Lord Haversham Takes Command

by Heidi Ashworth

  Her father sighed and took her hand in his. “Mira, my love, we have often thought you had feelings for Harry.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I might have had,” Mira said in spite of her hesitation. “But you know that we have always been nothing but friends. Besides, he is miles older than I.”

  He is a mere three years older, very close to the number of years between your father and I,” her mother pointed out. “The two of you have always gotten along so well, and Harry has been almost one of the family. I can’t say, however, that I have always favored the match; his parents are so … well, I suppose I have said too much already.”

  “His parents?” Mira conjured up an image of Lord Avery, Harry’s corpulent father, with his long locks of gray and those tiny eyes pinched between the fat of his cheeks and that of his brow. He was forever gushing over the ladies as if he were the most eligible bachelor on the town and regularly recited the most appalling poetry. True, he was an earl, but that in no way compensated for the constant creak of his corset.

  Of course Mira’s father was correct with regards to Lady Avery. She had a most annoying habit of clapping her hands and never at a time that remotely warranted it. She once clapped her hands as giddily as a schoolgirl when supper at Prospero Park was announced. It had not been an interminable wait nor was it a special occasion, merely a tedious Tuesday meal of bread and mutton, but Lady Avery had clapped her hands as if it were Father Christmas come to call. It caused Mira to wonder if perhaps Lady Avery was not in possession of an average intelligence. In short, there wasn’t much either of his parents had to say or think or opine that she would favor with a moment’s credit.

  “Yes, well … ” her mother hedged, “it isn’t as if they are any great friends of ours, and naturally it isn’t only because he is an earl and she a countess,” she added with what Mira felt unnecessary emphasis. “It’s just as your father said; we always thought you fond of him. And,” she added in a small voice, “he was better than George.”

  Mira cocked her head and tried to form a bitterless reply. “Yes, I do recall that he was better than George. Pray tell, why should he be favored for my hand in marriage whether Harry came up to scratch or not?”

  “Oh, Mira!” her mother scolded. “Why such vulgar language when you have every word in the English language at your command? That being said, I insist your father address that question.” And with that she turned away and paced to the other side of the room.

  Sir Anthony gave his daughter a look that bordered on sheepish and cleared his throat. “You see, child, until George was born, I was next in line for the old Duke’s title, he being my uncle and I his only living heir. When I married your mother, it was with the understanding that she would one day be my duchess … ”

  “Duchess, I declare!” Lady Crenshaw cried, spinning about. “You know well enough how little I cared for such things!”

  “Yes, yes, ’tis true,” Sir Anthony said as he shot his wife a barely concealed look of adoration. “Your mother didn’t care to be a duchess nor I a duke, but the possibility was there. So, when my uncle recovered from a long illness from which he was expected to expire and suddenly took a new wife, it wasn’t long until a son came along to replace the one he had lost only a short time before.”

  “George,” Mira said.

  Lord Crenshaw cleared his throat again. “Yes, George. Before my uncle finally did shuffle off this mortal coil, he insisted that the two of you should wed.”

  Adrian and Stephen shot to their feet, their faces alive with disgust, and quit the room. Their departure was followed by a loud sniff from her mother, causing Mira to wonder if there were more to the story than what was being said.

  “But it was just a moment ago you suggested Harry and I were to wed,” Mira replied in a leading fashion designed to produce elucidation.

  “Exactly. Insisting that you were meant for Harry was the most effective way at your tender age — I believe you were only ten or eleven years old at the time — to stave off George’s father,” her mother said with a sigh. “As matters stood, he was already far too involved with your upbringing. Had he reason to doubt that one day you would be anything but Duchess of Marcross, his demands would have proved intolerable, up to and including your removal from our home so as to be under his very nose. To think that anyone would suppose I should allow my daughter to be raised by that woman … ”

  Again Mira felt as if there was much left unsaid, but she sensed the subject was a painful one and, as such, did not push for further explanations.

  “I see. So, if I am not to wed Harry — and who should wish to?” she asked with a voice that choked a little — “then I am all but promised to George, whom I despise with hatred unabated!”

  For once her mother did not scold her for exaggerating the case. “Not exactly, however, that is the light in which George sees things. I must say that we fully expected the matter to be dropped when the old Duke died, but it would seem George has decided you are his due, and I’m afraid he is rather accustomed to his wishes being fulfilled.”

  “But Mother, how could you? You, who would settle for nothing less than a love match! Don’t you wish for me what you have with Father?” she cried as if her parents’ devotion to one another had never been anything but altogether appealing and desirable. “Papa, what have you to say to this piece of nonsense?”

  “Only that I, like your mother, want what’s best for you.”

  Lady Crenshaw went to her daughter’s side and put her arms about her. “Mira, when I married your father, I was twenty years old and firmly on the shelf. What’s more, my father was a vicar. Your father, however, is grandson, nephew, and heir to a duke. Naturally we wanted to look high for you. In that respect, as well as many others, Harry seemed the perfect choice. As the Viscount Haversham and the son of an earl, he is a fitting match for you in spite of your lack of title. The fact that you clearly adored him put an end to our anxiety over the matter.”

