by Sophia Nash
“Well, that makes two of us,” Verity said ruefully.
Not a quarter hour later it was all arranged. Mary’s affairs were sent on to the estate, while the ladies independently rode to Boxwood. They even raced the last furlong, which made Verity love Mary all the more. How could such grace and elegance also ride like a banshee? It simply was not fair.
Then again, was not life ever fair? How many times would she have to learn that lesson?
In a cozy study in front of a spare fire, meant only to chase the barest hint of coolness in the summer night’s air, the two ladies reconvened after Mary had taken a race victory lie down.
“So, are you ever going to tell me why you are not in Scotland, Mary?”
“Of course. But first you must tell me news of your brother and the other members of the royal entourage. Where are they? The Morning Post was filled with . . . with drivel.”
Verity bit her lip. “Well, the thing of it is . . .” And within a quarter hour Mary was apprised of the details of James’s catastrophic non-wedding morning. But Verity was just not ready to confide her own disaster-in-the-making.
“Well, I know it’s not correct of me to allow this,” Mary began. “But I think it was the unspoken thought of most of the ton that Candover’s wedding of the century would have been the greatest mistake of the century. Although I will admit, quite selfishly, that it works out very well for me.”
Verity stared at her. “Why?”
“All of London is so focused on the ruckus that the upper crust will be entirely uninterested in my sad story.”
Verity waited patiently.
“The MacGregor is dead.”
“Dead?”
“The day before I arrived.”
“Lord, Mary . . . Was he murdered?”
“You always had the most vivid imagination, dearest.” Mary shook her head. “Didn’t you used to weave the most fantastic stories about jungle cats mating with zebras when you were a child?”
“Cheetahs and panthers,” Verity replied with a sly look. “But they never mated. They merely flirted.”
“Indeed,” Mary added, nodding. “Quite provocative for a young lady.”
“But what of MacGregor? Oh, I’m so sorry, Mary. But we all understood him to be a virile man in his prime.”
“He succumbed to a sudden lung fever the day before I arrived for our wedding in the Highlands.”
“Oh, Mary.”
The great beauty glanced toward the lengthening shadows reflected from the window. “It’s all right, Verity. I’ve had a long carriage ride to reconcile myself to the fact. I believe he would have been a good husband, even if he was a stranger. But I seem to be walking under a cloud of ill luck. I was dreadfully sorry for his family, who adored him. I stayed for a week—for the burial, but no longer. I felt like an imposter in a house full of proper mourners. So now I’m eventually for London where I shall wear mourning gowns and decline invitations for the required period. It suits me perfectly, actually, as you can imagine.”
“I have a far better idea,” Verity began. “I’m positively begging you to remain here with me. You cannot go to Town. You know it would be unbearable for you. Lord and Lady Ha—” Verity stopped herself, horrified she had almost referred to Mary’s recent deep heartache.
“It’s all right, Verity. You can say the name.” Mary’s mouth formed a lovely smile but her emerald eyes did not show a hint of happiness.
“Lord and Lady Hadrien are in London, just returned from their honeymoon.”
“I had guessed,” Mary said stiffly, with that same determined smile. “But truly I am fully recovered, Verity.”
Her stunning friend’s visage spoke of the opposite.
“I refuse to be bitter. It’s very simple really. What I thought we had formed was not genuine after all. It was mere illusion, nothing more. I know I’m lucky. And far better off without him. Hadrien sold himself for a price.” She looked down at her hands pleated in her lap in front of her. “But eventually he will learn the cost. I pity him, really, Verity. I very much doubt he will find happiness as the lapdog of a very rich older lady. And her grand estate is far from the glittering lights of Town he prefers.”
After a long silence, Verity asked her softly, “I never knew precisely what happened. Hope and Faith didn’t breathe a word.”
