“What makes you think she’ll do it?”
“She’s always been quite fond of you for some reason, and she’s a hopeless romantic.”
“Assuming she agrees, then what?”
“Before midnight, you’ll be waiting in a carriage outside Miss Braithwaite’s residence. After she joins you, you’ll travel to Liverpool.”
“Why?”
“Her brother, Rory Braithwaite, will strike out in pursuit. I need you to lead him a merry chase until I’ve wed Miss Fiona.”
“Iris Braithwaite’s reputation will be ruined. I suppose you don’t care about that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Her father is taking her to live in America.”
“And what of my reputation? Viewed as the worst sort of libertine, I’ll not be fit to move in society afterward!”
“Since the Braithwaite family will be eager to hush up the scandal, no one will ever know the slightest detail of what has occurred. I’ll pay your travel expenses, of course, with something left over to line your pockets.” He dropped an envelope full of cash on the table.
After a short pause, Moordale picked it up. “I suppose I’ve no choice.” His expression was sour. “Fiona Robinson is a delightful girl, and far too good for you.” He averted his eyes. “She’s far too good for me as well, if it comes to that.”
Harry felt an inexplicable flash of pity. “She would never have married you, lad. Once her father found out about your debts, he would have put an end to it like all the others. You did the proper thing by breaking it off.”
“Perhaps so, but I don’t have to be happy about it…no matter how much you pay me.”
“Do you imagine yourself to be the only man unable to marry where his heart leads him? Lady Wren was not my first choice for a bride, and yet we were perfectly happy in our own way.”
“Who was your first choice?”
“That’s unimportant. The fact remains, I need an heir. So I do what I must.”
Lady Quarterbury’s butler showed Moordale into the countess’s cozy sitting room. She rose as he entered and kissed his cheek.
“I’m so glad to see you! Have you set a date for le mariage, dear boy?”
Moordale gave her a sad smile. “Unfortunately, Miss Braithwaite’s father has refused his permission for us to marry.”
“Oh, no! That’s simply too cruel.”
“What’s worse, he’s forbidden us from writing to one another. I’m really quite distraught.”
“I hate to see young amour thwarted! If I put in a word on your behalf, do you suppose it would do any good?”
A shake of the head. “I doubt it. The irony is that after my estate is sold, I’ll have plenty of money to settle all my debts. Iris understands, of course, but her father doesn’t.”
“Can I do anything?”
The woman’s desire to help was so sincere, Moordale hated himself even more for what he doing—if that was at all possible.
“Actually, there is something you can do.” He retrieved a volume of poetry from his pocket and opened it to reveal an envelope. “This letter is a plea to Iris, begging her to elope with me at midnight. If you could deliver this book into her hands this afternoon without alerting her father as to the contents, I’d be terribly grateful.”
She beamed as she took the book. “Consider it done.” A sigh. “An elopement is so awfully romantic of you, Iggy. Where will you take Miss Braithwaite tonight?”
“I haven’t decided.” He shrugged. “A hotel, I suppose. We’ll need to catch the train to Liverpool first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Braithwaite won’t think to look for us there.”
“Use my carriage for the elopement tonight, and bring her here for the night. Miss Braithwaite will be quite comfortable, I’m certain of it.”
Here, at least, Moordale could be completely truthful. “Countess, you’ve always been so kind to me. I can’t thank you enough.”
For days, Iris had felt like a prisoner in her own home, unable to go out anywhere or do anything. If only she could get word of her plight to Aunt Naomi, surely the woman would convince Papa to let her go to Paris! Unfortunately, Iris wasn’t permitted to send or receive correspondence unless her father read it beforehand. She could entertain callers, but only so long as her father was present. When pressed for an explanation regarding her absence from the social whirl, however, she was only permitted to say she was busy preparing for her upcoming journey. Truth be told, she’d no desire to mention the actual reason, since it reflected poorly on her character. How she wished she hadn’t been found out!
