by Brenda Hiatt
Her father's surprise was rather too obviously feigned. "Why, by marrying you, of course, just as he promised last night."
"Marrying—! Papa, you assured me you would find another way out of this," she reminded him severely.
The Captain did look the slightest bit uncomfortable now, refusing to meet her eye. "Now, my dear, that is not precisely what I said. If you will recall—"
But Quinn was having have none of it. "You know full well I have no intention of marrying Lord Marcus. I will sail for Baltimore at once rather than do so. Nor can I believe he has any particular wish to wed me."
"On the contrary, he seemed more than ready to do the proper thing. I imagine he is considering his own reputation among the ton as well as yours. Not that we can blame him for that."
Quinn could more readily believe that Lord Marcus would marry her to salvage his own reputation than her own, but she refused to believe her little foray required such an extreme remedy.
"Once it is known that he has offered, surely his honor will be safe from scrutiny. Then I can cry off and leave England, and no scandal can possibly attach to him." She sat down in the overstuffed chair near the window and smiled up at her father, quite pleased with her own solution to the problem.
"But scandal would then attach to you, Quinn, or rather to us, and we cannot have that," he said, clearly alarmed. "Think of the business! And of Lord and Lady Claridge. Whatever reflects upon us will reflect upon them as well. Surely you would not repay their hospitality so shabbily?"
She barely restrained a snort. "Hospitality! Reluctant duty, rather. Lady Claridge, at least, will be happy enough to see me out of England."
"Do not forget the Marquess," her father said. "He seems most pleased to have you here. He said so again last night."
Since Quinn could not dispute that, she said, "Surely you are refining too much on what Society may or may not think, Papa. Who am I that they will notice my actions at all, except in passing?"
"Why, you are the daughter of Lady Glynna and granddaughter to the Marquess of Claridge. You have connections among the highest in the land." He strode back and forth as he spoke, gesturing grandly, but then he stopped. "Will you disregard your mother's dying wish? Would you besmirch her memory, and prove Lady Claridge's predictions true?"
Quinn felt trapped, torn again by guilt that she had been busy at the warehouses rather than at her mother's bedside during her final hours, as her father had been. As out of character as this supposed last wish seemed, how could she question it now?
"I will try not to do anything to tarnish our family name," she said at last. "I will even attempt a true reconciliation with the Claridges."
Her father began to smile again, so she held up a hand. "However," she continued, "I make no promise to mortgage my future happiness for the sake of appearances, or even for the business. Nor can I believe Mother would have wanted me to do so. I will continue to seek an honorable way out of this betrothal."
And if she could not find one, Quinn fully intended to take ship for Baltimore, by herself if necessary!
CHAPTER 4
Marcus returned home to find Peter entertaining his friend Harry Thatcher in the library. Mr. Thatcher always had tales to tell about the war and his other, more colorful exploits, and normally Marcus looked forward to hearing them, but just now he preferred solitude. That was not to be an option, however.
"There he is now," Peter exclaimed before Marcus could back out of the library. "Come, tell us how things stand. I was just bringing Harry up to speed on your latest scrape."
Reluctantly, Marcus advanced into the room and flung himself into one of the deep leather chairs. "You make it sound as though I was caught in a neighbor's orchard," he said sourly. "This is a bit more serious."
Harry Thatcher chuckled. "Sounds as though the consequences may be dire indeed. You should have been more careful, lad." He nodded sententiously before draining his wine glass.
"You're a fine one to talk," exclaimed Peter with a laugh, refilling Harry's empty glass with claret. "Don't forget, Marcus has heard the story of how you really lost that arm." He nodded toward his friend's empty left sleeve.
Harry shrugged, taking another generous sip of his wine. "Better an arm than my freedom," he said. "When it comes to women— ladies of the Quality, at any rate —I'm remarkably careful."
"I did nothing wrong," Marcus informed them both. "Miss Peverill was the one at fault, gadding about Town without an escort." They were enjoying his predicament far too much, and they hadn't even heard the worst of it yet.