  “Adored him,” Mira mused as she slipped from her mother’s arms and went to the window that afforded the last view of Harry, the one from which he had ridden away four years prior. “Yes, I did adore him,” she murmured, “but Harry is no more.”

  Chapter Two

  Harry rode away from the only place he had ever known true happiness and cursed himself for a fool. “Make that a fool twice over,” he muttered aloud, though there was no one present to hear him. It was foolish to run away from her, even more foolish to think he could hide anything from her — his darling, astute, and, in every way, adorable Mira. There was a part of him that hoped he would find her so altered he could no longer bring himself to love her. He uttered a harsh laugh at the thought. Not only was she just as genuine and impetuous as ever, she was superior in so many ways — even more lovely, more brilliant, and to his mingled admiration and horror, more perceptive. How could he have thought for a single moment he could manage to carry out his plans under her very nose? The only sensible answer was to steer clear of his heart’s desire though that same heart quailed at the thought.

  He must play out this charade for as many weeks as necessary, even if it meant she might never know how much he loved her, had loved none but her his whole life long. Worse, after this afternoon’s work, she would not care. How could she? If he were to execute his plan, he would be obliged to behave exactly as did his giddy mother and arrogant father. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. But how could Mira love such a man as he now appeared to be, a man with no care in the world but his privileged place in society and the quantity of lace at his throat? Lace! He couldn’t abide the stuff!

  With a savage kick to his undeserving mount, he broke into a gallop and streaked back to the Abbey in hopes he would have time to renew his cursedly fussy toilette and be out again for the evening before his Lord and Lady returned from wherever it was that had kept them occupied for the afternoon — not that there was much divertissement to be had in the country. It would prove easier to avoid a cozy evening by th
e fire with his parents once the Season had begun and they had all taken up residence at Haversham House in London.

  The thought of the Season brought fresh miseries to mind. This was to be Mira’s come-out, and there was no doubt of the approbation she would stir in the hearts of many. How would ‘Bertie’ stack up against the suitors who would vie for her hand? And how could Harry possibly abide the ever present George, Duke of Marcross, for even a moment? Memories of his arrogant disposition paired with an obsequious air filled Harry with revulsion, but there was no hope of escape if he intended to stay close to the Crenshaw clan.

  With a sigh, he admitted he must devise a way to tolerate George, as avoiding Mira was out of the question. What’s more, it was beyond his power. He knew it was swimming in deep water to attempt to win the heart and hand of his beloved while he maintained his cover in fulfillment of his mission, but the alternative did not bear thinking on. He had long thought it could never be — that he was unworthy of Mira — and had resolved to stay away from Prospero Park at any cost. Her brothers, however, had cajoled him into a visit, and now that he had seen her, spoken with her, he couldn’t give her up any more than he could the air he breathed.

  Upon his arrival at the Abbey, he barely looked up as he tossed the reins to the groom and wearily made his way inside with few thoughts other than to take a long bath and to make an early night of it without his mother and father discovering his whereabouts. However, in that he was sorely disappointed.

  “Herbert!” his mother cried the moment he stepped into the house. The fact that she pronounced his name ‘air-bear’ was all of a piece. “We have been at point non plus wondering where you could possibly be!” Her ladyship’s penchant for French words and phrases made Harry’s ears hurt, but escape via another Grand Tour of the continent was not within the realm of possibility. “But here you are!”

  Harry sighed in anticipation of the hand clap, but it would seem he was to be spared that particular annoyance for the time being.

  “Yes, Mother, I am arrived,” he said and submitted himself to his mother’s noisy kisses.

  “See, my lord? He is home, and so are we!” she cried.

  “Yes, my petal, I see that,” his father said with a patience Harry knew he did not feel. “Good afternoon, Haversham. Did you find the Crenshaws in good health this fine day?”

  Harry detached himself from his mother’s clingy embrace and went to his father to give him the obligatory handshake, the one they always shared whether they had been parted six months or six minutes. “They are very well, Father, very well indeed.” It was on the tip of his tongue to add how well he found Mira in particular, but he dared not allow his mother, who doted on the Crenshaw’s daughter, false hope nor any excuse at all whatsoever to clap her hands.

  “And the fair Miss Crenshaw?” Lord Avery asked as he led his son into the drawing room, utterly dashing his son’s hopes of a quiet evening. “Was she happy to see you after so long? What am I saying? Of course she must have been! There isn’t a finer young gentleman in the realm,” he claimed as he poured out a drink and pushed a glass into Harry’s hand.

  He took the glass and smiled in spite of the ringing in his ears that followed each of his father’s pronouncements, relieved that he needn’t bother with his ‘Bertie’ masquerade whilst in his parents’ presence. They could not possibly see him in any light other than the one of their making; in their eyes, he was perfect, polished, and incapable of taking any action they had not first dreamed up in his behalf. Their blind worship of this extension of themselves had landed him neatly over more than one patch of rough ground growing up and had caused a scandalous number of household servants to throw up their hands and quit the premises altogether.