When her father summoned her to his study, Iris arranged her features into a pleasant expression before entering the room. Perhaps he’d had a change of heart, and if he detected any sullenness, it would be the worse for her. She found him sitting at his desk with a letter on the blotter in front of him. She peered down at the missive with suspicion; was she to be blamed for something else?
Peyton glanced up. “I’ve just received a rather odd message from Sir Harry Wren, and I wondered if you happened to know him?”
A shrug. “I know who he is, but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. Why?”
“It seems the chap had dinner with Rory last night at the Robinson’s country house, and says he was very impressed.”
“Apparently, the man is easily impressed.”
“Can’t you keep a civil tongue in your head? Sir Harry wants to pop by tomorrow morning to meet the both of us before he heads north again.”
Iris’s snort of derision wasn’t especially ladylike, but she didn’t care. “If you imagine the man intends to look me over as a marriage prospect, I doubt it very much. Rory can’t have had anything good to say about me.”
“You sell your brother short. Despite your differences with him, Rory would never do anything to damage your prospects. Nevertheless—”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, Mr. Braithwaite, but Lady Quarterbury has come to call on Miss Iris.”
Peyton’s eyebrows rose. “Thank you, Glade. Please tell the countess that Iris and I will be there momentarily.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler left.
“I wonder what Lady Quarterbury wishes to see you about?”
Although Iris was no less surprised, she didn’t let on. “I’m not good enough to receive a visit from a countess?”
“Not every remark is meant as an insult, dearest.” He rose. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
Lady Quarterbury was standing near the piano when Iris and Peyton entered the drawing room.
“How lovely of you to come, Lady Quarterbury.” Iris curtsied.
The countess crossed over. “Thank you, Miss Braithwaite. I’m so happy to have found you at home.”
“Please allow me to introduce my father, Mr. Peyton Braithwaite.”
He bowed. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
The countess giggled. “Enchanté.” She lowered herself onto a sofa. “Miss Braithwaite, come sit next to me.” She gave Iris a surreptitious wink.
Mystified, Iris complied. Although she didn’t know the woman well enough to interpret the gesture, she realized a winking countess must have some hidden agenda.
“I won’t stay long, but I wished to return the book of poetry you lent me.” Lady Quarterbury reached into her bag and produced a small, leather-bound volume which Iris had never seen before.
“Er…you must have me confused with someone else, Lady Quarterbury. I don’t recall lending you a book of poetry.”
“Yes, you did. You wanted me to read this poem in particular.”
The woman turned toward Iris, opening the book in such a way as to shield it from Mr. Braithwaite’s view. An envelope was wedged between the pages—obviously some sort of message.
Iris nodded and accepted the volume. “Oh, I remember it now. Forgive me, but it’s been many weeks.”
“That’s my fault.” The countess pouted. “I’m sorry it took me so long to return the book, but the beautiful
phrases quite drew me in. Perhaps we’ll discuss it when we meet next.”
“I don’t know when that might be.” Iris’s gaze flickered toward her father. “I’m off to America at the end of the summer, I’m afraid, and my stay there might be of some duration.”
Lady Quarterbury’s eyes widened. “On purpose?”
Peyton cleared his throat. “We have relatives there.”
“How adventuresome.” She rose. “Well, I must be going.”
Peyton got to his feet. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Quarterbury. Er…might I ask if you’re acquainted with Sir Harry Wren?”
A momentary change of expression rippled across her face. “Why, yes. He’s très distingué and quite wealthy. A savvy businessman, from what I understand, and a good catch for the right young lady. Why do you ask?”
“He’s asked to call upon us tomorrow morning. It seems he dined with my son recently.”
“You can never have too many friends. Well, au revoir!”
The butler showed the woman out.
Peyton wore a bewildered expression as he turned toward Iris. “Lady Quarterbury is quite handsome, I suppose, but a bit…eccentric.” He held out his hand for the book. “May I?”