"Then she admitted her fault and her father released you from your obligation?" Peter sighed. "Pity. Marriage would have had a steadying effect upon you."
A snort from Harry echoed Marcus's own opinion. "That's what you said about Jack, if you recall," Harry said to Peter. "Yet he stirred up quite a scandal with his wife, from what we heard on returning from Vienna. Took becoming a father to turn him into a proper stick-in-the-mud."
"Ah, but you can't deny he's blissfully happy," Peter retorted. They were referring, Marcus knew, to their mutual friend, Lord Foxhaven, who had married nearly two years since.
"But Foxhaven made his choice himself," Marcus pointed out. "A woman with a reputation completely opposite to his own. Miss Peverill will hardly have the same effect upon me, given what I have seen of her so far."
Peter sat up straighter. "Then you intend to marry her after all? Why did you not say so at once?"
Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Didn't want to give you the satisfaction. But she and her father have trapped me nicely between them. It appears I won't be allowed to back out."
"Captain Peverill struck me last night as a rather formidable man," said Peter, showing his first sign of sympathy. "Unwilling to admit his daughter's fault, was he?"
"Oh, he admitted it readily enough. Expects me to train the wildness out of her, in fact." Despite his irritation at the entire situation, Marcus couldn't keep his lips from twitching at the absurdity of such an idea.
As for Peter and Harry, they fairly exploded with laughter, which restored Marcus's foul humor quite efficiently. "You!" Peter gasped after a moment. "Train the wildness—! Oh, that's too rich for words."
Abruptly, Marcus rose. "Your felicitations leave something to be desired. You will excuse me, I know. I have matters to attend to." Stiffly, trying to maintain at least a shred of dignity in the face of the others' hilarity, he left the library.
"You there, James," he said to the nearest footman upon regaining the hallway. "Nip around the corner to Marland House and tell Mr. Fairley to expect me within the hour."
The footman bowed and left.
The Duke's man of business would be able to advise him with respect to marriage settlements and other such matters. He might as well get that over with —that, and confronting his father with the news. Whether the Duke of Marland was angry or as pleased as Peter was, Marcus knew he himself would find little pleasure in that interview.
An hour later, Marcus was shown into his father's study, a room he'd always disliked. Now he glanced around at the dark, heavy furnishings and brown velvet drapes, remembering the innumerable occasions throughout his youth when he'd been called to account for some misdemeanor in these somber surroundings.
As always, the Duke awaited him at the far end of the room, enthroned upon his vast mahogany chair, separated from lesser mortals by the polished expanse of his claw-footed mahogany desk. Marcus reminded himself that he was now an adult, and that he had not been summoned here. He had nothing for which to apologize.
"I presume you have come to inform me of your ill-considered betrothal?" the Duke asked dryly before Marcus reached the desk. "I am delighted not to be the last one to know."
Marcus felt all the old, defensive feelings welling up, adult or no. "When are you ever the last to know anything, your grace? As my betrothal was finalized less than two hours ago, it appears you had earlier intelligence of it than I."
&n
bsp; The Duke of Marland's thin, aquiline countenance displayed the merest trace of curiosity. "Yet those present at Lord and Lady Trumball's last night were told that it was an accomplished fact. Would you care to enlighten me as to the details?"
Not particularly, Marcus thought, but aloud he said, "The interference of gossips threatened to transform into scandal what began as a simple misunderstanding. I therefore offered Miss Peverill the protection of my name."
"How very noble." The Duke infused those three words with a wealth of scathing commentary upon Marcus's past, as well as his present judgement —or lack thereof.
"Miss Peverill is quite agreeable, actually," Marcus lied, nettled. "I don't doubt we will deal comfortably together." Quinn Peverill might be many things, but agreeable and comfortable were not among them.
Though he was nearing seventy, the Duke's pale gray eyes had lost none of their sharpness. "Peverill. That would make her granddaughter to the third Marquess of Claridge?"
