by Connie Lane
“Two hundred?” Farleigh’s sandy brows rose. He pursed his lips. He lowered his quizzing glass and looked at Nick with an expression that teetered between pity and indignation. “Are you suggesting, my lord, that I give you two hundred pounds in exchange for this painting? Or that you pay me two hundred pounds to take it off your hands?”
“What!” Nick could hardly believe his ears. “You don’t mean—”
“That it’s a forgery? Most certainly.” Farleigh nodded vigorously. “Well done, no doubt of that. But a Gainsborough?” He tisk-tisked ever so politely. “Hardly, my lord. It is nothing but an imitation, and nearly worthless.”
“But it can’t—” Nick stopped himself just short of a full-blown protest. But only because he refused to give Willie the satisfaction of seeing his plan dashed and hers on the verge of being resurrected. Not one to surrender so easily, he went across the room and pointed to a landscape.
“Van Ruisdael,” Nick said.
Farleigh gave the painting no more than a quick look. “Not.”
Nick tried the painting on the wall next to the landscape. “Reynolds.”
“Definitely a counterfeit. And not a very good one.”
“The Romney?”
This painting, at least, Farleigh considered. Unfortunately, his final opinion was no different.
The same might be said of the paintings in the library, the suit of armor that stood in a little-used upstairs passageway, and was, according to family legend, said to have once belonged to Henry VIII, the collection of medieval manuscripts which, Nick’s father had always assured him, were as priceless as they were unreadable.
By the time they got done with a tour of what he had always thought were the family treasures and back down to the morning room, Nick was numb from head to toe. Still, he was not about to give up. He had his mother’s jewelry brought out to a table near the window where it could be examined in the light and he hovered behind Farleigh, watching as the little man bent over his work.
“Paste.” Farleigh pronounced. “Colored glass. Hunks of metal.”
“And worthless?”
“Worthless.” Farleigh pronounced the single word like a death sentence.
By now, Nick was hardly surprised. He was no fool. Some Pryce who had gone before him must have been just as short of the blunt as Nick now found himself. That same Pryce must have had the same idea Nick had to save the family name. Unfortunately, that Pryce got to everything of value first and apparently needing to hide the fact (probably from his wife), had replaced it all with reproductions.
Worthless reproductions.
“I am sorry we are not able to do business, my lord.” Farleigh’s mouth was pinched, but at least he had the good grace not to point out that he’d spent his day on a wild goose chase. He bowed his way out. “Good day.”
Nick waited until the door clicked closed behind Farleigh. “Good?” The word echoed in the morning room and sounded hollow in Nick’s ears. “How can anything be good? How can I possibly—”
A small, rustling sound behind him brought him turning around.
He found Willie exactly where she had been throughout the ordeal, at his shoulder, looking remarkably calm in spite of the bad news Farleigh had delivered.
Without a word, she drew her list of marriageable ladies from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Nick.
“This isn’t a good idea.” Nick tugged at his neckcloth and though he did not ordinarily fall prey to the kind of pettifogging philosophy doled out in rhyming couplet doggerel and had little patience for those who read too much imagery into commonplace events, even he could not miss the symbolism.
Rooster O’Reilly’s knots were tight around his neck.
Just like the stranglehold some marriage-minded miss was sure to tie around his life.
“Are you sure—”
“Yes.” Behind him, he heard the rustle of Willie’s skirts and a second later, caught her reflection in the mirror that hung at the top of the winding stairway that led up from the entryway.
Though Somerton House was resplendent—decorated with brightly colored hothouse flowers and sparkling with the light of innumerable candles—Willie looked as plain and as practical as ever. Her hair perfectly arranged, her black dress spotless in spite of the fact that she had spent the better part of the day scurrying about making last minute preparations for the evening’s dinner party, she glanced quickly over at Nick and nodded her approval.
“Miss Markham will no doubt find you most acceptable.”
In spite of the edginess that clutched at his insides, Nick laughed. “Acceptable?” He turned from the mirror and though he knew it was unseemly to be so informal with a member of his staff and utterly improper to tease a properly raised, properly mannered woman such as Willie, he simply couldn’t help himself. “I hate to tell you this, Willie…” He offered one of his signature smiles, the kind that had been known to melt female hearts—proper and otherwise—from one end of London to the next. “But I am used to women finding me more than simply acceptable.”
“No doubt.”
Was it relief that scurried through his insides when he realized his devastating smile had no effect on the starch in Willie’s shoulders or the level look she aimed his way?
Nick liked to think so.
Which made him wonder why it felt more like disappointment.
He cast aside the thought with a twitch of his shoulders inside his formal black cutaway coat, reminding himself in no uncertain terms that there was no cause for dashed hope. It was exactly the kind of reaction he had expected from Willie. She was, after all, the most straightforward woman he’d ever met. The most uncomplicated. The most plainspoken. With Willie, there was no artfulness as with so many women of his acquaintance, no maidenly blushes and shy glances deliberately delivered and just as deliberately designed to ensnare a man as surely and as painfully as a bear trap.
