by Joan Smith
“Only a squire’s son? Come, come. Rex. You must know my title and fortune take precedence over a squire’s son. I shall attach Miss Wanda before the month is out.”
“Don’t be such a sapskull, Clay. You’re only saying that because you want to put the Rose’s pretty nose out of joint. I know you. Too proud by half. Think she’ll be boasting about her offer from you, and you want to saunter in with a pretty chick on your wing to show her how little you’re suffering.”
Clay concealed his sheepish smile behind his ale glass, and feigned deafness. “I was extremely taken with the young lady, I promise you,” he replied blandly when he had drained the glass. In point of fact, he would not have recognized Wanda had she walked into the room that minute. He vaguely recalled a pretty dark-haired girl who had been around, then suddenly vanished. But as his obtuse friend had surmised, his reason for interest in Miss Wanda was to put the Rose’s nose out of joint. Make a laughingstock of him, would she? And lead him to declare himself when she was already promised. His pride stung, he was determined to have the last laugh yet. If Miss Wanda was half so pretty as her sisters, she would be just the one to help him. Squire’s son, indeed. He of all people knew the efficacy of a title and fortune!
“I daresay you were, and it’s a pity she couldn’t have stuck around to give the Rose some fair competition. Really nobody else worth a second look brought out this year. Just like the Wanderleys, though, to go breaking their legs. Hoydens, Clay, the whole lot of them. Joan rode astride till she was into her teens—that’s Lady Siderow. And Caroline—”
“About Wanda,” Claymore interrupted impatiently. “Took a tumble from her horse, I suppose?”
“No such a thing. She don’t ride much, actually. She was climbing a tree, not to be outdone by Ellie, you know.”
“Another sister?”
“The fourth of the Wanderley beauties. No, or is it third now? Yes, she was born a little before Wanda.” He had to nurse his thumb after the strain of delivering this news.
“Some nine or ten months before, I must presume.”
“No, it wasn’t nearly that long.” Claymore stared at this miracle, and Rex rambled on. “They was twins, you see, that’s how it was.”
“I see. And why was not Miss Ellie presented this year, then, being, er, older. Broke her head climbing a tree, did she?”
In spite of considerable thumb-sucking and ear-rubbing, Rex could not explain the mystery, though he assured his friend there must have been a good reason for it. Even if Ellie wasn’t quite as pretty as the others, she would certainly get her crack at the London beaux; her mama and her married sisters would see to that
“Well then, my friend, you must present me to these wonderful Wanderleys,” Clay declared magnanimously.
“Can’t do it, Clay. For one thing, the Season’s over, or next to it, and they ain’t in town. As I said, Wanda’s as well as hitched. Wouldn’t be surprised to read the announcement any day.”
“I have not read it yet, and I’ll wager a pony we will not read any such thing once I have offered for her.”
“Lord, you haven’t even met her! You might not care for Wanda at all. I don’t. Like her the least of the batch, and that’s a fact. You’d do better to have Ellie, though of course she ain’t so handsome, and wouldn’t square you with the Rose at all.”
“It is Wanda I have decided on.”
“Well, if you ain’t a loose fish, Clay. Getting yourself buckled to a girl you don’t even know, just to spite the Rose.”
“What does a man ever know of the girl he marries?” Does Everleigh know, for example, that his bride called him ‘the old goat’ behind his back, and showered her kisses on anyone who bothered to reach out and take them? No, indeed, all you knew was what you could see, and if Miss Wanda proved attractive to the eye, he would have her.
“You know Wanda don’t love you, for I’m telling you she’s powerful fond of George Hibbard.”
“We’ll see if she isn’t powerful fond of a title and a fortune as well. I think I shall do you the honor of accepting your kind offer to pass a few weeks at the Abbey.”
“What offer?”
“The offer you are about to extend.”
“I was thinking of going to Bath, Clay.”
“Think again. You are about to go home and visit your mama.”
“She’s going to Bath, too.”
“Not till July, I think?”
“Yes, but dash it, Clay, I want to get there before her, and have a bit of time to enjoy myself, for you know once she and my sister, Missie, get there, I shall be pressed into service taking them to Pump Rooms and libraries and such dull stuff.”
