by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
“Thank goodness, for how am I to see my gals settled advantageously, if we are stuck in the shires? Gerald says he met Miss Cole in the country, so that is good enough for his sisters.” She started to sob. “He says they are not titled, so they do not need grand presentations and lavish come-out balls at your expense.”
The boy sounded more mature by the moment. Lud knew, Agnes never thought of the cost of anything, or who was to pay it. Still, Forde was head of the family, and he could not let a mere boy, one just starting his own family, beggar himself to support three women. Four, if one counted the bride. “Dash it, my brother gave his life for this country. The least I can do is see his daughters well married. I’ll speak with Gerald. Is he at home?”
“He is at his new home, readying the Oaks for its new mistress and his new horses.”
“Then he truly cares about the girl and is acting in a responsible manner.” Forde stood up, ready to leave, resigned to attending the blasted wedding.
“There is worse.”
“Worse than wanting you to ruralize? Worse than not providing you with an elegant chaperone for your daughters?”
“Far worse. Rushing into this marriage will cause talk that will reflect on the entire family. Such unseemly haste casts doubts on the female’s respectability, doubts that will rub off on my own darlings.”
Forde sat back down, in a hurry. “Good grief, is the woman breeding, then?” He’d murder the cawker for letting his prick push him into a misalliance. They’d had an awkward talk when the boy turned sixteen, and Forde had considered his avuncular duties done. Damn. He should have repeated the warnings and the why-nots. Maybe he should start now with his own son. The boy was ten, after all. Perhaps there was time to visit Crispin at his school before the deuced wedding.
Now that she was not being exiled to the hinterlands, with her daughters’ come-outs to be at the local pub like her son’s wretched wedding breakfast, Agnes could be magnanimous. And she could eat again. Two biscuits—one for her and one for the dog—disappeared while Forde fumed. “No, I doubt Miss Cole is that foolish,” she finally said. “Not even an innocent boy like Gerald will purchase what he can have for free. Besides, he says they are never alone, not even on those dreadful rambles of his. What I believe, however, is that this mad dash to the altar, this helter-skelter scramble off to the Oaks, means Gerald is ashamed of the girl. He knows she will never be accepted in polite society, so he is hiding her away.”
“But he says her manners are perfect, her learning impressive, and her face and figure like a goddess’s.”
“Humph. What’s all that to decent breeding or money? We know there’s hardly a groat in the family. I suspect there is no Officer Cole, either. I asked Admiral Benson to look into the matter, and he could find no records of a Captain Cole or a Lieutenant Cole whatsoever. Not even an ensign. The man must have been a common seaman.”
“Gerald’s bride’s father? The Navy chap who died a hero?”
“Such a hero that no one at the Admiralty ever heard of him. Likely he was an impressed sailor, nothing more. And the mother is an orphan, they tell me. Heaven knows where her people came from. They live in a cottage, according to Gerald, and keep chickens.” She blew her nose again, this time to rid herself of the imagined stench of the henhouse. “They must be fortune hunters.”
As opposed to Agnes trying to find wealthy, titled husbands for her two lambs. All women sought to better their prospects, and Forde could not fault Miss Cole for her attempts to secure a comfortable future. “Gerald’s fortune is not that great.”
“To widows and orphans it is. She will be moving into the Oaks before the cat can lick her ear.”
“Naturally. As Gerald’s wife—”
“Not the gal, the mother. I might have to live with her there when you get married and throw us out!” Agnes wailed, setting the dog to yipping.
Forde felt like tearing out his own hair. “I am not getting married. And I told you, you and the girls can stay at Wellforde House here in London as long as you wish. Or at Wellforde Grange if you want them to get used to local society before their come-outs. There is no reason for you or my nieces to live with Gerald at all, so he can invite his wife’s mother and her chickens, too, if he wishes.”
The dish of pastries was nearly finished. So was Agnes, except for one final complaint. “Gerald says the chit has no wedding dress. What am I to do, spend my darlings’ clothing allowance on her? You’ll see I am right: The forward female is only interested in poor Gerald’s fortune if she is already hinting for favors and money.”
