Someone To Love

by Mary Balogh

  “You will choose a fistfight?” Riverdale looked incredulous. “Until someone is down and unconscious? It will be a slaughter, Netherby. You had better let me take your place. I was part of that scene too last evening and am actually related to both Camille and Anastasia. I am quite handy with my fives even though I do not get to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon as often as I could wish.”

  “It is a second I am in search of,” Avery told him, “not a first. If you are unwilling, I shall have to ask someone else, but that would be tiresome.”

  “It will be a slaughter,” Riverdale said again.

  “I hope not,” Avery said thoughtfully. “I hope I will have better control of myself than to cause him lasting bodily harm, though it will be tempting. I do not like the man.”

  Riverdale laughed shortly, though he did not sound amused. “At least you will still be alive at the end of it,” he said. “I will see to that.”

  “Will you?” Avery got to his feet. “I am much obliged to you, Riverdale. I would rather the whole matter be kept private. One hates to be ostentatious about such things. Besides, one would not wish to draw more attention than necessary to the two ladies.”

  “Camille and Anastasia?” the earl said. “I shall try to persuade Walling to urge discretion upon Uxbury, though it may be difficult. Uxbury may well want an audience, especially when he knows you have chosen fists.”

  “Bodies,” Avery said, correcting him gently. “Fists are just one small weapon of the body and not always very effective—they shorten the hands. Do your best, Riverdale. I will not take any more of your time—Cousin Althea may be bored with her books already. You will keep me informed, I daresay.”

  “I will,” Riverdale promised before accompanying Avery to the door.

  This was all very tiresome, Avery thought as he moved off down the street and touched the brim of his hat to a lady who was walking with her maid in the opposite direction. He was very tempted to call upon Uxbury and settle the matter here and now. But Uxbury had chosen to be idiotic and issue a formal challenge, and proper gentlemanly protocol must now be followed.

  Avery very much hoped, however, that the whole matter could be kept quiet. The thought that he might be seen as the champion of the honor of either Camille or Anna—or both—was shudderingly awful. It would ruin his reputation for effete indolence. But what was one to do when a fellow mortal chose to be an ass? One could not simply invite him to desist. Actually, one could, but it would be so much wasted breath.

  Sometimes life could be quite bothersome.

  * * *

  Anna was standing in the window of the drawing room the following afternoon, gazing down at the street. Her family would be arriving soon with news and views—about the ball, about her triumphs and disasters, though she hoped the latter was singular rather than plural, about where she would go from here in her progress from being Anna Snow to becoming Lady Anastasia Westcott. It was hard not to be feeling a little despondent, though she knew she should be ecstatic with gratitude to the fates or whatever it was that had made all her dreams come true in such an abundant way. If only her sisters were here, sitting in the room behind her, or standing on either side of her, their arms linked through hers, everything would be different. But there would still be their mother, out there somewhere in the cold. And there would still be Harry, facing all the dangers and privations of war. And there would still be blanks in her history.

  And who had ever said life could end up happily ever after the way fiction sometimes did? She gave her head a shake.

  Elizabeth was still upstairs changing. The butler was to inform any other callers that she was not receiving today. There would be no repetition of yesterday, though there had been two more bouquets this morning, one of them clutched in the hand of a young gentleman who had stammered out a marriage proposal or at least the intention of a marriage proposal. He had actually asked to which gentleman he must apply for permission to ask for her hand. Anna had looked at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth had looked at Anna and suggested that the young man might wish to have a word with her brother, the Earl of Riverdale.

  It would have been simpler and perhaps kinder for Anna to have said no, but how could she when he had not actually asked the question?

  Her eyes focused upon the Duke of Netherby, who was walking along the street in the direction of the house. He was not escorting Aunt Louise today, then, but he was definitely coming here. After he had disappeared inside the door below, she waited for him to be announced.

  He paused on the threshold of the drawing room and grasped the handle of his quizzing glass as he looked around, his expression somewhat pained. “I am the first to arrive?” he said. “How very lowering. It would almost suggest an eagerness to see you, Anna. And you are alone? No Cousin Elizabeth to chaperone you? No saucy maid to laugh at my wit?”

  “Avery,” she murmured.

  His eyes came to rest on her and for a brief moment his glass was trained upon her too.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He dropped his glass and strolled farther into the room. “There is a way of saying nothing,” he said, “that suggests quite the opposite. All these flowers have come from admirers, I assume? And the ones in the hall and on the landing? I wondered for a moment as I came through the door whether I had moved outdoors rather than in. It was quite disorienting. What is it, my dear?”

  The unexpected endearment brought tears welling to her eyes and she turned her head away. “I had a letter at long last this morning from Mr. Beresford,” she said. “The solicitor who dealt with my father’s business in Bath.”

  “And?”

  “He recalls receiving one letter from my grandfather more than twenty years ago,” she said, “informing him of my mother’s death and asking him to get word to my father. He does not still have that letter, and he cannot remember where it came from except that it was somewhere in the vicinity of Bristol. ‘Somewhere in the vicinity of ’ is very imprecise. It could be two miles away or twenty. It could be north, south, east, or west.”

