Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03]

by Strangers Kiss

  “Will you stop meddling, William!” She raised a hand to make sure he would stop talking and listen. “I have come to England to live quietly. Not to find a husband.”

  “I’ve wondered why you came back. Not only for Mia. That is altogether too selfless.”

  “Hardly ‘came back,’ William. I’ve never seen London before. I went straight from the house in Yorkshire to Italy, if you recall. I came here because the Italians expected me to be a living memorial to the great Verano. I want to live life on my own terms and find a husband for Mia. If I want to be introduced to Meryon I will make my own arrangements.”

  “Yes, I see.” He stopped fidgeting with his watch fob.

  “I do not need a matchmaker.” He looked sheepish and she realized that it was exactly what he had in mind.

  “William! Did you know he was in that room when you suggested I use it?”

  He shrugged and nodded, cringing as though he thought she might hit him.

  “Why did you do that?” She put a hand out to stop his endless bouncing from one step to the next.

  “I hoped it would distract you from your grief. And I’m right. It worked, didn’t it?” He watched her expression and grinned. “The Duke of Meryon would be quite a catch.”

  “You above all should know why I would marry a stonemason before I would accept a duke. They are too full of pride and their own importance, too used to power. Their most casual gesture can ruin lives.”

  “You should not damn all because of one, Elena. It’s like saying that all women who perform have loose morals.”

  He had a point, but she was not going to concede it.

  “Tell me this, dear aunt: Do you want to see him again?”

  Why would she want to see him again? Because the very fact he bared his soul made him different from other aristocrats. Because the simple act of sitting close to him had made her feel alive, fully alive for the first time since she had returned to the social scene. He might be the same as all the others but with him she felt different.

  “If you start this, I will do you the same favor.” She raised a finger to her lips. “It seems to me that the Harbisons have one daughter who never did take and is still single.”

  “I am chastened. Please spare me. She is almost six feet tall!”

  “Then let me find my own match, William, and I will allow you the same.”

  “All right.” He began swatting his leg with his hand.

  He agreed too readily; she knew now to be on her guard.

  “Though I do think it rude of Meryon to leave before you finished singing.”

  “It is just as well that he did. If he still mourns the death of his wife that last song would have been too painful, too strong a reminder of his loss.”

  MERYON DID NOT escape completely. Waiting on the steps for his coach, he would have had to cover his ears if he did not want to hear the song.

  He sat in his carriage now, the windows open to enjoy the unusual warmth of the evening. As John Coachman made his way through the busy streets, other conveyances slowed to allow the duke’s crested coach to pass.

  As they passed houses, most of them dark, the memory of the last melody echoed through him. The song had been beautiful, more beautiful than the singer herself. Meryon had not thought that possible.

  The anguish in her voice had ripped into him, paralyzing him with something like fear. His heart had raced, his head ached. He’d clenched his fist and taken a few steps away from the door, as if that would help. Then he’d noticed the people around him.

  The coachmen stopped their chatting and turned to the window. A flower seller, apparently dozing on the servants’ steps, came to stand near them. The grooms did not tease her as they usually did, but stood as quiet as the rest.

  Two or three of the coachmen took off their hats and held them over their hearts. No one was spared this pain. Not king or commoner, coachman or duke.

  It might have felt like she sang to him alone, but that was vanity. Signora Elena Verano sang for every man.

  In their conversation, Signora Verano had proved she could awaken a man’s pain with words as well as with music. If that was talent then it was a gift from the devil.

  “Can you spare a ha’penny, my lord?” The words pulled him from his speculation. When the boy who had spoken saw he had heard him, he ran along beside the carriage. “My ma is hungry and so am I. My pa went north to find work.” The lad stopped as the coach slowed for a corner. “Please, sir.”

  The duke eyed the boy for a moment. The boy watched the duke in return. Meryon wondered where the lad had mastered that unrevealing stare.

  “Tell me your name.”

  The boy blinked and did not answer right away, but he did manage to keep up with the carriage.

  Meryon knocked on the roof of the coach and the coachman slowed and then stopped. The duke reached for his purse and held up two coins. “Your name.”

  “Alan Wilson, sir.”

  Meryon tossed Mr. Wilson one of the coins. “Tell me what you know about horses.”

  “Enough to tell you that one of yours is close to lame.”

  “I was hoping to reach the stable before it gives out completely,” John Coachman called down.

  “Then anyone with a good eye could see that.” Meryon had taken enough brandy to wonder if he or John Coachman had a guardian angel. Nonsense. God could not possibly take that much interest in every soul. “Are you looking for work like your father?”

  “Not if you toss me that other coin.”

  So perhaps this situation did not involve divine intervention. “If you change your mind, come to Penn House near Burlington Arcade. Bring your mother. I can give you both work.” Meryon tossed him the coin.

  The lad caught the coin with ease and, without another word, ran off the way he had come. Meryon sat back, corked the brandy, and tucked it into the seat pocket. Alan Wilson was a younger, more lanky version of Joshua Kepless and Meryon did not need brandy to make him any more maudlin. He opened the door and climbed down.

