by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
“If you must know, it is Crispin, your son.”
Forde almost snatched the vinaigrette out of Agnes’s plump hand. “My son is ailing? And you waited until now to tell me? And . . . Crispin is here, not at his school?” Forde was already halfway out of the door and calling for a horse.
“Oh, sit down, do. Gerald’s dilemma is far more serious. Crispin is not about to stick his spoon in the wall. He was begging to be permitted to feed the chickens when we left. That woman keeps chickens, Forde. Did you know that?”
“Yes, and goats, too. Piglets in the spring. What is wrong with my son, dash it?”
“Oh, a piddly measles outbreak at his school, if you must know. The headmaster wrote to inform you, but you were gone, weren’t you? I could not leave the poor boy at that dreadful place, could I?”
“Instead you dragged him halfway across England? You put a sick child in a carriage and drove for days to get here, where I doubt there is a competent physician in miles?”
“Pish tosh. I told you, he is not ill. Besides, my girls both had the measles and did not require anything but an apothecary.”
And the services of a nanny, two nursemaids, and a score of other servants.
“Furthermore, Crispin did not ride in the carriage, not past the first change, that is. He is a poor traveler, don’t you know. I had forgotten. Gerald took him up with him on his horse, or had him sit by the driver. He rode with the servants in the baggage cart the rest of the time.”
“Great gods, ma’am, if he was not ailing before, he would be now.”
“Nonsense. He begged to be given the reins.”
Forde looked long and hard at the woman his brother had wed, wondering if she could be evil enough to wish Crispin ill so that her own son would be next in line to the viscountcy. Deuce take it, he was suspecting everyone’s motives these days. No, Agnes was lazy, not malicious.
She seemed to shrink under his glare. “Crispin wished to see his cousin Gerald married, and he looked so small and lonely, with half the school in hospital. And I could not recall if he had the measles before. My girls did, or I would not have exposed them, naturally. That Cole woman took it into her head that he had to stay at her poor excuse for a cottage, rather than here with you at the inn, which had been my intention. She said that if the boy is not sick himself, he might carry the disease to the village children.”
“And she was right. But if he did come down with the contagion, who did you think was going to nurse him. You?”
“Me? You know my nerves are too delicate for that. Why, I had to take the waters at Bath when my poor girls came down with the disease at the same time. So disfiguring, don’t you know. And Nanny took another position when poor Crispin was sent to school, so she was not available to look after him. I supposed your valet could play nursemaid.”
They had had the same argument for two years now, about sending Crispin to school. “Poor Crispin adores his school and his friends there, where he would have received adequate medical care. Damn, now Mrs. Cole has to take care of my son as well as prepare for the wedding.” And now he was in her debt.
“I thought we decided that you were going to stop that nonsense about my son marrying a nobody. That was why you came here. And why I came early, to make certain you did.”
“I came to look into the matter, that was all. After weighing the facts I have decided . . .”
“Yes?”
“To speak with Gerald. If he is old enough to marry, he is old enough to make his own decisions.”
The dog yelped at being squeezed so hard and jumped down off the chaise, growling at Forde. Agnes did, too. “What? Gerald is a mere child! His bride is a dowd.”
“You mean she is so pretty she will put your daughters in the shade.”
“Bosh. Her looks are nothing out of the ordinary. Another blue-eyed blond chit, that is all. Short and thin as a rail, to boot.” Agnes’s own daughters were in her younger image: ginger-haired and plump. “She is nothing, I say, a nobody. They are poor, Forde. Why, they do not have room for servants, even if they could afford them.”
“That is not a crime, not that I know of.”
“It is not fitting for a Wellforde.”
Agnes was not born a Wellforde, and the viscount resented her setting herself up as the family’s arbiter. “Did you get a chance to speak with Miss Cole? I found her charming and well mannered, besides a comely lass.”
“Hmph. How could she be well mannered, coming from such a creature as that Cole woman?”
Agnes did not know the half of it.
