Chapter One #2
Winsome sighed. That was another idea Valor had clung to. She claimed she would never leave the duke and she would act as his hostess forever. She had insisted that poor Madame LaFray, who had arrived to design Winsome’s wardrobe, also design Valor’s “hostessing” wardrobe.
Winsome had not seen the results as Valor kept them a closely guarded secret, but Madame LaFray had mentioned that Winsome’s youngest sister had insisted on heavy fabrics that were really better suited to an older matron, and an array of fussy lace fichus.
The fabrics, as Madame LaFray had no idea about the hostessing clothes before she arrived, had all been bought at a local haberdasher some miles away.
The materials were out of fashion, as London changed its mind on the regular and it took time for the news to reach more far-off places. Valor was not put off by that.
Madame LaFray had even gone to the duke about it, as she did not wish to be on the hook for what she deemed, “Des vêtements malheureusement démodés.”
“Excellent news,” the duke said to the information that the hostessing clothes were packed.
Or the idea that Valor would stay with him forever.
Though, Winsome did not believe he found either to be excellent news.
The duke really was a sympathetic father and would not for the world throw water on Valor’s current hopes and ideas.
At least, not yet. Winsome suspected he would not actually allow his youngest daughter to throw her life away in such a pointless manner.
It would be pointless, too. Valor would like her own household someday, Winsome was sure of it. Just as all her sisters had and Winsome herself longed for. As soon as she assured herself that she did not connect herself to a rogue.
There was something that happened to a person when they got older.
She had once been in firm agreement with Valor over the horror of a man being in one’s own room all night and possibly looking at one when one slept.
When Felicity had her season, the idea had seemed positively bizarre.
Had their sister gone mad, that she would leave the congeniality of their household for that?
Now, the whole idea did not seem terrible, but more interesting than anything else. Very interesting, actually. She was certain the same would happen to Valor. She could hardly say how or when it happened to her, it just had.
“You will be so proud of what I’ve had Madame LaFray make for me, Papa,” Valor said. “I will look very grown. You will not even believe it.”
Winsome guessed that the only veracity in that statement was: “You will not even believe it.”
“Tremendous,” the duke said. “Now, it is our last dinner in the Dales for a while. And a cold dinner at that, as Cook is already on his way to Grosvenor Square. Let us go in and discover what Charlie and Thomas have managed to scrape together. We leave for Town first thing on the morrow.”
“With Sir Galahad’s bed,” Valor said.
“With Sir Galahad’s bed,” the duke said resignedly to his youngest, currently the ruling tyrant of the Nicolet household.
*
Leland Dunmore, Marquess of Manderbey, only son of the Duke of Albany, finally finished off his pile of correspondence.
It was really incredible how a person could have so many cousins in need of money.
Some were near his own age and got themselves into trouble gambling, which he found enormously irritating.
Some were dowagers and limped along on modest portions, which he sympathized with.
He’d just finished the last two letters.
The first, to Viscount St. John which was of such a scathing nature that he supposed it would burst into flames in the fellow’s hands.
On top of the general embarrassment of St. John’s profligacy, the man was being considered for the next ambassadorship to Portugal.
If he went on the way he’d been doing, he would not only embarrass the family, but the English Crown too.
There would be no further requests to be bailed out from that quarter, as Leland had made clear. St. John did not have the funds to go carelessly throwing away what he did have at a dice table. The next time he did, Leland would let him sink.
He was all but certain that St. John lobbied for the ambassadorship as he imagined there might be money to be made there.
St. John had made mention of the court currently being housed in Rio de Janeiro to hide from Napoleon and how there were several opportunities there for a fellow to make his fortune.
Leland had pointed out that if he withdrew monetary support and St. John kept gambling, it would be obvious to anybody looking.
The Crown would not risk appointing a gentleman to represent England who could not even manage his own finances.
The second was to the Dowager Viscountess St. John.
As her irascible son was not supporting her as he should, Leland would supplement her income.
He’d hired a steward of sorts for the dower house.
He was a local gentleman who managed his own businesses and would be well able to handle the dowager’s rather straightforward accounts.
The steward was to hold the purse and supply Lady St. John with whatever she needed while keeping her son’s grubby hands off of it.
St. John would be outraged, and Leland was glad of it.
He sat back and sipped his brandy. It was a gift from fate to be so well-supplied with money himself, but it was an ongoing burden to support all sorts of people across England.
He would take on the burden, but he would not fund St. John’s stupid gambling habit, nor any of his other relations who took up the practice.
Helping was one thing, but throwing away money was quite another.
If those fellows wished to risk their estates in a gambling hell, then they could pay the price for their stupidity, not him.
The brandy soothed him. His cleared desk soothed him. His thoughts began to turn to more pleasant subjects. The season was set to begin.
He always did enjoy it, there was no end of people he would not see otherwise.
Last season had been capped off by Wembly’s very interesting wedding.
Of all his friends, the baron would have been the last person he’d thought to have the queen in attendance at his nuptials.
But then, it seemed his bride, Lady Verity, had captured Her Majesty’s notice.
Someone else entirely had captured his own notice that day.
Lady Winsome Nicolet, one of the duke’s vast array of daughters.
She would be out this season and he did not suppose he’d ever set eyes on a more spectacular lady.
