Chapter Nine #2
He eyed the letter suspiciously. “What kind of letter is it?”
His landlady gave an exasperated huff. “I don’t know, do I?
I don’t read other people’s mail. Besides, it’s sealed.
It was hand delivered by some feller in fancy livery, and once I told him you was home—because he made a point of asking—he said there was no answer required.
So here, take it. I got work to do.” She placed the letter beside his plate and left.
Barney peered at it. It was a note, folded and sealed with an unfamiliar seal.
Addressed to Barnaby Wimple Esq., which was quite auntly—none of his friends called him Barnaby, let alone esquire—but written in a hand he didn’t recognize.
Not an aunt then. Good. He looked at the fat sausages gleaming on his plate, the fried eggs and crispy bacon, the still steaming coffee and the toast that wasn’t yet cold.
No use letting a letter ruin a perfectly good breakfast. He’d read the wretched thing later.
Having demolished the excellent breakfast, he made his ablutions and settled back to allow his valet to shave him. His man lathered his jaw, and while he stropped the razor, Barney broke open the seal on the pale blue notepaper.
The razor had made its first smooth sweep when Barney gave a loud yelp.
“I’m so sorry sir, did I—” the valet began.
“No, no.” Barney waved the valet away and scanned the note a second time. “Good God! What the devil?”
“Bad news, sir?” the valet enquired sympathetically.
“The worst!” Barney stared at the message again. It was from an aunt after all, but not one of his aunts, who mostly lived in decent obscurity in the country and could safely be ignored. It was worse, much worse.
Mr Wimple,
I would be obliged if you would call on me at your convenience on an urgent matter. I will expect you at ten of the clock this morning.
Maude, Lady Gosforth.
What the devil did Marcus’s appalling aunt want with him? He’d been terrified of her since he’d first met her when he and Marcus were schoolboys. And she’d only grown more formidable with the years.
His first thought was to flee the city, but then recalled that her manservant had established that Barney was in residence. Damn and blast!.
“What time is it?” he asked the valet.
“Half past nine, sir.”
Barney groaned. “Shave me then and be quick about it. And if you happen to slit my throat, I won’t hold it against you.”
#
AT TEN PRECISELY, BARNEY presented himself on the doorstep of Alverleigh House.
Before he could even enquire of the butler whether Marcus was at home—a fellow facing another fellow’s aunt needed reinforcements after all—the butler informed him Lord Alverleigh had taken Lady Hewitt out riding, and before he could gather his wits, the butler had ushered him into the breakfast parlor.
Lady Gosforth sat there like a spider in her web, drinking tea and nibbling on something that looked horribly like a rusk.
“Ah, Mr. Wimple, there you are,” she said. “Have you broken your fast?”
“Broken?” he stammered, looking wildly around. “I only just arrived. I didn’t break anything.”
“Broken your fast,” she repeated, and when he gave her a blank look, she sighed, and said in a voice geared towards the mentally deficient, “Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Oh,” he said, hugely relieved. “Yes, yes, I have. Sausages and—“
“I did not enquire as to what you ate, only whether you had eaten,” she said in a freezing voice.
“Ah, right. Breakfast, yes, had it already, thank you.” He nodded, relieved that he wasn’t going to be expected to chew on one of those rusk things.
“I have called you here to ask what you intend to do about the gossip.”
“Gossip? What gossip?” he said cautiously.
“The gossip about my nephew, of course.”
Barney thought hard. He hadn’t heard any gossip about Marcus.
The old lady set down her cup with a snap. “Stop gaping at me like a gormless codfish, boy—the gossip about Marcus and Lady Hewitt.”
Barney shook his head. “I haven’t heard any gos—“
She made an impatient sound. “How on earth have you earned the reputation as a man who knows everything going on in the ton?”
“Oh, I say, have I?” he said, pleased.
She fixed her beady eyes on him and shriveled him through the lorgnette. “Clearly I was mistaken. If you’ve heard nothing about the rumors flying around about how my nephew kidnapped Lady Hewitt from the guardianship of her brother and installed her as his mistress—”
“Good lord, did he? Must say, it doesn’t sound like M—”
“What my nephew may or may not have done with Lady Hewitt is beside the point!” she snapped. “You will quash these vile rumors, Barnaby. Quash them! Lady Hewitt is my guest—understand that? Mine!”
Barney nodded.
“You will make it your business to inform every one of your acquaintances that rumor has it wrong, that there was no kidnapping and that Lady Hewitt is my guest and not my nephew’s mistress. Do. You. Understand?”