  “I will walk from here, Coachman.”

  “Walk, Your Grace?”

  “I can see the Square from here, and God knows Mayfair is safe enough if you do not announce my title to everyone on the street.”

  “Yes, Your …” Coachman’s voice trailed off. “I’ll send one of the grooms to bring help”—the big man paused—“sir.”

  In less than ten minutes Meryon sat on the sofa in his study with Magda opposite. “The boy reminded me of Joshua Kepless, and I wonder again if I should propose my bill even if it is doomed from the start.”

  Magda watched, her head bent to the side as though considering every word. Now that Rowena was gone Meryon understood her love for animals, especially spaniels who were loyal, agreeable, and never talked back. Magda was the perfect companion when thoughts would not stay inside his head.

  “The hungry have always been there. But I see them now because of Joshua Kepless, because he was the sole support of his mother and sister. But Magda, the poor are everywhere. This, of course, makes me wonder if I made the right decision in my vote on the Corn Laws.”

  Magda jumped down and climbed up next to him. Meryon smoothed her brow, oblivious to the hair the dog shed on his coat.

  The Corn Laws had been his first truly important vote since taking the Meryon seat in the House of Lords, after his father’s death. He had argued, debated, and even prayed. The home economy would have suffered without the tax on foreign imports.

  “When I see a boy hungry or hear of a family struggling I wonder if free trade would have been a better choice.” Free trade would have kept the prices down at least.

  Meryon could count on one hand the number of times he’d questioned a decision after the vote. His father had insisted that once a decision was made, one must move on.

  Until Kepless’s murder Meryon had done that. But seeing the poverty the boy’s family had endured and their bitterness over his death had made Meryon as uncomfortable as a g
irl at a cockfight. Money had eased his conscience, but not the sense of responsibility for all the others who streamed past on the streets.

  With a final scratch of Magda’s ears, Meryon stood up, walked to his desk, and looked through the items that the courier had brought from Pennford that day.

  A letter from his brother, David, insisting that a decision be made on the investment possibilities that David had outlined. Ricardo’s Principles of Political Economy, which David suggested would help clarify his thoughts. Meryon decided he would start it tonight. The book would either put him to sleep or keep him awake.

  Was now the time to propose his bill to support the widows and orphans who had lost their breadwinners? Or should he invest more directly in promising manufacturing as his brother wanted him to do? Or both? There were those damn questions again. When in doubt act, he reminded himself. Action often clarified the issues more than any book ever could.

  And by God’s grace, London insisted on action. The streets and buildings lived and breathed on the decisions people made, good, bad, and indifferent. Indecision was like a muddy road, slowing all progress.

  At least the war against Bendas moved forward. Now he had to decide what to do about Parliament, whether the children should stay here or be sent back to Pennford, and where to find a new mistress, which brought him back to the one unknown who intrigued him the most: Signora Elena Verano.

  Signora Verano had managed to compel him—that was the only way to describe it—to talk about marriage, about Rowena.

  Learn and move on. Nothing would remedy the mistakes made this evening, talking so freely, answering questions so openly.

  Kissing a stranger.

  London was filled with intrigue, both personal and political, and Meryon was not entirely sure that the meeting had been innocent.

  The uncertainty made him uncomfortable, but no amount of action could bring a plot to life before its time. If someone thought to use Signora Verano to influence or discredit the Duke of Meryon, he would know soon enough. Then take action.

  6

  MERYON COULD HAVE put Elena Verano out of his mind the next day if the other members of the House of Lords had not found they must discuss every detail of her beauty and her history over and over as they gathered for the Tuesday session.

  “The woman is amazing!”

  “Incomparable.”

  “Today’s calendar, gentleman.” Despite the exasperation in Meryon’s voice, they all ignored him.

  “Where will the Signora sing next?”

  “How long has she been a widow?”

  Meryon opened his mouth to tell them that they sounded like a bunch of old biddies when the next question made him listen instead.

  “Why in the world is she spending so much time with Viscount Bendasbrook?”

  Meryon looked up, counting this as another one of those taps on the shoulder by either angel or devil.

  “They left together last night.”

  “The little runt doesn’t stand a chance with her.”

  “He rides like a champion.”

  “Oh, really? And whose authority do you have that on, my lord? Your wife’s?”

  The conversation deteriorated into an exchange of ribald insults that Meryon ignored as he considered the information.

  Leaving together could have a simple explanation. Signora Verano did not own a carriage. She did not want to go about alone at night. She was flirting with the viscount. They were lovers.

  That last made no sense. Signora Verano would not need a shoulder to cry on if she and Lord William were intimate.

  Unless Lord William did not wish to hear of her dead husband.

  Then another thought struck him that made all too much sense. Unless Lord William, grandson of the Duke of Bendas, had asked her to establish a connection with the Duke of Meryon.

  The bell sounded, calling them to the session. Meryon did his best to listen.

  The lively debate on the indemnity bill amused him as much as it informed, as Meryon watched Liverpool’s cronies jockey for favor, more eager to impress the prime minister than to sway the members.

