After a time he felt he was far enough away that he was safe from the man’s wrath. At least for now. Yet what to do? He pursed his lips as he made his way back up Sloane Street. Things were progressing with Miss Gladstow much faster than he had planned. Not to mention his increasingly disturbing—and arousing—reactions to the outrageous and much too tempting Miss Merriweather.
At thoughts of that lady, he stumbled. Frowning mightily, he took firm control of himself and hurried on. He was far too affected by her for his peace of mind. He could only be glad that his close interactions with the maddening woman would soon be at an end. At least, that was what he told himself. He would ignore the pang of regret that accompanied it, as well as the rebellious salute his body gave whenever he thought of the chit.
Yes, it was a good thing this whole debacle was soon at an end. Now with Mr. Marlow’s presence in London, it provided him the impetus he needed to bring the whole plan to the next stage.
It was time, he decided, for a little pre-ball visit to Lord and Lady Jasper’s. For tonight things would be settled, for good or ill.
• • •
“You are back.”
Rosalind started. The echoing sound of Mrs. Gladstow’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, the cavernous front hall of the ostentatious townhouse the family had let for the Season carrying the biting tone into every recess.
Beside her, Miss Gladstow faltered in removing her bonnet, her fingers becoming hopelessly tangled in the ribbons. Rosalind hurried to her, working at the knot. The girl’s skin was pale, her hands trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered as Rosalind freed the bonnet from her head and handed it over to the waiting butler.
Sharp steps sounded. Soon Mrs. Gladstow was before them. Her face was composed, if chill. Her eyes, however, blazed.
“And where, may I ask, is Sir Tristan?”
A strangled sound issued from Miss Gladstow’s throat.
“He had an appointment he could not miss,” Rosalind was quick to say. “He sends his regards, and his apologies, and says he will see us this evening at Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball.”
She had meant to deflect the woman from Miss Gladstow. Her plan of mercy, however, backfired splendidly. Mrs. Gladstow spun on her. “I do not believe I asked you, Miss Merriweather.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I do hope you were not monopolizing the good baronet’s attentions. Such a complete disregard for the very explicit instructions I gave you would be unforgivable.”
“No, ma’am. Of course not. I would never be so idiotic as to do something that would endanger my position. I followed your instructions to the letter. You can be assured, I take them very seriously—”
The older woman held up a hand. “Enough,” she snapped, before closing her eyes and letting out a sharp breath as if pained. “Dear me, but your babbling would try the patience of a saint.”
She remained that way for a time, her mouth working. Rosalind could have sworn she was counting. She looked to Miss Gladstow in confusion. Should they continue to stand there, waiting for the woman to acknowledge them again? Should they escape?
Miss Gladstow seemed equally uncertain. She stared in horrified fascination at her mother, as if she were watching a dragon egg and expected the beast to pop out and burn her to a cinder.
Mrs. Gladstow seemed to recover in an instant. “Sarah!” she barked.
The poor girl jumped nearly a foot. “Yes, Mama?”
“You will go to your room now. Call for Betty. She can begin readying you for Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball this evening.”
The girl did as she was bid with alacrity. She was not quick enough to escape the remnants of her mother’s wrath, however.
Mrs. Gladstow’s hand shot out, capturing her daughter’s wrist in a punishing grip. The girl did not so much as cry out. That did not stop Rosalind from wincing as she eyed the pointed tips of the woman’s fingers pressing into Miss Gladstow’s tender flesh. She had been the recipient of that cruel manacle herself more than once.
“You will encourage Sir Tristan Crosby tonight, do you hear me, girl?” she hissed.
Miss Gladstow gaped at her mother, her eyes wide and horrified. “Sir Tristan doesn’t care about me in such a manner, Mama.”
“Mayhap not,” Mrs. Gladstow said, her lip curling. “But you are a woman, and Sir Tristan a man. One of the more impressive examples of the species, but a man all the same. You will use that fact to your advantage this evening.”
Her daughter’s mouth worked silently for a time before she cried, “I don’t know the first thing about using such wiles.”
“You will find a way,” Mrs. Gladstow grit out. She released the girl, who wasted no time in escaping, spinning on the ball of her foot and rushing up the great curving staircase.
And that is my cue to exit, Rosalind thought, desperate to get away from her still-seething employer. Mrs. Gladstow’s voice rang out before she could take a step.
“Miss Merriweather, this is your last chance.”
Dread washed over Rosalind. “My last chance, ma’am?”
“You will assist my daughter in capturing Sir Tristan’s attention this evening.”
Frantic to prevent the woman’s plans from coming to fruition, Rosalind cast about for a valid argument. For she was not such a fool that she thought the woman would listen to her if she spewed her theories of Sir Tristan’s nefarious intentions. And even if she did believe her, would she care? She was cold enough that she would probably see it as a boon, and use the man’s interest, honorable or not, to trick him into marriage with her daughter.
Rosalind refused to see that happen.
Finally, she stumbled upon the only fact she could think of that would appeal to Mrs. Gladstow’s high-reaching aspirations. “But Sir Tristan is not even a peer, ma’am. I was under the assumption you wanted a noble title for your daughter.”
