Miles shook his head. “It was more than that. No, there’s something else bothering him.” He shrugged. “I’ll get it out of him, sooner or later.”
Consumed with guilt, Fiona could only pick at her food. Had she been responsible for Rory’s bad mood? She’d spoken to him very harshly, and the memory of his wounded expression haunted her. Although she’d been sent reeling by Lord Moordale’s defection, she’d had no right to take it out on Rory. In addition, he’d protected her in a gentlemanly fashion by not mentioning her tongue-lashing to Miles. Despite what she’d said to Angelica, clearly she hadn’t reformed enough. She was still a wicked person and would have to find a way to apologize to Rory without anyone else finding out how she’d behaved.
“Is something troubling you, Fiona? You’re frowning,” Lara said.
“No, I…” She trailed off and cast about for another subject. “I was just feeling rather regretful for any uncomplimentary remarks I’ve made in the past regarding Sir Harry. He was terribly kind to me last night.”
“I wish I’d been there to help, but I’m glad he took care of you at least,” Lara said. “He’s been a good neighbor in more ways than one.”
“Sir Harry’s fortunes have risen. Apparently he’s made several astute business investments which have paid off handsomely.” William chuckled. “Perhaps Miss Braithwaite should have solicited his proposal instead.”
Shortly after breakfast was over, Fiona went to the drawing room and sat down to write the most difficult letter she’d ever managed. Her fingers were trembling slightly as she wrote, so her penmanship wasn’t up to snuff. Nevertheless, she didn’t think Rory’s forgiveness or lack thereof would hinge on the beauty of her hand. Instead, she tried to concentrate on sincerity and lack of guile. She’d spoken in a rude, ill-mannered, and altogether intemperate way to him, and must beg his pardon. Although she’d no right to expect anything, she had to try.
Dear Mr. Braithwaite,
I write to you this morning heartily ashamed about the harsh manner in which I addressed you last night. You aren’t to blame for my misfortunes, nor did you contribute to them in any way. Indeed, at no time did you behave in anything other than a most gentlemanly fashion, and better than I deserve. I freely admit I’ve fallen short of the mark, and it grieves me deeply to think I’ve caused you any pain. I owe you my most sincere apology, Mr. Braithwaite. I take back what I said, but I’ll understand if you can’t excuse me. I’m having difficulty forgiving myself, if truth be told. Should your offer of friendship still stand, please tell me so. Absent any affirmative action on your part, I’ll assume you’ve no wish to continue our acquaintance. I can assure you, however, I’ll hold you blameless either way.
Very Truly Yours,
Fiona Robinson
Miles’s address book was at hand, so Fiona looked up the Braithwaite’s London address, copied it onto an envelope and gave the letter to a footman to deliver. Although she prayed her sentiments would find a receptive audience, she was resigned to estrangement. Feeling guilty and wretched, she went into the garden to get some fresh air. As she contemplated the beautiful rose bushes, she marveled at how soft blooms and sharp thorns could grow on the same plant. Of course, the same juxtaposition could be found amongst the Robinson sisters. Angelica and Lara were like lovely, perfect rose petals, and she was a thorn. Would she ever learn to curb her temper, or was she destined to prick everyone who tried to get close?
Moordale stared at his attorney, Mr. Whitehead, uncomprehending. What he’d just been told could not be true. It had to be some sort of hideous nightmare. As he sat in the man’s staid, book-lined office, he felt as if he were in the eye of a tornado.
“What if I partitioned off part of the property? Surely I can sell enough outlying parcels to settle the tax bill.”
“The problem is one of time. If you don’t settle the bill within thirty days, the authorities intend to seize the property in its entirely and auction it to the highest bidder.”
“Can I lease out Bramble Hall? It’s a beautiful house with a rich history. There must be families who long to live in the country.”