Damn. This was more serious than Forde had thought. “I’ll have a talk with Gerald.”
“You will not change his mind. I tried. He is adamant. Besides, no gentleman backs out of an engagement. Gerald will look no-account, and no decent female will accept him as a suitor. He’ll grow into a crusty old bachelor, set in his ways, like you.”
Forde ignored the last bit. “Then I will have a talk with this Miss Cole and her grasping mother. If they turn out to be the parasites you think, then I will withdraw my blessings. I can hold on to Gerald’s inheritance until he reaches five and twenty. I doubt the Cole harpies will want to wait that long before sinking their talons into his coffers. I wager the betrothal will end as soon as I reveal my intentions.”
“Gerald will not be happy.”
Forde thought of his own marriage. “Trust me, he stands a better chance of being happy as a single man.”
Chapter Three
All roads are longer when the destination is undesired. Forde traveled into Devon slowly, blaming his dallying on the rainy October weather, the mired roads, the indifferent horses he was forced to hire at the posting houses. He blamed the delay on anything but his lack of enthusiasm to confront Miss Cole and her mother, and his fears of losing Gerald’s regard. If the young woman was as greedy and grasping as Agnes thought, as conniving and common, then Gerald would thank them in the end . . . if he ever forgave Forde and his mother for interfering in his life. By Jupiter, Forde barely forgave his own father for saddling him with Priscilla, and they had both been dead for years.
Thinking of saddles made Forde decide to hire a horse when his coach finally reached the little village of Brookville. The incessant rain had stopped at last, and he was tired of being jostled inside the carriage. Besides, the fewer servants to speculate about his conversation with the Cole women, the better. By riding, he could leave his groom and driver and valet behind at the only inn in town, a decent enough place, it seemed, despite his sister-in-law’s dire predictions of hedge taverns and drovers’ pubs. The ale was good there, at any rate.
The gray gelding he hired was not of his usual caliber or pedigree, but the hostler assured him that Smoky was a goer, once he shook the fidgets out and got over his little crotchets.
“Nothing a fine gentleman like yourself cannot handle, my lord.”
Forde was ready for the challenge, rather than for the ladies of Cole Cottage. Following the innkeeper’s directions through the village and a mile out, he made his reluctant way there, steering the equally reluctant gelding away from rain-filled wheel ruts and fallen tree limbs. He did not dare set the horse to a gallop, not with the road in such poor condition, but they arrived at the house with no ill effects, sooner than Forde wished.
Well, the place was not a hovel, at least. Not quite a gentleman’s expansive country residence, it was no thatch-roofed, dirt-floored shack, either. The grounds were tidy, with late-blooming rosebushes and still-colorful flower beds obviously well tended, ivy neatly trimmed away from the windows. The square building itself was three storeys high, made of stone with slate roof tiles. So the females were not indigent, if the house’s appearance was anything to go by, and the vista must be pleasant on a clear day, with rolling fields and wooded hills.
He rode up to the front walk, but no one came out to take his horse. He saw no hitching post or nearby fence, either, and did not trust Smoky not to bolt, not when the gelding sh
ied at every bird and waving branch in the wind. Crotchets? The horse had more quirks than mad King George.
After calling, “Halloo the house,” with no response, Forde rode around the side of the building, hoping to find a gardener or the stable.
To the rear he saw chickens and goats, a barnlike structure, and a cultivated patch that was far more extensive than any kitchen garden. Mrs. Cole appeared to be augmenting her widow’s portion by growing or raising her own food, or taking the surplus to market. No true lady would have kept chickens at her back door, but Forde admired the woman’s spirit and drive. Naturally he would not admire her ambition to better herself if it came at Gerald’s expense. One was gumption; the other was greed. He would have to wait to see for himself.
With the clouds gathering again, the wind increasing, a dampness chilling the air, and still no groom or gardener, Forde decided to see if there was room in the barn for Smoky. He had not come all this way only to return to the inn without speaking to the females and making his decision. Besides, the rain would start soon, and he had no fancy to ride back to the village in a downpour. The smoke he could see rising from the house’s chimneys and its promise of hot tea and a warming fire were far more inviting.
