Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

  “He . . . he has been a capital fellow to me,” Luke insisted, beginning to pace in agitation. “I did not know you were even acquainted with him. ’Taint like you to judge another on hearsay.”

  “Nor do I do so now. He was only a year ahead of me in school.”

  Luke halted in mid-stride, a look of surprise on his face. “Is that so?”

  “You thought him younger?”

  “Um ... well . . . yes. As a matter of fact, I did.” Luke abruptly sat down again.

  “You might ask yourself why a man of his age and experience would choose to befriend someone with whom he has so little in common.”

  “I am sure you are eager to enlighten me.”

  His brother’s resentment was clear and Thorne wondered how he might have presented his own views differently. Lord! Had he no recollection of the tender sensibilities of youth?

  “You are not the first young buck to be fleeced by someone older and less scrupulous than you. And certainly not the first to be had by Beelson! But I would surmise that he took special satisfaction in subjecting my younger brother to his schemes.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Luke’s resentment was overwhelmed by curiosity.

  “Let us just say there is bad blood between the two of us.”

  “But you are not telling me the whole of it—is that it?” Resentment was back in full force.

  “No, I am not, for it involves another as well.”

  “Until you can offer a more substantive reason for me to cut the connection, I see no reason to give up Ralph’s friendship.”

  “Ralph is it?” Thorne was silent for a moment. “Well, I have no intention of choosing your companions for you. However, Beelson is not welcome in my house. I will thank you not to invite him here.”

  “As you wish,” Luke said stiffly. “ ’Tis your house and you hold the purse strings.”

  “Yes, I do. And know this, Luke—” Thorne held his brother’s gaze. “I will advance you the money to pay all these debts—including your gaming debts—this time. You will repay the exact sum when you come into your own fortune.”

  Luke sneered. “And when might that be? You control that, too.”

  “You know very well the terms of Mother’s will. When you are twenty-seven or when I deem you responsible enough to handle your own affairs.”

  “And I suppose you find it to your advantage to prolong that event.”

  Thorne drew in a deep breath and struggled for patience. “No,” he said with studied calm. “At the moment, though, it would appear to be to your advantage.”

  “Hah!”

  Thorne’s patience snapped. “Believe what you will. But know this, little brother—I will not advance you another farthing after these debts are paid.” He waved the sheaf of papers at Luke. “You will learn to live within your rather generous income.”

  “And if I do not?”

  The peevish bravado of this response annoyed Thorne even further. “Then I shall simply cut your allowance entirely and you can rusticate at Rolsbury Manor.”

  Silence reigned as Thorne wrote out a bank draft for the sum Luke had named.

  “There.” He handed the draft to the younger man. “We will speak no more of this.”

  “I insist on giving you an IOU,” Luke said, sounding very stiff.

  “That is not necessary.”

  “I think it is.”

  Luke rose and reached for paper and pen to scratch out the note of indebtedness. Thorne hid both his surprise and his approbation.

  “Now. Is that all?” Luke asked, still standing.

  “No. Sit down, please.” Luke sat on the edge of the chair, his hands on his knees, and waited for Thorne to continue.

  Thorne deliberated, wondering how best to approach a more sensitive subject. Head-on, of course, he answered himself. “I want to know about this chit you have been making a cake of yourself over.”

  “How did you know—? Ah, I know. Aunt Dorothy. I suppose she couldn’t wait to tattle to the family patriarch.”

  “So, it is true, then?”

  “How am I to know if what you heard is the truth?”

  “Try not to equivocate. Did you offer for the girl knowing full well you would need my approval for such an action?”

  “Well . . . yes. But in six months I will not require your permission to marry. I shall be of age then.” There was a note of triumph in Luke’s tone.

  “You think to support a wife—and maintain your manner of living—” Thorne gestured to the bills on his desk—“on the allowance you receive as a bachelor?”

  “I thought . . .”

  “You and your ladybird thought I would be forced to accept a fait accompli—is that it?”

  “Not exactly. And she is not my ladybird.”

