by Holly Newman
St. Ryne’s friends quizzed him unmercifully concerning his week long absence, coming as it did hard on the heels of his encounter with Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. He only laughed but admitted the events were not unrelated; more they could not wrest from him.
“Pray, cease!” he implored when he was particularly besieged one afternoon at White’s.
“Well, old fellow,” Freddy said laying a companionable hand on his shoulder, “what is the story?”
“Freddy, Freddy, not you too?” St. Ryne asked looking over his shoulder. “All right, though I find this sudden interest amusing,” he said turning back to take in all those gathered around. “I tell you all, I merely went on a tour of my holdings. I have been away a year and I need hardly tell you the necessity of looking after my own.”
“Particularly if one has specific goals they wish to achieve,” Sir Branstoke drawled.
St. Ryne turned to look quizzically at him, but Branstoke only smiled as he bowed his way out of the group. Watching that enigmatic peer withdraw, St. Ryne’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Shrugging slightly, he turned back to the group before him and suggested a game of faro in order to bend their inquisitive minds elsewhere.
One crisp bright morning shortly thereafter, Freddy Shiperton paid a morning call on his friend to request his company on an excursion to Tattersall’s. There was a good looking gray there that he had his eye on and wanted St. Ryne’s opinion for he was a known connoisseur of good horseflesh. He arrived at St. Ryne’s home to learn from his butler that the Viscount was still dressing and had not yet descended. Freddy’s brows rose. It was not like St. Ryne to be so late about. Entrusting his hat and greatcoat to the footman, he informed Predmore he would announce himself.
He loped easily up the staircase taking two steps at a time before Predmore had an opportunity to object. He found St. Ryne in a distracted mood, yet dressed very elegantly in a jacket of blue Bath superfine with fawn-colored breeches. He was snapping at his valet to remove a piece of fluff from his jacket sleeve. That little gentleman, who had been with his lordship since he’d come down from Oxford and had even endured the hardships of a year away from civilization by attending his lordship in Jamaica, this particular morning looked extremely harassed and frazzled.
“I say, Justin, what’s this?” Freddy asked, waving his walking stick in Justin’s direction to indicate his attire.
“I have an important engagement this morning.”
“Eh?”
“An engagement, Freddy my boy,” St. Ryne repeated then stopped and grinned as the double meaning of what he said registered.
“But I need you to come to Tatts with me. They’ve got this handsome gray I need your advice on. Looks a prime ’un, but I’ll be the first to admit I ain’t got your eye,” Freddy said, not seeing how anything else could be more important.
“My apologies, I am resolved. It must be this morning and no other. Tell you what, why don’t you take La Belle Helene for a walk in the park this morning.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Yes, just the ticket. I’ll walk over with you and renew my acquaintance with the Earl of Rasthough while you spirit your beauty away.”
Freddy’s face brightened. “Dash it, that’s good of you, St. Ryne. Hard to get her out from under the Dragon Lady’s or her father’s nose. ” A frown creased his delicate brow for a moment. “Thought you said you had an appointment.”
St. Ryne waved his hands nonchalantly. “On the way. Besides, anything I can do for a friend.” He smiled engagingly before turning to take his hat, cane, and gloves from his waiting man. “Come, this should prove an interesting and entertaining morning.”
Freddy looked at him blankly for a moment but refrained from further comment, his mind pondering the strange behavior of his friend. Sadly, he thought Tretherford was correct; St. Ryne had spent too much time in that damned tropical sun.
The Earl of Rasthough was greatly surprised and curious upon hearing the names of the visitors awaiting him in the parlor. Shuffling papers aside and combing his thinning hair back with his fingers; he arose from his desk and scurried out of his library to join his guests. He remembered the Viscount St. Ryne as the gentleman who’d danced with Elizabeth two weeks before. He could hardly forget. Elizabeth, always difficult to manage, had become impossible during the last two weeks. Although he knew the Viscount had upset her, he never learned how, for Elizabeth remained reticent about the meeting, a circumstance her father viewed with trepidation.
