A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  What had happened to her to haunt her so? What had affected her to the degree that she had nearly lost her composure right there in the middle of the ballroom? He had come to know something of the woman in the last two weeks. One thing he could safely say about her (despite her frustrating propensity to speak her mind on any and every occasion) was she was no wilting blossom. No, despite her diminutive stature and delicate appearance, she had a will of steel. He could think of nothing that would have laid the lady low to such a degree.

  The carriage pulled up to his club. Tucking Miss Merriweather to the back of his mind, he descended to the pavement and strode in. She was not his concern, after all. And she had appeared well when he’d left, had seemed back to her normal, suspicious self.

  In fact, she had seemed even more suspicious than usual. He frowned as he climbed the stairs. Surely she had not seen what he had been about with Miss Gladstow and her beau. A moment later and he shrugged the concern away. Even if she had, he needn’t see her again in such close quarters. No, his time with Miss Merriweather, of him squirming under that too-knowing gaze of hers, was at an end. He would put all thoughts of her from his head and thoroughly enjoy his success from that evening. What better way than to find some of his friends and get thoroughly drunk?

  “Ho there, Crosby,” a jovial voice called out as he entered the Coffee Room. Tristan turned to spy a contingent of his friends crowded about a table. By the looks of it they had not only made their way through a goodly amount of fine food, but were pleasantly inebriated, and well on their way to becoming stinking drunk if the waiter delivering a full bottle of liquor to them was any indication.

  Tristan grinned. Seek and ye shall find, and all that.

  “I didn’t expect to come across you lot still here,” he remarked as he sank into an empty chair. “Shouldn’t you be out finding some pleasant females to cozy up to?”

  Lord Fergus let out a snort and threw back his drink. “I’m on the lookout for a new mistress m’self.” He gave Tristan a considering look. “Though it looks like you might be ready for something more.”

  Tristan accepted a glass of whiskey from one of his friends and raised an eyebrow at Fergus. “And here I thought you were still sober enough to make sense.”

  “Oh, I’m plenty sober,” Fergus replied, a crafty glint entering his eyes. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been panting after those wallflowers lately, Crosby. You’ve managed to become close to Miss Gladstow of late. She’s, what, the third or fourth debutante to catch your eye since the fall?” He grinned. “Any luck there then?”

  “She’s a friend and nothing more,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. His eyes scanned the other men as he did so, not surprised to see the amusement on their faces. He mentally shrugged. He knew he was seen as a flighty sort of fellow, that his quicksilver changes in attention would not be seen as out of character. As long as the women he was helping didn’t suffer for it, he didn’t give a good damn that people chuckled over his seemingly changeable affections.

  “Pretend all you want,” Fergus said knowingly.

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “You’re an ass. If you had been at the Jaspers’ ball tonight, you would have seen that Mr. David Marlow declared himself to Miss Gladstow not an hour ago.” He looked at Fergus over the rim of his glass and said clearly and distinctly, so the matter would not be questioned in the future. “She seems to reciprocate his feelings. And I am very happy for her.”

  “Tough luck for you,” Fergus replied, undaunted. “Though the gal is homely as hell, she’s got a tidy little sum attached to her. A man could put up with a bit of ugly for that.”

  Fury, a rare emotion for Tristan, boiled up fierce and hot. He placed his glass down hard on the table and leaned forward. In an instant the men in the surrounding area went silent. Fergus’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “I will not hear you speak ill of Miss Gladstow, or any other female, in my hearing again. Is that clear?”

  Fergus swallowed audibly. “Y-yes. Of course. My apologies.”

  Tristan eyed him severely for a moment before, with a nod of his head, he sat back and took up his drink again. The change in the atmosphere was instantaneous, the tension gone as quickly as it had come.

  “So,” he said to the table at large, “what were you all discussing before I came along?”

  “Women, what else?” Lord Kingston, Rafe to his nearest and dearest, said with a grin. “Denby here has got his eye on someone and won’t tell us who.”

