The Countess' Lucky Charm

by A. M. Westerling

  “Where did she come from?” Lady Federica demanded, glaring up at Temple.

  “What, no hello Temple, I am happy to see you? Or hello Temple how was your time in New Caledonia? Just an out-and-out attack on the woman I have taken to wife?”

  Lady Frederica thrust out her bottom lip. “I demand you answer my question. Marriage from one of our station is not to be taken lightly. Where did she come from?” she repeated.

  “Why, I found her in my luggage and she very kindly agreed to be my travelling companion.” He twisted his head to wink at Simone again. She could see he was enjoying himself immensely which she found odd—it would never have occurred to her to deliberately bait the woman, no matter how nasty she was. He turned back to face his mother. “A most fine companion she was too.”

  “Please tell me the marriage is not consummated.” The Countess’ voice was ice cold and, frowning, she peered around Temple to take another look at Simone. Apparently, she was not going to challenge Temple on his explanation of Simone’s appearance in his life.

  “Oh, but it is, Mother.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Very well, too, I might add.”

  “Oh!” Her gasp of outrage amused him. “To that—that hoyden?”

  “Hoyden? I would thank you to please be careful as to how you address my wife. After all,” he leaned forward again to whisper in her ear, as if to infuriate her further, “the walls have ears, do they not? We both know the upstairs maids have already informed any and all who will listen that the scoundrel, the ne’er-do-well, the black sheep of the family, has returned. With a wife, no less.”

  A glowering Lady Frederica said nothing.

  “Oh, and Mother? I do believe she becomes the Countess of Leavenby which would make you the Dowager Countess. May I suggest you be agreeable to her or she may banish you to the country house.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “I know how difficult that would be for you, so far from London, the shops, the theatre, the opera.“

  “Stop it, Temple.”

  “No, Mother, I don’t have to stop it. Are you starting to rue that you informed me of my position as Earl? You could have lived out your life with me never knowing about it. But wait.” He tapped an index finger against his jaw. “I left my solicitor informed and in charge of my best interests, so you really couldn’t avoid informing me, could you?”

  “What of our agreement with the Earl of Dowbiggin? You are to wed his daughter, Lady Susannah.” Lady Frederica fanned her face with one plump hand. “One can only imagine the scandal when people find out the Earl of Leavenby has reneged on a long standing arrangement.”

  “Your arrangement. Yours and father’s. Not mine. If you recall, that is what set me on my wild ways. No wait. That happened when you sent me to Eton. Because I was—ahem—leading Richard astray.” Bitterness filled his voice. “Always Richard, always Richard. Now he’s dead. It is ironic, is it not, that I would take his place? ”

  His mother flushed, a crimson tide starting at the jet encrusted neckline and spreading upwards to end in the roots of her hair.

  To Simone, it looked as if the woman was sinking into a red sea of chagrin. Or rage. She couldn’t quite decide which.

  “I think we’ve conversed enough for one evening,” Temple continued pleasantly. “Simone and I will retire to the master bedroom. Please see that a tray is sent up to us, we shan’t be down for dinner. Perhaps in a few days when you have recovered from the shock, we can start again and hopefully on a better foot. Because, Mother, for better or for worse and whether you like it or not—” He pulled Simone beside him. “—Simone is my wife.”

  Speechless, the Dowager Countess sat and watched as Temple and Simone left the room. Simone could feel her eyes, daggers in her back, as she walked away. Oy, what had she gotten into? She had had no illusions that Temple’s family would welcome her with open arms but she hadn’t expected open hostility.

  * * *

  “Well, I’m rather glad that’s over, aren’t you?” Temple remarked once they had reached the sanctuary of their room.

  “She dislikes me, Temple. Doesn’t that bother you?” Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as easy as Simone had thought. Along with Lady Frederica and Tedham, every one, aye, every thing, every room, in this house intimated her. Even this room, Temple’s haven, with its massive mahogany four poster bed draped in burgundy and framed by identical night stands, its matching burgundy and black brocade wingback chairs by the fireplace, and its massive mahogany wardrobe and chest.