When he opened the parlor door, he was in time to see the Viscount rising elegantly from a bow over his daughter Helene’s hand and saw that young lady smile brightly up at him while his sister-in-law looked on benignly. He groaned inwardly, another conquest.
St. Ryne turned immediately at the sound of the door opening and smiled lazily at the Earl, then turned an inquisitive eye to Freddy who was staring steadily with doglike devotion at La Belle Helene. Catching St. Ryne’s eye upon him he looked up, flustered, glancing from his friend to Lord Monweithe and back before he recalled himself to a sense of duty and hurriedly stumbled through appropriate introductions.
“So you’re St. Ryne. Known your father anytime the past twenty years. How is he, by the way? Don’t get much to town these days, do he?” Lord Monweithe asked jovially.
“He is well, sir, but prefers his books to a rackety social life, as he calls it. That is, unless it is hunting season.”
Monweithe laughed. “He always was a neck-or-nothing goer in the field. That’s how I met him years ago when you were barely out of leading strings. I remember him telling us one evening how you wanted to come with him, but your little pony weren’t fast enough to keep up.”
St. Ryne’s answering smile bore an odd twist at the corner. “Ah yes, I remember the incident. Did he tell you, too, that I followed anyway and became lost? When I finally found my way home, it was very late and my parents were extremely distraught. That Christmas, however, I received a hunter as a gift from my father.”
The Earl guffawed heartily. “Forced his hand, did you? Well, well, can’t say as I blame you.”
St. Ryne inclined his head and smiled lazily. “As you say—”
“Oh-h!” Lady Helene cried, clasping her hands before her, her pale blue eyes wide. “What a frightening experience for a child!”
St. Ryne studied her closely. He was amazed to discover her quite sincere. “Perhaps,” he allowed slowly. “I really can’t recall,” he admitted. “What I do recall is the lesson in obedience it engendered.”
Freddy gave a snort of laughter. “Aye! I can, too!”
The Viscount raised a quelling eyebrow at his friend. “That will be enough, Freddy.”
His friend glanced down at his boots, stifling an urge to laugh. He was one of a select few who knew the truly scapegrace background of the elegant Viscount St. Ryne, a background seemingly at odds with his ton persona.
Lady Romella Wisgart sniffed audibly. “Well, I should hope it was compensatory with the crime,” she announced stentorianly.
“Quite,” St. Ryne agreed shortly, bowing his head in her direction. He turned toward Lord Monweithe. “But come, sir, let us retire to your library, if we may, and leave these two to have a nice stroll through the park. I have a request to make which we should discuss.”
“Not without a chaperone!”
“Naturally, sir,” St. Ryne returned, feigning surprise.
“I’m sure Freddy expects Lady Wisgart’s company as well.”
Freddy threw a surprised look at St. Ryne but recovered quickly. He discerned what St. Ryne desired was his cooperation in removing Lady Helene and Lady Wisgart. So much for spiriting his beauty away! “Uh-h, quite so!” he said, darting sideways glances at the Viscount. He bore a lively curiosity as to his friend’s sudden interest in Old Monweithe and determined to have it out with him before long for dealing him such a backhanded turn.
“Lady Wisgart,” he said rising elegantly and making a leg, “may we have the pleasure of your company? It is
such a clear crisp day, not in the least bit damp,” he said engagingly.
“A short one, mayhap,” she said in a condescending tone. “I have heard mild exercise in such weather is invigorating for the constitution. Still, we must dress warmly. Come, Helene.”
St. Ryne bowed as they left before turning again to the Earl. “Your library, sir,” he reminded, gesturing before him.
Lord Monweithe frowned a moment; he did not like the idea of Helene going out with Shiperton. No sense building any expectations among the young bucks who squired his youngest daughter. St. Ryne put him in an awkward position. He was curious to know his request and to deny the outing now would be boorish. He saw St. Ryne regarding him with that lazy, sleepy-eyed smile of his. Damn, if he didn’t think St. Ryne had arranged the entire situation, but he couldn’t say no now.
