by Regina Scott
Once again she was on the receiving end of one of Father’s confused glances. “I want her to think of you as her daughter.”
“How is that different from what I just said?” She really needed to stop jesting or Father’s face would be permanently twisted with bewilderment. “Father, I can appreciate that this inheritance would be a most welcome windfall for the Holmwood family, but can you not see how ridiculous this is? A house full of impoverished people setting themselves against one another in the hope of being handsomely paid for their viciousness? It’s rather unseemly.”
“Who is to say this undertaking will be vicious? I am certain the participants will be civil.”
For a man who had lived fifty years in the world, Father understood so little of it. “I, for one, am looking forward to the farewell musicale when we all join in songs of friendship and mutual approbation, followed by long, drawn-out embraces and promises to exchange letters.”
“Don’t say things like that around the Warricks.” Father spoke in utter earnest. “They’ll think you’re a bit touched in the head.”
“I am convinced they are a bit touched in the head, so this might help our ‘seem like family’ strategy.”
Father sighed, the sound one of frustration rather than true weariness. “There is some comfort in knowing you tend to be quiet and demure around strangers. And you are pretty when you smile. That should help.”
“Thank you, Father.” She chose to see compliments in his vaguely uncomplimentary comments. It made life simpler.
“Please, for the sake of your family, attempt to make an impression—a favorable impression—on the Warricks. This could change our family’s entire future for generations.”
He was right, of course. Surely there was a way to participate in the “festivities” without completely sacrificing her dignity, especially when a certain fair-haired young gentleman was about.
She’d noticed him the moment he’d walked into the drawing room that afternoon. He’d carried himself with a calm confidence, had immediately greeted another attendee with the warm smile of friendship. He’d come with another gentleman, one she’d guess was his brother—there’d been a noticeable resemblance.
He’d not been there more than a quarter-hour before his gaze had settled on her. She’d done her best to simply breathe whilst under his scrutiny. In that moment, she’d been keenly aware of her outdated traveling dress and twice-mended gloves, and she’d silently decried the poor manners of their hosts to not allow new arrivals even a moment in which to freshen their appearance and smooth their hair. She’d been an utter fright.
Agatha didn’t know whether to go down to dinner looking as ghastly as she admittedly still did, simply to prove to Mr. Golden-haired Adonis that she didn’t worry overly much about strangers’ opinions on her appearance, or to put extra effort into rectifying her horrific demeanor to prove that he ought not to have judged her based on a moment’s glance. Of course, that meant admitting she’d judged him as well.
What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt . . . her.
“I will make certain I say at least three complimentary things about you to him over port tonight,” Father said.
An uncomfortable mixture of hope and panic immediately set in. “You are acquainted with him?” At the very least, she might learn the gentleman’s name.
“Vaguely,” he said. “He belongs to the club my grandfather belonged to and my father had intended to join before realizing the true state of his finances. Still, Mr. Warrick and I have exchanged the occasional generic greeting.”
Mr. Warrick. Good heavens, of course he was speaking of Mr. Warrick.
“While I do my best to speak, however briefly, with Mr. Warrick tonight, you need to make an impression on Mrs. Warrick.”
“I could recite the monarchs in reverse order,” Agatha suggested. “That cannot fail to make an impression.”
“No. No puddings or pies. No backwards kings and queens. No oddities, Agatha. Smile. Be demure. Find something about her to genuinely compliment. And please take this seriously.” Father sat beside her on the window seat. “A profitable estate and your family’s future is at stake—their entire future.”
What was a bit of groveling when one’s entire family was in such desperate need? It wasn’t as though she’d had to beg, plead, borrow, and generally humble herself for whatever bit of charity her neighbors were willing to bestow.
Some young ladies were adept at pianoforte. Others sang like angels. Some could paint beautiful watercolors. Agatha had a knack for setting aside every last shred of her dignity and humiliating herself for her family’s sake.