Oh, no! Fear struck Iris as she gave it to him, but he merely glanced at the title, shrugged, and handed it back without opening the pages. “How strange you should share a love of poetry with a countess.”
A sigh of relief. “Yes.”
Clad in an old riding habit, Fiona entered Blythe Manor. As she was removing her gloves and hat, her mother’s voice rang out from the drawing room. “Fiona, is that you?”
“Yes, Mama. I’ll be there in a moment.”
A few moments later, she hastened into the drawing room and perched on the edge of a red velvet-upholstered chair.
“I’m home only long enough to arrange a picnic lunch for Miles and Mr. Braithwaite at the church. They’re working with the vicar on plans for new drainage ditches and the like, and will be there all afternoon.”
“So Mr. Braithwaite feels something can be done?”
“Oh, yes! He’s ever so clever. He had a look around, took a few measurements, and immediately began to sketch out a solution to the flooding problem. Mr. Hamish was very impressed.”
“I’m so glad.” Her mother peered at her worn clothes. “Didn’t we buy you several new riding habits before the Season?”
“Yes, but they remained in London when I left. It’s not important; this one will do until Angelica sends the rest of my things.”
“I hope you have something suitable to wear to a formal luncheon? You and I have received an invitation from Mrs. Wren for tomorrow.”
“I’m sure Moira can find me a gown. I wonder why Mrs. Wren is having us over to lunch?” Fiona laughed. “Perhaps she intends to register her objections to me as a possible daughter-in-law?”
“I certainly doubt that. More than likely, she wishes to know you better. Have you absolutely made up your mind to accept Sir Harry’s proposal?”
“No.” Fiona bit her lip. “Every time I make up my mind, something unmakes it again.”
“Something or someone?”
“Mama, Sir Harry has promised me a European tour! You know how much I’ve always longed to travel.”
“But why must he be in such a rush?”
“He wishes to start a family as soon as possible.”
“I suppose at his age that’s a reasonable justification, but it doesn’t give you much time to decide.” Mrs. Robinson sighed. “It’s a dilemma for you, no two ways about it.”
“It’s a choice between a solid offer and a will-o-the-wisp.” Fiona shrugged. “If nothing else, Sir Harry’s ultimatum forces me to be practical.”
“Dearest, if you’re really torn, I advise you to tell the gentleman to wait until you’re sure. If you lose him, so be it.”
Fiona’s heart gave a great leap. “Do you really think so?”
“I do.”
“And you won’t blame me if he withdraws his offer?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Robinson smiled. “I have a feeling you won’t have to wait long for another proposal—one you’ll accept without hesitation.”
Fiona jumped up to deposit an ecstatic kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Thank you, Mama! Excuse me while I have a word with the cook about the picnic.”
After Lady Quarterbury left, Iris scurried to her room, extracted the envelope from the pages of the book, and slit it open. As she read the message inside, she gasped with pleasure. Lord Moordale wanted to elope with her? What a wonderful and serendipitous development, and the answer to her prayers! She danced around the room in happiness…until she realized time was running short to prepare. What should she take away with her? A small carpet bag would be all she could carry, so she’d have to pack carefully. None of her gowns could possibly fit in such a small space, but she should be able to manage a few undergarments, a nightdress, petticoat, stockings, a pair of shoes, and a chemise or two. More importantly, since she didn’t know for sure how long she would be gone, she’d need to take a great deal of portable property to sell if necessary. Sadly, she possessed very little in the way of pocket money, and her most important pieces of jewelry were locked up in her father’s safe. How she wished she could take the heirloom diamond necklace she’d worn to Lady Quarterbury’s ball! Still, she had quite a few rings, lesser necklaces, earbobs, and brooches which could be sold for cash, as well as several jeweled hatpins.
