The Forthright Lady Gillian, The Fickle Fortune-Hunter

by Amanda Scott

  “No matter,” he said, “not here, at all events.” When the footman entered he proceeded to discuss in detail his choices for a hearty breakfast, and when the man had gone again, he grinned at Gillian and said, “Found the Widow Torrance was getting to be a bit of a handful, if you can believe it, so I came along to town to look over the new crop on the Marriage Mart. They’ll be too young to have decent experience, of course, but a man likes to refresh his memory from time to time. Arrived last night for dinner, and went for a stroll afterward to the churchyard to pay my respects to Millicent and have a friendly chat. What a woman she was! Pity I married that Grace creature after her. Nearly spoiled my taste for feminine company. But Grace has been gone for years now, too, and things are looking up. Found a fine bit of muslin right there in the churchyard, if you can believe it.”

  “Good heavens! But you must have been there rather late, sir. What was a woman doing there at such an hour?”

  “Oh, it was after eleven, to be sure, and very dark,” he said with a mischievous smile. “As to what she was doing, I expect her purpose was the same as my own. I did take the liberty of suggesting that she ought not to be abroad at such an hour, but she was a bit coy and wouldn’t talk much at first.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No, but she’s a lady, though not of the first circles. Could tell by her speech, you know. Daresay I frightened her witless. Pitch-black out, and I had on my long cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. Must have seemed like the devil himself rising up before her. I was careful to keep my distance and to keep my voice to a murmur so as not to terrify her more, and I fancy I had her tame as a dove by the time we parted, though to be sure she never saw my face, and we did not exchange names. She was clearly embarrassed to have been so startled, and I felt it would be better to maintain a certain air of mystery for the future.”

  “Then you will meet her there again?” Gillian was amused, and grateful, too, to be distracted from her problems for a time.

  “Oh, aye,” he said carelessly, “unless more enticing game appears. What plans have you for the future? Have you been to Almack’s yet? To balls? Who is doing what?”

  “I am afraid I am a little in disgrace just now, sir,” she said, smiling at him. “I have cried off from my betrothal.”

  “Good for you,” he said. “Much better to look them all over before you make up your mind to one lad.”

  “Well, you will be the only one to take that position, I fear,” she said. “Papa is utterly enraged with me.”

  “Naturally. You know—and tell me to go wash my head if you like—but when I saw the pair of you, I thought you liked him.”

  Gillian was silent for a moment, fearing her feelings would overflow into a speech she might regret. But Vellacott simply sat and stared at her until she felt her cheeks grow hot. She was spared for a moment by the return of the footman with her uncle’s breakfast, but he had no sooner left the room again than Vellacott told her to cut loose and tell him a round tale.

  “I do like him,” she said, “but I do not want him to feel he must marry me. Not for propriety’s sake, or my own. If he loved me it would be different, but I do not think he can, for when he discovered the facts of my inheritance, he became unreasonably angry, and after he drove me back here from Langshire House, he said some cutting things, though I’m afraid I did too.”

  “Nothing unreasonable about that,” Vellacott mumbled around a mouthful of coddled eggs and ham. “Daresay the fellow don’t like the notion of a female managing her own affairs. Most men don’t. Seems a pity, though. He looked to be the sort who might put a bridle on you, lass. You could stand one.”

  She smiled a little wryly at that. “Do you think so, sir? I confess, I cannot find it in myself to agree with you.”

  “Daresay you can’t, but it’s fact nonetheless. I don’t mean you need a man telling you when you may breathe. Nor do you want one who will snap your head off every time you chance to disagree with him. But you do need a man who can curb your more willful starts by appealing to your better nature. You’ve a good mind in that stubborn head of yours, and you’ve a dashed good heart. But you’ve carried more of a burden than you should have to carry, my dear, and that’s plain fact. Your papa don’t like taking responsibility as long as there’s anyone else about willing to take it for him. ’Twould be a pity for you to find yourself shackled to a lad of the same cut. I thought Thorne was different, but if he can’t stomach your fortune being arranged the way it is, you count yourself well out of a bad bargain.”

