by Olivia Drake
“I agree that starry-eyed girls are too often maneuvered into unsuitable matches,” Rory said. “In particular, by gentlemen who covet a beauty or an heiress—or both. Only look at Miss Kipling.”
Miss Kipling’s situation held a disturbing similarity to Celeste’s. Both girls were being pushed into marrying a haughty older nobleman when they ought to wed someone closer to their own age. Rory decided that it would make an excellent topic for an essay on the plight of women in society.
“Miss Kipling? Who the devil is she?”
The sharp query in Lady Dashell’s voice startled Rory. She had presumed the marchioness knew about her eldest son’s marital plans, especially since he needed to marry wealth after squandering his fortune through poor investments. But judging by the surprise on that bitter, lined face, it appeared that his mother had been kept in the dark.
A little devil made Rory say, “I’m sure Lord Dashell will tell you about her in due course.”
“My son? He is the one courting this female?” The marchioness jabbed her fork in Rory’s direction. “You will tell me about her at once. Everything you know. And don’t leave out even a snippet.”
“I believe that privilege belongs to his lordship.”
“Do as I say. Or I shall sack you!”
Keeping an eye on that yolk-stained fork, Rory laced her fingers at her waist. Lady Dashell would find out sooner or later. In the meantime, Rory couldn’t risk being turned out of the house before finding the purloined letters. “I know very little, I’m afraid. Only that Miss Alice Kipling is an heiress.”
“You implied earlier that my son intends to marry her.”
“That I cannot say for certain. I did, however, hear a rumor that she is Lord Dashell’s romantic interest.” Lord Henry had revealed that tidbit, but Rory deemed it best not to bring her ladyship’s younger son into the discussion, for it might stir up trouble between the brothers.
The marchioness grimaced. “Well! The chit must be common, for I know all the best families and I’ve never heard of her.”
“I’m told her father made his fortune in the textile mills of Manchester. But I can assure you, she is quite lovely and ladylike. I happened to meet her and her mother yesterday when they came to call. Had you come downstairs, you could have met them, too.”
“Fool! Haven’t you been told? I am unable to walk. My aches and pains have confined me to this bed for the past year.”
The marchioness had survived the coach crash that had taken the life of her husband, Rory recalled. The woman ruled her bedchamber like a little fiefdom, snapping orders to the servants and haranguing her companions. A change of scenery might improve her disposition.
“Someone could have carried you downstairs to the drawing room. I’m sure Lord Dashell or one of the footmen would have been happy to oblige.”
“Bah! What little you know of my suffering. You might at least pretend a smidgeon of compassion!”
“I am showing compassion in looking out for your happiness. It would be a pleasant distraction if you were to go elsewhere in the house for a portion of each day—or even outside in the garden. For that matter, you could go on drives in the park, as well.”
“You’re just like Lucas, always nagging. When I wish to hear your opinion, I will ask for it!” She pointed her fork at a corner of the bedchamber. “Now, go and sit down at that desk.”
“Why?”
“Cheeky girl! Do as I say. I’ve had quite enough of your impertinence.”
Rory went to the dainty desk, drew out the chair, and seated herself. “Here I am. Now what?”
“Now you shall write a note to Miss Kipling and instruct her and her mother to come here at once. If the chit is plotting to displace me as marchioness, I will judge her suitability for myself.”
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when the visitors arrived.
Rory had been reading to Lady Dashell from a book of dull sermons. The marchioness had dozed off halfway through a homily on temperance, and Rory had decided to risk sneaking downstairs to search Dashell’s study. He had gone to Parliament that morning, she’d learned from the footman who had delivered her ladyship’s luncheon. He wasn’t expected to return for hours.
She might never have a better opportunity.
Rory tiptoed to the door. Just as she was reaching for the handle, however, a knock rattled the wood panel and Lady Dashell’s eyes snapped open. The marchioness fumbled for the pince-nez that had fallen onto the bedclothes and replaced it on the bridge of her nose. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To answer the door, of course.”