Marcus nodded, impressed in spite of himself at his father's deductive abilities. It must be where Peter came by that gift.
"A grasping man, whose pride overshadowed his wisdom on more than one occasion. And the current Marquess is an ineffectual milksop. Still, the mother's family is old and respectable. What of the father? American? A sea captain or some such thing?" His thin lips pressed together with disapproval.
"He heads up a large shipping concern out of Baltimore." It felt strange to defend the Peverills, whom he himself regarded as crass opportunists. "He is in England to expand upon that concern. A man of some substance, I believe."
"Hm. We must hope so, as you've little enough of your own."
Marcus was never allowed to forget who held his purse strings, and this reminder galled him more than usual. "I'll try to hold out for a handsome dowry, then." He attempted to match his father's tone for dryness.
The Duke appeared not to notice. "Still, you'll have to settle something on her. One hundred pounds per annum should suffice."
"One hundred—!" Marcus stared. It was an absurdly small sum. His sister-in-law, Lady Bagstead, received five times that amount, not to mention the household funds to which she had access whenever planning an entertainment. Of course, she would be Duchess when Robert inherited, but—
"As a colonist, I imagine Miss Peverill is used to living simply. If her father balks, you are authorized to offer as much as one hundred fifty. Work out the details with Mr. Fairley."
It was clearly a dismissal, so Marcus bowed and left, relieved, even through his irritation, to have the interview over.
The next two hours were tedious in the extreme, but he left Marland House with a better understanding of his own finances than he'd ever had before. It was not an encouraging picture. Despite the extent of the Marland holdings, with five sons, the portion set aside for the youngest was extremely modest. No wonder his mother had once pressed him to consider a calling in the Church.
Returning home, he handed his hat to a footman. Turning to go upstairs, however, he caught sight of a coarse scrap of folded paper among the hot-pressed calling cards in the tray on the hall table. Snatching it up, he found it contained just a few scribbled words: "Gobby. Garden. Sundown."
The boys must have information for him, then— which led to another problem. How was he to play the Saint once he was married? Well, he should have some time yet to work out that conundrum.
He checked his watch. The July days were long —the sun wouldn't set for hours. This would be as good a time as any for him to become better acquainted with his bride-to-be. With more resignation than enthusiasm, he ordered up his phaeton and set out for Mount Street to invite Miss Peverill for a drive.
Becoming a Saint was turning out to be more trouble than he'd bargained for, on all fronts.
* * *
Quinn's stomach was growling by the time she was summoned downstairs, only to discover a disappointingly light afternoon tea of cakes and tiny sandwiches instead of dinner. She would never get used to London hours! The conversation, however, diminished her appetite considerably.
". . . and of course you will have to take Miss Peverill with you to the modiste tomorrow," Lady Claridge was saying to her daughter. "I had Hortense examine her wardrobe and she tells me it is quite hopeless."
"Of course, Mother," agreed Lady Constance, looking bland and beautiful in pristine white muslin. "Madame Fanchot will be able to rectify the problem, I doubt not, as her taste is impeccable."
"I suppose I'd best stay close in my room until you can dress me properly." Quinn tried to speak lightly, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd nettled her. "I wouldn't wish to embarrass you."
Lady Claridge sniffed. "Clothing alone will not prevent that, but it is a start. Still, it will look odd if you do not accompany us to our evening engagements. Perhaps Madame Fanchot will have something she can pin up for you at once, or Hortense might be able to make some of your existing gowns presentable."
Quinn thought about the pains she had gone to in Baltimore, having several dresses made up in the latest fashions. Nor had her new French maid, Monette, implied that they were substandard, which she had no doubt she would have done, were it true. She opened her mouth to say so, then caught her father's eye across the little enameled table and closed it again.
"Whatever you think best, of course, my lady," she said instead, seething inwardly.
Lady Claridge regarded her suspiciously, but before she could speak, the butler entered to announce Lord Marcus Northrup.