In fact, he suspected she was the exact opposite of Devonna Markham, the wealthy, yet-to-catch-a-husband chit at the top of Willie’s list of likely marriage candidates, the woman who—along with a mob of London’s tulips of fashion—would be arriving at Somerton House in less than an hour’s time for the first dinner party hosted by the Viscount Somerton in as long as anyone could remember.
Once Willie had convinced him of the worth of her plan and the invitations had gone out, it did not take long for the ton to put two and two together: If the Viscount Somerton was eschewing the company of the Dashers in favor of more refined pleasures, it could mean only one thing. He was looking for a bride.
The reaction was predictable.
Suddenly, he was receiving more social invitations than ever, most of them from eager mamas looking to snag a title for their daughters along with the unfortunate Lord who went with it. Not long ago, he would have declined. Politely, of course, and secretly, with great relief. Now that his social life was in Willie’s hands—and now that she had convinced him that he must marry or certainly outrun the constable—he found his days filled with soirées and balls, rides in the park and musicales. She had even accepted an invitation to Almack’s on his behalf.
The very thought made Nick groan.
“It’s not that I thought to never marry.”
The sound of his own voice surprised him and he snapped out of his reverie to find Willie watching him carefully. “I knew it would have to happen,” he admitted. He turned and gave his neckcloth another tug, then smoothed his gold brocade waistcoat into place. “I am the only son, after all, and it is my duty to make sure the line survives. I’ve never deluded myself about that. I knew it would happen eventually. I’d only hoped—”
He caught himself before he said too much. It was one thing admitting his reluctance to Willie. It was another to voice what he had never confessed to anyone before—that he had always harbored a hope that he might marry for love rather than because of family obligations or the expectations of society or, most especially, for money.
It was an i
mpracticable thought at best and probably as old-fashioned as frill collars and buckled shoes, yet he’d seen too many instances of the hurt that could be done when love did not accompany a couple to the altar, the most monumental and painful from his own parents.
He was not looking to duplicate their mistakes and there was a time he would have sworn he would never let it happen.
But as much as he’d hoped to circumvent the misery that plagued his parents’ lives at the same time he sidestepped the vicar, he had always been cognizant of the fact that he had an obligation, to his country, to his ancestors, to the generations of Pryces who would come after him. He must keep the family name above reproach.
“I’d only hoped eventually would not arrive so soon,” he told Willie.
“Just as I’d hoped the marriage my father always talked about arranging for me would never happen.”
As grateful that she understood as he was that she had effectively changed the subject, Nick laughed. “Are you suggesting that I might get myself out of this predicament by getting kidnapped?”
“It has been known to work before.”
The gleam of amusement in Willie’s eyes outshone the candles flickering around them and for a moment, Nick could do little but smile in response. When he realized it, he only felt worse. There was little point in smiling about anything when the noose was tightening around his neck.
“I would face Lord Harry himself and not struggle against a kidnapping straight to the hottest fires of hell if it would get me out of this.” He glanced toward the stairway and the entryway below where already, Mr. Finch was standing near the front door waiting for the first guests to arrive. The butler was doing a nervous sort of little dance, hopping from one foot to the other, his anticipation of the night’s event a perfect reflection of the atmosphere that pervaded the entire staff.
And their master.
“Perhaps she won’t come,” Nick said.
“Miss Markham?” Willie shook her head. “I hear she is over the moon at the prospect of meeting you, m’lord. Word has it that you are the most eligible bachelor of the ton.”
“Just as word has it, no doubt, that I’ve lost my mind.” Too edgy himself to watch how edgy Mr. Finch looked, Nick spun around and paced over to where Willie was standing. “Are you sure Miss Markham is a good choice?”
“She was presented at court last Season and apparently made quite an impression. She did not, however, find a husband and has arrived back in town, or so I hear, with fresh enthusiasm and her mind quite made up to not leave again until there is a ring on her finger.”
“All that money and no husband?” Nick could hardly believe it. He knew half a dozen men at least who would not let so fat a fish squirm so easily off the hook. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, considering for the first time what he had not considered before. “Does she have a squint? A limp? Some sort of defect of personality that makes the men keep their distance?”
“Word has it, m’lord…” As if gauging his reaction, Willie looked at him levelly. “It is said that Devonna Markham refuses to marry until she finds the man of her dreams. Unfortunately, no matter how much I inquired of her friends, relations, and servants who I rather boldly pumped for information, I could not fully uncover what those dreams might be. If her attendance here is any indication, I would guess that she’s holding out for someone rather above the station of the baronet who offered his heart and his hand last Season.”
The news was not encouraging.
“Don’t worry.” Willie reassured him with a smile. “Your friends will be here. Mr. Hexam and the duke of Latimer and the rest of them. They will, no doubt, offer great moral support. And I will be—”
“You’ll be at dinner?” It was the most absurd thought and completely impossible, yet the very idea gave Nick a shot of much needed courage.
“Not at dinner.” At least Willie had the courtesy not to point out how ridiculous the very notion was. “But I will be in the kitchen the entire night and if there’s anything you need or any question you have, you need only have Mr. Finch come and tell me.”