I need a new talent.
Chapter Three
The late Admiral Horatio Nelson would, no doubt, have been impressed to watch the expertise with which the attendees maneuvered and positioned themselves during that night’s after-dinner port. A veritable regatta of cravats and faded frock coats encircled their host, tossing out an endless stream of flattering words, about both him and themselves. Had the Warricks realized upon concocting this scheme of theirs that they would be subjected to three weeks of ceaseless attentions?
“This could be a very long house party,” Edward muttered to his brother. He and Tom were the only gentlemen not swarming their host. “I doubt this will stop even once while we’re here.”
“That is why I’m taking your approach,” Tom said.
“My what?”
“All the guests tossing compliments at Mr. Warrick’s head will simply blur together in his memory. But you and I, we will stand out because we aren’t following suit.”
Edward turned more fully to face Tom. “You are joining the competition?”
“It is a fortune,” Tom said, lowering his voice. “Certainly you don’t think I’m going to pass up a chance at a fortune.”
Tom couldn’t be serious. “But this entire thing is demeaning. The Warricks have set this up like a dog fight, and we, dear brother, are the dogs.”
“I am the younger son of an impoverished family. I am well acquainted with ‘demeaning.’ What I’d like to be well acquainted with is a comfortable income.”
This was unexpected. “You would lower yourself to compete for this inheritance?”
Tom set his glass of port on the tabletop. He kept his voice low. “You may have resigned yourself to living out your life alone, hoping to economize enough to keep the Downy estate solvent. I, however, do not even have that. As humiliating as the prospect is, this dog fight is my only chance.”
Edward had never heard Tom speak so matter-of-factly about their situation. For all intents and purposes, his brother had never seemed anything but casually unconcerned about important matters. Indeed, most people assumed Tom hadn’t a fully formed thought rattling around in his head.
“I wish I had more to offer you, Tom. Caroline’s marriage pulled the estate out of debt, but nothing short of a good investment of money will make it profitable.”
Tom sighed even as he shrugged. “If Warrick chooses me, we can use some of the income from this estate to bolster the Downy estate, then we’ll both have something of an income.”
It was a generous offer and, Edward knew, a genuine one. “If by some odd twist of fate, Warrick chooses me”—Edward still didn’t mean to actively participate in the competition, but stranger things had happened—“this estate will go to you, with only enough held back to bring the Downy estate back into profit.”
Tom nodded sharply. “I will gladly accept that offer.”
Edward only hoped desperation didn’t push Tom to do something truly humiliating. Though the income would be a godsend, a man didn’t recover easily from sacrificing his pride.
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen,” Mr. Warrick’s hardy voice called out. “We’d best join the ladies in the drawing room. They’ll be expecting us.”
He emerged from the crowd, looking well pleased with himself. Edward watched him pass, unsure if he was more amazed at how much the man was enjoying the collective fa
wning or discouraged to see yet another member of Society who felt his wealth entitled him to such groveling.
Mr. Warrick’s gaze settled on Edward, lingering there for a drawn-out moment. Edward hadn’t the heart to smile or nod or otherwise acknowledge the singling out that most of the others in the room would likely have drooled over. He found the entire charade nauseating. Mr. Warrick’s brow pulled, and his gaze shifted to Tom, who, to his credit, kept himself to a quick dip of his head and nothing more.
As the rest of the gentlemen followed in Warrick’s wake, Isley crossed instead to the table. “What are the two of you playing at?” he asked, eyeing them both in turn.
“Not Warrick’s little game,” Edward answered. “He’s making fools of the lot of us.”
Isley made a sound of dismissal. “I’ll play the fool for three weeks if it’ll earn me an estate this size. I made a few discreet inquiries. Warrick likely has at least £5000 a year, quite possibly more.”
The sound of Tom’s thick swallow told Edward as nothing else could that his brother only grew more desperate at hearing that number. He, himself, wasn’t entirely immune to it. In a good year, the Downy estate might bring £100. In a very good year.