“Certainly, this way,” he said leading him toward the door. There he paused for a moment to turn back to Freddy Shiperton. “Don’t be gone too long,” he admonished.
“Just a little jaunt, sir, and thank you, sir!” Freddy managed to stumble out.
The Earl of Rasthough only frowned again and followed his distinguished guest out of the room.
“You don’t approve of our Freddy,” St. Ryne observed as they crossed the hall to the library.
“Don’t approve or disapprove. No sense filling their heads with fancies. I’ve said it before and I say it now, my eldest daughter is to be married first.”
“Precisely.”
Monweithe looked at St. Ryne sideways, not understanding what he meant, and then continued, “Daresay people think I’m crazy, but my mind’s made up. Love that little gal but I guess I say I got my duty.”
St. Ryne nodded as the Earl ushered him into his library.
“You are to be commended, sir.”
“I am? Well, I only do as I feel right,” Lord Monweithe said gruffly, lowering his bulk into the leather chair behind his desk. “But sit down, sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“It’s quite simple,” St. Ryne remarked, crossing his legs and leaning back into the green plush chair before the desk. “I want to marry your daughter,” he explained, watching his host closely.
“What?!?” that gentleman exclaimed, rising from his chair and leaning across the cluttered desk, his face turning dangerously red. “I just told you Elizabeth is to be married first. Don’t think just because you stand to become an Earl that you’re going to be any different from any other gentleman who’s courting Helene, because I tell you now it ain’t going to be so! Asides which, you’ve never called or spoken to her before today.”
St. Ryne’s face froze and he regarded the Earl of Rasthough coldly.
“Have you so little love or respect for your eldest daughter that you must assume any gentleman soliciting your daughter’s hand in marriage means Helene?”
“But, but— What are you saying, man?”
“Frankly I find Helene no different from a dozen other insipid debutantes of the season such as my mother has tried to put in my way. I have heretofore ignored them all,” he stated, nearly gritting his teeth, his face white under his tan.
Lord Monweithe blinked uncertainly and slowly resumed his seat while staring bemusedly at St. Ryne.
The Viscount went on: “The only woman I could possibly consider marrying is your daughter Elizabeth. Do not cast aspersions on her character to me!” The strange rage consuming him burned out suddenly, and once again he relaxed in his chair. “She’s had enough,” he muttered to himself. The strength of his own emotions stunned him.
Lord Monweithe caught the last of what he said very faintly and wondered if he had heard right. He was amazed and knew he must recover himself.
“Now, now, easy lad. No harm meant.” He laughed with false joviality as he warily studied St. Ryne’s shuttered expression. ‘Now, would I say my Elizabeth must marry first if I didn’t care for her? Well now? Sorry I misunderstood you, but you know we were discussing my daughter Helene as we came in the room, and then you took me by surprise, that’s all, my boy.”
St. Ryne neither smiled nor responded and the broad smile on the Earl’s face faded slightly.
“So you want to marry my Elizabeth, do you? Well, well, I’d be proud to welcome you to the family.”
The twisted smile reappeared on St. Ryne’s face. “Thank you, sir,” he said wryly.
Monweithe leaned back in his chair. “Ha, ha. I saw you dancing with my gal at Lady Amblethorp’s. Love at first sight, was it? Fine gal, fine gal. And handsome, too.” He looked keenly at St. Ryne. “Daresay you’re just the man to handle her too, from the tales I’ve heard.”
St. Ryne stiffened slightly, but the Earl, reaching out for the bell pull, did not notice. Almost immediately his summons was answered by the appearance of his butler at the door. So prompt was that worthy’s appearance, St. Ryne wondered sardonically if Elizabeth’s reputation was not perhaps due in large measure to servants listening in keyholes. “Jovis, ask Lady Elizabeth to join me in the library.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Let us have a toast,” Lord Monweithe suggested to St. Ryne, rising from his desk and going to the sideboard where there stood a decanter and several glasses. “Always like to have a little to hand,” he explained, pouring two glasses of a deep tawny port. “Here, lad—a toast to Elizabeth.”