“I’ve already made inquiries on your behalf, and have had no interest. If you’d offered it for lease when the property was in its prime, you might have had better success. As it is, the house has fallen into disrepair and the gardens are a shambles.” The attorney gave him a look of sympathy. “This isn’t entirely your fault, Lord Moordale. Your father made poor investments and left you Bramble Hall without enough principal to maintain it. There’s no shame in selling the property and getting on with your life.”
Moordale gritted his teeth to stave off his emotions. “You’re wrong, Mr. Whitehead. There’s quite a bit of shame in being the first Viscount of Moordale to preside over the loss of the family estate. I’m a failure.”
“Take heart, lad. After the property is sold and the taxes paid, there should be enough money for you to live comfortably…provided your outlays are modest.” He paused. “By the way, what are you living on these days?”
“Every so often, I get lucky at cards. Last year, however, I did quite well for myself in another line of work.” His chuckle held no mirth. “I proposed to two young ladies whose dowries would have paid my tax bill. Once their fathers learned of my financial woes, however, they paid me to go away.” His face burned with the memory. “God help me, but I took the money. I couldn’t afford to do otherwise.”
Mr. Whitehead opened a drawer and retrieved a bottle of spirits and a glass. He poured Moordale a stiff drink and pushed it across the desk toward him.
“My advice to you is to accept the inevitable. Once Bramble Hall is gone, marry a lass with a bit of money, buy a more modest property, and learn something about making proper investments. It’s not the end of the world—however it may seem to you right now.”
Moordale downed the drink in one gulp. “Thank you, Mr. Whitehead, but it’s the end of my world—as pathetic as that sounds.”
Iris was exhilarated. Her fiancé was due to arrive at the Braithwaite residence any moment, and she couldn’t wait. In the drawing room, she paced while Rory worked on a sketch from his perch in the window seat. Eventually, he sighed and shot her a level look.
“Can’t you embroider a screen or read a book? You’re as nervous as a cat and I can’t concentrate.”
“I’m not nervous, I’m happy. In a very little while, my engagement will be official and I’ll be the envy of every woman in London.”
“I’m sure there are a few ladies who don’t give a fig.”
“Must you always be unpleasant?”
“That depends on the company I’m with.”
“I liked you far better when you were in India.”
“Likewise.”
Her gaze fell to the drawing board in Rory’s hands. “What are you working on?”
“It’s nothing to do with you. Would you prefer I play the piano? Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, as the saying goes.”
“Don’t quote Congreve to me, and if you try to play the piano, I’ll sit on the keyboard. I’m listening for the doorbell.”
Her curiosity piqued, she moved toward her brother. Before she could see his drawing, however, he quickly covered it with a piece of paper.
“If you don’t mind, Iris, I’d prefer a little privacy—”
The door chime rang and she jumped. “That’s him!”
Rory put down his work, stretched, and brushed past her.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Papa has left instructions for Moordale to be shown into his study. I intend to be there.”
“Why?”
He paused. “You wanted me to take an interest, didn’t you? Really, Iris, you should make up your mind.”
Iris heard her brother greet Moordale, and accompany him down the hall. A few moments later, and to her frustration, the study door was firmly shut. When the doorbell rang again, Iris wondered if she had another caller, but it was only a messenge
r. She emerged from the drawing room to see the butler with an envelope in his hand.
“What’s that, Glade?”
“A message for Master Rory.”
“Oh. I’ll give it to him.”
“Very good, Miss Iris.”
The butler resumed his duties, and she returned to the drawing room with the letter in hand. When she saw it was from Fiona Robinson, she curled her lip. Was the stupid girl corresponding with Rory in a desperate attempt to spoil her engagement with a falsehood? Without thinking too long about it, she used the tip of a letter opener to pop off the wax seal. She could always claim the letter had arrived that way…or better yet, she could replace the seal with a fresh blob of sealing wax. Depending on what the letter said, perhaps she wouldn’t give it to Rory at all.