  “There never was a good bargain,” she said sadly. “I do think that if we had met in a normal way, things might have been different, but since that was not the case—”

  “And just what was the case, if I might ask?”

  Before Gillian could reply, the door opened and Estrid said, “Mercy, Gillian, did I hear a man’s voice in here? I know it cannot be your father, for he left—” She broke off, staring at Mr. Vellacott, who was in turn staring right back at her. “And who are you, sir, if I might ask? Good gracious, Gillian!”

  Vellacott got smoothly to his feet and made her a bow. His eyes were dancing, but he did not so far forget the proprieties as to introduce himself, so Gillian did the honors.

  Estrid chose to be gracious, saying playfully, “You have been avoiding us, sir. My lord is most put out with you, and I protest, you were never at Carnaby but what you slipped away like a ghost without so much as pausing to pay us a proper call.”

  “To my own disservice, madam,” Vellacott said, making her a deeper leg than before. “No one chanced to mention that Marrick had found himself such a beautiful lady. I assure you, had I known, I should have made a nuisance of myself by visiting you upon every possible occasion.”

  Laughing and clearly pleased, Estrid took her seat and begged him to sit down again and finish his breakfast, but Gillian, startled by his affability toward one whom he had stigmatized more than once in ways she would not think to repeat to anyone, looked narrowly at him. He met the look blandly.

  Estrid turned to Gillian and said, “Little John will arrive today, I believe, for I have had word that they stopped for the night in Brentford. I confess, I look forward to seeing him. I know it is not the fashion to interest oneself in one’s children, but I have always found it difficult to release them entirely to servants. No doubt,” she added rather more tartly, “you will condemn my middle-class behavior, but before you do, let me tell you that your father has already told me that you have been stupid enough to whistle a dukedom down the wind, so don’t expect me to heed any paltry condemnation you might care to make of me.”

  “But I do not condemn you, Estrid. On the contrary, I honor your feelings, for I intend to be exactly the same. No doubt I will annoy my servants, for I will not want to miss a single day with my children. And I, too, look forward to John’s arrival.”

  Estrid looked at her suspiciously, but though she seemed about to contradict her, she glanced at Vellacott and did not, saying instead, “Well, then, perhaps you will honor my feelings in another matter, and understand why I have sent to Weston to arrange for a more congenial butler and housekeeper.”

  “Oh dear, you shouldn’t have done that,” Gillian said, the words coming without a thought about how they would be received.

  “I beg your pardon,” Estrid said in freezing accents. “Just what do you think you mean by such an improper comment, miss? As I said before, in my own house I can certainly choose my own servants without requesting a by-your-leave from you!”

  Marmaduke Vellacott choked on his eggs, snatched up his napkin, and clapped it across his mouth, his eyes wide with repressed merriment and brimming with tears from his coughing.

  Gillian jumped up and began to pound him on the back.

  “Raise his arms above his head,” Estrid recommended in an acerbic tone, “and then perhaps you will be good enough to explain to me just what brought on this ridiculous fit of his.”

  “He must have swallowed t
he wrong way,” Gillian said, pounding all the harder in hopes that her irrepressible uncle would hold his tongue. She pounded in vain, however.

  “Enough!” he cried. “You will murder me with all that pounding, girl.” Coughing one more time, then clearing his throat, he wiped his lips and said to Estrid, “You do know that this place is called Vellacott House, do you not?”

  She glared at him. “And what is that to say to anything? It may once have been part of your family’s holdings, sir, but my husband owns it now, since, as I must suppose, it was part of his first wife’s dowry.”

  “You may suppose what you like,” he said, his mischievous eyes agleam. “Fact is that Gillian here owns the place, not your precious husband. He’s perfectly well to pass, of course, but his fortune don’t match the Vellacott fortune. Fact is, my dear Lady Marrick, you and I are here as your stepdaughter’s guests.”