“Only one person will be named heir,” Edward reminded them all. “Everyone else will leave just as penniless as they arrived, but with less dignity. That is a steep price.” He, for one, didn’t like the idea of contributing to the abasement of two dozen people.
“Appease your conscience if you can,” Isley said. “In the meantime, I will be joining Mr. and Mrs. Warrick in the drawing room and hoping to make a good showing for myself. Father did not leave Mother a widow’s jointure, and she is living with her sister. This estate has a dower house. She wouldn’t be a poor relation.” A touch of desperation showed in Isley’s face, not unlike what Edward had seen in Tom’s expression a moment ago.
This was what he hated most about the Warrick’s pitting their guests against one another. Though he didn’t know everyone’s story, Edward didn’t doubt they were all in straits as dire as Isley’s and Tom’s and his. Hopes were being raised, most of which would be cruelly dashed in three weeks’ time.
They joined the party in the drawing room. The Warricks were flanked on all sides by guests eager to assist, praise, and otherwise make themselves a favorite. Even if Edward were interested in participating, there’d be little point trying. Tom seemed to feel the same way; he found a seat and watched the display with barely concealed amusement. Either he was a terribly good actor, or he too had realized the futility of trying to make an impression while so many were already eagerly attempting to do so.
Edward kept to the edges of the room, making a circuit in search of a comfortable chair. His progress was hampered when he reached a window alcove with voices coming from within. He could not pass forward without his presence being made known, but a couple had taken up residence a few steps behind him and he couldn’t easily backtrack, either.
“Did Mrs. Warrick seem impressed with you?” a man’s voice asked.
“She found it odd that I offered to stir her tea,” was the response.
“Stir her—? You—?” Clearly her answer had been unexpected.
“You told me to make myself useful to her, Father. That seemed a useful thing to do.”
Had the Warrick’s involved a simpleton in their schemes? That was truly despicable.
“I was unable to get a word in with Mr. Warrick,” the poor girl’s father said. “I will try again when fewer of the guests are about. You do the same with Mrs. Warrick.”
“Perhaps I might offer to cut her food for her at breakfast in the morning.”
“No, Agatha.” Unmistakable frustration filled his words. “Do not do anything which involves personally manipulating her food or drink. Promise you won’t. Promise.”
“I promise, Father,” she said cheerfully.
“I will go attempt to ascertain the other guests’ strategies. Try not to make a spectacle of yourself.”
“Yes, Father.”
A man likely Edward’s own father’s age stepped from the alcove and directly toward the center of the room. So intent was he upon his goal that he did not notice Edward so nearby. He did not spare his ill-used daughter so much as a single backward glance.
The situation was none of Edward’s concern. Indeed, he did not even know the ambitious gentleman or his daughter. Yet, he couldn’t simply walk away, leaving the unfortunate young lady to her misery.
He stepped around the corner and into the alcove. It wasn’t so secluded as to make his presence there inappropriate. He recognized her: the serene, dark-haired beauty he’d spied in the crowd earlier that day. Had her calmness come not from being at ease in chaotic situations but rather from being slow-witted?
She spotted him there. “Adonis,” she said with the exact tone of one recognizing another person.
“No,” he said, kindly. “I am Edward. Edward Downy.”
A tiny hint of color touched her cheeks. She must have realized how inappropriate it was for him to introduce himself. But what option did he have, really?
“I would do this properly,” he said, “but anyone who might make the introduction is otherwise occupied.”
“‘Otherwise occupied’? I am assuming by that you mean ‘on the hunt for a fortune.’” Her gaze shifted from him to the gathering beyond the alcove. “It appears to be an exhausting undertaking. I fully expect breakfast to be a very hardy meal in the morning.”
On the surface, her ramblings seemed nonsensical, but Edward wasn’t convinced. He sensed, though it was subtle, more than a hint of dryness.