  Denby, younger than the rest and still a bit in awe of the whole London scene, blushed scarlet. “There’s nothing to tell, for she won’t give me the time of day.”

  Rafe turned to Tristan. “We’ve gone through all the popular actresses, courtesans, and singers. The lad isn’t showing his hand.”

  “I begin to think his lady love is respectable,” Fergus said in mock horror. When Denby’s blush deepened, Fergus let out a surprised bark of laughter. “What ho! Have we struck a nerve Denby? Never say you’re thinking of pursuing a virgin. That way lies only ruin and despair in the guise of holy matrimony.”

  “You’re an ass, Fergus,” Denby muttered into his drink.

  Tristan held up a hand. “She needn’t be a virgin, you know. She could be married?” He eyed the boy for a moment, seeking a tell. When none came a sly grin spread over his face. “Or a widow.”

  There it was, that furious flush of blood to the cheeks, the small smile. The rest of the men broke into peals of laughter. Several older gentlemen in the adjoining tables, enjoying late dinners, sent glares their way.

  “A widow, eh?” Rafe drawled. “Nothing wrong with that, m’boy. There’s no better tumble in my opinion.”

  “Who is she though?” Fergus narrowed his eyes as he considered the now squirming Denby.

  “Lady Truvel,” one man called out.

  “Mrs. Umbridge,” another cried.

  “Lady Kendal,” said a third.

  “Please,” Denby scoffed, though it was clear as day the lad was enjoying himself. “She’s old enough to be my mother.”

  Tristan chuckled as the banter went back and forth, each suggestion more outrageous than the last. Yes, this was what he had needed. No more Miss Merriweather and that sweet face and sharp tongue of hers. Life would get back to normal, and he could put her and his unnatural desires for her behind him once and for all.

  Chapter 7

  Rosalind delayed emerging from her room as long as she could without it seeming suspect. Though the rest of the house should be abed until at least noon, there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.

  The revelries of the evening before had gone on until the small hours of the morning. Once the announcement had been made of Miss Gladstow and Mr. Marlow’s unexpected engagement, every person present at the ball had insisted on wishing them well. Whether those congratulations had been heartfelt or done out of malicious glee was questionable at best. That didn’t seem to matter to the lady. Rosalind had never seen her so happy. Miss Gladstow shone like the sun at midday. Mr. Marlow, too, had looked proud enough to burst, holding tight to Miss Gladstow’s hand the remainder of the evening.

  Rosalind was happy for the girl. She truly was. No one deserved happiness as much as Miss Gladstow. And no one deserved to escape from her domineering mother like that young lady, either. Which, of course, brought Rosalind to the one damper on expressing her joy.

  Mrs. Gladstow.

  That woman had appeared happy for her daughter, of course. It would have been noted by all and sundry if she hadn’t, for it was no secret that the woman, and her portly husband as well, had wanted a title for their only daughter, and a lofty one at that. She had not even been content with Sir Tristan Crosby’s possible suit; goodness knows her thoughts on a mere mister.

  Yet Rosalind had seen the truth of it, simmering away beneath the surface. It was never more apparent than when the woman turned her blazing eyes to Rosalind. In those moments Rosalind knew, reg
ardless of her complete lack of fault in the situation—though it was not for lack of trying on her part—she would be made to pay for the fruits of this night.

  Finally she could delay no longer. Sucking in a deep breath she straightened her shoulders and marched purposely below stairs. Mayhap her fears were unfounded. Mrs. Gladstow would be too busy today preparing for her daughter’s unexpected future to give her companion much thought.

  That hope died a swift but brutal death as she made to pass the drawing room door.

  “Miss Merriweather,” Mrs. Gladstow called from the depths of the room, “a moment of your time, please.”

  Rosalind’s blood froze in her veins. There was a calm chill in the woman’s voice that bode ill. She had the feeling that, as bad as her imaginings had been, she had not begun to understand the depths of the woman’s anger. No doubt Mrs. Gladstow intended to extract considerably more than her pound of flesh.

