by Allison Lane
He didn’t like her description of Craven. “That may be a habit, or perhaps he is simply unlikable. I’ve met such men. But you could never relax with me if you were mad. Nor could you tolerate your staff.” He smiled as her eyes flared blue. “Perhaps you should experiment. Are there any neighbors that you liked in childhood?”
She cocked her head in thought. “Mrs. Dingle. She ran the linen draper’s shop in the village and always gave me sweetmeats when we called – my governess insisted a walk to the village was excellent exercise, though her real purpose was to flirt with the apothecary.”
“Perhaps we should walk that way tomorrow.”
But she was already shaking her head. “My uncle would be furious if I disobeyed his orders. He is a terrifying man.”
“That is the impression of a frightened child suffering an excess of grief,” he said firmly. “By your own admission, you’ve not spoken to him in years. I did not see him at Barnett Court, but I’ve heard nothing against him. My only quarrel is that he failed to send a governess who could have helped you put the grief behind you.”
“I could not have accepted such a person.”
“Certainly, you could. Not the first day or the second, but even the wildest creatures calm in time. And it is not too late. You know that to take charge of your inheritance, you must meet with Crane and others. It would be better to practice on someone you know.”
She frowned, but finally nodded.
“We can discuss it tomorrow,” he said, drawing her to her feet and giving her a quick hug. “Any trepidation you feel arises from lack of practice. Believe me, were you truly mad, I would see it.”
The corners of her mouth twitched.
Jack caught his breath at the sight. She’d nearly smiled, tumbling his heart into a gallop and sending excitement surging into his loins. If even a half smile made him dizzy, what would happen if she ever laughed?
Chapter Five
Lord Barnett glared as his wife sailed into his study. Age had thickened her waist and expanded her bosom, inviting comparisons to battleships. He knew the look in her eye all too well. She was determined to change his mind about attending the Wilton house party.
He suppressed a sigh, wishing yet again that he’d had the courage to refuse this match. He should have known that Maude would be just like her mother, an unscrupulous harridan who ignored any opposition in pursuit of her goals. If Maude wanted to entertain, she did. If she wanted to bring the girls out in London, nothing stopped her. If she wanted wealthy titles for each daughter, London lords had better protect themselves, for she would do anything to make it so.
Which was one of many reasons for sending regrets to Lord and Lady Wilton. Devonshire would be one of the guests. Maude had set her sights on snaring him for Catherine. The only way to succeed was through trickery.
Another shiver wracked his spine when he recalled his daughters. Catherine had come out six years earlier at age seventeen. But despite a dowry of ten thousand guineas, she’d not attracted a single offer. Nor had she done better the next year.
Charlotte and Elizabeth had followed in her footsteps. He’d warned the girls that smiles and flattery would improve their chances, but they wouldn’t listen. Not for them the art of flirtation. They scorned the cubs whose admiration could raise a young lady’s credit. Like Maude, they were single-minded in their pursuit, insulting anyone they considered inferior, clearing the decks so they could concentrate on the object of their greed. None of them believed that their sharp-tongued cuts repelled everyone, especially the men they wished to attract.
And every Season was worse than the last. The expense of outfitting a growing number of females meant he could no longer offer large dowries. Reduced portions, average looks, and increasing haughtiness had made the girls laughingstocks. Poor Anne wouldn’t stand a chance when she joined them, despite being the sweetest and prettiest of the group.
Not that she would have that opportunity. There would be no more London Seasons. A financial crisis was another reason he had refused Lord Wilton’s invitation. Maude was already demanding new clothes, but he couldn’t afford them – not after Harold had lost ten thousand guineas playing cards with Alvonley’s set. The boy should know better than to sit down with men renowned for deep gaming.
But it was all of a piece. Harold had inherited Maude’s lack of sense, her disregard for money, and her belief that she was superior to the highest in the land.