  “Well, what is she then? Aunt Dorothy reports that your Miss Richardson has been on the town for three Seasons, and now she seeks to attach a green boy? You will eventually come into a comfortable fortune.”

  “It is not like that at all. Lord! You really should come to town once in awhile. Ever since Waterloo you have been a recluse at the Manor. You need to get out more, brother dear.”

  “Perhaps I do—if only to keep you from making a fool of yourself. However, you forget—I was here just last autumn for the Queen’s trial.” Had it really been less than a year, he wondered, since the king had tried to enlist the aid of Parliament in ridding his royal self of his estranged wife?

  “Only because all peers were required to be here—or pay a huge fine.”

  Thorne made no reply to this. It was, after all, the truth.

  Luke went on, “And even then, you never went out. Why, you even went back home during that recess they had between the king’s accusation and her defense. I would wager you came this year only because you are required to take part in the coronation.”

  “Well, that would be yet another wager you would lose.”

  Luke colored slightly at this none-too-subtle reminder. “Then why did you come now? It is a good two months and more until the coronation.”

  “There are a few other matters of concern to the country besides celebrating the accession of the fourth George to the throne.”

  Luke gaped at him openly. “You came to town to take an active role in Parliament?”

  “Partly. And to ensure that you are not bamboozled into an ill-advised marriage.”

  Luke’s color deepened. “Well, you need not concern yourself with that. She turned me down.”

  Thorne raised his brows at this. “Did she now? Well, that is a common ploy of females. Unusual in a fortune hunter, though.”

  Luke, apparently fuming over the entire conversation, simply gave him a tight little smile and did not respond verbally. There was a moment of silence during which Thorne wondered what was really going on in his brother’s mind.

  “Will that be all?” Luke finally asked.

  “Yes. You may go. But do think twice before you propose again.”

  “I told you she refused me.” Luke quickly made his escape.

  Thorne sat back in his chair and again rubbed his thigh where a French musket ball had put an end to his military career. Perhaps it had been a mistake to allow Luke such a free rein in the last few months. He was, after all, a mere boy. A mere boy? Thorne shook his head ruefully. Only in the eyes of a brother nearly a decade older. Had Luke himself not pointed out how close he was to the age of majority? Besides, he was already older than Thorne had been when he joined Wellington’s forces in the Peninsula.

  Numbers on a calendar do not equal maturity, Thorne reminded himself. Still, the lad’s insistence on signing that IOU had been a responsible step. But proposing marriage to some female who was looking to advance her material or social advantage? That smacked of immaturity—not to say muddy thinking.

  Well, any woman seeking to entrap the younger Wainwright would find herself contending with the older brother! Had he not always protected persons for whom he was responsible, be they either
of his siblings, soldiers in the field, or tenants? He would hardly avoid that self-imposed duty at this stage of his life!

  Thorne’s first decision in dealing with the problem of the troublesome female followed closely on Luke’s departure from the library. The Earl of Rolsbury had come to town largely to take some sort of role in political matters that were directly affecting his people in Lincolnshire. Now he would himself have to appear on London’s social scene in order to learn firsthand what this scheming Richardson woman was up to with his brother. First, though, he would call upon his Aunt Dorothy.

  Lady Dorothy Conwick welcomed him the next day. She was a tall woman with iron-gray hair and a no-nonsense approach to life. Thorne had always thought she liked her pet dogs—two Welsh terriers—better than she did people. She held one in her lap now, stroking it frequently. “How very agreeable to find you have finally come to town without a government edict as your only incentive.”

  “Your last letter was rather insistent, was it not?”

  She gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “My insistence never persuaded you before—and I doubt it did so now.”

  “I had no family member courting disaster before,” he said.

  “Your brother is certainly doing that from all that I hear.” She proceeded to give him an account of Luke’s deep play at gaming hells—a surprisingly accurate account, Thorne thought, judging by what Luke had revealed the day before.

  “Yes. I know about those activities and I have taken steps to curb them.”