  Mrs. Gladstow sat in her seat of choice, a high-backed chair covered in gold damask, giving it all the appearance of a throne. Her back was straight, her head held high, her hands draped casually over the arms. Yet her eyes burned as brightly, if not more so, as they had the evening before. As Rosalind crossed the threshold they narrowed.

  “Close the door.”

  Had Mrs. Gladstow yelled and stormed, Rosalind might have gone in with some semblance of ease. Instead her fingers shook as she did what she was bid. When she returned her attention to Mrs. Gladstow she made sure to grip her hands tight before her. No good could come of showing this woman any weakness. She sent up a silent prayer, that whatever punishment she received would be doled out quickly.

  Ironically, fear over losing her position had guided her every action for months. Now that the end was near, all she wanted was to have it over and done with.

  Mrs. Gladstow, however, must have had her training during the Spanish Inquisition. She stared at Rosalind, drumming her fingers on the arms of the chair, letting the moment drag out until Rosalind thought she would scream from the uncertainty of it. After what seemed an eternity the woman spoke.

  “I assume you have an explanation as to why my daughter was so unexpectedly and unceremoniously engaged last night, and to a man we had no intention of allowing her to marry?”

  Rosalind swallowed hard. “In my defense, ma’am, I did as I was told. I encouraged Sir Tristan to seek out your daughter.”

  “Do you think that negates your fault in this? The fact of the matter is, Miss Merriweather, you should have kept a better eye on Sarah.”

  “I was as surprised as you must have been when Mr. Marlow declared himself to Miss Gladstow.”

  “Surprised?” The woman’s nostrils flared. “You think I was surprised? That my husband, who has promised such a hefty dowry on his only daughter, was surprised? That word does not even begin to explain the level of disbelief that bowled us over last night. We wanted a title for our daughter, Miss Merriweather, as you well knew.”

  “But surely her future happiness means much more, in the grand scheme of things,” Rosalind suggested a bit sickly, knowing the second the words were out of her mouth that they were the wrong ones as far as the woman seated before her was concerned. As if to prove the validity of her thoughts, Mrs. Gladstow’s lips thinned to nonexistence and Rosalind’s heart sank. Any stray tendrils of hope she may have retained that she would actually walk away from this unscathed—much less retain her position—was snuffed out as completely as a weak flame in the face of a furious wind.

  “You think I don’t wish for my own daughter’s happiness?” the woman snapped.

  “Of course you do,” Rosalind hastened to assure her. Yet the damage had been done. Mrs. Gladstow rose, towering over Rosalind.

  “I care very much for my only daughter’s happiness. And part of that was to secure her proper place in the world. My husband is a powerful man. He needed a husband for his daughter that would enhance that, not drag our family back into the muck from which we rose. Sarah should have been a fine lady, with all the good things in life she has been brought up to expect. Now she will be a mere Mrs. Marlow.” Mrs. Gladstow shuddered delicately.

  Never one to know when to retreat, Rosalind said with utter seriousness, “I think you have proven, ma’am, that being a mere missus can bring with it a goodly amount of position and prestige.”

  If it was possible, Mrs. Gladstow’s face twisted even further in outrage. “You think to patronize me?” she hissed.

  Rosalind flinched. “No,” she stammered in horror, “I merely meant to point out that—”

  “There is nothing prestigious about my daughter and her thirty thousand pounds marrying some country nobody,” the woman plowed on, fury bringing splotches of color to her normally pale cheeks. “He has no position, no respect among the ton. He is barely gentry.”

  “I would think being a landowner is highly respected. And she will be very happy with him, as in love with him as she is. I know he is not an earl, but surely you must see that he is the best possible thing for her.”

  “You know nothing, nothing at all, of the world we live in,” Mrs. Gladstow bit out. “Position is everything. You have seen for yourself that being some unimportant landowner does not come with any security, any prestige. Look where such a life has gotten you. Your own father, minor gentry as he was, was a wastrel and a drunk, who lost everything on a single hand of cards. It is a blessing the rest of your family died, that they do not pollute the land with more small people with small ideals and no honor to speak of.”