Iris slid the stationery out of the envelope and brought it over to the window seat to read. The contents disgusted her. So Fiona had said something untoward the night before—probably as a result of her humiliation—and now she wanted Rory to forgive her? What a simpering little idiot! A niggling suspicion prompted Iris to look at her brother’s sketch. As she feared, the woman he’d been drawing bore more than a passing resemblance to Fiona. How extraordinarily nauseating to think of the two of them together!
Iris stuffed the letter back in its envelope and dribbled sealing wax over the broken spot. Her besotted brother would be so eager to read the letter he wouldn’t know the difference.
Chapter Four
Poison Pen
RORY USHERED MOORDALE into the study and introduced him to the senior Mr. Braithwaite. Peyton came around his desk and shook his hand.
“I’ve heard much about you.”
Moordale appeared not to notice the grim note in Peyton’s voice. “I’m so glad.” He beamed as he settled himself into a chair. “I suppose Iris has told you I’ve proposed?”
Rory and his father exchanged a glance.
“She has, but quite frankly, your proposal is troublesome,” Peyton replied.
The man’s smile slipped. “In what way?”
“Rory informs me you’d been pursuing Miss Fiona Robinson. What made you change your mind in favor of Iris?”
Moordale’s complexion reddened noticeably and he shifted in his seat. “Er…surely I needn’t remind you of your daughter’s considerable charms.”
“But Miss Fiona is charming as well,” Rory said.
“Certainly, she is. In the end, however, she doesn’t hold a candle to Iris.”
Although Rory felt like snorting in derision, as a gentleman he held it in. “No, of course not.”
“Forgive me, but I’ve heard your financial situation leaves something to be desired,” Peyton said. “Your debts, for example, far exceed your income.”
The viscount was the very picture of confusion. “I’ve no idea to what you must be referring.”
Rory folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t you? Furthermore, I’m given to understand you attempted to elope with two different ladies last year, and were compensated to go away.”
“That’s the basest sort of gossip, and beneath you, sir!”
“Perhaps so, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Rory said.
Moordale’s spine straightened. “I’m not a horse to be bought off!”
Peyton withdrew a bank book from a drawer and dropped in onto his desk. “If I write you a bank draft for ten thousand pounds, will you agree to leave Iris alone?”
The man averted his eyes. “I suppose if you feel that strongly against having me for a son-in-law, I wouldn’t press my suit.”
“Father, write him a draft for fifty pounds,” Rory said. “That should do it.”
“Done.” Peyton dipped pen in ink and bent over the bank book.
At that, Moordale became incensed. “Hang on…what do you take me for?”
Rory shook his head in disappointment. He’d expected a better game, but the man had made it entirely too easy. “Everyone knows what you are, sir. We’re just haggling over the price, as they say.”
Although Moordale sputtered in outrage, he waited until Peyton gave him the bank draft before storming from the house.
“Well, that’s done,” Rory said.
“I hope we’ve done the proper thing for Iris,” Peyton said.
“Having met Moordale, do you really have any doubts? What sort of man would take money for withdrawing a legitimate offer of marriage?”
Peyton sighed. “You’re right, but I regret having to deal with your sister. I suppose you’d best call her in.”
But Iris was already pushing her way into the study. “Why did Iggy leave without speaking to me? What’s happened?”
Rory winced. “I’ll leave you to it, Father.”
He backed from the office, shut the door, and returned to the drawing room. Just as he reached for his sketch, he heard a shriek. Moments later, Iris stormed into the room and pointed her finger at him. “This is your doing, I just know it!”
As she strode toward him with blood in her eyes, Rory held up his hands.
“Listen to me, Iris! He’s a fortune-hunting scoundrel with a mountain of debt!”
“You don’t know anything of the sort!”
Her voice raised in volume until the last word was a scream. The picture of fury, she shoved him so hard with both hands that he staggered backward into the piano, knocking the instrument several inches from its original position. As Peyton appeared in the doorway, Iris darted past him and up the stairs. Rory and his father stood in awkward silence until the sound of a slamming door overhead reached their ears.