“What of you?” she asked. “Why are you not across the room commending Mr. Warrick on his management of his estate or complimenting Mrs. Warrick on her choice of laces? Do you not realize how crucial first impressions are? Second impressions are comparatively worthless. And third impressions . . . those aren’t even worth mentioning.”
Edward bit back a smile. He suspected his companion was far from the featherhead he had at first assumed her to be. Her wit was simply subtle, dry, understated.
“This is the point at which either of my parents would tell me in desperate whispers not to say such nonsensical things in front of other people.” She offered a conspiratorial smile. “They are convinced that someday someone will mistake me for a bedlamite and insist I be locked away, and wouldn’t that be a terrible thing.” She shrugged. “I suppose there is a certain madness to continually antagonizing one’s parents with humor they cannot seem to recognize, let alone appreciate. Although, it is also rather imbecilic to speak nonstop to a gentleman with whom one is not the least bit acquainted.” Her expression turned apologetic. “I would tell you that I don’t usually talk this much, but honesty compels me to admit that I do.”
“And honesty compels me to admit that I am enjoying this admittedly one-sided conversation.” He truly was. His as-yet-unnamed companion was decidedly diverting. “Although I would very much appreciate knowing what it is I am to call you.”
“Ah, yes. That is where we began this tangent, isn’t it? The utter lack of unoccupied guests to make a proper introduction.” She squared her shoulders and faced him fully. “I am Agatha Holmwood. And I likely needn’t tell you that I have no dowry, no pin money, and no prospects.”
“And I likely needn’t tell you that I am to inherit a worthless estate that is one poor harvest away from severe indebtedness, a younger brother who will forever be a drain on my future nonexistent income, and have been politely shunned by every matchmaking mother in London.”
She nodded solemnly. “London Society can sense poverty the way foxes can sense the approach of the hounds. Terrifies them.”
“Except for the Warricks.” Edward motioned to their gleeful hosts. “They’re encouraging the hounds.”
“They are taunting them,” Miss Holmwood corrected.
At last, someone who viewed the display the same way he did. “Making the destitute compete for someth
ing their entire families are desperate for? I was beginning to suspect I was the only one here who found that off-putting.”
“My father certainly doesn’t. He is convinced this is the answer to all of our problems and means to throw the both of us headlong into this humiliating farce.”
“Would you take a turn with me, Miss Holmwood?” Edward wished to continue their conversation but did not care to push the bounds of propriety by remaining even as isolated as they were.
She nodded her agreement, and they walked, side-by-side, out of the alcove and along the outer edge of the drawing room.
“You disapprove of this competition,” Edward said. “Is that why you are sabotaging your father’s efforts?”
“I am not interfering with his efforts,” she answered. “I am simply not making any efforts of my own.”
He gave a quick dip of his head to one of the guests as they walked past. Then, to Miss Holmwood, he said, “Did you actually offer to stir Miss Warrick’s tea?”
She laughed lightly. “No, but I could not resist seeing the shock on my father’s face. I really am the worst sort of daughter.”
But the best sort of conversational companion. “It seems you and I are the only guests who do not intend to participate. We may find ourselves spending a great many evenings conversing whilst the other guests undertake their scraping and bowing.”
“Fortunately for us, talking is one of my particular specialties.”
“What are your other particular specialties?” he asked.
They had nearly completed their first circuit of the room. Few people were anywhere other than very close to where the Warricks held court, so Edward and Miss Holmwood had made their turn unimpeded.
“I have a tremendous talent for begging,” Miss Holmwood answered unabashedly. “I have, in my day, convinced the collier, the merchant, several dressmakers, and a rather disgruntled creditor of my father’s to grant us a bit more time before paying our debts to them. And I once managed to leave the grand estate of Birchall in our neighborhood with a charity basket and a promise to send their brick mason to inspect our crumbling chimneys.”