“If Mrs. Cole was rude,” Forde said, “I can only assume it was out of worry for Crispin. And her house truly is small, adequate enough for two women and a guest or two, I’d suppose, but that is all. She undoubtedly felt you would be better served at the inn.”
Agnes wrinkled her nose, looking more like the Pekingese than ever. “I can see she has won you over.”
“No such thing,” Forde insisted.
Agnes ignored his disclaimer. “I must say I am disappointed. I was certain a man of your experience and intelligence would have seen through her mock ladylike manner. I thought you would have convinced her to withdraw her daughter from the engagement the day you arrived.”
The day he arrived he was flat in the mud. He had not fared much better with Mrs. Cole since, either. “How was I to do that, Agnes?”
“How should I know? You manage to intimidate everyone else.”
“I do? Then why are you—? That is, Mrs. Cole is not easily swayed.”
“Then you could have bought her off or seduced her.”
He had tried both, unsuccessfully. “Mrs. Cole is not the mercenary adventuress you take her for. Nor is she open to a gentleman’s advances.”
“Aha! You did try, then.”
“I assure you, I am not in the habit of forcing myself upon virtuous ladies.”
“Which means she turned you down. The woman is a fool, besides being a pauper. The daughter must have feathers for brains, too. Or else they are looking toward Gerald to pull them out of poverty.”
“I do believe Miss Cole is sincerely attached to the lad.”
“You see, you do consider Gerald a boy!”
“That was a figure of speech only. He is man enough to choose his own bride. I did not, and that was a mistake.”
“A mistake? Your wife brought you a fortune and gave you a son. That was no mistake. Miss Cole is. You must talk to Gerald tonight. Make him see reason, not merely her big blue eyes. With the last banns not yet called he can cry off gracefully. No one in London needs to know the particulars.”
“Miss Cole lives here. She would be shamed if her groom decamped a week before the wedding.”
“You care more about that woman’s daughter than your own nephew?”
“Right now I care about my son. Good day, Agnes.”
First he checked the boy for spots, then for fever. Then he picked him up and hugged him close, even though Crispin felt he was too old for that. Forde could have lost his boy, though, and needed to hold him tight.
“I am fine, Father. I already had the measles, remember?”
Forde did not, and was embarrassed. “Of course I remember,” he lied—it was against his principles, but so was letting his son think he was a care-for-naught—“but you might have suffered on the journey.”
“Oh, no, I do not get the carriage sickness anymore. I did not want to sit with Aunt Agnes and the girls, though. All they talked about was bonnets and beaux. Jem Coachman says I will make as good a whip as you when I get bigger.”
“I am sure you will, but you should not have worried your aunt, or Mrs. Cole.”
“Oh, Mrs. Cole is great guns. She knew I wasn’t sick, but she said she’d rather have me as a guest than my aunt. Promise you won’t tell Aunt Agnes, though? I swore I wouldn’t peach on Susannah’s mother.”
“Then you mustn’t. And I would not think of telling.”
“She says I can feed the chickens
tomorrow, and she will show me how to gather the eggs.”
The future Viscount Forde mucking in a henhouse? The current viscount almost scooped the boy up again, to get him out of such common surroundings. But Crispin looked happier than he’d seen him in ages, babbling about the goats, and how there was a stream next door at the squire’s, and could they go fishing there? Gerald’s friend Doddsworth had two younger brothers, and they went all the time with their father.
Forde had never been fishing with his son. The boy spent summers in the country with his grandparents, his mother’s family.
“I’ll ask Squire Doddsworth, shall I?”
“Mrs. Cole said she would. He is coming to supper tonight, but Aunt Agnes insisted I am to have my meal on a tray upstairs. Mrs. Cole asked the cook to make strawberry tarts ’cause they are my favorites.”
“Are they?” He had not known. “Mine, too.”
“And she found me some books that used to belong to Miss Susannah so I won’t be bored. But tomorrow we are all invited to dinner at Doddsworth Manor after church. Me, too. Isn’t that capital, Father?”
Forde had never sat to a formal supper with his son, either.