“It had best be the Kiplings! I can’t imagine why they haven’t arrived yet. Did you send the note? Or did you tell the footman to toss it into the dustbin?”
Rory clenched her teeth. No wonder her ladyship’s other companions had departed so swiftly. The querulous woman had been carping all morning and throughout the noontime meal, complaining that the chicken was dry, the potatoes too greasy. Her bed was lumpy, the pillows improperly arranged. The fire was too low, then it burned too hot. On and on, until Rory was ready to march out of the house and forget about finding those letters.
She opened the door to see Jarvis standing there. The stocky butler motioned her out into the corridor. “The Kiplings are waiting below,” he said in an undertone, his brow furrowed. “They claim that her ladyship asked them to come upstairs to her chamber. Is this true?”
“Yes, she had me write the invitation this morning.”
“I fear his lordship will not be pleased.”
“Why? Has he ordered you to bar them from seeing her?”
“No, Miss Paxton. I merely think he would wish to be here to supervise the visit.”
“I will do so in his stead, then. Pray send them up.”
Ignoring his worried expression, Rory returned to the bedside. If she embroiled herself in trouble over the incident, then so be it. Yet surely all would be well so long as she kept a close watch on the marchioness. “Your guests are here, my lady. Allow me to straighten your collar. And you lost a few hairpins when you fell asleep.”
While Rory made the repairs, Lady Dashell grumbled, “I wasn’t asleep, I was merely resting my eyes. And stop your fussing! These visitors are mere commoners, not royalty.”
But her gray eyes glittered and her fingers plucked at the bedclothes as if she relished a break from the monotony of the day. Rory felt a twist of sympathy. Did no one ever call on the woman, not even old friends? That wouldn’t be surprising. She wasn’t the sort to endear herself to others.
Jarvis stepped into the bedchamber. “Mrs. Kipling and Miss Kipling.”
He bowed out while mother and daughter sashayed into the room. Clad in a gown of burnt-orange plaid, Mrs. Kipling led the way. A cluster of dyed brown egret feathers wagged atop her hat. Miss Kipling followed, a vision in pale green silk with a straw bonnet framing her dainty features and blond curls.
Lady Dashell surveyed them through the narrow pince-nez. A haughty expression pinched her face. “Where have you been? You ought to have come hours ago. Did you not heed my note?”
Despite the rude criticism, Mrs. Kipling dipped a curtsy with fawning humility. “Pray forgive us, my lady. I didn’t think it suitable to call until after luncheon.”
“When I say at once, I mean just that. You have kept me waiting for the better part of the day.”
“What her ladyship means,” Rory said, “is that she has been most anxious to meet you and your daughter.” When the marchioness parted her lips, no doubt to utter another acid remark, Rory added, “My lady, if I may present Miss Alice Kipling.”
Alice stepped forward, aided by a subtle push from her doting mama. Her nose nearly touched the floor as she made a deep curtsy worthy of presentation to the Queen. “It is a great honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Dashell.”
“Come closer, gal. Don’t hang back like a ninny.”
Beckoned by that skeletal hand, Alice sidled closer
to the bedside. “I am truly sorry for your illness. I do hope you’re up and about again very soon.”
“I’m crippled, you fool. I will never arise from this bed. If my son had any real interest in you, he would have told you so.”
Alice cringed, glancing at her mother, both clearly nonplussed by the implication that they might have mistaken his interest in her. “Pray forgive me,” the girl murmured. “I—I meant no insult…”
“Of course you didn’t, my darling,” Mrs. Kipling said with a nervous laugh. “It was a simple mistake, your ladyship.”
“Simpleminded, that’s what. As I’ve always said, it’s better to look silly than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”
Mrs. Kipling’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. She appeared too befuddled to know how to respond to such blatant discourtesy.
To ease the tension, Rory hastily brought over two straight-backed chairs. “Won’t you please sit? Perhaps I could ring for tea.”
“It isn’t teatime yet,” Lady Dashell snapped, overruling the suggestion. “And there is no purpose in them sitting since they shan’t be here long.”