St. Ryne raised his glass in silent salute.
Jovis returned a moment later, coughing softly to gain the Earl's attention.
“Well, where is she?” Lord Monweithe asked, irritated, nevertheless keeping a wary eye on his prospective son-in- law.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but the Lady Elizabeth says as how she is doing some mending, she cannot come.”
“What! You tell that—” Monweithe started to exclaim but stopped in confusion seeing the shuttered look come over St. Ryne’s face. He looked at St. Ryne helplessly.
St. Ryne put his glass down and rose from his chair. Bowing to the Earl, a slow trace of a smile began to cross his face. “It is always best to get over heavy ground as lightly as possible. May I have your trust, sir?”
“Ah, of course lad. No need to ask.”
“Good. Then I shall start as I mean to go on,” St. Ryne stated. He turned to Jovis. “Please conduct me to the Lady Elizabeth.”
Lord Monweithe looked carefully at St. Ryne then nodded his consent.
St. Ryne followed the butler upstairs to a small parlor at the back of the house, forestalled his announcing him, and signaled the man’s dismissal with a jerk of his head. Smiling to himself in anticipation of the encounter, he opened the door.
The room was shabbier than the rest of the house but its tall windows let in the streaming sunlight. Seated with her feet tucked up under her on a small, faded gold sofa by the windows, a stack of mending by her side was the Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. She was wearing a much worn, faded blue gown that was tight across the bodice. Her long dark hair was pulled back and held by a silk ribbon. The sunlight shining on her hair showed glowing red and gold highlights. When she looked up as the door opened, her expression was one of exasperation at being disturbed yet again, but when she saw who stood there in the doorway, her color rose.
“You!”
Justin’s smile broadened. Closing the door, he leaned against it.
“What, my Elizabeth speechless again? For shame. Well, I’ll promise not to tell, we can’t spoil your reputation now.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly while her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. He came!
“What? Here? Standing— You haven’t asked me to sit yet,” he said easily as he avidly drank in her appearance. She was more beautiful than he remembered.
“Don’t play games,” she ground out. “Why did you come to see me?”
“Now we are getting conceited, aren’t we? And just after one dance.” He watched her bite her lip in exasperation and laughed. “Actually, I came to visit your father.”
“My father?” H
er voice shook.
“Certainly. It still is considered necessary for a suitor to ask the parents of a young lady if he may solicit her hand in marriage, isn’t it? At least, it was when I left for Jamaica. Personally,” he went on reflectively, “I’ve always thought the principals should decide such things among themselves first; however, I am in the minority so I bow to convention.”
She sneered at him. “So, another of little Helene’s conquests.” A steel band tightened around her heart.
He cocked his head to one side as he regarded her. “That is exactly what your father thought. Perhaps I overreacted. No, you silly widgeon, it is your hand I asked for.”
The color drained from Lady Elizabeth’s face and she slowly raised her hand to her throat. Her stomach somersaulted. Swallowing convulsively, she stared up at him. The silence in the room was suffocating.
Lady Elizabeth took a ragged deep breath. “How dare you. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive. Get out!” she rasped, rising unsteadily from her seat and pointing toward the door. She could not take his teasing her. She knew of her reputation as a shrew. No gentlemen approached her. It was cruel of him to play with her in this manner.
In two strides St. Ryne was before her with her hand held securely between his.
“Thank you, my love. Since I know I am not the last man alive, nothing may stand in my way.”
Elizabeth sputtered, “S-s-swine! Trading on your birth as a nobleman.” She tried to wrest her hand away by pushing on him with her other. “A common cit is a better man! Let me go or I’ll scream!”
“Please do, my love. Though I must admit it is an unconventional method of saying, ‘Yes, I will marry you.’ I would never want my Bess to be conventional. Of course, if you really want to be in a more colorful compromising position, I’m sure we can arrange that, too.”