Peyton cleared his throat. “She didn’t take the news as well as I’d hoped.”
Trembling with emotion, Iris threw herself on her bed and pounded the pillows with her fists. She knew without a doubt her father would have consented to the match if Rory hadn’t interfered. Her father had told her Moordale had accepted fifty pounds to withdraw his proposal, but what of it? The man should walk away with something for his trouble, shouldn’t he? His feelings had motivated his choice of her over Fiona, and that was all the proof she needed of his genuine affection.
Oh, what was she to do? The viscount had been her absolute last chance to marry, and now she’d be considered a spinster. After the first wave of grief passed, icy anger took its place…along with a thirst for revenge. All society would be laughing at her heartache and despair—especially Fiona Robinson—and it was all Rory’s fault! Her brother had always been an annoyance ever since she could remember. He’d always commanded attention with his looks, talents, and manners, and she’d never disliked him more passionately than now. He wanted to see her end an old maid, and he’d likely get his wish.
There wasn’t much she could do to her brother and get away with it, but she wasn’t without other options. Rory might be out of reach, but the object of his affection was not. Iris pulled Fiona’s letter from her pocket, slit it open, and read the missive again for clues on how best to proceed. It was clear the girl was ridden with guilt for some reason, and her guilt left her extremely vulnerable. Rarely had a person ever delivered themselves so completely into the hands of an enemy, and Iris giggled with delight. She’d answer the letter—as Rory—in as hurtful a manner as possible. Since Fiona’s acquaintance with him was of short duration, she wouldn’t be familiar with his handwriting.
With a smile on her lips, Iris sat at her writing desk and composed the letter, relishing each word.
Dear Miss Fiona,
There’s no need to ask my forgiveness. Were you in possession of your sister’s looks or manners, I might have felt dismay at your actions, but the lion’s share of virtues fell into Miss Lara’s lap at birth. It must be difficult for you to live up to her example, especially since you are twins.
Miles Greystoke has related to me in private his distaste for your company. If not for you, he would have proposed to Miss Lara by now. I’ve encouraged him to ask your sister for her hand, but he continues to balk. I believe if you were absent, he
might finally bend his knee. Knowing this, I’m sure you’ll do what’s right.
Sincerely,
Rory Braithwaite
As Iris sealed the envelope, she imagined how it would be when Fiona read the letter. Oh, how she wished she could be there to see the expression on the girl’s face! Fiona would never forgive Rory for his sentiments, and would cut him socially. He’d never know the reason behind Fiona’s hatred, and it would eat him up from the inside. Everything had always come easily to her wretched brother—until now. Iris was looking forward to watching him suffer.
Sir Harry entered the Greystoke drawing room with a spring in his step. Fiona noticed his waistcoat was more splendid than usual, his neatly cropped hair and beard seemed to have been freshly trimmed, and his walking stick sported a fashionable blue glass knob.
“I’m afraid you find me alone this afternoon, Sir Harry. Miles is off riding, and Lara has gone to tea at a friend’s house.”
What she didn’t mention was that she’d been invited to the tea as well, but had been too tired from her difficult night to attend. She asked Sir Harry to sit on the sofa with her, but he preferred to pose next to the mantle. Had he been a younger man, she might have imagined he stayed standing out of vanity, to show off his fine figure. No softness had settled around his middle, like so many older men, and she recalled Sir Harry had once been a distinguished officer in the army.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“As well as might be expected, thank you. Although I received a bit of a shock last night, I’ll be all right in a day or two.”
“I wish to ease your mind regarding Lord Moordale. After his father died, Moordale has been unable to keep up his estate. He’s seeking to marry an heiress.”
Fiona frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”
“His regard for you might have been genuine, my dear, but he can’t afford to marry where his inclination leads him. Nevertheless, I cannot excuse his lack of manners toward you. It was badly done on his part.”
A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2) Page 4