Barnett clenched his fists. Only two choices remained – mortgage Barnett Court or sell unentailed land. Neither was acceptable. Selling land would reduce his income to subsistence levels. Yet repaying a mortgage would have the same effect. And mortgaging the estate would remove the last buffer against future disasters.
“Catherine must have a new ball gown for Lord Wilton’s party,” Maude announced, berthing her bulk in front of his desk. “And you must inform him that Anne will accompany us. She needs to mingle with society before going to London in the spring.”
“I told you that we are not going to Wilton’s gathering – or anywhere else. There is no mo—”
“Of course we are going. This is an opportunity we cannot miss. Aside from Devonshire, the guest list includes the Earl of Westlake, Colbein’s heir, Glendale’s heir, and Lord Bankhead, though his fortune is questionable. I accepted the invitation two days ago.”
“Then you will look exceedingly foolish. Lord Wilton already received our regrets, in which I made it clear that we have other plans.”
“How could you!” Her face purpled. “This is a chance to attach a duke. Devonshire never attends the same entertainments we do in London.”
“Which is ample evidence that he would never look at our girls.”
“Of all the—”
“No more, Maude. I may be a viscount, but dukes do not wed so far beneath them – not even a duke whose father housed his mistress and by-blows under the same roof as his wife and children, and who married the mistress after his wife died. How can you wish a connection to Devonshire House? It would cast doubts on the chastity of all the girls. As for this party, we cannot afford it. Harold’s losses have put us so far in debt that I have to sell the London house simply to pay the Court’s staff this quarter.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I must. The alternative is to sell the Strowbridge farms, but they produce a third of our income. I only hope the house will bring a reasonable sum, for it is not well situated.” Another of Maude’s perennial complaints.
She slammed her fists onto the desktop. “You unfeeling, unnatural cad! I won’t let you continue this campaign against us. What sort of father hates his own children?”
“I don’t,” he protested, then kicked himself for arguing with her. She was a master at deflecting attention from facts she wished to ignore.
“You do!” she countered. “Your parsimony will condemn your daughters to spinsterhood. If you gave them decent dowries, they would have found matches years ago.”
“Hardly. Catherine qualified as an heiress her first two Seasons. It was her own misbehavior, compounded by your public megrims, that drove away potential suitors. How many times have I told you that society expects politeness, especially toward those of higher rank? How can you be stupid enough to think that your aspirations remain secret? No one of means will go near a fortune hunter, especially one who has used dishonorable ploys in the past. Your reputation is so bad that men flee if they so much as glimpse you coming. After six years of squandering a fortune on London Seasons, your only achievement is a notoriety that makes any match impossible. I doubt I could buy a simpleton for the girls, so we will remain here. Your antics have embarrassed me enough. If you can teach the girls to smile and keep their tongues between their teeth, then perhaps we can attend assemblies in Colchester this winter.”
Maude’s mouth opened, but fury choked her words.
“Go. I must attend to business, or there will be no money for even a modest social calendar. But don’t think to go behind my
back,” he added, seeing a spark in her eye. “I’ve given orders that you are not to leave the estate. And your dressmaker knows that I will not pay for new gowns.”
He exhaled in relief as she stormed out. His edict would not keep her quiet for long, but at least she would not be back today.
“Damn that boy!” he muttered. If only Harold had inherited his sense instead of Maude’s selfishness.
“Can you find an heiress for him?” asked Craven. The secretary had remained unobtrusively in the corner during Maude’s tirade.
“Hardly.” Barnett snorted. Harold was barely one-and-twenty and in no mood to wed. “Who in her right mind would ally herself with us?” The Barnett name had become infamous.
Craven coughed discreetly. “With all due respect, sir, Miss Marianne is not in her right mind. Nor can she appreciate her wealth.” He extended the latest statement from her trustees.
Barnett flinched at the figures. It was the first statement he’d seen in years – he tried to forget the wench existed. Now he stared. The trust had doubled in value since its inception. Damn Richard to hell for his betrayal. Halworth and Richard’s investments should have come to him.