That, at least, made him feel better. The idea of a husband-hungry Devonna Markham did not. “What in the world am I supposed to say to the woman?” Nick asked.
Though it seemed the most logical question, Willie’s only response was a laugh as clear as church bells on a frosty morning. The sound was so unexpected and the smile that accompanied it so bright, it took Nick’s breath away.
It was a blessing that Willie didn’t notice. “I cannot believe that you are ever at a loss for words!” she said, still smiling. “Especially when it comes to conversing with women. I need not remind you that your reputation precedes you, m’lord. And your reputation—or so I’ve been told—is that of the most charming man in all of London.”
“Charming?” As much as Nick would have liked to believe it, he wasn’t the sort to lie to himself. “I may be charming with a certain sort of woman—”
As if to underscore what he was too much of a gentleman to admit to a woman who was too much of a lady to hear it, Bess and Clover rounded the corner, their cheeks pink with excitement, their voices tight with the anticipation of the event that promised to be the most elegant thing they had seen in their lives. Three weeks of Willie’s tutoring had done wonders for the girls. Though Nick suspected they would always be too spirited to blend into the woodwork as good servants were supposed to do, both Bess and Clover (as well as Marie and Flossie) had made great strides.
After the first few times they brazenly offered themselves and Nick made it clear that he was not disposed to treat them as he had when they were part of Madame’s nunnery, they had become cognizant of their place in his household and conscientious, too. They completed their tasks as well as might be expected and except for the times they allowed their hips to sway or the necklines of their gowns to droop just enough to expose a delicious and wholly inappropriate bit of flesh, they looked presentable in the gowns Willie had procured and Madame Brenard had tailored. Though there were times he heard words from their mouths that would make the most hardened sailor blush, they were, for the most part, quiet, and mostly, they only spoke when spoken to—unless, of course, they forgot that was the way things were supposed to be done.
As they neared, Bess and Clover dropped neat curtsies in Nick’s direction, just as Willie had taught them. Giggling, they hurried away.
“You cannot speak to Miss Markham as you might to women like Bess and Clover.”
It was as if Willie were reading his mind.
“I know that,” Nick told her. “And that’s the devil of it. With women like Bess and Clover, a man can be himself. He doesn’t need to equivocate and make polite excuses and act as if he doesn’t have a backbone. He doesn’t need to follow some ancient dowager’s idea of what’s proper or improper to say or do. He can relax. Speak his mind. Give—and get—opinions, even from a bit of muslin such as that.” He looked toward where the girls had disappeared toward the back stairs.
“And even if the opinions a woman like that hands out are only an echo of a man’s and said only to make him happy, at least it is some sign that the girl has a brain. But the Miss Markhams of the world…” Nick shivered.
“It cannot be as bad as all that!” Though Nick could not see the humor in the situation, Willie laughed again. “Surely you must have grown up around women such as Miss Markham.”
“Exactly.” Nick hoped the acid in his voice spoke volumes and when the expression on Willie’s face made it clear that it did not, he pulled in a long breath. “They are raised that way, you see. No thoughts. No beliefs. No aspirations at all except to find a husband who can give them a title or money or preferably, both.”
“And are you telling me women like Bess and Clover have the sort of intellect you find appealing?” The tone of her voice told him that while she might well believe that Cyprians had all the intelligence in the world, she simply didn’t believe that was why Nick sought them out.
“I daresay.”
He harrumphed at the comment and apparently feeling some remorse—or perhaps it was because she took pity on him—she did not press the issue. “I’ve been instructing the staff,” she said, though what that had to do with the fate that awaited Nick, he did not know. “Ever since we planned this dinner party, I’ve spent time with them, day after day. We talk about the appropriate way to serve and the way they are to behave and how they are to stand and walk and respond if someone should speak to them. At each lesson, I have found that one of the best ways to reinforce what they’ve learned is to try a bit of make believe.”
He looked at her uncertainly.
“It seems to be working,” Willie assured him. “For instance, this afternoon, I sat at table and had Mr. Finch come in and act as if he were serving tonight’s dinner.”
“Playacting, do you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s ridiculous!”
“Perhaps. But a little playacting has helped assure us that Mr. Finch will not be serving the turbot with his fingers tonight as he was tempted to do.” Her point well made and just as well taken, Willie walked as far as the stairs, then turned. She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her head, suddenly looking for all the world as regal as a duchess and as supercilious as most of the women Nick had had the misfortune to meet since he had ventured into the deep waters of the marriage pool.
“I am Miss Markham,” Willie said. “And I’ve just arrived. Jem has opened the door. Mr. Finch has shown me in and taken my wrap. We have just been introduced and—”
“And do you suppose she’s as pretty as you?”
Even Nick wasn’t sure where the remark came from. He knew only that it was true. With the lights reflecting in Willie’s eyes and a bit of high color emphasizing the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, she suddenly didn’t look as prim as he remembered and he just as suddenly remembered that though she’d been at Somerton House for weeks now, he hardly bothered to look at her at all. Willie was Willie and as such, she was the one who kept the household running as smoothly as a well-oiled clock, and the servants on task and Nick’s life—at least as much as she was able—in some semblance of order.