  Fury exploded in Rosalind’s veins. She took a menacing step toward Mrs. Gladstow. “Don’t you ever speak of my family in such a manner again,” she spat. “Regardless of our lack of fortune, despite how far I have fallen in the world, my family was a sight better than you. And much better than that horrible reprobate you had planned on selling your own daughter to. I, for one, am overjoyed she escaped him.”

  Mrs. Gladstow gaped. “You dare to disparage me? You dare to disparage Lord Ullerton, an earl, a peer of the realm?”

  “I do dare it,” Rosalind shot back. “Earl or not, he is a horrible man. Your daughter is well rid of him. And that you were willing to sell her to him, all for a title, reflects poorly on you, madam.”

  Mrs. Gladstow gaped at her. “How dare you talk to me in such a way?”

  “I dare very well, thank you,” Rosalind replied, feeling the return of her spine now that her tongue had been given free rein. “You should be happy for your daughter. She is kind, and wonderful, and deserves every happiness in the world. She is in love and had the very great luck to fall in love with a man who adores her as well. Yes, she may never claim the status of a countess. She may never have a gilt carriage, or castles spread across Britain, or people fawning over her. But she will be loved, and she will be happy. You, with your small mind, cannot see that. You choose to lash out at me, a paid companion, because I did not somehow see into the future, to see into their hearts and prevent them from coming together. I will tell you, here and now, if I had seen what joy it would bring your daughter, I would have pushed for the match myself, you and your lauded ideas of status be damned.”

  Mrs. Gladstow turned fuchsia. Rosalind thought she might keel over on the spot.

  “You will get out of my home this instant,” the older woman hissed.

  She was glad of it, Rosalind told herself fiercely. She could not stand to stay under this woman’s roof one moment longer. She could not wait to be free of her and her cruelty.

  Even so, Rosalind felt her world tilt on its axis. For, despite her brave thoughts, utter helplessness seeped through her bones, and a fear so potent she could taste it.

  But she would be damned if she would let Mrs. Gladstow see how it affected her. Drawing on every ounce of pride she possessed, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “With pleasure,” she pronounced, and turned for the door.

  Before she could reach it, however, it opened. The housekeeper stood ther
e, her face a blank mask. In her hands was Rosalind’s bag.

  “Miss Merriweather’s things,” the woman mumbled, “as you requested, ma’am.”

  Rosalind turned to Mrs. Gladstow, who looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon. “You have had my things fetched,” Rosalind murmured, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “How kind of you, for you have saved me a trip. Please do extend my farewell and good wishes to your daughter. I’m sure she will understand my abrupt leave-taking. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall see myself out.”

  Without another look at her employer she marched for the door, stopping only to take her bag from the housekeeper. Before she could quite understand what was happening she was on the street, the door slamming behind her with a dark finality.

  There was a horrible moment of true panic then. What had she done? Why couldn’t she have shut her mouth, dropped to her knees, and begged forgiveness? But she silenced those poisonous thoughts with brutal will, drawing on that small part of her that was still perfectly lucid, the voice of reason she had drawn on in the most difficult times of her life. Mrs. Gladstow had chosen her to blame, had already made the decision to cast her out. The outcome had been set in stone before Rosalind had even opened her eyes that morning. Drawing her shredded pride around her like a cloak, she pulled her shoulders back, gripped her bag all the tighter, and strode forward down the busy Mayfair street. The household might very well be watching her departure; she would give them nothing to gossip about. Or, at least, nothing more than they already had.

  She drew in a shaky breath to relieve the tightness in her chest, hefting her bag higher in her arms. First thing first, she should head to the registry office. The sooner she put her name down as available to work, the sooner she would find a position to support herself. Governess, lady’s maid, even chamber maid, she didn’t really care at this point, as long as she had a roof over her head and food in her belly.