Richard had been another who’d run mad. The man had been as prissy as an aged spinster, so enamored with dead civilizations that he’d ignored the usual gentlemanly pursuits.
Barnett shook his head. He should have suspected that Richard would do something stupid like leaving his estate to his daughter. Even that damnable trust would terminate soon, putting everything into her incompetent hands. One of the most productive estates in Dorsetshire would be at the mercy of a madwoman. “It’s tempting to propose such a match, but it would never work. Even if Harold agreed, no vicar would perform the ceremony. You’ve seen her condition for yourself.”
“If I may be so bold, I was not suggesting a match. But she will never recover. It is time to place her in an asylum.”
“But she’s family!”
“True, but what will happen to Halworth when she takes possession? Who would care for its tenants? It is unconscionable to expect her staff to keep her in line.”
Barnett sighed. He had taken Marianne to Halworth after her family perished, hoping that familiar surroundings would hasten her recovery from shock and grief. But the plan had failed. Women were simply too fragile to endure trauma.
Pride had stopped him from revealing her loss of reason. Maude’s abrasive tongue had already threatened his credit, so tarnishing his name with madness would have caused new whispers – never mind that Marianne must have inherited the weakness from her mother’s family. By leaving her at Halworth, he had hidden her problem from the world, giving his daughters a chance to make good matches.
Now the situation had changed. His daughters were unmarriageable even without the stain of madness, and Harold’s profligacy threatened very public ruin.
“Forget your pride,” murmured Craven. “As I was saying when Lady Barnett arrived, you cannot cover your debts. Without new income, you will lose everything. Your only hope now is Marianne’s trust, so put her in an asylum where she belongs. The court will then extend your guardianship to include her property.”
Barnett frowned, but the idea made sense. Craven understood finance better than Barnett ever had. And this would be good for Marianne, too – he had done her a disservice by denying her the treatment she needed; she might have improved by now if he’d taken better care of her in the beginning. In the meantime, he could borrow enough of her funds to put Barnett Court back on its feet.
He nodded as a weight slipped from his shoulders. It was the best course for everyone. Halworth’s tenants deserved a master capable of understanding their needs. And Halworth’s staff deserved release from a burden they should never have been asked to carry.
She would want for nothing – her fortune would cover the finest care even after the loan. She would surely agree to help with his other problems, too. After buying husbands for his daughters, he could banish Maude to a remote cottage. A reasonable revenge for forcing him into marriage. If only he’d known…
* * * *
Jack stared at the wineglass in his hand. Three days had passed since Marianne had claimed insanity. At every meeting he had urged her to visit the village. But while she agreed that such a test had merit, she continued to balk, claiming that she could not defy her uncle.
Her reluctance didn’t make sense, for Barnett couldn’t object to proving her sanity. Mrs. Dingle was warm, caring, and nonthreatening – a perfect test. Marianne was understandably nervous after twelve years of isolation, but three days was plenty long enough to gird her loins. Was she too terrified to put the question to the test? How could he help her if she refused to take his advice?
It was frustrating, for without her cooperation, he could prove nothing. Declaring him safe indicated that she trusted him. Yet that trust could not overcome her fear of Barnett. What had the man done? There had to be more than locking her up.
Jack had considered appealing to the gatekeepers, for they could arrange a more private test within the confines of Halworth. But they gave him no opportunity.
“Miss Barnett is not at home to visitors,” the man at the main gate had said the moment Jack arrived. He looked like a pugilist, his bent nose and scarred face looming half a foot above Jack’s eyes, the massive head attached directly to the shoulders of a hefty body. Both appearance and attitude made it obvious that he was a guard, not a servant. Without the massive gate between them, Jack might have felt a frisson of fear.
Jack hadn’t argued, accepting that there would be no assistance from that source. So he must solicit help from the neighbors.
Emptying the glass, Jack checked his uniform, then headed for the door. Squire Jenkins had invited him to a christening ball. With luck, Jack could discover more about Marianne’s history from the other guests.