She had piles of blonde hair that had the palest tinge of copper to it, sparkling blue eyes, a generous mouth, and a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
It was those freckles that had done him in.
He had a weakness for a sprinkling of freckles.
He supposed it went back to his early infatuation with a shopkeeper’s daughter.
In those early days, he was forever inventing reasons to go to the village in hopes of encountering her.
As she was ten years his senior, he did not have much of sense to say when he did encounter her.
She’d married a grocer and blessedly put him out of his youthful misery.
But here was a fine lady with a dusting of freckles.
She was lovely. And then, her conversation had held a note of seriousness to it that one might not expect to find in a lady not yet even out.
Perhaps it was self-assuredness? There was a certain manner in her that he’d liked. She seemed direct, he supposed.
In any case, he was looking forward to seeing her. Perhaps he ought to send Wembly a note and suggest a dinner inviting himself and the Nicolets? He did not suppose Wembly’s aunt, Lady Pegatha, would mind it. It was her house, but Wembly regularly stayed there during the season.
Yes, certainly he ought to. He’d seen Lady Winsome, but the rest of the ton had not. When they did, he presumed the invitations would come flying to her door. He ought to ensure that an invitation involving himself got there first.
He reached for his stationery, but before he could begin the thing, his dowager duchess barreled her way into his library.
The lady had the dower house down the lane but though she’d ostensibly moved into it, she made free with the main house.
As far as his grandmother was concerned, no room was off limits.
She’d push her way into his bedchamber if she grew tired of waiting for him to come out of it.
He had, on occasion, mentioned that the dower house at the family’s seat in Sussex was far larger and well appointed.
It was meant to house a dowager duchess.
The cottage she currently occupied nearby his house in Torquay was not at all grand.
Among the selling points to going home to Sussex that he did not mention was that it happened to be far away, and he could use a reprieve from his grandmother just now.
However, the dowager was too used to ruling the roost in Sussex as the reigning duchess, and found it irritating to find herself pushed out and a newly minted duchess rearranging things.
“There you are,” the dowager said. She was a sprightly and small lady with bright eyes.
She was of undetermined years, as her reports of her alleged age varied widely depending on her purpose.
She was very old if she wished to engender sympathy and she was improbably young when she had no need of it.
She looked round the room and peered behind a chair. “No sign of them yet.”
One might think, from that sort of display, that his grandmother was going senile. Leland knew very well that was not the case though.
“No sign of what, pray?” he asked, tenting his fingers.
“Grandchildren. What else?”
Leland had been afraid that was what this performance was about. She’d been relentless on the subject for two years already. The last gambit had involved clutching at her heart and pretending she was on the verge of expiring and lamenting that she’d not lived to see grandchildren.
When Leland had pointed out there was nothing he could do about it in her last moments on earth, she’d stalked off. He imagined she came up with these ridiculous hints in league with her lady’s maid. His grandmother and the pert Miss Wilson were thick as thieves.
“That’s it, then,” his grandmother said in her usual opaque manner. As he did not answer, she said, “I’m coming with you.”
“Coming with me where?” he asked. He had no invitations for the next week and then he would be off to Town.
“London. It will do me good and more importantly, it will do you good. I’ll dig up someone for you to wed so I can have grandchildren in the house before I die.”
Leland had been leaning back in his chair. He steadied himself. “What do you mean, you will go to Town? You never go to Town.”
“And now I do. Do I really have the energy to play matchmaker at this late date in my history? Who knows, but I’ve got to try. I’m going to Town. Arrange it all, Manderbey.”
With that, the dowager stalked off to harass somebody else.
Leland supposed when she said, “Arrange it all,” she meant trunks pulled from the attics, carriages hired, her rooms in Hanover Square readied, cards ordered, the news sent out that she would be available for invitations, and who knew what else.
His secretary would have to consult with Miss Wilson for a list and the discovery of precisely how many trunks she would bring.
None of that was the worrying part, though.
She was intent on playing matchmaker. Unfortunately, when his grandmother was intent on a thing there was not much hope of stopping her.
He was almost certain she would cause him trouble.
She’d go poking around for willing ladies and she would find them, too.
He did not flatter himself in any personal way, but he was well aware that his future wife would someday be a duchess.
There were those ambitious ladies, and even more ambitious mamas, haunting the town who would be all too willing.
He did not necessarily condemn those ladies’ ambitions, he just did not wish it for himself. His parents’ marriage was a good one and had not been based on a transaction. He very much wished for the same.
Leland very briefly thought about refusing to take the dowager to Town.
It was a very brief thought though. If she were left behind against her wishes she’d do something diabolical about it.
Last year, he’d attempted to refuse to bring her along to a local horse race.
She had countered by claiming that she would take out an advertisement in the newspaper outlining how her only grandson had abandoned her.
As the son of a duke, he must at least keep his family’s name out of the newspapers.
She would go and she would make trouble.
It did not even sound as if the dowager would be concerned with his personal happiness or be at all discerning in her hunt.
She’d claimed she would “dig somebody up.” He thought he ought to be offended by that.
He was not so unpleasant that a lady would have to be dug up.
The dowager suddenly poked her head back in the door. “I’ll need more money than I’ve got. I’ll need a whole new wardrobe—I’ve got to keep up with the times!”
Of course she needed more money. It seemed everybody in the world always needed more money, and they needed it from him.