Barney swallowed. “But if I tell people that, it will only make it wor—” he began.
“Do. You. Understand?”
“Yes, Lady Gosforth,” he mumbled, a thirteen year-old scrubby schoolboy again.
“Then go forth.” She gestured magnificently. “Quash those dreadful rumors. Make sure everyone knows the correct version of events. Or I will want to know the reason why.”
“Yes, Lady Gosforth.” He scuttled out.
#
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Marcus’s business was concluded earlier than expected so he thought he would invite Tessa for a ride in Hyde Park. His butler, Peverill, beckoned him inside. “Lady Gosforth wishes to speak to you—privately,” he murmured. “In the small sitting room.”
“It’s an utter disgrace!” his aunt snapped as he entered the room.
He blinked. “Good afternoon, Aunt Maude. What’s a disgrace?”
“I attended the rout at Lady Reynolds’s last night.”
Sir Allan and Lady Reynolds were excellent hosts. He couldn’t imagine them producing a disgrace. He seated himself. “What happened?” he asked, resigned to a drawn-out revelation of whatever small thing had annoyed her. His aunt was addicted to drama, particularly if she was at the center of it.
“Everyone was talking about it. Asking me the most impertinent questions.” She snorted and drank a little tea.
“Questions?”
“Lady Hewitt is the one who will suffer, of course. Women are always blamed.”
He stiffened. “Lady Hewitt?”
“It won’t affect you, of course, not for long, at least. Not with your staid, not to say dull reputation. No, it’s always the woman’s fault. And it’s not even true!”
“What isn’t?”
“That you kidnapped her from her brother’s protective guardianship—”
“What?” He could imagine how the tale might be twisted into a kidnapping, though how did it get out? Only a handful of people knew what happened.
“And installed her as your mistress!”
“What?”
“As I said, it’s always the woman who suffers in this sort of situation. And with Lady Hewitt’s unsavory reputation . . .”
“To hell with her reputation,” he snapped. “What situation? There is no situation. Lady Hewitt has been living under your protection the entire time, and I’ve been staying at my club.” He’d gone out of his way to ensure the proprieties were observed.
She shrugged. “I did deny it, of course, but . . .” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.
He rose and began to pace around the room.
After all the care he’d taken to protect Tessa.
Blasted gossipmongers! He stopped pacing.
He knew what needed to be done. He’d been planning it for a while.
Giving her time to find her feet, explore her options, realize what needed to happen. This would just bring it forward.
“I suppose marriage would quash the scandal,” he said in his best off-hand manner.
It was the perfect solution. He didn’t want to make a love-match, didn’t want to make himself vulnerable to desire, even though he was experiencing it, stronger than ever, each time he saw her. But as long as nobody else knew about it, he would be safe.
Tessa herself didn’t need to know, he told himself. He’d been planning to offer her marriage as a low-key practical arrangement between friends, but now . . .
This blasted gossip problem could be a heaven-sent opportunity. If he could talk Tessa into it.
“Marriage?” his aunt declared. “Good God, no! I know how reluctant you’ve been to marry, dear boy.
I wouldn’t for the world see you saddled with an unsuitable gel, simply to stop a few tongues wagging.
” She snorted. “Besides, hasn’t she told me a dozen times or more that she has no desire to marry again?
Marriage, Marcus? No, no and no! You’ll have to think of something else! ”
Marcus stared at her and sat down, eying her cynically. What was going on? She’d been nagging him to marry for years.
His aunt added thoughtfully, “Actually, the best thing will be for the gel to take up that position up in Yorkshire. Once she’s out of sight, the scandal will fade.”
Marcus frowned. “What position in Yorkshire?”
She nodded to herself. “It’s the perfect solution. I’ll write her a glowing recommendation and she’ll disappear from sight, never to be seen again.”
Never to be seen again? Not if he could help it.
“Once she’s gone, the gossip will fade in a sennight or two, take my word for it. Some other scandal will take its place in the ton’s imagination. It always does. Remember the fuss that was made over Lord and Lady Templeton last year? Such a to-do about noth—”
“What position in Yorkshire?” he repeated with grim patience. There were times when he itched to throttle his beloved aunt.
His aunt blinked at him and said vaguely, “Oh, she applied for a job with some complete stranger somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire. Answering an advertisement in a newspaper, would you believe?” She snorted again. “It could be anyone, but gels these days . . . ”
Marcus recalled the letter Tessa had given him to frank, some address in Yorkshire. Dammit, why hadn’t he thought to ask her about it?
