Chapter One #2
He imagined that spending part of the summer at his elder sister’s house must have had a profound effect.
She’d wed Lord Littledon years ago and had produced two daughters and one son.
He’d seen marital felicity up close. The couple was very fond of one another and laughed a lot.
They seemed to have amusing secrets between them.
On top of that, Corbyn had a terrific time with his nieces and nephew.
They were clever little people, each with their own unique ideas about things.
Mary, the eldest, ruled the roost. She was an expert at maneuvering through the house in the most interesting manner possible.
He’d been sworn to secrecy and then let in on their various schemes.
They had their own club in the attics, which they used when it was not too hot or not too cold.
The club was called Audacia Tres, or Daring Three.
They used the Latin name the most often as they considered it an insult to their Latin tutor, who they despised for rather unclear reasons.
They also showed Corbyn how an inhabitant of the house could very quietly tiptoe down the corridors after everyone was abed, slipping into the last guest bedchamber of the east wing.
There, behind the door, was a trap door leading to a priest hole.
Once inside, and Corbyn could barely fit so he thought the priests of old must have been very short, one could follow a narrow set of stairs all the way down to the basements.
Once there, a person could examine what was left on the kitchen’s counters and even in the larders too if they’d been left unlocked.
They’d been doing that for so long that they were fairly certain Cook knew about it and left biscuits out for them.
They had been in the habit of taking a few more biscuits than they wanted and hoarding them in a box under the bed of one of the little used guest bedchambers.
They found this the height of good sense, as a biscuit would always be available when it was wanted.
They had to stop doing it when the room became overrun with mice and nearly scared Clara, one of the housemaids, into pieces.
As Mary sagely remarked, “Live and learn.”
That is what he wanted. He wanted a wife, a companion to go through life with. A lady to have amusing secrets with. He wanted children with clever ideas, outfoxing him at every turn.
Yes, indeed. It was time to find her. Lady Beatrix was certainly a lady he would like to discover more about.
His thoughts drifted back to a question the younger sister, Lady Caroline, had asked. Did he know Lord Chester?
He knew him, though he could have very well done without knowing him.
Chester was everything a gentleman was not.
He ran in a certain circle of equally debased individuals.
He wore a veneer of sophistication and could seduce the opinions of the matrons of the ton.
As far as they were concerned, he only sowed wild oats and they turned a blind eye to most of it.
Perhaps they did not even know most of it.
Though how anybody could have missed that he’d installed an actress in Portland Place, Corbyn did not know.
Of course, maybe he was all too aware of it, and of the loud parties that went on, because he was just a few doors down.
Unlike the squares in Town, Portland Place did not have any through traffic and that made it more private.
It also made anything going on at another of the houses more obvious.
Everyone on Portland Place must have seen the comings and goings and people did talk.
What was Lady Beatrix’s connection to Lord Chester? Perhaps he was a relation. Whatever it was, he would certainly like to know more about that too.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Rufus Rhysdale, Baron Chester and heir to Viscount Wellstone, was cornered.
His mother and father had been droning on about Lady Beatrix Bell all his life.
Or “Bitsy” as they ridiculously called her.
He’d allowed them to drone on, as it kept them occupied and he really could not care less about their blatherings.
Though they’d been talking about it, there had not been anything they could do about it.
Now they wanted to do something about it.
He had gone along for the past six years with the London house to himself.
Number Five, Portland Place had been the scene of raucous parties and long nights of gambling.
Until recently, it had also been the location of his latest light o’ love, Annie Wister.
She was an actress who’d caught his eye last season and he’d installed her in the house as a matter of convenience.
Once his mother and father announced they were on the way to Town, he’d been forced to give her some money, let her a set of apartments, and relocate her.
None of that would have necessarily provided more than a momentary problem to solve.
However, his father had written him a letter which made things a hundred times more dire.
As it was expected that he would wed Lady Beatrix, and as she brought a good dowry amount, his allowance would be cut off.
The viscount had some plans to expand the workings of the family seat and could move forward now that he was to no longer fund his son’s adventures in Town.
That was a problem. He had no intention of wedding Lady Beatrix, or anybody else for the time being.
There were far too many interesting women about the Town that he’d not yet conquered.
Marriage was the long slog that must be done, but not right now.
Furthermore, when he did wed, he would not wish for a lady whose mother was intimate friends with his own.
He could just imagine the tattling that would go on if that were the case.
He had his own smallish estate that might fund him, but he’d been so busy in Town that he’d let it fall to ruin.
The last nail in that coffin was when the steward had written, complaining that he’d not been paid.