  “Well, what about his foolish behavior with Miss Richardson?” she demanded.

  “Is it really so very bad? I rather think he fancies himself in love with her.”

  Her ladyship snorted again. “Love! What does a green boy know of love?”

  Far too much—and far too little, Thorne thought ruefully. But he did not voice his opinion and only half listened as his aunt related what she knew of Luke’s troubled courtship. Unfortunately, Aunt Dorothy herself rarely went into Society. She therefore relied on others as her sources.

  “—and then there was that business of his reciting some silly poem at the Oglethorpe do—” She finally caught his attention.

  “He what? Poetry, you say?”

  She repeated the tale of the scene in Oglethorpe’s drawing room.

  “Oh, good grief.” He shut his eyes, but could not erase the image of Luke’s humiliation.

  “She probably encouraged it, if you ask me!” his aunt said. “Such adoration would be a feather in the cap of any young woman. And that Richardson chit seems to like collecting feathers. Why, I am told she has had dozens of offers already.”

  “You mean she has played this game with other young men?”

  “Well, maybe not such young ones. Mrs. Ferris told me Miss Richardson quite shamelessly chased poor George—who has nearly thirty years—and at the Patterson ball she was seen kissing Lord Beelson.”

  “I question her taste in partners, but a mere kiss is fairly innocent.”

  Lady Conwick sniffed. “There may have been more.”

  Thorne was all the more determined to protect his brother from a woman who readily displayed such questionable taste and shocking behavior.

  Indeed, there was more as he heard when he dropped into his club later. The men there occupied themselves with tales of the Richardson woman’s indiscretions, speculating at length as to who had or had not enjoyed her favors.

  Thorne was annoyed with himself for engaging in or merely listening to gossip as he had on this day. However, in a fight to protect a member of his family, he would use any weapon available. At the moment, information seemed his best weapon. Maybe he would be able to talk some sense into his lovestruck brother.

  On his return from visiting his solicitor one afternoon a few days later, Thorne was surprised to find that a number of invitations had arrived for him. One was to a dinner party at the home of his old comrade-in-arms, Captain Frederick Hart, late of His Majesty’s army.

  He knew Hart had sold his commission and married some two years and more ago, but the wedding was rather private and took place in the dead of winter when road conditions as well as distance from Lincolnshire to Somerset made travel unattractive. Thorne had had only occasional communication with Hart since the marriage, though the captain had visited Rolsbury Manor from time to time before that. Thorne admitted to some curiosity about the woman who had brought the elusive Frederick Hart up to scratch.

  The first guest to arrive at the Hart dinner party, Rolsbury found himself in a modest house located in a respectable, but not fashionable, neighborhood. His early arrival was by design. Though he walked well enough, he felt awkward at having to use the walking stick and always strove to avoid “making an entrance.”

  Hart and his wife received him in their drawing room. In appearance, at least, he thought them well matched. Hart’s sandy hair and freckles formed a contrast to his wife’s dark hair and pale complexion. After a bit, he thought them equally well matched in temperament as well.

  In the course of initial conversations, he learned that the party was, indeed, rather a small one as promised on the invitation.

  “There will eventually be but twelve of us,” his hostess said, “and I believe you will already know most of the gentlemen at least, my lord, for Frederick was insistent on seeing his fellow warriors.” Celia smiled up at her husband in a teasing manner that told Thorne much regarding his friend’s happiness.

  “Really?” Thorne gave Frederick an inquiring look.

  “Rhys and Berwyn will be here,” Frederick said.

  Thorne addressed Celia. “I seem to recall that Berwyn is your brother, Mrs. Hart?”

  “Yes, he is,” she replied. “And his wife Charlotte is the sister of Harriet, Countess of Wyndham. Are you acquainted with the Wyndhams, sir?”

  “I met him several years ago and sat in the same chamber with him during that unseemly trial of the queen—but to answer your question, no, madam, I am not.”