“Susannah says the squire has hounds, lots of them. And the biggest boar in the county. That’s a boy pig, you know. And she says I can come visit her and Gerald in Hampshire next summer, if I don’t have to spend the whole holiday with Grandmother. I like her, don’t you?”
“Your grandmother?” Forde had not seen the woman since his wife’s funeral. “Of course.”
“No, Father. Miss Susannah.”
“Oh. She is a very charming young lady.”
“But not as nice as Mrs. Cole.”
“Where is Mrs. Cole?”
“Sewing on the wedding dress. It is the prettiest gown I have ever seen. Do you know, when you touch it, your fingers get all fluttery? Miss Susannah hates it and says that is all fustian nonsense. She and Cousin Gerald are arguing in the parlor, so I came outside to wait for you. Mrs. Cole said you would be here soon, and she was right.”
“She is very wise.” And very confident that he would do the right thing, which made Forde surprisingly proud, as if her good opinion of him as a father mattered one whit.
“May I stay here, Father? May I?”
Katie Cole had already shown the halfling more attention than Crispin’s own mother had, and more care than his aunt. “If you behave and do not cause her any headaches.”
“I would not. Mrs. Cole says she will chop me up and feed me to the chickens otherwise. She’s a prime ’un, isn’t she? That’s what Jem Coachman says, anyway.”
“I do not think you should be using the head groom’s vocabulary, but, yes, Mrs. Cole is top drawer.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
She was kind to his motherless son. “Yes, I like her. Very much.”
Chapter Nine
Viscount Forde embodied masculinity from the top of his windblown hair to the bottom of his shiny boots. He was charm incarnate when he wished to be, flashing that smile. And he was seductive, an attraction that had been missing in Katie’s life for so many years she was surprised she could recognize it, like an elephant. She had never seen one of those creatures, but was certain she would know it when she did. And then there was another quality that his lordship possessed, one that made the others pale in comparison.
A woman might observe a gentleman flirting, or dancing, or riding his horse, and find herself moonstruck. But seeing a man hug his son—his filthy little boy who’d been playing tag with the goats—that was something else altogether. That was heart, a pure, rare commodity in this world. Any number of men had courage and honor and physical attraction, but heart—now there was a treasure to fight for, to grasp, to keep forever.
Katie stepped back from the window where she’d been watching the reunion, curious at how the viscount would treat his heir. Her own father had been distant and cool, while the squire was oblivious to his sons. The blacksmith often cuffed his boys, and many of the farmers considered their offspring nothing but unpaid help. Forde loved his son.
Why that should bring tears to her eyes was a mystery to Katie, but it did. She wanted to despise Forde for bringing chaos into her life. She should resent him because he had the power to wreak havoc over her, and no female could admire her persecutor.
Katie did not hate him, though.
She doubted he would make her secrets public, despite his unspoken threats. If he had spoken to Mrs. Wellforde about Susannah’s birth, that overfed vixen would have been here with a pistol, reclaiming her precious cub. No, Forde was too much the gentleman to heap unearned dishonor on an innocent girl. He merely wanted to protect his family, the same way Katie had lied to protect her daughter.
She could not hate him. Not at all, to her regret.
Gerald rushed past his uncle without a greeting. “I am staying at Doddsworth’s place, where there are no females to natter and nag,” he called over his shoulder.
“I need to speak to you.”
“I need to hear about something other than dowries and dresses. Squire and his horses do not care if a chap is a few days late, or brings his mama. Or wants to wed a poor girl.”
“Will you be here at dinner?” Forde called to his nephew’s receding back, although it sounded as if Gerald already had enough trouble on his plate.
Susannah was crying again, angry at Gerald, his mother, her mother, and the wedding gown. “This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life!” she wailed on her way to her bedchamber to throw herself into a satisfying spate of woeful tears and worse temper. Forde could hear a door slam above when he entered the library.
“I am sorry. Am I calling at an awkward time?”
What could be awkward about having twelve people for dinner unexpectedly, a daughter suffering bridal nerves, a dirty-faced cherub she had nearly kidnapped from his overbearing family, and the most devastatingly attractive gentleman ready to denounce her over the dinner table? Oh, there was the matter of a gown whose hem would not stay turned and whose seams would not gather for Susannah’s narrow torso. No, nothing awkward about that at all. She set the gown aside for another try later.