“I shall tell you, then,” Mary continued, studying the hem of her simple black mourning gown. “Hadrien never formally announced our engagement as promised. Slowly, and painfully, but most assuredly, he disappeared from my life—still privately declaring his deep love for me on the rare occasion I would see him. I later heard rumors that all the while he was secretly corresponding with the widowed countess. You know the rest.”
“I wish there was a word worse than ‘devil’ for that is what he is. I do hope you never question yourself for he duped us all.” Verity reached for Mary’s hand and squeezed it gently with affection.
“Don’t worry, dearest, I refuse to become bitter, you see. And now I’ve had more than a week to take a decision and yet again a new path,” Mary said, the barest hint of a smile forming on her face finally.
“Indeed. What is your plan, pray tell?”
“We both of us are in need of husbands, are we not?”
“And why would you suggest I am in need of . . .” Mary Haverty was usually the most brilliant schemer but—
“A letter from Hope reached me before I left the Highlands. She wrote that she and your sisters were leaving for a house party at the Duke of Kress’s crumbling landmark in Cornwall—all ordered there by the Prince Regent. But she also noted cryptically that you alone returned to Derbyshire by direction of your brother. It made little sense to me. You and your sisters walk lock-step. And then I wondered”— Mary examined her closely—“why Abshire was not ordered south with the rest of the entourage, too. Surely this is some stupid misunderstanding. Your brother is more of a tyrant than my father used to be.”
“He’s on a fool’s errand, I assure you.”
Mary looked at her expectantly.
Verity hesitated.
“You’re not going to violate the golden rule of intimate friendship, Verity, are you? Because truly I’m not certain I will hold up under the strain of the guilt I might feel, attempting to wheedle information you do not want to impart.”
And with that, the veil of secrecy came crashing down, and for the first time in a very long time, Verity felt the relief of confiding that she had awakened to find Rory Lennox in her bed.
Mary looked at her transfixed. “But do you love him?”
“Of course not!”
Those sly green eyes, which were not at all spring pea in color, deduced otherwise. “How long have you been in love with him?”
Verity exhaled heavily. “Far before cheetahs began preying on panthers.”
Mary chuckled. “Does he know?”
“Of course not. Look, the truth of the matter is that while I might have had a tendre for him when I was much younger, then I grew up. And I have seen enough of life to know that an on-the-shelf spinster will not find happiness with a charming rake.”
“Thank the Lord you’re so sensible, Verity. More sensible than I.”
“All I know is that I cannot marry him. It would be unbearable to live the rest of my life beside a man who wed me against his will. And it’s beside the point. I decided long ago that I would most likely never marry. And much as James blusters on and on about marrying his sisters off and offering staggering dowries as inducement, he has already agreed to Hope and Faith’s request that they end their annual suffering through another Season. They are to remove to his estate in the Lake District this autumn.”
“Your feelings are perfectly reasonable,” Mary agreed.
Verity rushed from her seat and knelt on the hearth to accept the arms Mary offered. “Finally, someone who understands. I’m so tired of the false hope and encouragement offered by other females.”
“You misunderstand, Verity.
Your sensibilities are understandable, but you might have to reconsider. I know you would not ever do anything to hurt the future chances of any of your sisters. If a breath of scandal floats to your corner, you know very well it might tarnish their eligibility even with their immense dowries. Since we are in similar but different situations, I believe we must do what I suggested. We must find proper husbands in very short order despite your previous vow. And I have devised a strategy that will ensure that we find gentlemen who will fulfill all our requirements—love not being one of them. In your case, we will find someone who will offer you the protection of his name but not intimate presence in your life, if that is what you truly wish.”
Verity sighed inwardly. She could not tell Mary Haverty why she had no desire to marry anyone in her lifetime. There was only one soul on earth who knew the most important reasons. Her brother.
But it was time to face facts. She should prepare for the worst. If gossip about that night in Carleton House began filtering into Derbyshire from Town, she should have a suitable gentleman willing to agree to a marriage of convenience—long on reserve and respect, and short on any sort of intimacy. Her dowry would go a long way as an enticement. And the search would be less awful if she did it with Mary. “You said you had a plan.”