“It is only early June, Rex. I shan’t burden you with my presence for more than two weeks. That should be sufficient time to reach an understanding with Miss Wanda.”
“I wouldn’t wish that woman on my worst enemy, let alone my best friend. Just such a spoiled beauty as the Rose.”
“That is precisely the sort of beauty I require,” Clay returned firmly, even grimly.
“Yes, to flaunt in Miss Golden’s face, and pretend you ain’t all cut to ribbons by her having Everleigh.”
“Just so.”
“Well, we’ll go to the Abbey, but Wanda won’t have you, and I’m glad of it, for you two wouldn’t suit in the least.”
“We shall deal exceedingly,” his friend replied. Then he walked to the center of the room, dumped the three cards that were in the hat on the floor, handed the hat to Rex, and ushered him to the door.
Once alone, Claymore felt very much like bawling, but he called for his housekeeper instead, and in a fierce tone demanded to know why he had not been handed the Morning Observer with his breakfast, and felt very foolish when she pointed out that it had been put on the table and he had not picked it up.
“Well, see that it doesn’t happen again,” he said.
His poor servant hardly knew whether she was to refrain from having it in the breakfast room at all, or to personally place it in his hands, and she frowned at him in perplexity.
“That will be all,” his lordship said in a voice nearer normal, which did not enlighten her very much, but at least informed her that he “was getting over his snit.”
Chapter Two
It was arranged that the two would set out early for the Abbey, Homberly’s ancestral home in Surrey, just north of the Sussex border. But somehow it was very late in the morning before they eventually got away, and between stopping for luncheon and wasting the better part of an hour on a wager to determine which of the two could down a glass of ale faster, it was just turning dark when they tooled their curricles into the drive that led to the Abbey.
They were both a trifle foxed, as it had taken some six bottles to ascertain that Rex could consume his drink nineteen seconds faster than his friend. Rex, however, was not so foxed as to fail to welcome the news that his parents were dining out. Cut up devilish stiff would his mama if he landed home anything but cold stone sober. He was wonderfully happy to know he need not curtail his drinking, for the parents were at Ashton Manor, five miles away, and were as well staying for a game of cards, too, it was unlikely he would see them before midnight
Therefore, he and Clay might have as many bottles of wine as they pleased cracked open, lift their hessian-clad feet to the table (no need even to change for dinner), and proceed to become as drunk as wheelbarrows. This pastime was engaged in, upon this occasion, to drown Clay’s sorrow at losing the Rose. He had scarcely been sober since her refusal the day before. The preceding evening they had dined alone at Claymore House in London, as Clay was feeling too disgraced to visit any party when it was four pence to a groat Miss Golden would be there, decorating the arm of her old goat.
By the time they had finished the second bottle of claret, Lord Claymore had the marvelous idea of presenting himself that very night to his new beloved, Miss Wanda Wanderley.
“Not the thing, Clay,” Rex was still sober enough to reply. “Too late
. Damme, it’s ten o’clock.”
“Damme yourself, she wouldn’t be in bed at ten o’clock. Nobody goes to bed at ten o’clock.”
“Yes, but we ain’t there,” Rex argued. “They live in Sussex, you know. This is Surrey.”
“You said they live next door. Remember distinctly,” Clay pronounced, not very distinctly.
“That’s because Surrey turns into Sussex about a quarter of a mile down the road. Another foot of land and Papa could boast he had estates in two counties. Don’t though. We stop at the border, and Wanderley owns Sussex.”
“Must be devilish rich. I never knew Wanderley owned Sussex. East and West Sussex?”
“Dash it, Clay, you’re bosky. I didn’t say he owned Sussex.”
“Dash it, you’re foxed yourself. Course you did. Just said it. Ask anyone.”
Rex looked around the table obediently. “Know what, Clay? Ain’t nobody here to ask. We’re all alone.”
“The devil you say!” Clay answered, also looking around. “By Jove, you’re right. All alone. All alone,” he repeated forlornly. “I’m sick of being all alone, Rex. Going to meet Miss Wanderley.”