  “Father, I thank you for your confidence in me,” he said as he took a sip of his drink whilst shooting a discreet glance over at his mother to gauge her reaction, “though I believe it has been bruited about as to how Miss Crenshaw is promised to her cousin.” Since his arrival home, he had longed for the right moment to broach this very subject and had accepted the assignment to return to England expressly for the opportunity to intervene if the rumor were true. He felt prepared for anything but when his mother matter-of-factly confirmed its veracity, he felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.

  “Oh, yes!” Lady Avery said so emphatically the pins that fastened her lace cap to her still-golden hair came loose from their moorings. “It has been decided in the mind of his father, the old Duke, this age. However,” she said with a fervent clap, “we all know Miss Crenshaw has eyes for none but you, mon petit!”

  Harry wished to make light of his mother’s response, but his mouth had gone so dry, speech was impossible. To keep Mira tethered to his side would be difficult enough without her impending debut in London, but this verification of a de facto betrothal was the heaviest of blows. He set down his glass with care so as to disguise the shaking of his hand and went to the fender by the fire to scrape his boots and regain his composure.

  “My son,” his father said, placing a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, “a viscount and future earl of the realm has no cause to doubt his value at the bargaining table, even when pitted against a duke.”

  Harry felt something more than antipathy towards his father for the first time in years. Brushing the hand from his shoulder, Harry turned to face his parent. “Do you truly believe the Crenshaws care a farthing for a title? That Mira would trade happiness for Marcross?” He could all but feel the sneer on his face and turned away so as not to further alarm his mother. “Besides, Sir Anthony is too kind to force her hand where her heart does not lead.”

  “I cannot understand why you are so downcast, mon cher,” Lady Avery said. “I do believe you are correct. Anthony was once promised to moi, and though it was only for a day and a night, or perhaps a bit more,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes, “he cast me, along with my papa’s best-loved wineglasses, ruthlessly aside so as to marry a mere Miss Delacourt.”

  “That is not precisely what happened,” Lord Avery hastened to add.

  “But I am sure it was wineglasses he broke! They were the ones with the gilt edging, and if Anthony hadn’t already broken the engagement along with my heart, Papa would have insisted I not be allowed to marry him for the sake of those glasses alone!”

  Harry felt his father’s sigh rather than heard it. “That is neither here nor there, Lucinda,” he said in painfully clipped tones. “However, your mother is correct,” Lord Avery said somewhat grudgingly, “in that the Crenshaws marry for love. The fact that Sir Anthony’s engagement to your mother was nothing but a pretense for reasons I refuse to divulge at the moment,” he added with a jerk of his head in his wife’s direction, “is but a distraction from the truth — that truth being that Miss Crenshaw, like her father and mother before her, will follow her heart, wineglasses or no.”

  “Oh, Eustace!” Lady Avery said with a flurry of claps. “I had forgotten for the teensiest moment how splendidly romantic you are! Do you not recall the poem you wrote for me, the one where you went on and on about how much you would love to eat me, hair and all?”

  “Yes, my flower,” Lord Avery said for what was most likely the one hundredth time that day. Not for the first time, Harry felt for his father a deep pity mingled with something far less familiar: gratitude. Harry reached out to give his father a squeeze on the shoulder and turned his attention to the distraction of his mother long enough for her husband to make his escape into the library — a room calculated to be replete with comfort and cigar smoke, no clapping allowed.

  “Mother,” Harry said with an enthusiasm successfully feigned through many years of practice, “let’s say you and I set up the card table and have a game of whist!”

  “I don’t believe I should enjoy it much tonight,” she said with toss of her head.

  “Please, Mama,” Harry said as he eased himself onto the sofa next to her. “I am persuaded you shall win this time, every round!”

  “Truly
?” she asked as she studied him from the corner of her eye.

  “Truly!”

  “All right, then, let’s do!” she said and practically flew to the corner of the room to collect the cards from the green baize table. “Only, we shall stay seated here on the sofa by the fire and have a little coze, just you and I.”

  Harry, only too glad to leave off the subject of love, engagements, and broken hearts, was happy to comply with any and all of her demands for the time being, even if they grew tiresome and petty. As a result, he was caught off guard when her first question was a very pointed and dangerous one.

  “Harry,” she said in wheedlesome tones, “if I were to beg you tell me the meaning of the letter that arrived today via special messenger, would you?”

  Harry froze. He had never known his mother to be quite so calculating and was thoroughly unprepared for her to question anything that did not directly involve herself. Perhaps ‘Bertie’ should be required to make an appearance after all. Studying a card as if it were of paramount importance, he hedged his bets. “What would I know about a message for my lord?”

  “Oh, was it meant for your father? I am persuaded it was addressed to you.”

  Harry abandoned his hand, sat back, and studied his mother. She had sounded as guileless as ever, yet it was clear she had something up her sleeve and it wasn’t made of pasteboard. “Mother, I believe I have sadly underestimated you.”

  “Yes, dear, I do believe you have,” his mother said as mild as a morning in May.

  “If I tell you, you must promise not to breathe a word to anyone!” He was aghast at himself for the indiscretion he contemplated, but he was home and he was lonely and the person he held closest to his heart was further away than ever. “You mustn’t even tell my lord father. Are you able to do that?”