Rufus had been pinched from losing at cards, so he’d fired the fellow, and thought no more about it.
He’d meant to hire a new steward, but he’d not got around to it.
He really had no idea what his tenants were up to, but it did not seem as if they were paying him.
As for the home farm, well he supposed that was all weeds by now.
He did not know what the steward had done about the cows but would not be surprised to discover they were stolen or eaten by his tenants.
He might be able to drag it back to profitability, but that would take a lot of time and effort.
Somehow, he was going to have to convince Lady Beatrix to reject him, all without looking as if it was his fault. Society ladies held little interest for him. Their views, and their manners, were all corseted up tight. Give him wild Annie Wister any day.
But Annie Wister did not have money and Rufus liked money.
He needed money. A person could not do anything worth doing without money.
He could not dress well, he could not gamble, he could make a spontaneous purchase at Tattersall’s.
He could not do anything at all. However, when a man married for money, then he ended up with an anchor tied round his neck. A complaining wife.
The earl and countess had arrived yesterday.
On top of that, they’d brought his grandmother.
The dowager, out of all of them, did not put him on a pedestal.
She was a sour old woman full of “In my day” condemnations and spent most of her time frowning at him.
She was also nosy beyond reason. Nobody could expect the belongings in their drawers safe from her examination.
Last evening, he’d had to sit through a family dinner, listening to her complaints about not keeping the house up. And then an inquiry into why a pair of ladies’ stockings had come back with the laundry.
Both his mother and father had talked for an hour about how marriage would settle him. He supposed it might, if he wanted to be settled. His grandmother frowned at her son and daughter-in-law as if those two people were prone to hopeful fancy. Which they were.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beatrix was dressed in her very best dress, but for the one she held back for her wedding. The wedding she would hopefully have, in any case. This was a pale blue silk underskirt with a pale blue tulle overlay.
She must look her very best. It was to be her first encounter with Lord Chester. On top of that, his parents and even his grandmother were coming. She was to be examined and sized up. At least, that was what it felt like.
Lydia was expertly arranging her hair, as she and the maid had practiced it all summer.
Miss Sprite had come in to supervise, though Beatrix was not clear why.
Miss Sprite forever wore her hair in a very tight and not very interesting back bun.
She did not even favor a few curls in the front and she made her own concoction of boiled quince seeds to glue her hair flat on her head.
According to Miss Sprite, she was just now in Beatrix’s room to prevent any missteps.
She seemed also to be there to scold Caroline for lounging on the bed.
Caroline had got up and went to be dressed in her own room.
She was not out, and would not be for three more years, but the countess was allowing her to attend the dinner as it was only to be old family friends.
As far as Beatrix understood it, her mother and the viscountess had been neighbors when they were girls.
She’d said they were thick as thieves and could finish one another’s sentences back then.
They’d been introduced to society the same year and they’d maintained a correspondence ever since.
Beatrix’s poor sister had been lectured backwards and forwards by Miss Sprite, lest she place a foot out of line at the dinner.
Lydia put the final touches on her hair, Miss Sprite begrudgingly approved, and Beatrix descended the stairs. The earl and countess were already down, as was Caroline as her hair was still in girlish plaits and would not take nearly as much time.
“You are looking very well, Beatrix,” the earl said. “Very well, indeed.”
“She is a vision,” her mother said.
Caroline snorted. They both agreed that their parents suffered from a parental delusion of sorts.
Beatrix and Caroline were satisfied enough with their looks, but to hear the earl and countess tell it, they were goddesses walking among the mortals.
Beatrix supposed she’d be just the same with her own children and regard them with very foggy spectacles.
Beatrix smoothed her dress and examined the quizzing glass on its chain round her neck. It was a very fine specimen. The lens was surrounded by precious gems in a rainbow of colors so it might match any dress she wore and look an intentional style.
Mr. Feldstaffer had come in from supervising the footmen in the dining room to alert the earl that everything was arranged.
He looked very downcast, as he always did.
If one were to go by their butler’s expression, one would be convinced one was on the verge of hearing exceedingly bad news.
He was very particular, though, in his arrangements for the earl, so the news was rarely discomfiting.
Her father said their butler had been born with a frown on his face, which was precisely how a butler ought to be.
Then, there it was. The sound of a carriage rolling to a stop. Mr. Feldstaffer left the room to go to the door. Caroline stood by her and briefly squeezed her hand.
Mr. Feldstaffer returned to the drawing room. “My lord,” he intoned, “Viscount and Viscountess Wellstone, the Dowager Viscountess Wellstone, and Baron Chester.”