“I know it is not what you might be accustomed to, old chap,” he told the horse as he rode the gray along a mired path, “but we all have to make sacrifices for my nephew’s future.”
The goats and the chickens and the cow looming in the mist did not faze the gelding. The ghost did. The fearsome white wraith was billowing and blowing across the yard, making snapping, flapping noises with every gust of wind.
In the general course of things, Forde was too good a rider to become separated from his horse. This was not his horse, however, and a trail that was more a swamp than a path was not the usual thing, to say nothing of a soaring, swooping, snow white specter. Smokey shied, bucked, then reared, but his hindquarters kept sliding in the muck beneath his hooves, terrorizing the bacon-brained beast further. He swiveled. Forde did not.
Like the fine equestrian he usually was, Forde kept hold of the reins. And he caught the ghost in his other hand before he hit the ground, trapping the blasted thing and its rope tail beneath him. He used one wadded corner of it to wipe the mud off his face, once he caught his breath. Then he lay there, wondering if he would sink deeper into the quagmire, like a potato taking root. For certain his limbs wanted no part of getting up.
He gave them no choice. First it was a ghost; now they were under attack by a banshee. A figure from hell was screeching, coming toward him with a pitchfork, black cape flying out behind. Forde stood in a hurry then, before Smoky could trample him in his fright. He tried to wipe some more of the muck—he hoped the chickens had not used the path recently—out of his eyes so he could see his assailant and defend himself from this latest fiend.
“My wedding gown!” The devil’s own creature shrieked, thankfully dropping the pitchfork.
Forde regarded the filthy, befouled length of fabric he still held in his mud-daubed hand, the clothesline lost under his feet. Then he regarded the female. He had never been knocked breathless by the sight of a woman before. Either he had been struck by one of Cupid’s arrows or his ribs were broken. She was beautiful, but she was closer to his age than Gerald’s. She also had green eyes, not blue, and honey-colored hair instead of blond. “Miss Cole?”
“I am Susannah’s mother, but she was going to wear my gown for her own wedding this month. Now it is ruined.”
Either the rain was starting again already or the female was crying, for her pale cheeks were definitely wet as she wrested the rag from his grasp. She was weeping over a bit of lace and cloth? No, blast it, Forde understood that he had destroyed a treasured reminder of the widow’s lost love. Who knew what else she had left of her marriage—a wedding band, perhaps a lock of hair or a miniature portrait? Damn.
She was shaking out the sodden mess, as if that might restore it. Nothing would, Forde knew, especially not the gelding’s snorting at it. He stepped back, pulling Smoky with him. “I shall replace it, of course,” he said, full knowing the impossibility of replacing an heirloom or a memory.
“No one can. It was . . . special.”
“I understand your attachment, Mrs. Cole, but a skilled dressmaker can copy it. I can send it to London in the morning.”
She had stopped shaking the gown and was now brushing at it with her hand, which instantly turned black with muck. “No, I cannot let you do that. It was my fault for leaving it on the line in such a wind. We have had so much rain this week that I could not air it before this.”
The woman was babbling in her upset. Forde could feel her pain—or was that a wrenched shoulder from his fall? The devil take it, he would give her the money, perhaps enough for her to let Gerald out of her clutches; then no one would need the benighted wedding dress. Maybe she could save enough of it to make a handkerchief. That was the best he could do, now that he had done his worst. “But I insist on making good for my clumsiness.”
His tone must have brought her out of her reverie, for now Mrs. Cole finally took notice of the trespasser in her garden. He could see her eyes shift to the pitchfork, too far away to be any protection from a marauder, then to his hand reaching for his purse—or a pistol. She took a step back, her boots squelching in the mire, but the ruined gown stayed pressed to her chest, befouling her cloak, too, which was no great loss that the viscount could tell.
“I could not accept money from a stranger.”
“But I am not truly a stranger.” He bowed, a gob of mud falling from his chin. “Tanyon Wellforde, at your service.”