  “She would dislike anyone who was not of her choosing.” He stalked over the window, fumbling through the curtain folds to find the draw cords. He pulled them shut then turned back to face Simone. “Mother has had her own way far too often. It’s time she steps aside.”

  “She won’t like that either, giving her place as Countess of Leavenby to me.” Simone shook her head. “Perhaps we should leave straightaway.”

  “Mother is a bully. You must stand up to her. Don’t worry, I’m behind you. And no,” he added, striding back to her to take her hand to raise it to his lips for a kiss. “We shall not leave. This is our rightful home. If Mother cannot or will not accept you as my wife, then she shall be the one to leave.”

  Simone gave him a dubious nod. The idea of running this house daunted her, even more so if Lady Frederica was unhappy with Simone’s position within it.

  “Don’t fret, Simone, the threat of banishment to the country house will be sufficient. Too, I suspect you’ll find an ally in Joanna.”

  Ah yes, Joanna, Richard’s widow. Temple had mentioned her to Simone on the voyage home one evening when he was instructing Simone on the intricacies of the Leavenby family tree.

  “Of course,” Simone murmured.

  “I’ll introduce the two of you tomorrow. She still lives here but I’ve seen no sign of her so one can only assume she is indisposed for the evening. I suspect she’s still wearing widow’s weeds and eschewing social contact. Joanna is one for proper convention although she has always had a soft spot for those less fortunate. I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed to have you as company in this mausoleum that passes for a house. Don’t let her angelic demeanour fool you—she knows how to handle Mother.”

  A knock sounded and at Temple’s command, the door swung open. A housemaid stood there holding a covered tray, behind her stood another with a bucket of steaming water.

  “I am Polly,” chirped the one holding the tray. “Shall we light the fire for you, my lord? And turn down the bed?”

  “Yes, yes, light the fire but leave the bed. We don’t wish to retire just yet.” He pointed to the maid with the water. “Fill the basin and then take my lady’s bag. Wash and press her clothes for tomorrow.”

  “Of course, my lord,” nodded the other. “I am called Anna.”

  After the two had left, Temple turned back to Simone. “Sit.” He pointed to one of the wingback chairs. “Eat first then wash and ready yourself for bed. There will be a lady’s maid for you but we’ve had quite enough for one evening. I’ll help you. I’ve grown quite accustomed to being your maid.” He waggled his black eyebrows at her, a silly yet engaging gesture.

  Her heart swelled with love for him. He was going to stand by her. He was going to stand by her and show the world she was his wife in fact and not name only.

  And she would do her best to stand by him and be the finest countess she could possibly be.

  * * *

  I never, silently fumed the former Countess of Leavenby as she sat alone on the settee in the sitting room, never, ever expected any son of mine to treat me like trash. Me, in my own home. And to marry that—that woman. The shame, the scandal, once word gets out of Temple’s ridiculous choice for wife. Never fear, she promised herself, stamping her cane on the floor for emphasis, she shall rue the day she married my son.

  Lady Frederica could easily use her position in polite society to make life difficult for the lowbred tart.

  And she would.

  Chapter Sevente
en

  “This is lovely,” commented Simone the next morning, helping herself to the breakfast laid out on the side board in the dining room.

  “What? Oh, yes,” Temple replied, nose buried in the London Times. The morning paper, how he had missed that.

  “What did you choose for your breakfast?” She seated herself to his right before pulling back the top corner of the paper. Two brilliant blue eyes sparkled at him.

  “Has no one ever told you not to toy with a man’s morning paper?” He made his voice gruff but he couldn’t stop the smile curling over his lips. She was adorable and try as he might, he couldn’t get angry with her.

  “No, not until now. Let me see what you’re having for breakfast.” She pointed to her own plate. “I took a boiled egg, a slice of bread, two sausages and some orange wedges. I would have taken more,” she lowered her voice and looked around, “but I don’t want anyone to think I am greedy.”