  “West would place it in the Bristol Channel,” he said.

  “Perhaps they lived on an island,” she said crossly. “But wherever it was, it was more than twenty years ago. They may both be dead and forgotten by now. There may have been a number of vicars at that particular church in that particular village since.”

  “There have not been,” he told her. “The church is St. Stephen’s. The village is Wensbury, twelve miles southwest of Bristol. The vicar is, and has been for almost fifty years, the Reverend Isaiah Snow. He lives in the vicarage beside the church with his wife of forty-seven years.”

  She stared at him, as though through a long tunnel. “How do you know?” Her voice came out almost as a whisper.

  “I would like to be able to say that I have been on a long and dangerous odyssey throughout the length and breadth of England and Wales, slaying a few dragons along the way, on a quest to discover your maternal forebears,” he said. “Alas, you would suspect I was lying. My secretary dug up the information. He claims it was not difficult. He pursued the search through the church, which found one lowly vicar for him just as though the man had never been lost. And indeed he had not been. It is difficult to get lost if one remains in the same place for fifty years.”

  “They are alive?” She was still whispering. “My grandparents?” She clasped her hands tightly to her mouth and smiled radiantly at him. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, Avery.”

  “I shall pass on your gratitude to Edwin Goddard,” he told her.

  “Please do,” she said. “But he would not have thought of making the search all on his own. Why did you ask him to do so?”

  He took his snuffbox out of a pocket, gazed absently at it, and put it away again. “You see, Anna,” he said. “I increased his salary a short while ago, and then I had the alarming thought tha
t perhaps I did not make enough of an effort to see that he earned it. I made an effort and thought of the Reverend Snow.”

  “How absurd,” she said.

  He looked up at her, his eyes keen. “Remember, Anna,” he said, “that they had you taken away after your mother died and apparently showed no further interest in you.”

  The door opened behind him at that moment and Elizabeth hurried inside.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “I stepped on the hem of my dress just as I was leaving my dressing room and tore it. I had to change into something else. And then there was all the bother— Oh, no matter. How do you do, Avery?”

  “I am delighted,” he said, raising his glass to his eye, “that you were forced to change into this particular dress, Elizabeth. You look ravishing.”

  “Oh,” she said, laughing, “and so do you, Avery, as always. I believe we are about to be invaded. I heard a carriage draw up outside as I was leaving my room.”

  Within fifteen minutes everyone had arrived and disposed themselves about the drawing room, Alexander as usual standing before the hearth, Avery seated in a corner beyond the window, not participating in the general conversation.

  The conversation itself had taken a predictable course. The ball had been triumphantly pronounced the greatest squeeze of the Season so far. Anastasia’s debut had been a success. If there had been a hundred sets in the evening, Aunt Mildred declared, Anastasia would have had a partner for each one. Some ladies had been heard to remark upon the plainness of her appearance, Aunt Louise said, but a few of the most fashionable young ladies, most notably that diamond of the first water, Miss Edwards, had been heard to declare in a huddle together that they were tired of being so loaded down with jewels and of having to catch up trains and flounces whenever they wished to dance and of sitting for an hour or longer each evening while their maids curled and crimped their hair. How refreshing it would be, they had said, to appear in public as Lady Anastasia Westcott had—if only they dared.

  Anastasia’s Great Indiscretion—Aunt Matilda spoke of it as though the words must begin with capital letters—might well have been her undoing, and certainly there were those among the highest sticklers who had been shocked. But they appeared to be in the minority. Others applauded the way she had stood by her illegitimate half sister and dealt Viscount Uxbury a severe setdown.

  “You have been launched upon society with great success, Anastasia,” Cousin Althea said with a warm smile. “Now you may relax and enjoy the rest of the Season.”

  Everyone was ecstatic over the number of bouquets that had been delivered yesterday and this morning. They were amazed and gratified to hear of the number of persons who had called yesterday afternoon and of the drive in the park with the Fleming brothers.

  “I think, Anastasia,” the dowager countess said, smiling kindly at her granddaughter, “we may expect more than a few very eligible offers for your hand before the end of the Season.”

  “But there was already one this morning, Cousin Eugenia,” Elizabeth said. “At least, it was not exactly an offer, was it, Anna, but a request to know to what gentleman he must apply for permission to make one. I directed him to you, Alex, though Anna is of age and does not need anyone’s permission. She was looking somewhat aghast, however, and I came to her rescue.”

  “Thank you, Lizzie,” he said dryly. “Formsby, was it? He found me at Tattersall’s. I informed him, as I informed another gentleman last evening and two more this morning, that I would discuss the matter with Anastasia’s family and with her.”

  “I had two gentlemen approach me at White’s this morning,” Uncle Thomas said, “as well as the uncle of another who is not a member. I told them the same thing.”

  “Oh goodness gracious me.” Anna’s grandmother clasped her hands to her bosom and beamed. “This is even greater success than we anticipated. By the end of the Season, Anastasia—before the end—you will be able to make your choice from among a large number of suitors.”