Any distraction was welcome just now, but when Quinn saw the wooden expression on Lord Marcus's handsome face, her spirits fell as quickly as they had risen.
"Good afternoon, my lord," she murmured coolly when he turned to her after greeting his hostesses.
"I had hoped to persuade you to drive out with me, Miss Peverill," he said stiffly once the amenities were past. His attitude, however, seemed to belie such a hope.
Much as she wished to escape the oppressive presence of her relatives, Quinn had no desire to be obligated for that escape to his clearly unwilling gallantry. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I fear that would not be proper."
"Horsefeathers!" her father exclaimed. "You are betrothed to the fellow, after all. And besides, young ladies drive out with their admirers all the time, do they not, Lady Claridge?"
Quinn looked to her aunt, but even she seemed to have no reservations —or perhaps she simply wished to be rid of her for a while. "You may go without concern, Miss Peverill, though you may take your maid if you are at all nervous."
Unwilling to be thought the least bit nervous, Quinn said, "No, no, I merely wished to be certain of the proprieties —for your sake, my lady. I will fetch my parasol."
She took her time upstairs, first selecting a pale yellow parasol that matched the trim of her spring green gown, then having Monette put some finishing touches to her hair. Examining herself critically in the glass, she decided the color of the gown, at least, flattered her, emphasizing the green of her eyes. Was she really so unfashionable as all that?
No! She refused to care. Head high, she went back downstairs, where Lord Marcus awaited her, still looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Shall we go, my lord?" She made no particular effort to appear cheerful, as he seemed anything but.
Silently, he extended his arm and escorted her out to his waiting phaeton. She placed her gloved fingertips on his sleeve, resolutely ignoring the tiny shiver of excitement that went through her at the contact.
"I thought perhaps a turn in Hyde Park," he said when they reached his phaeton, helping her up into the high-sprung vehicle.
Quinn tried to suppress another instinctive lightening of her mood at the prospect of riding in such a conveyance. She had seen phaetons and curricles tooling about the London streets and had thought it would be great fun to ride in one. If only her companion were as agreeable as he was handsome!
"Hyde Park will be fine, my lord. I don't wish to put
you out, however."
Lord Marcus' mouth twisted in a cynical mockery of a smile. "It's a bit late for that, isn't it, Miss Peverill? A drive in the Park is no inconvenience by comparison, I assure you."
"How reassuring," she said icily. No matter where she turned, it seemed people were determined to disapprove of her. Well, let them! She would be gone from England and away from them all as soon as she could contrive it.
He set the matched pair of grays into a trot, and Quinn couldn't help admiring his skill as he took the corner from Mount Street onto Park Lane, neatly skirting a ponderous delivery cart and its enormous draft horse.
As they rode in silence, she had time to wonder why he had come to call when he apparently had no more desire to spend time in her company than she had in his. Clearly her father had overstated his "eagerness" for the match —or perhaps he was only eager for her inheritance?
That unpleasant thought finally spurred her to speech. "I confess myself surprised that you felt obliged to follow through on the impulsive claim you made last night," she said as they turned into the Park gates. "I can't believe it was necessary."
He looked sidelong at her, and in spite of herself —and his frown —she noticed again how classically handsome his profile was. What a pity it was wasted on such a stick-in-the-mud!
"Perhaps the concepts of duty and honor are foreign to Americans, but I assure you we English take them very seriously." His words only served to irritate her further.
"I have noticed that the English elevate propriety and appearances to the level of a sacred trust, my lord." She lifted her chin to face him defiantly. "Where I come from, duty and honor are reserved for more important things."
He blinked, and she felt a small satisfaction in seeing that she had startled him. "As you are the beneficiary of what you seem to consider a misplaced sense of duty, it ill-behooves you to criticize my motives, Miss Peverill," he said dampeningly.
"Oh, I have no doubt that your motives are as pure as gold, my lord," she retorted with a knowing smile.