“No, are you though?” Rex asked with interest, as the fumes rose to his head. “Know where she lives? Sussex. That’s where she lives. Sussex.”
“Papa owns Sussex,” Clay told his friend sagely.
“Don’t say. I didn’t know that. Never told me nothing about it. Bought it, did he? Be trying to buy up Surrey next thing you know. Be planting his old dendrons from Brazil, cluttering the place up with trees and flowers. Well, he won’t get the Abbey. Been in the family forever, ever since Henry the Eighth stole it from the Papists anyway. Devilish long time.”
“You a Papist? I didn’t know that.
“No such a thing! You a Papist, Clay?”
“Nope. Miss Wanda a Papist?”
“No, no. Know what, Clay? I think she’ll have you. Devilish sly girl. Shell throw Hibbard overboard and snatch your title.”
“Course she’ll have me. Marquis of Claymore. Twenty thousand a year. Course she’ll have me, old goat.”
“No, really! Not a goat at all. Pretty little puss, but mind she’s got claws.”
“Not her. Him.”
“Oh, him.” Rex tipped the bottle and stared blankly as two drops fell onto the linen tablecloth. “All gone, Clay. This bottle is empty.”
“All gone,” Clay agreed, shaking his head in misery.
“Know what, Clay?”
“What?”
“Let’s go and see Miss Wanderley.”
“That’s a good idea, Rex. Let’s go and see Miss Wanderley.”
They lurched to their feet, and ordered a worried footman to have their mounts brought around. “I don’t have a hack here,” Clay reminded his friend.
“What, no hack? Deuce take it, Clay. What did you do with all your cattle?”
Clay looked puzzled, but the matter defied memory. “You got a hack to spare, Rex?”
“Stable full of horses. Take your pick, old friend. I can’t mount my best friend, what the devil’s the world coming to? Take your pick, Clay.”
But it was their grooms who carefully chose two ancient nags for them, upon hearing of their condition, and assured each other the buckoes would be lucky to get beyond the gates on these glue pots.
“You call this a horse?” Clay asked, insulted to be presented with such a sack of bones. “Ready for the tanning factory, ‘pon my word. Wouldn’t have believed you kept such nags.”
“Gone downhill something dreadful,” Rex said sadly, shaking his head. “I’ll speak to Papa. Oughtn’t to offer an earl a nag like this.”
“Marquis, Rex,” his friend reminded him in a tone that tried to be haughty.
“By Jove, that’s right. Marquis of Claymore.”
“Yessir, Marquis of Claymore. Going to buy a girl. Prettiest girl in the whole damned countryside. Miss Wanda Wander-er-er-erley.”
“Who?”
“Her, you know.”
“She might have you, Clay. She just might have you.”
“Where does she live?”
“Sussex. This way,” Rex replied, turning his dispirited nag down the road to the Wanderley home.
“Is it far to Sussex?”
“Not far, if Adam didn’t move it. Wouldn’t put it past him, the clunch. Devilish loose screw. Know what he did? Bought Sussex. Somebody told me.”
“Must be a nabob. Wonder if he’ll sell Wanda.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. He’ll be wanting to get a toe into the next county. Need the money. Might very well sell her, but it won’t be for no old song. You’ll have to come down heavy.”
They meandered down the road, sometimes talking, sometimes singing in loud, carrying voices, till they came to the entrance to the Wanderley house. It was an old brick home, and presented a charming view in the daylight, but at night it formed a dark hulk of a shadow on the hill, and looked eerie in the moonlight, for by the time the gentlemen reached their destination it was after eleven, and the family had retired.
“Ain’t nobody home,” Rex said.
“What, after we’ve come all the way from Surrey! I call that shabby treatment. I don’t like it, Rex.”
“Something damned smokey here. Why ain’t they home? Never told me nothing about leaving home. Out buying up Hampshire or Kent, no doubt.”
“Which room is hers?” Clay asked, scanning the windows that glinted white and ghostly in the moonlight.
“Dash it, how would I know? I don’t go creeping in her window. Don’t like Wanda above half. Told you so. Ellie now...”