“I do indeed.” Mary pulled a note from her black string reticule and unfolded it carefully. “It’s so simple and brilliant I should have employed this method my first season. Memorize this list of questions. When is the next large social event in the neighborhood?”
Verity accepted the proffered list but didn’t examine it. “Tomorrow night. The Talmadges’ ball to honor the arrival of Abshire. What have you in mind?”
“Perfect,” Mary replied, her eyes sparkling with humor. “We are going to query every gentleman we dance with or talk to tomorrow night and every day and night during the next fortnight. If any of them answer all these questions correctly, we will agree to marry them on the spot. Agreed?”
Verity shook her head. “You cannot be serious. Let me see.” She read the first question and exploded with laughter.
1. Do you have a secret love child?
Chapter 5
Rory entered the Talmadge manor house near Dovedale Wednesday evening at precisely one-half hour past the appointed time. He would have arrived far later, if at all, had it not been for the matter at hand—forcing Verity’s hand.
She was proving to be damnably difficult to govern. He should have known. Was there a Fitzroy in the last five hundred years who had not been stubborn? He very much doubted it.
But he wasn’t used to the trait in a female. Coquetry, fickleness, a love of flattery, and everything that sparkled was what most ladies were made of. Verity appeared just the opposite. She was outspoken, honest, practical, and very amusing. He liked her.
For the first time in his life he wasn’t certain how to proceed even if he knew he would win in the end.
At least when she agreed to his proposal, his conscience would be less heavy and he could attend his appointment with death if Candover refused to accept his apology for harming his sister and . . . Catharine. Rory had meted out his own punishment for his unspeakable actions toward Catharine fourteen years ago; he had become a cog in the war between England and France. But he knew Candover would never forgive him. And so Rory had prepared himself to face death long ago. Who would have guessed it would take so many years to be served his dish . . . and that it would suddenly become far less appealing than it had been fourteen years ago?
He tugged at the neckcloth Towareq had spent so much bloody time arranging this evening. God, he just needed more air. At least he had managed to time it right. The Talmadges had stopped receiving and everyone was already in the ballroom when a liveried servant bowed and motioned him into the chamber he knew well from so long ago.
It was the same glittering scene of many a year gone by. Magnificent crystal chandeliers above shone reflected light from dozens of candles. The intricate gold leaf panels on the walls framed bucolic scenes from the last era of powdered and bewigged ladies and lords dancing, picnicking, and children swinging. The domed ceiling, painted by Laguerre, featured the Virtues and Vices in glorified battle. It captured the essence of the scene below perfectly.
Rory examined the people in the elegant chamber under hooded eyes. Conversation abruptly stopped and all eyes turned toward him.
He finally spotted Lady V. She had dared to refuse to see him yesterday when he came to call on her at Boxwood. He took one step toward her when Miss Phoebe Talmadge hurried to block his path.
“Your Grace,” she said with a deep curtsy. “You are just in time. The music is about to begin and, let’s see . . .” She glanced at the card attached at her wrist with a gold ribbon that matched her shimmering gown, which matched her gleaming hair held high with gold combs. “Yes, I remember. You are my first partner.”
And this was merely the beginning of the evening designed in hell. The notes of a waltz wafted from the musicians perched in the balcony.
Lord, it was like holding Catharine. Phoebe Talmadge was the exact height as her dead sister. His arm fell on the same waist, and his gaze fell on the same intensely cornflower blue eyes filled with farouche mystery. “How old are you?”
She smiled and his gut clenched. There was the same sense of unruliness in her expression.
“How perfectly rude, Your Grace. I should like to tell you, but I shall have to do it in private for there are far too many people staring at us.”