  “You must not rush into choosing, though, Anastasia,” Aunt Matilda advised. “The matter of birth and breeding and fortune must all be weighed as must your own importance. You are the daughter—the only child—of the late Earl of Riverdale, my brother, and you are in possession of a vast fortune. There are no limits to what you can aspire to in a husband.”

  Anna had been virtually silent, but she spoke now. “I am one of my father’s four children,” she said.

  “Of course you are,” Aunt Matilda said, “but you are the only one who counts in the eyes of the ton.”

  “I am nothing but an object,” Anna said, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, “as are my brother and sisters. They have become objects of no value whatsoever while I have become invaluable. Men—gentlemen of the ton—crowded about me at the ball two evenings ago and sent floral offerings yesterday morning and flocked to visit me yesterday afternoon. I was flooded with invitations to drive in the park, to dance the first set at some ball a few evenings hence, to attend the theater, to go to Vauxhall. Today several of them are making inquiries about marrying me. I daresay there will be more to come. And why? Because I am beautiful and accomplished? Because I am personable and charming and intelligent? Because I have character? Of course not. It is because I am a commodity, because I am rich. Very rich. One of the wealthiest single ladies in England, perhaps. Everyone wants to marry my money.”

  “Anna!” Aunt Louise looked at her incredulously. “The situation is not nearly so . . . vulgar. Of course members of our class choose eligible partners when they marry. Of course we marry within our own ranks. And of course it is desirable, though not always essential, to marry into money. Money is what sustains our way of life and the vast expense of running our estates and other establishments. But we do not consider just rank or fortune when we choose husbands and wives. We look too for someone we can respect, someone of whom we can grow fond, even someone we may love. I cannot say I loved Netherby when I married him, though I did like and respect him. And I grew fond of him, as he did of me, I believe, during our marriage. I mourned his passing with a very real grief. Yet I would not have married him if he had been either ineligible or impoverished. The absence of those things would not have been conducive to a happy life.”

  “No one looks at you and sees an object, Anastasia,” Cousin Althea added. “Far from it. Everyone sees a dignified and personable young lady, you may be sure. Remember that you will have choices—a rather dizzying number of them, it would seem. You will be free to choose someone who will appreciate you as well as your fortune. You may choose someone you can appreciate for his good character and kindly nature and any other positive attributes that are important to you. The marriage mart is not quite the impersonal thing you fear.”

  “What you ought to do, Anastasia,” her grandmother said, “is marry Alexander. And what you ought to do, Alexander, is swallow your pride and propose to her without waiting for everyone else to do so first.”

  Sixteen

  There was a moment of silence. Anna was horrified and horribly mortified. Alexander, she saw in one brief glance, looked frozen in place.

  “Cousin Eugenia,” his mother said reproachfully, “it is hardly—”

  “No, Mama,” Alexander said, holding up one hand. “It is not that I have not thought of it for myself. I need the money, heaven knows, if I am ever to rescue Brambledean Court from further dilapidation and improve the deplorable living conditions of all those dependent upon me there. And it might be said that the entailed properties and the fortune ought to be reunited, as they were until Cousin Humphrey died. I have a regard for Anastasia and admire the way she grew up with dignity despite the circumstances in which her father left her. I admire too the way she has worked hard to adjust to her changed circumstances. If I were to marry her, I could save her from any further exposure to the marriage mart, which she is finding so repugnant. And I could certainly offer her respect, protection,
affection, and a mother-in-law and sister-in-law who I know would welcome her.”

  “Well, then,” Anna’s grandmother said, “there is—”

  But he held up a hand again.

  “I have thought about it,” he said. “And indeed, now that the suggestion has been made openly like this, before the whole family, I am willing to make a formal offer if Anastasia can assure me that it is what she wishes. However, I admit that I would be marrying her primarily for the money, and that is repugnant to me. She deserves better of the man who is fortunate enough to win her hand. She deserves a man who wants her and does not care the snap of his fingers for her fortune.”

  There was another brief silence, during which Anna was aware of Elizabeth drawing a handkerchief out of a pocket in her dress and pressing it to her eyes.

  “Anastasia?” her grandmother said. “You could not do better, and it is perfectly clear that Alexander is holding back only because he feels the difference in your fortunes and fears you will see him as no better than a fortune hunter. But he has the title—”

  “No!” Elizabeth cried, lowering her handkerchief to her lap. “It is not just that he fears his motives will be misconstrued. Alex has dreams, which he has been holding in check for years since Papa’s death left him immersed in debt from which he has only recently freed himself. He dreams of love and a quiet domestic life, and he ought not to have to sacrifice his dreams merely because the earldom has been thrust upon him. And Anna has spent most of her life at an orphanage, where there was no cruelty, apparently, but very little of what I think of as love of family either. Alex is right. She deserves love now. She deserves to be married because she is everything in the world to one particular gentleman. I love them both, Cousin Eugenia, but please, oh please, they must not be thrown together merely because it would be a convenient arrangement.”