  “Well, I am sure you will find them agreeable company. And I do think we may drop the formality between us, Lord Rolsbury. As you are one of Frederick’s oldest and dearest friends—or so he tells me—I insist you call me ‘Celia’ as my friends do.”

  “Your wish is my command, Mrs.—uh, Celia. I am ‘Thorne’ to family and friends.”

  “Thorne is a very interesting name,” she said. “I do not ever remember knowing anyone of that name before.”

  “It is a family name,” he explained. “The story is that my maternal grandfather would not sanction his daughter’s marriage until my father agreed to give their firstborn son the old man’s surname.” He shrugged. “And since my mother came to the marriage with a very considerable dowry ... well, you see the result—Thorne, it is.”

  “Or ‘Thorny,’ if one is a former schoolmate.” Frederick grinned as he handed Thorne a glass of wine. “And believe me, my love, he earned that sobriquet.”

  “Oh, I cannot believe that,” Celia said, but then she was immediately distracted by the arrival of additional guests, including the Berwyns and former cavalry captain Charles Rhys with his sister, Miss Helen Rhys.

  Thorne found himself inordinately pleased to see his old friends again. His pleasure was enhanced with the arrival of the next guests, Lord and Lady Winters.

  “Winters!” Thorne exclaimed, offering another old school chum his hand. “It has been years.”

  “Yes, and I must say, Thorne, having heard you were in town, I had expected to see you before this.”

  “I would have liked to oblige you in that, but I had certain other matters that required my attention first.”

  Winters nodded, with a look of sympathy. “Luke.”

  Thorne was uncomfortable at this reminder that his family name had been bandied about London drawing rooms so freely. “Yes. Luke,” he admitted, and then added, “but I am in town also because I felt it was time I took a more active interest in what you fellows are doing in Lords.”

  Winter
s gave a visible start of surprise and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not say you are really taking your seat in Parliament?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Good. You know, you need to come to town more often instead of hiding away up north.”

  “My brother said the same thing. He—and you—may be right.”

  A lovely, auburn-haired woman approached and placed her hand on Winters’s arm in a familiar manner. Winters introduced his wife to Thorne and it was readily apparent that Winters, too, had made a fortunate choice in his bride.

  “Lady Winters,” Thorne acknowledged the introduction.

  “Lord Rolsbury. I have heard much about you and I am ever so happy finally to meet you.”

  Thorne flashed his friend a mocking grimace. “My dear Lady Winters, I do hope you were not misled into believing all that your scapegrace spouse might have told you of me.”

  She laughed. “Not all of it—but there was something about filling a certain headmaster’s office with crumpled papers? And putting vegetable dye in his fish tank? You must tell me the whole of those tales.”

  “I shall be happy to do so, my lady. Those were, after all, two of Winters’s better—well, most successful—plots against that abominable man.”

  “You must address me as ‘Letty,’ ” she said. “I mean to say, all of us here tonight are friends of long standing and we really cannot have you be the only one among us ‘my lording’ and ‘my ladying’ everyone.”

  Thorne covered his surprise at this, for he knew Winters’s wife was the daughter of a duke and of course Winters himself would one day inherit a dukedom. Most women of such pedigree would be extraordinarily aware of their rank. Then he immediately chastised himself. Jonathan Castlemaine, Marquis of Winters, leading prankster in their school form, would hardly have chosen a wife with a puffed-up sense of pride.

  Thorne was warmed by the reception his friends’ wives had given him. Truth to tell, he rather envied Hart and Winters, if first impressions of their ladies were anything by which to judge.

  A few minutes later, Thorne stood conversing with the Rhys brother and sister and Berwyn. All four of them had been in Belgium just before Waterloo. Thorne remembered dancing with Helen Rhys at the ball given by the Duchess of Richmond on the eve of the great battle. Miss Rhys had been barely out of the schoolroom at the time. He wondered why she had not been snapped up on the marriage mart, for she was quite a lovely woman—tall, with silvery blond hair and blue eyes. His musings were interrupted as the butler intoned the names of the last arrivals.