  “Orange wedges.” Temple had to grin despite himself. Of course she would take orange wedges. “Don’t worry, Simone. You’re the Countess of Leavenby, no one would dare think you’re greedy.”

  “Oh.” She seemed nonplussed by his answer.

  “Really, Simone,” he hastened to assure her. “In this house, you may well do as you please and no one will think the slightest bit of ill about you.”

  She looked at him, evidently puzzling over his answer. He could tell she wanted to say something but was obviously reluctant. She opened her mouth and shut it again. She glanced away as if to gather her courage then turned back to him.

  “Why would you leave this?” She swept her arm around, encompassing the dining room with its table laid with crisp white linen and the food laden sideboard. “You are lord and master here. Why would you leave?”

  Why indeed.

  “My being the Earl of Leavenby wasn’t in the cards,” he began. “I only have it by default.” He stopped. He didn’t want to disillusion her. What could he say now?

  Should he tell her about the things he abhorred, the petty mores of so-called polite society? Should he tell her he had planned to become a country gentleman, far from London’s restrictions?

  Or should he tell her he had not been able to stomach the thought of marriage to any of the eligible, mostly insipid, young ladies paraded every season? A parade which had culminated in the awkward match with Lady Susannah?

  Or should he tell her the stifling boredom and the social expectations of the ton were what had pushed him into the unholy alliance with Peter Mortimer-Rae? A chilling thought, reminding Temple to be on his guard; knowing the man as well as he did, Mortimer-Rae would be on the lookout for him still.

  The mantle clock chimed, nine strokes, pulling him out of his reverie. Simone’s eyes bored into him. She wasn’t going to let this go.

  “I left because I was the younger son,” he began. “Richard would inherit all and I, short of a monthly stipend, would have nothing.”

  Thankfully, his words were cut short by the arrival of an exuberant Joanna.

  “Good morning,” exclaimed his sister-in-law as she burst through the door. “The servants are all in a twitter about your homecoming.”

  She bee-lined toward Temple, a short, tubby bundle of grey flounce and ruffles, her pink rosebud mouth stretched into a welcoming smile beneath the button nose.

  The first thought that crossed his mind was that she wore grey, not black. Of course, she would be in second mourning by now as it had been more than six months since his brother’s death. His second thought was that her dressmaker should be shot—Joanna resembled a plump little blackcap, right down to the charcoal mobcap she wore over her brown curls and inquisitive grey eyes.

  “Good to see you too, Joanna.” Temple put his paper aside. “May I introduce you to Simone?”

  Joanna put an arm around Temple’s shoulders in welcome then moved over to pat Simone’s shoulder. It pleased Temple to see the small token of affection bestowed by Joanna didn’t startle Simone; that boded well for the bond he hoped the two would form.

  “I am so very pleased to meet you,” Joanna declared. “It’s high time Temple found himself a wife.” She plunked herself down in the chair beside Simone. “You and I shall be fast friends, I promise.”

  “That would be my fondest hope, Joanna,” Temple said. “I fear Mother has not taken well to my new wife.”

  “Oh pooh,” snorted Joanna. “Lady Frederica can be difficult. But not unmanageable,” she confided sideways to Simone. “Oooh, those look good.” She pointed to the sausages on Simone’s plate. “Venison, I believe, from the country house.” She scraped her chair back. “Will you excuse me while I get my own breakfast? I’m famished.”

  “Of course,” Simone nodded.

  “By all means,” Temple said.

  They both watched Joanna as she loaded her plate with much more than just the sausages. She manoeuvred back to her place beside Simone, dropping a scone in the process.

  “I love breakfast,” she announced to no one in particular as she took her seat. With one foot, she kicked the offending scone under the table.

  Aye, thought Temple, I would wager you love more than just breakfast. He seemed to recall her love for cakes and sweets, too. Ah well, the poor girl had not much to look forward to, being widowed at a young age. She may as well take her comfort in food. Nonetheless she was a kind soul, good hearted and more than capable of taking Simone under her wing. Despite her poor choice of mourning wear, she had a keen eye for the latest fashions.

