Chapter 4
All Grey could think as he sat on yet another painfully uncomfortable settee in the fussily overdecorated gold drawing room at the Mayhew house, a cup of tea balanced on one knee and a piece of dry seed cake on the other, was that he should have met his fiancée before he signed for her. He should have at least met her mother.
“We are so honored to have you here, your lordship,” Mrs. Mayhew trilled, fluttering the lace square in her plump little hand like a flag of surrender. “Are we not, Priss-Priss?”
The only thing keeping him from wincing was the too-obvious strain on his fiancée’s features, tightening even further at her mother’s obsequiousness.
He might have better withstood the assault to his senses if his head wasn’t once again caught in a vise of late-night drinking.
Rob Glenn had not moved on. And after a few hours of refighting battles over Rob’s excellent whisky, Grey had somehow let loose the information that he was being forced into marriage.
So, Rob had decided to stay, to “help a comrade,” he’d said with a lopsided grin and a slap to the back.
Grey just wished his friend were here now to take some of the attention from the mother. Rob was at least an earl.
“It was nice of you to visit, my lord,” his fiancée said in a near-whisper.
He hated to agree with The Termagant, but she was all too correct.
This was a girl. Unformed, unsophisticated, unhappy in the extreme.
Possibly even more unhappy than he was. And yet, looking at the predatory gleam in her mother’s eye, Grey suspected that he would have had an easier time getting out of the Tower than this marriage.
“Will you be at the Conynghams’ tonight, my lord?” the mama asked now, patting at overcurled hair that was a yellow color he suspected wasn’t found in nature. “I am certain you will be delighted to hear that our Priss-Priss will be performing. She plays the harp like the veriest angel.”
Something else he should have learned from the Termagant, he supposed.
Whether he would be able to withstand fifty years of a frightened, rabbity wife and rapacious in-laws.
He suspected he would end up at the gallows for throttling his solicitor, who had set up this unholy alliance. Right after he throttled the mother.
“I wish I could be there, ma’am. But I fear I have duties that will keep me away.”
Thank a merciful God.
Should he bring up the girls? He suspected he already knew how the news would be received by both mother and daughter.
The mother would gush about ready-formed families and how her darling was a natural-born mother, and the daughter would lose the rest of her color and faint right off her chair.
He was ashamed at how tempting the idea sounded.
At least it would break up this stultifying conversation. No, not conversation. Monologue.
“...and, of course, like any well-bred girl, our Priss paints the most delightful watercolors. Why, her painting of Mayview—that is our estate in Oxfordshire, of course—is worth hanging at the Academy, I vow. But it is in her sweetness with her younger sisters that I am most proud of her. So patient. So loving.”
Grey all but stopped breathing. So. She knew.
The woman’s eyes were sharp as sheared glass.
He felt a noose tighten around his throat.
The question was, did the girl know? If her blank expression was any indication, he suspected not.
Which meant the real question was, should he bring it up now?
Get it right out in the open to see her reaction.
He simply wasn’t sure he had the courage. He was beginning to respect the Termagant for trying to help this poor, wan girl. Priscilla Mayhew would be indescribably beautiful for the right man, all innocent, golden English beauty. But he knew without a doubt she would never bloom for him.
And yet, he couldn’t imagine a way to give her the freedom to marry that boy she loved.
“How delightful,” he responded when the mother paused for breath. “And of course you enjoy dancing, Miss Mayhew?” he asked, just to shut the woman up. “You will, of course, be at the Halverson ball tomorrow. Might I reserve a dance?”
Given a chance, he suspected she would have told him exactly what she thought of that idea. One quick, panicked glance at her mother had her nodding her head. “Yes, my lord.”
Grey shot a desperate glance at the mantel clock to see that for the moment he was rescued. He had reached the obligatory fifteen minutes. Setting the cup and the cake back on the piecrust table at his elbow, he rose to his feet.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said.
The mother was on her feet. “But my lord. Don’t you wish to spend a few minutes with our Priss?”
What was it with the royal we’s lately, Grey wondered. Had he just never noticed them before? All he knew was that right now they annoyed him nearly into mayhem. He needed to get out of here before the woman standing before him had her hair pulled out.
“I fear not,” he said, casting Miss Mayhew an apologetic smile. “Responsibilities at the House of Lords, you know.”