  Estrid looked at Gillian. “Is he speaking the truth?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I inherited the house from my mother.”

  “Good God, why did no one tell me?”

  “It was not my place to do so, ma’am. My father insisted that he would tell you himself. And I daresay he would have done so had you come to London before this, but from one cause and another you did not,” she ended rather lamely.

  Estrid’s eyes narrowed. “What else has he failed to tell me? Do you also own that dreadful castle and Carnaby Park?”

  “No, ma’am, both are part of the Carnaby estate. I do own much of the land surrounding the Park, however. Hollingston—”

  “Good God, he is your man! That is why he always behaves toward me as if I were something to be stepped upon.”

  “If he has, ma’am, he must not do so again. He is not precisely my man, but Grandfather Vellacott did send him to Carnaby when my mother and father were married, because it was thought that the estates would be joined one day, and Grandfather wanted a steward who knew his business. The Vellacott part was my mother’s then—her portion of the Vellacott estate—and since I was her only child, her entire fortune came to me by the same trust in which it had been passed to her. Grandfather did not want the lands passed to someone who was not of his blood.”

  Estrid’s face was white. Vellacott had returned his attention to his breakfast, but amusement still lingered in his eyes, and Gillian was sorry to see it there. She did not like Estrid much, but she found she could feel pity for her.

  “Good God, what is to do now?” Estrid muttered.

  “Why, nothing,” Gillian told her. “Pray do not think anything has changed, ma’am. As I see it, you have as much right to be here as I have myself, and while I must confess that I have been guilty of a certain amount of duplicity in the matter of the servants, which is why I was aghast when you said you had written to Mr. Weston, that can all be put right and, I hope, arranged to your satisfaction. I have no desire to upset you, and if Blalock continues to do so, he will be replaced. I do ask for your cooperation, however. We cannot be continually changing and exchanging servants if we wish to live in any comfort. I think we would do better to see if Blalock cannot improve his ways before we simply thrust him out of the house.”

  “You must do as you please, of course,” Estrid said, but Gillian saw that her stepmother was truly mortified, and had a strong and most unfilial desire to box Marrick’s ears.

  Her day did not improve. Next she had to contend with Dorinda, who soon learned from her mother that Gillian had cried off from her betrothal. It was apparent, however, that Estrid had not seen fit to explain any matters of finance with her, and for that Gillian was grateful.

  “How could you do such a stupid thing as to cry off?” Dorinda demanded. “Thorne is going to be a duke, Gillian!”

  “I know he is,” Gillian replied with as much patience as she could muster, “but that really has very little to do with the matter at hand. The fact is that the man never asked me to marry him. He agreed to honor your idiotic betrothal announcement only after he saw that I was no prankster but as much a victim as he was himself, and that was very kind, even noble. I could not take advantage of that kindness.”

  “Well, I should not be that stupid if such an advantage ever came my way,” Dorinda said. “A dukedom! Good God.”

  Even Clemmie shook her head when she learned about it, an event that took place when the family adjourned to the third drawing room after dinner. Vellacott, who, being without a cook, had apparently decided to accept his brother-in-law’s marriage, had joined them for the meal. Clemmie said, “But you care for him, Gilly. Anyone can see that. And he cares for you too.”

  Glad there was no greater audience to hear that declaration, Gillian replied, “Lord Thorne was just being kind, Clemmie, that is all. No man likes to be forced into matrimony.”

  “Well, I think whoever put that dreadful announcement into the papers ought to be flogged in the market square,” Clemmie said roundly. “It was a dreadful thing to have done.”

  Involuntarily, Gillian glanced at Dorinda and saw that her cheeks were flaming as she bent her head over the needlework in her lap. Looking back, she encountered her uncle’s shrewd gaze but ignored it and said in what she hoped was the same calm way she had spoken before, “I should not wish such a dreadful punishment on anyone, Clemmie. People usually learn from their mistakes, you know, and do not repeat them.”