Marcus rose. “I’ll give the situation some thought. I must go now. Good day, Aunt.”
“No need for any thought, dear boy,” she said brightly. “Stashing the gel far away and out of sight in Yorkshire is the perfect solution. Let us just hope her new employer is someone respectable.” Then she added, “Or at least someone safe.”
#
THE FIRST THING MARCUS needed to do was to check on this so-called rumor.
He didn’t trust his aunt at all. She had a tendency to exaggerate things, and unless it was indeed the scandal she’d claimed .
. . Well, he would be as bad as her father and brother if he talked Tessa into a marriage based on a lie.
After checking the usual haunts, tracked his friend Barney to Tattersalls. Apparently there was an interesting auction coming up. Barney had a good eye for horseflesh.
Marcus had no interest in the auction; he wanted to pick Barney’s brain, catch up on the latest gossip. His aunt claimed the damaging scandal about him and Tessa was everywhere. Naturally nobody would speak of it to Marcus’s face, but Barney would know the truth.
As expected, he arrived just in time to see his friend make a successful bid for a rather splendid-looking bay hunter. He made his way through the crowd.
“Did you see it?” Barney said when he clapped eyes on Marcus. “Such hocks, such a powerful, deep chest, and the temperament—”
Marcus cut off the enthusiastic horsey flow, which he knew could last for hours. “Congratulations, Barney. A fine looking beast.”
“Yes, and—”
“A drink?”
Barney hesitated a moment then shook his head. “Sorry. No time, I’m afraid. There’s another auction coming up soon that I don’t want to miss. A beautiful little mare.”
Marcus drew him to one side and said softly. “Heard any gossip lately?”
Barney jumped, and eyed Marcus warily. “Gossip?”
“About me and Lady Hewitt.”
Barney’s face crumpled with anxiety. “I tried to stop it, Marcus, I promise.”
Marcus frowned. “Let me be clear: I’m talking about a scurrilous and nonsensical tale that I kidnapped Lady Hewitt, and made her my mistress.”
Barney nodded miserably. “Yes, that’s the one. Everybody is talking about it.”
“Damn. My aunt was telling the truth. I wondered whether she’d made it up.”
“I did try to stop—”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Marcus patted his friend on the shoulder in a distracted fashion and left. He knew now what he had to do.
In one sense it was a relief. The decision was out of his hands now.
He sent around a note inviting Tessa for a ride on the heath the following morning. She could have proper gallop, which would put her, he hoped, in a receptive mood.
He’d put the question to her then, where they’d be relaxed, there was no aunt to interfere and nobody to overhear.
#
FOR THE FIRST PART of their ride there was very little opportunity for conversation, as they picked their way through traffic, pedestrians, beggars and dogs, and the noise of the streets, the rattle of carts and the sound of peddlers hawking their wares.
But once they were out of the city, Marcus still couldn’t think of how to phrase it.
It had been easier that time—it seemed so long ago—when it had just slipped out without his conscious volition. Why not marry? Not some ancient, but a much younger man, someone nearer your own age? Myself, for instance.
Now it seemed so much more difficult, regardless of the fact that he now actively wanted to marry her. He swallowed, and edged his horse closer so they walking wide by side.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Hewitt,” he began.
“Oh, please don’t call me that, especially when we’re alone. I’d much rather be Tessa to you.”
“Very well, Tessa. I have been thinking . . .” Stupid way to begin, he decided. “The thing is. . .” She turned her head with a bright, encouraging expression, and all his words dried up. She was so beautiful.
“Watch out for that dog,” he said feebly.
They avoided the dog, who ignored them, and continued on.
“You said you’d been thinking,” she prompted him.
“Yes. Yes, I have,” he agreed. And had no idea how to proceed. ‘Will you marry me?’ seemed so blunt, so bald, so unequivocal.
A small ‘No’ would kill it dead. And where would that leave him? He couldn’t ask her again; that would be harassment.
She’d made it more than clear that she had no desire to marry again. Who was he to make her change her mind when she’d never had a choice in her life?
But society was cruel, and she’d be crucified by the gossips, even worse than she had been in the past. And this time it was his fault.
They rode on, his thoughts in turmoil. How to explain, to persuade her to marry him, and not refer to the gossip?
And who was the fool who thought a proposal on horseback would be acceptable? It was probably disrespectful.
No, he would make her a formal offer when they returned to Alverleigh House. Or possibly in the morning. Yes, mornings were the correct time to make young ladies an offer.
He swallowed.