The Kiplings dutifully remained standing side by side. Mrs. Kipling clutched her beaded brown reticule and inquired, “Is Lord Dashell at home? It would be a pleasure to see him again.”
Lady Dashell gave her a shrewd stare. “No doubt, since you’ve an eye toward foisting your daughter on him. Tell me, how large is her portion?”
“It wouldn’t be polite to say, my lady. I leave such matters to Mr. Kipling.”
“Don’t be coy. It must be enormous, else my son would not show any interest in a commoner.” The old woman turned her spiteful gaze on Alice. “But if she won’t say, then you tell me, girl.”
Alice edged back, looking to her mother for guidance. “I—I…”
“Speak up! I’ve no use for shrinking violets.”
Rory took a step forward. “Lady Dashell, it might be wise to save your questions for his lordship.”
“Bah! They will tell me or depart, never to return.”
“Alice has a dot of fifty thousand,” Mrs. Kipling blurted out. “As our only child, she also will inherit a fortune someday. So, you see, she is quite well endowed.”
Lady Dashell arched a graying eyebrow. Even she looked impressed by the astronomical sum. “I knew it,” she crowed, slapping her hand onto the coverlet. “Dashell is sniffing after your money. You think to purchase the marchioness’s tiara. My tiara.”
“His lordship is deeply in debt, or so I’ve heard,” Mrs. Kipling said, rallying enough to lift her chin. “I should think it is a fair bargain on both sides.”
“Harrumph. Gold is nothing compared to a venerable title and blue blood.” Her ladyship turned her malevolent gaze on Alice. “And you. What do you think of all this? You intend to make me the dowager, do you? You believe that a fine wardrobe and a plump purse makes you grand enough to rule a nobleman’s household!”
Alice’s blue eyes widened. Her gloved fingers were twisting the delicate lace on her bodice. “Only if—if his lordship thinks so…”
Rory had tolerated quite enough of the bullying. “She’s right, Lord Dashell will have the final say in this matter. Until then, it is best that your visitors return later. When he is here.”
Mrs. Kipling seized the hint and dipped another curtsy. “It has been good to meet you at last, your ladyship. Come, Alice, we mustn’t overstay our welcome.”
As the Kiplings scuttled toward the door, Rory followed, intending to see them out. A small scraping sound made her glance back over her shoulder. Just in time. Lady Dashell snatched a pewter candlestick from the bedside table and hurled it at the departing guests.
Rory acted on instinct. She leaped into the path of the projectile to prevent it from striking the women. In the same split second, she raised her arms in an attempt to catch it …
A hand flashed out from behind her. Masculine fingers deftly plucked the candlestick from the air. She whirled around to see her rescuer.
“Lord Henry!”
He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling beneath a thatch of brown hair. The coffee-colored coat and yellow-striped waistcoat lent him the look of a dandified gentleman. “You’re brave to take a bullet for Miss Kipling. Though I don’t believe the frightened fawn is even aware of your sacrifice.”
The Kiplings had vanished out the door.
Rory released a breath. “Thank you. Though I’d have managed myself.”
“Don’t be so certain. Mama has quite the throwing arm.”
He sauntered toward the bed, where Lady Dashell sat with her arms crossed. In an almost guilty expression, she lowered her chin and watched the approach of her younger son.
“I will not tolerate any rebuke from you,” she stated. “The chit is dim-witted and cowardly. Only look at how she scurried out of here like a terrified mouse.”
“You terrify even me, Mama.” He placed the candlestick back on the table, then bent down and planted a smacking kiss on her gaunt cheek. “I’ll wager she was running because you raked her over the coals.”
“Only to test her mettle. And she failed miserably. She isn’t worthy to fill my shoes—or my tiara.”
“Oh, give the girl a chance. At least she’s easy on the eyes. And Dash would be a fool not to take her as his bride. Her papa is as rich as Croesus.”
“Has Lucas told you his intentions, then?”