  He kept track of the observers as well. Their reactions gave a decent insight into what the papers would say.

  Lord William’s presence in the gallery interested Meryon the most. How surprising that someone as restless as the viscount could sit still for so long.

  With the break called, Meryon decided he’d had enough. No third reading of the bill would happen today, much less a vote on anything more important than whose hair needed a trim.

  He could use the time to better advantage at home. Besides the information on the new manufacturing ventures, Meryon knew he had to read through a report from his brother on the early plantings.

  His secretary could tell him if he had made any progress on his study of Bendas and his family. Meryon most wanted to know if there was any truth to the story that Bendas had disinherited a daughter before she reached her majority.

  As Meryon mulled over what he would do with such information, someone called to him. Meryon recognized Theodore Henderson, who held a Derbyshire seat in Commons.

  Henderson fell into step beside him.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Speak your mind, Henderson.” The man always asked for permission to speak as if Meryon had given him the seat in Commons as a gift for which Henderson should be forever grateful.

  Meryon had told Henderson more than once that the seat was his for very practical reasons. The man had an amazing memory and his powers of observation were excellent.

  “Before the session today a group of Tories expressed their complete disagreement with my suggestion that we need to protect the interests of widows and orphans.”

  “Go on. I want to hear the good and the bad on this issue.”

  “They insisted that we cannot afford the expense. That workhouses and debtors’ prisons are enough burden and if we support the orphans then they will grow lazy.”

  “Excellent.” Meryon stopped and gave Henderson his full attention. The man looked shocked.

  “But, Your Grace, they are arguing against the idea.”

  “Yes.” Meryon started toward his carriage again. Henderson kept up with him. “Whether they decide for or against does not matter at this point. They have not rejected it without thought. They want to know what others think.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Henderson studied his shoes for a minute. “Have you decided whether to propose it or not?”

  “No. Not yet.” Meryon noticed that Viscount Bendasbrook was nearby, shifting from one foot to the next, waiting for his turn. “Is that all, Henderson?”

  “You may be undecided at the moment, Your Grace, but that is one of the pleasures of working with you. You decide without concern for party labels. Please let me know how I can be of further service.” Henderson bowed and moved away.

  Meryon pretended to ignore Lord William, who never took that hint.

  “Your Grace! A moment please.”

  “Yes, Lord William?” Meryon continued walking and let his strained patience show. He did not care about Elena Verano’s love life. She could dally with anyone she chose, up to and including a Bendasbrook.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” The viscount fell into step beside him. “Last night I wished we had had a few more minutes together. If you please, Your Grace.”

  “Walk with me, my lord, and I will listen.”

  “Last year, in my presence, you swore revenge against my grandfather for his part in organizing the abduction of your sister. I had hoped that you had forgotten that threat or had second thoughts after the death of the duchess. It is now being rumored that you challenged him to a duel.”

  “Yes,” Meryon said as he stopped walking. “The duel is not a rumor.”

  “Then …” Lord William began.

  “It was aborted due to the innocent death of a groom in my employ,” Meryon said, not caring to hear Bendasbrook’s opinion.

  “Then the Rowlan
dson cartoon was not slander but the truth.” Lord William could not hide the distress in his voice.

  “Those are your words, my lord.” Meryon folded his arms across his chest. “I did not threaten revenge. I swore that he would regret his actions. I demand justice. Justice and revenge are completely different.”

  The viscount looked unconvinced by the distinction between the two. “There is one more issue, Your Grace. Today as I sat in the gallery and listened to the private bills I realized that something is afoot.” The young man wiped his brow with a handkerchief and went on. “My grandfather has introduced two private bills since January requesting an exchange of land that is part of the entail for newly acquired property. That is unheard of for him. I think he has done it once before in all the years of his peerage.”

  “You know as well as I do that Bendas has become obsessed with acquiring land.”

  “I suspect that he thinks that these new properties are rich in coal and are more valuable than the farmland he is selling. I can only wonder how such plums fell into his hands. Do you have any idea?”

  “You can unravel the puzzle. I have no interest in it.”

  “I am going to do exactly that, Your Grace.” Lord William stood on tiptoe. “I want you to know that despite my estrangement from my grandfather, I will allow nothing to happen that will undermine the wealth of the Bendasbrooks, which my father and then I will inherit one day. Do you understand, Your Grace?”

  “Yes.” The arrogant tone did not go unnoticed, but Meryon would have done the same if his entailed wealth had been co-opted. “But the question you should ask yourself is whether your grandfather is behaving in a responsible manner. No matter how these offers are being presented, I would question the brainworthiness of a man who acts before he investigates.”

  “Are you suggesting that he is unwell?”

  “Lord William, two years ago he collapsed in the House of Lords. It was said he merely fainted, but he has never returned to take his seat again. Unusual for a man who feels so strongly about the suspension of habeas corpus and the Indemnity Act under discussion now.” Meryon gestured to the groom, who jumped down to lower the steps. “I want justice, Lord William.”