Jack cursed to find Jenkins and his wife still receiving. He needed someone to introduce him. A hundred people crowded the ballroom, none of them familiar.
Yet his uniform made his own identity clear.
A matron wearing a fussy gown and too much jewelry rushed to his side, dragging her equally fussy daughter with her.
“Welcome, Colonel Caldwell. I’m Lady Paine, wife of Sir Thomas Paine and cousin to Mrs. Jenkins,” she said through a predatory smile. “And this is my daughter, Priscilla.” She presented a giggling girl of about eighteen.
Jack nearly groaned. He had forgotten that his uncle’s death had transformed him from the impoverished scion of a scandalous house to a landed gentleman of means. In other words, a matrimonial prize.
“We are delighted to have you at Seacliff,” Miss Paine said with a giggle. “It is a marvelous house. And huge. I’ve often admired it.” Giggle, giggle. “Will you be staying here now that the war is over?” She rapped his arm with her fan as another giggle escaped.
“Hardly. I must return to duty,” he said stiffly, cursing himself for accepting this invitation. His common sense must still be on the casualty list.
“They cannot possibly need you back just yet. There is no one to fight.” Still giggling, she grabbed his arm. Lady Paine smiled and headed for the refreshment room.
Jack frowned after her. Country manners might be more relaxed than in town, but not this relaxed. Miss Paine had a death grip on his arm and was pulling him toward the terrace.
“Miss Paine!” His attempt to halt resulted in a tug-of-war over his arm.
“Did you say something?” She turned a too-bright smile on him and nodded toward the door. “The crowd is so loud I can barely hear myself think. Let’s move outside so we can talk in peace.”
“No. I need to greet the other guests. Introduce me.” As long as he was stuck with her, he might as well use her.
She pouted, then sighed, and finally used her fan to point out her relatives. “That’s Uncle Lester in the brown jacket – Mama’s brother. And Cousin Hortense next to him. Cousin Jeremy in the blue…” She recited names and relati
onships so fast that Jack’s head spun. She had covered most of the room before he caught up.
“The man in the shabby green waistcoat is Uncle Darwin, from Bath,” she was saying. “He’s barmy. His son Jeremy – the one waving the quizzing glass – is nearly as bad. And stay away from Aunt Clare – the woman trussed up in gray.” She giggled. “She loves to talk, but she’s deaf as a post. Even her whispers can be heard in London.”
The woman resembled a pudding, bulging around oddly tied ribbons. Her skirt drew in at the bottom and ballooned around her hips. Jack winced. “I’m more interested in my neighbors. I understand Mr. Turlock is here.” Turlock owned the third estate that bordered Seacliff.
“Card room,” she said shortly. “He is a prosy old bore. You would prefer to meet Cousin Oswald. We can catch him in the refreshment room.” Again she dragged him toward the door.
He resisted. “I need to see Turlock. Business.” He rescued his arm and turned toward the card room, but another chit barely out of the schoolroom stepped into his path, foiling his escape.
“Introduce me, Pris,” demanded the newcomer.
Fury flashed in Miss Paine’s eyes. “Colonel Caldwell, this is Abbey Hofstone. It is her first ball, so you must forgive her for being so forward.”
And you aren’t? But Jack didn’t say it, unable to be rude even in situations where most gentlemen would condone cuts.
Miss Hofstone grabbed his other arm, batting her lashes as she smiled up at him. “Pay no heed to Pris. She is sulking tonight because her beau isn’t here.”
“Abby!”
“Well, he is your beau – or so you claim, though we haven’t seen him in ages.” She smirked. “Personally, I think he bought colors to escape your pursuit. He always was rather bright.”
Jack tried to spot Jenkins, but failed.
“Are you going to dance?” demanded Miss Paine with another giggle.
“Not tonight. Injuries…” He let his voice trail off, unable to lie even to these two. At least Miss Hofstone’s arrival curtailed Miss Paine’s attempt to reach the terrace.