“Of course not. You should know by now that he always plays his cards close to the chest.”
“Well! I suppose her wealth is a mark in her favor.” She petulantly grasped at the bedclothes. “Not that it shall do me the slightest bit of good as I am confined to this bed.”
He chucked her under the chin. “Cheer up, Mama. At least it’ll keep us out of the poorhouse.”
To Rory’s surprise, Lord Henry coaxed a smile out of his mother. He perched on the side of the bed and entertained her with the latest gossip. It was clear that Lady Dashell adored her second son. If she was of an age with Aunt Bernice, she must be no more than fifty-eight. Rory had presumed her to be older. When her face lost that sourness, however, she looked almost girlish again.
Rory went into the dressing room to give them some privacy. Surely Lord Henry had been jesting when he’d mentioned the poorhouse. It made her feel sorry for him and his mother, for they were victims of Lord Dashell’s mismanagement of his financial affairs. She herself knew how dreadful it was to be penniless.
Nevertheless, it was wrong of Lord Dashell to blackmail Kitty. And Rory intended to make certain he paid for his crime.
Chapter 8
A nobleman often weds a girl half his age so that he can mold her into the perfect wife.
—MISS CELLANY
Lucas wended his way through the crowded ballroom. The lilt of a waltz and the buzz of conversation filled the vast room. The air was stuffy from the crush of people and overheated from the blaze of candles in the crystal chandeliers. Ladies simpered at him, gentlemen spoke greetings, but he didn’t grace anyone with more than a terse few words.
He was on a mission to find Miss Alice Kipling. To determine the extent of the damage that had been done.
While dressing for the ball, he’d heard the alarming news from his valet that the Kiplings had come to call on his mother and, shortly thereafter, had fled the house in a hurry. Both women had appeared frightened and distraught. It didn’t take a genius to guess how maliciously the marchioness must have grilled them. She’d likely even thrown something at them.
Anger dogged his every step through the ballroom. This should never have happened. He’d planned to introduce his mother to the Kiplings himself—after he’d put a betrothal ring on Alice’s finger.
Rory Paxton had orchestrated the entire mess. According to the servants’ grapevine, she had sent a note to the Kiplings that morning. Which meant she must have gossiped with Mama about his interest in Alice. Blast Rory, she should have known better than to permit such a visit without his permissi
on. He would have gone to confront her about the blunder right then and there, but he’d been running late for the ball already, having been delayed by a prolonged meeting at Parliament.
Now, he needed to find Alice. The last thing he wanted was for her to be so offended that she’d divert her attention—and her money—to another suitor.
Lucas made a complete circuit of the ballroom before spotting his quarry. Clad in virginal white with blond curls framing her dainty features, Alice was leaving the dance floor at the end of a set. She smiled demurely at her partner as he bent his dark head close to murmur in her ear.
Lucas couldn’t identify the man. Too many milling guests blocked his line of sight. He stalked forward, intending to assert his claim on her. Half the bachelors present were on the prowl for an heiress to pay off their gambling debts. Hell, there were even a few of his father’s old cronies who’d jump at the chance to ensnare a rich young commoner.
The throng parted and he spied Alice’s partner. He had brown hair, debonair attire, and a devil-may-care grin on his boyish features.
Henry.
Lucas felt a wave of relief. His brother wouldn’t poach Alice. And it was encouraging to see that she appeared at ease conversing with him. He hoped to God it meant that no permanent harm had been done.
He made his bow to her. “Good evening, Alice. I trust that my brother has been behaving himself.”
Her smile dimmed. “Yes, my lord. He’s been excellent company.”
The formal mode of address indicated a distance in her manner. Her blue eyes held a hint of wariness. Damn! If he were better at small talk, he’d come up with a glib comment to charm her. “You look very fine tonight.”
She allowed him to kiss her hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s a miracle she can bear the sight of us,” Henry said, mischief dancing in his eyes. “The poor girl was traumatized by our mother today. You did hear about that, didn’t you, Dash?”