  What Clemmie, or anyone else, might have said to that, Gillian would never know, for at that moment the drawing room doors were flung open and the footman announced in stentorian tones, “The Marquess of Thorne!”

  Startled, Gillian turned toward the door, wishing one moment that she had decided to wear a gown more becoming to her than the rather insipid pale-green muslin she had chosen, and the next that she were somewhere else altogether. Thorne’s eyes were blazing with fury, and she was as certain as she could be that she could count on no one in the room to protect her.

  The footman, having accomplished his duty, disappeared, but the marquess came no farther into the room, making only the barest response demanded by courtesy to the greetings from the others before he said abruptly, “I want to talk to you, Gillian.”

  Not wanting in the least to hear what he had to say to her, she said calmly, “Do come in and sit down, sir. Perhaps you would care for a glass of Papa’s sherry. It is a very fine mountain variety, is that not so, Papa?”

  “Aye, but he don’t want it. Not by the look of him.”

  “More likely wants brandy,” Vellacott said sapiently.

  Thorne shot him a look from under his brows, then said, “I would prefer it if you will come to another room with me, Lady Gillian. I want to speak privately to you, but I will say what I came to say right here if you force me to do so.”

  She got to her feet at once. “I will come with you, sir.”

  Estrid said, “I am not by any means certain that that is quite the thing, you know, for the pair of you to be alone as you will be. Perhaps it will be better—”

  But Gillian heard no more, for no sooner had she neared the doorway than Thorne took her by the arm and whisked her through it, shutting it behind them. “Where?” he demanded.

  She glanced at him, saw no softening in his hard eyes, and said in a faint voice, “The parlor where we talked before, I think. We are less likely to be heard there.”

  “Good, for I may do some shouting,” he snapped.

  His grip was tight enough to make her fear he would leave bruises, but she did not think he meant to hurt her, and when his hand relaxed more than once during their hurried walk down the stairs, she knew he was aware of his strength and that his grip tightened more by reflex than by intent.

  Several branches of candles had been lighted in the little parlor, and their golden glow flickered warmly on the furniture. The curtains had been drawn to shut out any view of the garden, but Thorne evinced no interest in the surroundings. His attention was riveted on Gillian. Once inside the room, he thrust her away from him almost as though he feared to remain too near her, an
d snapped the door shut behind him.

  “Now, my girl,” he said, “perhaps you will be good enough to explain this idiocy to me.”

  Struggling to compose herself, she said, “I don’t know what you mean, sir. There is nothing to explain.”

  “Oh, is there not? Did you not think that I might be interested to learn from some source other than a newspaper that my betrothal was at an end? Or do you believe that the only proper way to communicate such news is through the London Times?”

  “But I did tell you! I told you yesterday, and before that, too, that I meant to cry off as soon as possible, and yesterday your own mother said it would make no difference when I did it, that the result would be the same. And you said I must do as I chose, Thorne, you know you did! I know you were angry that I had not told you about my fortune, and even angrier to learn that my husband will have no control of it, but—”

  “The devil take your fortune!” he exclaimed. “Do you think I care a farthing for it?”

  “Well, of course you do,” she retorted. “You would not dare to deny your feelings, either, if you had been able to see your face when the matter was made plain to you.”

  “Oh, I don’t deny I was angry. Damned frustrated, too, but I do not expect you to understand my feelings, nor do I attempt to excuse myself to you on their account.”

  “But you should!” she cried. “Don’t you understand, sir, if only you would say what you think when you think it, things would be so much clearer. It is all the pretense, all the games people play, that makes for this sort of trouble. How can I, or anyone else, understand what makes you angry if you do not tell us?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. “You keep prating about candor and speaking one’s mind, but in face, my girl, you neither practice the arts yourself nor like it when someone speaks plainly to you. Suppose I were to tell you right now that I want to marry you? What would you say?”

  “I would say that you were lying in your teeth,” she retorted. “You could not possibly want to marry me and behave as you are right now. And that, my lord, is plain speaking.”