Mrs. Gladstow’s eyes narrowed. “Like I said before, you’re not stupid, are you? I don’t expect the man to propose to my daughter, nor do I want him to. You think I would settle for a mere baronet when my husband has promised such a dowry on her that it should attract even the most discerning nobleman? Hardly.” She let loose a harsh laugh. “But men are basically animals at heart, Miss Merriweather. His attentions will only whet the already-increasing interest of a more appropriate suitor.”
Rosalind frowned. For the woman looked far too smug for this to be a vague kind of thing. She thought quickly back along the past fortnight, searching through memories, trying to single out any one man the woman might have set her sights on for her future son-in-law.
Lord Ullerton’s face rose up in her mind then, his jowls jiggling about like so much cream jelly.
Rosalind felt a chill down to her bones. “You cannot mean to marry her off to Lord Ullerton,” she blurted.
The self-satisfied look on the woman’s face was replaced in an instant by a fury so hot and fierce Rosalind was surprised she wasn’t scorched by it.
“You think to tell me what to do? You, a mere companion, the daughter of some country nobody who gambled away every penny he owned, then proceeded to drink himself to death?”
She advanced. Rosalind, shocked to her core at the venom spewing from her mouth, backed up until her spine rammed into a small end table, nearly toppling the cut glass vase of roses that topped it.
“I do not care for you, Miss Merriweather,” the woman continued, towering over her. “I never have, and I daresay I never shall. And so I say it again. This is your last chance. Lord Ullerton, important man that he is, must return to his country seat for the next month. Before he leaves, you will help my daughter secure his hand. She will be a countess by the Season’s end. If she fails, I will have no compunction throwing you out on your ear, deathbed promise or no.”
A sick feeling swirled and bucked in Rosalind’s stomach. Not only for Miss Gladstow, who was nothing but a pawn to her parents’ desires to join the ranks of England’s
best families, but for herself as well. For though she had dealt with a daily barrage of threats to her position, this had the awful ring of truth to it, the woman’s voice holding all the finality of a death knell.
And so she had no choice. If she wished to survive, she would have to fall in with the woman’s plans.
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, the words bitter as laudanum on her tongue.
Mrs. Gladstow smiled, a slow and cruel thing that only increased Rosalind’s disgust with herself. “Good. Now go and help my daughter ready herself. We’ve a baronet to use and an earl to capture.”
Chapter 5
Rosalind fidgeted in her chair, her bottom having gone numb on the hard wood long ago. She and Miss Gladstow had been seated in the wallflower line at Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball for what seemed hours now, though in reality it could not have been above a half-hour at the most. With each second that passed, however, she felt the noose of expectation tightening about her throat. That sensation was only underscored each time Rosalind caught sight of the girl’s mother. For Mrs. Gladstow had not changed her mind regarding the instructions she had set forth for Rosalind, if her furious head jerks were anything to go by. She would have her daughter lay claim to the earl before anyone else did, come hell or high water.
Not that Rosalind thought the woman had anything to worry about. It certainly did not appear as if Lord Jowls was in any great demand by the debutantes of London. But reason Mrs. Gladstow would not listen to, as Rosalind had learned to her detriment.
She caught sight of Lord Jowls in that moment. He was some distance away and talking to another gentleman, his jowls undulating with each expressive cast of his meaty hands. He caught her looking. With a smile and a dip of his head in her direction he returned to his conversation.
A prickle of guilt settled within her. The man had never been anything but unfailingly polite to both her and Miss Gladstow. Yes, he was not the most attractive man in London, and had to be old enough to be Miss Gladstow’s father. But was that any reason to think ill of him? Were her innate prejudices blinding her to the fact that he might actually be a good choice for Miss Gladstow? Surely the girl wished for security and status, and by all accounts the earl could provide them. Would she deny Miss Gladstow these things because of her own unreasonable dislike of the man?
She let loose a mournful sigh. She had best get to it then. But where the devil was Sir Tristan? She cast about, looking over the crowded ballroom. Yet there was no sign of his blond head towering over the masses—something she had grown quite adept at locating in the past fortnight, to her disgust. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, she knew he was not typically tardy to these affairs. And once arrived, he never failed to search out Miss Gladstow. Perhaps his absence now meant he wasn’t coming at all?
But no, he had promised he would see them. Mayhap he was here, and had been waylaid by friends. All Rosalind knew was, for every second that ticked by that Sir Tristan was not in Miss Gladstow’s orbit, doing his bit to unknowingly pique Lord Jowls’s interest, the better chance Rosalind had of being thrown out before the evening was through.
It seemed she would have to take matters into her own hands. As disturbing as that was.
She turned to Miss Gladstow. “Are you overheated, miss?”
The girl gave her a distracted smile. “No, I’m comfortable,” she replied in her quiet voice.
“Are you certain? Perhaps we can take a turn about the room. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Not particularly.”
Rosalind fiddled with her fan a moment, blowing out a small puff of air. Miss Gladstow seemed determined to stay put in her seat. Not that Rosalind had any particular desire to dive into the crowd herself. But one could not very well find someone in a mass of people if one were stuck to one’s seat like the proverbial barnacle. That, along with the daggers Mrs. Gladstow shot her way as Rosalind unconsciously glanced at her again, made Rosalind more nervous by the second.