“I have the gift, I ever tell you that?” Clay asked in a voice laden with meaning.
“Eh? What gift is that then? You didn’t say nothing about buying a gift.”
“The gift You know. I can tell things. Strange, supernatural things. A spirit will tell me where abides my love.”
“Tiburn Road. We both know that.”
“Hah! Not her. I’m speaking of Miss Wanda. It’s that room,” and he pointed to a window no different from any other, except that it was open six inches at the bottom.
“That one, eh? Well, she ain’t there. There ain’t nobody home. They’ve all slipped off to buy up Kent.”
“The spirit tells me she’s home. See, she has her window open to welcome me.”
“Ought to warn her to close that window, old fellow. Take her death of cold.”
They dismounted, tethered their nags to a tree, and walked softly, so as not to disturb the empty house.
“I’m going in,” Clay announced firmly.
“Can’t do that. They ain’t home.”
“She’s home. I can hear her heart calling me across the miles.”
“What miles?” Rex demanded sharply. “She ain’t ten yards away, if she is home.” They were now directly under the window designated by his lordship as being hers.
At his words the window was raised another foot, and a head peeped out. In the dim moonlight only an oval of white was visible, with a cloud of a dark hair billowing about it. “Rex, is that you?” a lady’s voice asked in a lowered voice.
“Damme, now see what you’ve done,” Rex complained to his buddy.
“Give me a lift up,” Clay demanded.
“You can’t go in there! ‘Pon my word. Not the thing, to be sneaking into a lady’s chamber in the dead of night. Adam’d have your skin.”
“What is going on?” the voice asked. “Rex, are you drunk? Is that Abel with you?”
Executing an elegant if slightly wobbly bow, the Marquis of Claymore made himself known. His introduction was acknowledged with a nervous giggle. “You are drunk, both of you,” the voice chided. “Go away, Rex, and take your friend with you.”
It was only the Marquis who went away, while Homberly remained behind to inform the lady they were both as sober as judges. Within minutes Claymore was back with a ladder, which he had espied on the ground on his way in. He leaned it against the hou
se, and proceeded to climb it, till he was as close as he could manage to get to the face that leaned toward him. It was, however, a short ladder, one that had been used that afternoon to retrieve Pudding, a foolish kitten, from a tree, and it did not reach milady’s chamber window. By balancing himself on the second rung from the top, Claymore could nearly reach her. He thought he could even reach her lips if she would lean over farther.
“I am come to make you an offer in form, Miss Wanderley,” the Marquis said, with hardly a slur in his voice at all. Miss Wanderley looked down into his face, and thought she had never seen anyone so dashing and handsome in her life. It was all so dreadfully exciting and romantic, and the fear that Mama might at any moment come in and discover her, and very likely kill her, made it the more piquant.
“Oh, my lord, you are foxed.” She laughed tremulously.
“Drunk with love for you, my pretty,” he returned gallantly, and jiggled so precariously that she feared he might fall at any moment and break his leg. She involuntarily reached down her two hands and grabbed his shoulders, and as she did so, the upper part of her body was projected out the window, revealing a pair of shapely arms, and the outlines of an equally entrancing bosom beneath her nightdress.
“Do pray get down, before you kill yourself,” she implored. Claymore looked up into her worried little face, then allowed his eyes to travel down to her body, and he made no motion to get down.
“I am going in and closing this window,” she said severely. Then she let go of his shoulders, but did not pull her head in, for she had never so enjoyed herself in her entire sheltered life.
“Not till you accept my offer.”
“Go away,” she implored. Looking out, she addressed herself to Homberly. “Do take him home, Rex, before he takes a tumble and hurts himself.”
“I am a marquis, with twenty thousand pounds a year,” Clay boasted.
“You are drunk,” she said, and she regretfully pulled her head inside, and finally closed the window. Sound was not entirely eliminated, however, as she kept her ear to the glass. She heard quite distinctly the scrape of the ladder against the side of the house, and the thud as the Marquis hit the ground. She put her fingers to her mouth, and giggled softly into the darkness. So handsome, she thought, and never even remembered his title, nor the exact sum of his fortune.