” Isabelle turned to Meg.
“When? Why didn’t you tell us, Aunt Meg?” Claire demanded.
Meg felt her face flame. “Nothing is decided. I have not…I really don’t think I�
��ll…there’s been no announcement.”
She hoped. Oh dear. She hadn’t thought to check the papers this morning. But surely Parks wouldn’t put anything in print when she had clearly refused his suit.
“Robbie,” Lizzie said, “why don’t you take the girls out to the stables? I believe Bentley mentioned there’s a new litter of kittens.”
“Kittens?” Claire jumped up. “I love kittens.”
“These are an especially splendid set, I’m sure.” Robbie rose and offered Claire his arm, then turned to Isabelle. “Are you coming, Lady Isabelle?”
Isabelle flushed. She looked at Meg.
Meg repressed a sigh. It was clear Isabelle was dying to go. It wasn’t fair to hide behind her—and Lizzie was completely capable of saying what she pleased even with Isabelle present.
“Go along. I’ll stay and talk with Lady Westbrooke.”
Isabelle treated Meg to her sweet, fleeting smile and took the earl’s other arm.
“I think Isabelle may be forming a tendre for Robbie,” Meg said once the voices and footsteps had faded down the corridor.
“It will do her good. He’ll be careful of her feelings.”
“I know he will.”
Lizzie held Lord Manders on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it was a blessing in disguise when the former Lord and Lady Knightsdale were killed. The girls are much better off with Emma and Charles for parents.” She patted the viscount on the back. He burped again.
“Ooo, what a good baby.” She bussed his fat cheeks loudly. He giggled.
Meg tried not to roll her eyes. She certainly would not be such a ninny when she had a child.
If she had a child.
“So tell me about Parks,” Lizzie said, putting the viscount to her other breast. “What did he say when he proposed? When is the wedding? Are you excited?”
“Um. Well…”
“I knew you two would make a match of it when I saw you together at Tynweith’s house party.” Lizzie frowned. “I don’t think I saw the notice in the paper this morning. Was it there?”
“Ah…no.” So that question was answered. She shouldn’t have worried. Why would Parks send something to the papers? He obviously did not want to tie the knot.
“Oh. Well, I expect it will be in tomorrow.”
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 38