A bit of a stretch, since he hadn’t even been invested.
Instead, he very much feared he would be forced to feed Sophie and Amelia’s grandmother.
Which might end up being worse than dancing with Priscilla or withstanding her mother’s siege, but Grey couldn’t leave that particular field of battle to the old harpy.
Not even old, really. Definitely a harpy.
“Thank you again,” he said with the pro forma bow, not sure whether he was relieved or newly aggrieved that his fiancée looked so relieved at his going.
It didn’t matter for the moment. The butler was waiting with his coat and hat, and the door was right there.
“Do you like dogs?” he asked suddenly, unsure why.
Both women stopped as if struck.
“Of course, she does,” the mother trilled. “Such a comfort to have a sweet companion to sit in your lap.”
His grin was genuine. “Not this one,” he said as the butler helped him into his coat. “Irish wolfhound. Comes up to my waist.”
Oh, blast. The chit was blanching again. For a moment he thought he’d have to toss hat and coat back at the butler so he could catch her. But she rallied just enough to cast her mother a terrified look.
“Of course,” her mother said, not even looking the girl’s way. “A beast like that would be kept in the stables, I’m sure.”
His smile was unpardonably satisfied. “The breakfast room. And the salon. Oh, and the kitchen, come to think of it.” Popping his hat on his head, he gave it a tap. “Ate an entire roast yesterday. Just grabbed it from the counter and ran off like a pickpocket in St. Giles.”
Now the mother blanched. The butler was manfully fighting a grin.
Grey just smiled, gave another bow, and left.
He was just beginning to feel better when he climbed into his carriage to find Braxton waiting inside for him. “For the love of all that is holy, Braxton. Do I not get a minute without you?”
“We thought you should know, my lord. The young relations’ grandmother has been delayed. Her carriage suffered a mishap to a wheel, we believe. However, Lord Drake is expecting you.”
Grey stopped. “Drake? Why? I saw Lord Finch yesterday.”
“There is new information, and possibly a need for you to leave sooner.”
“Sooner?! Good God, they already have me on my way by the end of June.”
“Our man in Paris came up missing.”
Grey shut his eyes. “Gracechurch? How?”
“They aren’t sure. But Foreign Office wants you to prepare to possibly leave sooner.”
Grey started rubbing his eyes again. “Not until I’m safely married. I cannot leave the girls at the mercy of that...that...”
“Hag? Shrew? Virago?”
“Threat. All right. Let us see what Drake has to say, and then we’ll tackle my marriage.”
“To Miss Mayhew?”
“Good God, I hope not.”
For the first time since Grey had climbed into the carriage, Braxton smiled. “We have been sharing information we garnered about the young lady’s parents with our staff. It is believed that if you attached yourself to that family, half of them would leave.”
“Would that include you?”
“One virago we might withstand, my lord. But this would invite a second into our happy home. It would be inconceivable.”
While Grey had been withstanding the Mayhew women, Georgie had gathered the troops to draw up lists.
“Millicent Bickerling,” Eddie said, hunched over the paper that already had five names on it.
Activities like this did not belong in the public rooms. So the cousins had made a strategic retreat to Georgie’s sitting room, where they could come up with potential wives for the new marquess as they toasted cheese.
Charlie toasted the cheese. Eddie kept the list at Georgie’s desk.
Georgie paced, unsure why this activity made her so uncomfortable.
Usually being in her rooms calmed her. Taking her inspiration from Mrs. Bauer’s little sitting room, she had decorated in bright colors, overstuffed sofas, and soft materials, making her own nest, as she’d called it.
For once, though, the sunny yellow walls, emerald-and-aqua floral Chinoiserie chintz cushions, and simple lines of the Sheraton furniture didn’t soothe her at all.
“Isn’t Millicent Bickerling the one with teeth like a mole?” Charlie asked from the floor by the fireplace.
As Georgie passed by, Charlie handed her a sample.
Georgie nodded and took a bite. “I fear she is. We want to help Lord Coleford, not punish him. It isn’t his fault his cousins were improvident.
Besides, those little girls deserve a better mother than one who is constantly sniffling and reading improving tracts. ”
“Louisa Allen,” Eddie offered, lifting her head.
“Too poor.”
“Isabelle Stroud.”
“Too rich.”
Charlie looked up. “How can anyone be too rich?”