  “Joanna?” Temple waited for his sister in law to clear her mouth.

  “Yes?” Lady Joanna dabbed butter from her chin with her napkin.

  “Lady Simone needs clothing. We’ve been travelling and I’m afraid her wardrobe is sadly depleted.”

  “Wonderful!” Joanna clapped her hands. “There is nothing I enjoy more than a trip to the modiste’s shop. Although that’s been sadly curtailed.” She cast a rueful glance down at her sombre dress and sighed.

  “Joanna.” Temple paused, carefully considering his next words. “Simone’s upbringing has been rather unorthodox, shall we say. Are you game for a challenge?”

  “The challenge being?” A mouth full of ham and bread muffled Joanna’s words.

  “Readying her for presentation to London society. I’ve done quite as much as I can but I’m not female and have a limited point of view on how some things are properly done.”

  “Of course,” Joanna agreed before shovelling another forkful of ham into her mouth. Her chewing slowed as she scrutinized Simone. Joanna swallowed hard then pursed her lips before answering. “There is nothing more I enjoy than a good challenge.” Her voice was doubtful, as if she had just now taken a thorough look at Simone.

  “Splendid,” Temple said, ignoring Joanna’s scepticism. “What’s the first step?”

  “The first step?” Joanna paused and took another critical look at Simone. “As you suggested, decent clothing. That dress belongs in the rag bin.”

  Simone looked down at the blue seersucker, freshly laundered and pressed. “What’s wrong with it?” she said defensively. “It’s a pretty colour.”

  “Yes, well I’m afraid not even laundering can help that dress,” Joanna said. “Frayed hems and cuffs are just not the thing this season. Neither is that particular shade of blue. This season we are leaning more toward yellow. Which may or may not look good with your colouring but we shall see what we can find at Mme Langlois’ shop.”

  “Excellent.” Temple picked up the paper again. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have a bit of catching up to do with the going’s on in Parliament these days.”

  “You men,” Joanna exclaimed. “Why, your goings on bore me to tears. Now you, Simone,” she patted Simone on the hand, “are going to be fun. We shall go to the dress shop this morning.”

  * * *

  Jauntily swinging his umbrella, Gentry Ted strode briskly down Bond Street and the shops, a favourite haunt of his. A gent could get lucky if a
lady needed help with her bags and earn a quid or two with deliveries.

  He rounded the corner just in time to see a fine, shiny black carriage pull up in front of Mme Langlois’ establishment. Perfect timing on his part—the fancier the carriage, the more items purchased. Disappointment filled him when he saw the two footmen standing on the footboard—they wouldn’t need his help after all.

  He pulled back to wait while one of the footmen opened the door to help a young lady with tousled blonde curls. She looked vaguely familiar and he inspected her for a few seconds.

  Astonishment cascaded through him. Mona, was that Mona stepping down from that fine carriage? He sidled over to take a closer look. The face was clean, the hair curled and styled but indeed, it was Mona Dougherty.

  He edged a bit closer to the young woman perusing the fabrics and gewgaws displayed in the shop window while her female companion was being helped out of the carriage by the footman.

  “Psssst.”

  The young woman ignored him.

  “Pssst. Mona, it’s me, Gentry Ted.”

  The young woman deigned to glance at him. Recognition flashed through her eyes followed by a look of absolute horror, which offended him a tad.

  “Ted!”

  “Mona! Where ye been all this time? Me and the boys been worried about ye.”

  “Go away, Ted,” she whispered, face scarlet red. “You’ll ruin everything!”

  “Why, Mona,” Gentry Ted said shrewdly, looking at the fine carriage and the heavy gold signet ring she wore on her finger. “Ye’ve landed yerself a gentry cove, haven’t ye?”

  “Yes, now please go away. That life for me is over.”

  “Why of course, ma’am.” Gentry Ted tipped his hat and bowed as three ladies drifted by, eying the pair curiously.

  Mona had landed herself a plum gig. Well, he wouldn’t expect anything else from her. That Mona, always landing on her feet. Far be it from him to ruin her chance at a decent life.