He looked away to negotiate the edge of the ballroom only to see his future bride—he winced at even thinking the word—yes, his bride entering the dance just ahead of him with a prematurely balding and bespectacled young gentleman. Why wasn’t she dancing with young Talmadge? Rory increased the length of his stride to draw closer.
“Did your brother ask Lady Verity Fitzroy for the first set as we discussed?”
“Of course he did. My brother and I always honor our commitments, Your Grace.”
“Good.” His gaze tracked Verity and her partner.
She continued for his ears only, “I’m very unlike my sister in that way.”
His attention swiveled to the beautiful Miss Talmadge. “Sorry?”
“I’ve been described as virtually identical to Catharine in figure, form, and every manner. I loved her, and still pine for her just like everyone who knew her,” she whispered the last. “But where she was reckless and fickle, I’m quite the opposite, you see.”
“I do see,” he replied and pulled her closer. Indecently closer. “But the very thing most appealing about Catharine was her recklessness and her divine fickle nature. We were two of a kind, I fear.”
Phoebe laughed. “I suppose this is the best moment to confess that while my brother did indeed request the first set with Lady Fitzroy, she replied that she was old enough to be his mother and that she did not want to start tongues wagging. She was very right in her thinking, I believe. But what do you think?”
He would not waste his time telling her what he thought. It required enough concentration just to follow the couple in front of them. He didn’t even notice the babble coming from her pretty face until she disengaged her hand from his shoulder and grasped his chin to draw his attention toward her.
“You are quite provoking me, Your Grace.”
“How so?”
“I will tell you if you take your eyes off the other guests and look at me.”
It was what he least wanted to do. He reluctantly diverted his gaze from Verity and her very ordinary-looking partner in the dance and looked down at Phoebe’s eyes, lips, upturned nose, and blond hair done up in the exact same fashion Catharine had employed and he had memorized all those years ago.
“Thank you,” she said coyly. “Now what I was saying . . .”
He had trained his eyes and ears to pick up conversations at great distances during his stint with Wellington. It had served him well. What in hell was Verity saying now?
“Lord V
illiers, I’m so sorry to beleaguer you with so many questions, but I do believe it will expedite our acquaintance, you see. You are very free to ask me anything you like in return.” She did not stop to see if he had anything to ask. Instead she plowed forward. “So, no mistresses or love children and no relations living with you. And did you love your mother while she lived?”
“Owwww!” Phoebe Talmadge cried out as Rory mistakenly put his full weight on her tiny foot.
She sounded like a cat in heat, was his first unkind thought. “Oh, my dear Miss Talmadge. Do allow me to apologize.” He escorted her as she limped to the edge of the dance floor.
“You must carry me to the front salon.” She pouted. “I do believe you’ve broken all of the toes on my left foot, Your Grace.”
“Allow me to fetch your brother or a footman.”
“No,” she insisted. “It’s only fair that you take me since it’s your fault.”
Catharine would never have behaved in such a wholly childish fashion. Surely, not. Maybe. He sighed heavily. “Oh, all right.” He leaned down and captured her under her knees and her arms. She immediately placed her arms about his neck.
A hundred pair of eyes drifted in their direction along with a few calls of concern.
“Just a few bruised toes,” he said loudly to anyone who would listen.
Not a moment after he deposited Phoebe Talmadge on the striped satin divan with a scrolled Egyptian arm on one side, Mary Haverty rushed inside.
“Oh my dearest Miss Talmadge. I’ve arranged for your maid. Shall we not call the apothecary? And you, Your Grace—”
He really could have kissed Mary for this. Her beauty was such that men lost their heads by the dozen, exhibiting advanced signs of lovesickness, penning atrocious odes to her eyes, and arranging deliveries of hothouse flowers by the carriage load. And yet? Rory had never been attracted to her. There was a sisterly quality to her.
“Yes, Lady Haverty?”
“Do find Lady Fitzroy for me. She always has smelling salts, and we might require them if the bones have to be reset.”