“Welcome, and I do hope you will permit Crispin to stay on with us here. He has been a big help.”
It rankled Forde that she could not afford maids, when his own family was demanding service—and his son was being pressed into a footman’s role. He knew she would not take money from him, so he did not offer. “I could speak to the innkeeper about sending a few of his girls.”
“Thank you, but that is not necessary. Mrs. Tarrant’s nieces are already at work in the kitchens and will help serve. Crispin is going to make out the place cards for the table, aren’t you?”
“Mrs. Cole says my handwriting is perfect for the job, Father.”
“Excellent, my boy. Why do you not go practice? That is, somewhere else. I wish to speak to Mrs. Cole privately.”
Crispin stuck his jaw out, looking mulish. Or like his father. “You said I could stay.”
“As long as you behaved. Now go. We will be done shortly.”
How shortly? Katie wondered. Saying that the wedding was canceled would take no time at all. Mending Susannah’s broken heart might take forever, if it were possible. After all, the wedding gown seemed impossible to fix. Why not a heart?
The viscount was pacing the small room, lifting a book here, moving a paper there, until he was certain they were alone. Then he told Katie, “I have decided that I have to speak to Gerald. If he found out later, and it mattered to him that his wife could not be comfortable in London, or might be exposed as an imposter anytime, then he would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.”
Katie nodded, not wanting to look at him. “And I could never forgive myself for letting my daughter wed a man to whom such an insignificant thing would matter. If he loves her, it is for herself, not for what name she bears, or does not. We shall tell both of them, together. If your neph
ew cries off, Susannah must know the reason, lest she think herself to blame.”
“After dinner?”
“Definitely not before! Or during.”
Dinner was more formal than the last one at Cole Cottage, mainly due to the presence of Gerald’s disapproving mother. Gerald spoke to young Doddsworth about horses, his sisters batted their eyelashes at the younger Doddsworth boys hard enough to cool the soup, and the squire and Agnes Wellforde seemed to be competing over who could eat more.
With ham, mutton, beef, and chicken on the menu, there was nothing parsimonious about this evening’s offering. Katie felt proud of her table, glad that no one could complain about the simply cooked but ample meal, not even the dog. Gerald’s mother took hearty portions of everything, then fed some to her pet.
Katie wanted to throw a dish at the woman, but they were her good plates. Young Crispin was deemed too unmannerly to sit with the adults, but the Pekingese had a place on Agnes’s ample lap? Besides, the dog was gobbling down food that could have fed the Cole Cottage residents for another day, at least.
But she stayed smiling, the perfect hostess, and led the ladies out of the dining parlor when the meal was finally over. Susannah and the Wellforde girls—Katie had not learned which was which yet—were giggling over something, and Mrs. Wellforde was napping after her huge repast. Katie took her place at the pianoforte, hoping to ease her nerves with her beloved music.
Forde hurried the gentlemen through their port, fearful of what offensive remarks Agnes might make. Half of the gentlemen were mere boys, besides, so they did not need to smoke or drink, in his opinion. With so little to offer, and no cards likely, either, Doddsworth decided to leave. The two families that were about to unite ought to have some private time together, he declared. Besides, he and his boys were planning a foray after fish early in the morning before church. Forde and his son were invited.
Dawn was not a part of the day Forde usually saw from the bright side, but he said he would consider the invitation, for Crispin’s sake. After the manor party left, Forde took a seat next to Mrs. Cole on the pianoforte bench, thinking that he might never tire of her proficient playing, or her rapt expression as she gave herself to the music. For that matter, he might never tire of the small, rare smile she gave him when he praised her performance between pieces. She was wearing the same dark-colored gown, which he would grow bored with, even if it did reveal more of her bosom than the sacklike frocks she wore during the day. He would dress her in green velvet, as soft as her skin, as sultry as moonlight. Then he would undress her, caress her, make her beautiful body—