Of course, there were also small objects of value waiting to be liberated from the house. The servants were too canny not to notice if she nicked the antique pill box collection in the drawing room, but the silver candle snuffer in the library wouldn’t be missed for several days. A slow delighted smile spread across Iris’s face when she remembered neither Rory nor his valet were in residence. His bedroom would likely yield a myriad of cufflinks, gold shirt studs, watch chains, and possibly even money. She’d take everything of value and not even feel the least bit of guilt in the process. After all, he’d caused her a great deal of mortification and deserved a portion of grief in return.
When the servants were having their tea, Iris brought a knitting bag into Rory’s room and set about stripping it of valuables…even down to the silver shoe horn in the closet and the silver letter opener on his desk. A few coins rested in a small silver dish on the dresser, so she took the coins and the dish too. The embroidered handkerchiefs were too much bother, although she was tempted. The linen squares weren’t especially valuable, really, but their absence would cause her brother a great deal of trouble. Of special interest, however, was the pretty Nicholas Noël Boutet pocket pistol in Rory’s nightstand—a gift from Aunt Naomi on the occasion of his graduation from Cambridge. Rory had shown Iris how to fire it before and had allowed her to practice with it when they were in the country. The pistol was one of Rory’s favorite possessions, and he’d be particularly vexed to find it gone. The pistol and its case went into her knitting bag.
She giggled as she crept from the room. “Burgling is rather fun.”
Two footmen brought the picnic to the church in a gig, while Fiona accompanied them on horseback. When the small convoy reached St. James, laborers were already setting down wooden stakes where the ditches were to be constructed. After the picnic was laid out under a shady tree across the street, Fiona sent one of the footmen to tell Miles and Rory lunch was ready. She smiled when the gentlemen hastened over right away.
“So how are things coming along?” she asked.
“The project was less of a problem than I’d imagined,” Rory said. “Fortunately, we’ve hired a local construction foreman who’ll help supervise digging the ditches. All told, I doubt the work will take longer than a week.”
Miles chuckled. “Rory underestimates his role in the situation. If I had any doubts about his engineering abilities, they’ve been swept away.”
“Don’t I know it! I told Mama how impressed we all were when he sketched out his pla
ns with such authority.”
Rory shook his head. “Thank you, but the flooding issue should’ve been dealt with long ago. Despite what Sir Harry may think, nobody local has volunteered to help before now.”
“As you said last night, sometimes a pair of young eyes is exactly what’s needed, and here you are.” Fiona sank down onto the blanket. “Come eat! The cook has very generously provided several different kinds of sandwiches, roast chicken, pickles, bread and butter, fruit, and gingerbread. Oh, and the footmen have pots of hot tea or cool, sweet lemonade.”
“What a treat,” Miles said. “I confess, I’m starving.”
“It was lovely of you to suggest a picnic, Miss Fiona,” Rory added.
“I’m just trying to do my part.”
Fiona was pleased when the gentlemen heaped their plates full. A steady breeze kept the insects at bay, and the temperature under the tree was pleasant indeed. Although she tried not to look at Rory overmuch, her gaze kept straying to his face.
Unfortunately, as he was preparing to bite into a pickle, he caught her staring at him. Immediately, he reached for a napkin. “Have I crumbs on my chin?”
She hoped he didn’t notice her blushing. “No, you’re perfectly fine. Actually, I was thinking what a fine subject you’d make for a sketch. Would you sit for me after dinner?”
His mouth quirked up in a crooked grin. “That depends on whether you’d sit for me at the same time.”
“What?”
“If you’d be so kind as to furnish me drawing materials, we can make a contest of it. You and I shall sketch one another for a half hour, after which Miles will judge which likeness is better.”
Rory’s suggestion pleased Fiona no end, but she pretended to be unsure. “What of poor Miles? He’ll be dreadfully bored watching us draw.”
“Never mind me,” Miles said. “I can always play solitaire while nursing a brandy.”
“I know…I’ve an hourglass timer with twenty minutes per turn,” Fiona said. “Our contest will last from the first grain of sand until the last.”
A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2) Page 10