“Mayhap you would like a bit of punch,” she blurted.
“I’m not thirsty, thank you,” Miss Gladstow said.
The girl appeared composed enough. Yet there was something off about her tonight. Her fingers, resting in her lap, were wrapped so tightly about themselves it appeared as if she were going to snap the delicate bones with the force of it.
Now that she thought of it, Miss Gladstow had been out of sorts since their walk in the park that afternoon. Rosalind had been so preoccupied, first with her quarrel with Sir Tristan, followed by the horror of Mrs. Gladstow’s threats, she had not paid the proper attention to the girl. Now that she was, however, it seemed glaringly obvious.
“Did Sir Tristan do something to upset you?” she blurted.
“Pardon?” the girl looked at her as if she’d grown another head. “No. No, of course not. He is never anything but kind.”
“Are you certain? You have seemed upset since our outing.” Then a thought sparked. She frowned. “Was it Mr. Marlow?”
A furious blush spread over the girl’s cheeks. “You know, Miss Merriweather, I do believe I am horribly parched. Would you be willing to fetch us some punch?”
“Oh! Certainly.” Rosalind fairly bolted from her chair. Granted, she had not managed to pry the girl from the side of the room. But at least she could search out Sir Tristan herself.
She hurried through the crowd, weaving in and out of the swell of people, doing her best to locate Sir Tristan. She soon found, however, that being several inches shorter than the great majority of guests present put her at a distinct disadvantage. She could see even less from this angle than she had been able to while seated against the wall. For a moment she looked longingly at the orchestra balcony, stretched on one side of the vast room. Surely no one would notice if she snuck up and peeked out.
Before she could think better of it she was off, working toward the far side of the room. There must be a door there somewhere that led to the upper reaches. After a bit of searching she found it, hidden behind a heavy red velvet curtain. She ducked behind the fabric and made to open the door there.
A low conversation on the other side of the curtain snagged her attention, halting her progress.
“And have you any prospects for brides, Ullerton?”
“Several. There is a fine contingent of young misses out this year. Though I admit there is one lady I have my eye on.”
“And who might that be?”
Rosalind blanched. Lord Ullerton was on the other side of the curtain? She turned the handle, intending to slip into the passage beyond. She certainly had no wish to overhear what the man had to say.
But his next words once again stalled her.
“Miss Gladstow seems a fine choice.”
“Miss Gladstow?” There seemed honest confusion in the other man’s tone. “I know of her father, of course, but cannot remember the chit. Which one is she?”
“You know, plain little thing, dark hair, painfully shy.”
A sharp bark of laughter. “Why the devil would you want to chain yourself to the likes of her?”
Rosalind expected Lord Ullerton to come to Miss Gladstow’s defense. He had seemed kind, after all, and if he was interested in her for a wife he would certainly not want anyone disparaging her.
Instead, as if he were Mrs. Gladstow’s puppet, he said, “Sir Tristan Crosby has been sniffing after her, and I admit his interest has only piqued my own. Besides,” he added, to Rosalind’s horror, “the girl comes with the means I need to stay afloat.”
A knowing chuckle answered that. “Ah, yes. One could certainly put up with a boring mouse of a wife for such a thing. And it is not as if you need live with her year-round. Get a child or two on her and you shall be free and clear.”
Rosalind’s hand, still clasped around the door handle, clenched tight on the metal in an effort not to bolt from her hiding place and give the other man a piece of her mind. Surely Lord Ullerton could not let that go, as disappointing as he h
ad been up until now.
“True,” he mused instead, stunning Rosalind. But what came next was worse. Much worse.
“Though I may keep her around for a long time. For she’ll come with a delicious little companion that I’ve a mind to get to know better.”
“Miss Merriweather, isn’t it? I don’t know, Ullerton, she seems a veritable termagant. Never knows when to shut that mouth of hers.”
Lord Ullerton chuckled low, the sound sending a frisson of disgust down Rosalind’s spine. “Oh, I’m not concerned about that in the least. For I’m planning on putting her mouth to other more interesting uses.”
“She doesn’t seem as if she’d be easy to tame.”
“That will make it all the more interesting. I do like a bit of a fight when breaking a new girl in, after all.”
They both chuckled, the sound growing fainter as they moved off.
Rosalind stood frozen, stunned. Her disgust of a moment ago had fled, to be replaced by a fear so acute she could taste it. It soured her stomach, clouded her mind, seized her muscles.
The heavy curtain that had hidden her from Lord Ullerton but a moment ago now felt like it was closing her in. Her lungs struggled, as if she were drowning. Needing to escape the confines of the small space, she hurriedly pushed the curtain aside and stumbled back into the brightness of the ballroom. Surely she would find safety in the glittering mass of people, would find comfort in their numbers.
Instead all she found was a strange dreamland. For people still laughed and talked and danced. How was it life still went on, as if something monumental and life altering had not occurred? As if she had not been made fully aware of how defenseless she was in the space of a moment.
A Match Made In London Page 4