“Oh, you are one of Mr. Gerald Wellforde’s relations then.” She relaxed a bit, although keeping her distance and not, thankfully, offering her filthy hand for him to kiss. “The wedding is not for a few weeks, however. You are early.”
“Actually, I am Viscount Forde, Gerald’s uncle and guardian,” he said, sounding somewhat pompous even to his own ears. He was insulted that this countrywoman in her shabby cloak would think him so skitter-witted that he did not know the time or the place. Granted he had fallen off his horse and taken down her clothesline, but he did know the date of his own nephew’s wedding: It was soon, or he would not be here.
“Gerald’s uncle Tanyon?” she asked, a hint of doubt in her voice. “He is always singing your praises.” Gerald had always raved what a bruising rider his uncle was. His lordship would be bruised, all right, from flying over his horse’s head. Gerald also claimed the viscount was a tailor’s delight, with half the gentlemen in London wanting to emulate his style. He would make his tailor rich, needing a new suit. And he was as downy as they came, Gerald had claimed. Yes, those were chicken feathers in his hair.
“Gerald—Mr. Wellforde, that is—is not here.”
“Yes, I know, madam.” Now Forde was more aggravated that she was still treating him like an attics-to-let jackass. He was muddied and battered, but he did not have bats in his belfry. “He is in Hampshire.”
She nodded, seemingly reassured that he truly was Gerald’s famous uncle. “We expect him at week’s end, for the next calling of the banns.”
Forde had come to prevent that very thing. He could feel his face growing warm, the only part of him that was. With any luck the mud would hide the telltale color of his muddled misrepresentation. “I, ah, came to see you and Miss Cole.”
“Why?” she asked, too bluntly for his taste. He turned and spit a feather out of his mouth.
Why? “About the, ah, settlements. That is what guardians do, you know.”
“I already gave Gerald my solicitor’s direction.”
And she gave Forde her back, more concerned with counting the buttons on the blasted gown than the fact that he was damp to the bone and stank like a pig. Lud, did she keep pigs in this swamp of a yard, too? Instead of being invited inside for a hot drink or a warm bath, as any lady would have offered, Forde felt a cold drizzle dripping down his neck, mingling with the mud.
His heart was growing colder, too. He might have felt sorry for the beautiful widow, mourning her dead husband and her gown—but his toes were growing numb, by Harry. “I thought I should meet you and Miss Cole before the ceremony.”
“I see.” And he thought she did, as she turned and eyed him with suspicion again, this time a lioness ready to defend her cub. She knew he was here to inspect his nephew’s prospective bride, to pass judgment. She also knew he could delay the wedding, if not cancel it altogether. “My daughter is not here, either. She is at the rectory, arranging flowers for the church. She will stay there until the storm passes.” As anyone with an iota of sense would do, her expression seemed to say, instead of riding across wet ground on an unfamiliar horse in a threatening storm, on the devil’s own work.
Which Forde had done, proving him a skip-brain, if not a lunatic, in her too obvious estimation. She bent to pick up the pitchfork, being careful not to let the gown drag on the ground.
Hah! Now who was being blockheaded? One more handful of dirt was not going to make a ha’penny’s worth of difference to that garment’s demise. And Forde was not leaving yet. He had not settled his dressmaking debt, and he had not settled his mind about Gerald’s nuptials.
“If your daughter is from home, perhaps I might speak with you? I shall not need much of your time.”
Mrs. Cole looked at him in the same horror that Smoky had viewed the ghost. Forde could not tell if that was because she did not wish him and all his mud in her house, or merely him. “Please, until the rain passes.”
She shook her head, sending droplets of dampness scattering. “I think you should call again when Susannah will be here. She will want to meet you, too, after hearing so much about you from your nephew. I can send word when she returns. You are lodging at the inn in town, I suppose? It is the only respectable place hereabouts, if you have not already taken rooms there. You really should get out of your damp clothes. At the inn,” she hurried to add, “where Mr. Roundtree will fix you a hot toddy. I am sorry I cannot invite you to stay here.”