Chapter Two #2
Elspeth could only stare. Of course the servants knew.
They always knew. Also the door to the drawing room had been wide open, and her father’s sonorous and declarative statements had been anything but soft.
The servants always heard everything, knew everything, and news travelled between the households of Mayfair faster than lightning strikes.
Sinclair, who had been a servant for at least twenty years and Elspeth’s maid for more than a decade, knew all of the best gossip of the ton.
And, of course, if she had been paying attention, Elspeth would have known as well.
The increasing rows between the three of them over expenses, the vanishing artworks and heirloom furnishings, the reduction of her dowry to “a mere pittance.” Although she did not know the true worth of it, her father made it sound inconsequential in luring a mate.
Thus, the viscount, who had his own riches.
Elspeth just did not want to admit it, even after her father had said it plainly: It is a position and a fortune, both of which this family needs.
The Earl of Inmarsh was in financial trouble. She doubted she would ever know why, what had gone wrong. But clearly their estate lay at risk, and it would likely take a great deal of money to salvage it. Which meant that for Elspeth, marriage was no longer an option.
Elspeth stepped forward to take the envelope, glancing up at Sinclair. “You remembered I had this? From six years ago?”
Sinclair tipped her head. “Extraordinary things tend to linger long in the memory.”
Elspeth looked down. “So they do.” Six years ago, one of her best friends, Eleanor, had given her the envelope before she had set sail with her new husband, Sir Gordon Rydell, for America.
It was an invitation to a masque ball long since passed, but Ella had indicated it could be used as an introduction to the hostess of that ball, who had reunited Gordon and Ella after a long separation.
Elspeth turned it over in her hands, remembering that final, fond embrace with her friend, as Ella had whispered, “Keep it. It can be a salvation. Use only as a last resort. When all hope seems lost.”
Elspeth bit her lower lip, then wiped away her tears. Today definitely felt like a last resort. She ran her fingers over the letters Ella had written at the bottom of the invitation, tears stinging her eyes again.
Elspeth,
If you ever need anything out of the ordinary, send a note with this invitation to Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon at the Lyon’s Den. She can help.
Eleanor Asquith
Daughter of James Asquith
Newly wed to Sir Gordon Rydell
14 May 1814
A small sob burst from Elspeth’s throat as she clutched the invitation to her chest. “I still miss her so much.”
“I know you do. Lady Eleanor was such an excellent friend.” Sinclair’s soft voice shook slightly, the Scottish brogue she usually kept at bay a bit more prominent.
“I-I realize I overstepped, me lady, but I thought that if ya had to marry, perhaps this could lead to someone more your own likin’.
I hear the Black Widow of Whitehall is quite powerful.
And she knows more ’bout Society than most.”
Elspeth nodded, then lowered the invitation, reading it twice.
She then folded it again, her mind made up.
She’s right. If I must marry, let it be my own choice.
It might lead to nothing, but it was worth the attempt to salvage some of her own desires and dreams. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“Thank you, Sinclair. You are correct. I must try something and not just walk into this arrangement making no effort to stop it. If it is all for naught, then I am no worse off than I am now, and I will know I tried to do what I could. This will only take a moment.” She went to her escritoire and sat, retrieving her quill and inkpot. There was, indeed, no time to waste.
“Excellent, my lady. I thought you might prefer your luncheon to be on a tray in your room as well.”
Elspeth twisted to look at Sinclair, glancing briefly at the garments on the bed. “And then a walk in the park?” She smiled.
“To get your head on straight, of course.”
“Of course.” Elspeth straightened in her chair, then pulled a piece of foolscap onto the writing surface and dipped her quill into the ink, repeating the words in her head. Indeed. No time to waste.
Thursday, 20 April 1820
Embleton House, Mayfair, London
Noon
Timothy leaned against the wrought iron fence across the street from his childhood home, examining each detail of the facade.
He started at the roof, which had been the location of the clay tile that had slipped free more than seven years ago, ending his father’s life and making Timothy’s brother Matthew the latest Duke of Embleton.
That had been a hard transition for all of them, and it had first drawn Matthew away from the war on the continent, then thrust him back into it.
Timothy, who had never been particularly close to either of his parents, had found his most difficult adjustment had been accepting Matthew as the duke instead of just his oldest brother.
Of course, everyone knew Matthew was the heir, but no one expected him to inherit so young, still single and fighting for king and country, with no prospects for a child of his own in sight.
The brother next in line, Mark, fit no one’s idea of a duke. No one half sane, that is.
No wonder their mother had developed a ferocious campaign to find them all brides.
Even him. Still. After six years and more grandchildren than she could count, all of them ahead of him in the lineage.
With a weary sigh, Timothy’s gaze moved down along the gutters, across the mock keystones over the windows, to linger on the stains on the stones from the smoke and soot of London.
A typical town house built in the 1760s with only a few steps rising from the pavement to a plain front door, the structure had six floors, plus an attic with dormers that overlooked the street and the park beyond. Not a small house at all.
Still . . . it had seemed much more substantial when he had been a child.
A mansion of royal proportions, filled with a rousing cacophony of memories from a large and boisterous family.
Since that time, he had, of course, seen any number of true mansions, in America as well as well as in India and Germany, including a few castles.
And while the house seemed smaller, Timothy felt much larger, in more ways than one.
Taller, in truth, than he had been when he boarded the mail packet with his cousin, by almost two inches.
Two stone heavier, muscle built through work and travel through the American and Canadian wilderness. But he had grown in other ways as well.
A lot can change in six years.
Such as the fact that, even though he was the youngest of eleven children, Timothy no longer needed the church or the military to provide him with a future.
He had learned a great deal from Gordon, including how to manage and invest his finances—and how to keep such investments private from those around him.
Especially since one of the investments that had brought him back to London was less than reputable.
That . . . and his mother’s relentless insistence that he return to find a wife. Some things cannot be ignored, no matter how much effort is expended in the attempt. He had to find a way to convince her to leave him be. No woman of the ton would ever dovetail into what he wanted for the future.
Feeling the sun’s warmth on his back, Timothy shrugged out of his great coat and draped it over one arm, almost dislodging the chapeau on his head in the process.
He reached up to adjust it, then he patted his coat to make sure the three letter packets he carried were still in place.
All had been sent by Gordon’s wife Ella, but they were destined for three different addresses, starting with one for his mother.
When he had offered to take anything back to England for them, Ella had expressed an unbridled glee, throwing her arms around his neck and bouncing off to her boudoir to begin letters that seemed to have no end.
When Timothy had expressed surprise at her exuberance, Gordon had commented to him that getting Ella out of London had seemed to liberate her.
Timothy disliked being jealous of his cousin, but at times, it was inescapable.
The packets remained secure, despite the upheaval of the last few days.
The blustery wind and rain of the previous five days had finally eased, leaving only a chilly morning mist that dissipated as the sun moved higher.
The weather had been unexpectedly bright and clear when he had landed in Falmouth seven days ago aboard the Lady Mary Pelham, a newer packet boat that had made the crossing in a phenomenal twenty-eight days.
At first, the sunnier April weather made for a welcome change from the squalls of the snowy March he had endured in New York, as a leonine series of storms had threatened the packet’s launch.
But the skies had cleared the day before their scheduled departure, and they had left to rather smooth sailing on the crossing.
Over the past six years, Timothy had learned to love the sea and the ships, the banter of the sailors, the thrumming of the sails and rigging, and the undulating waves.
He especially cherished the glories of the night sky.
He had studied the constellations, the way the ships’ captains navigated by them, and the way they passed across the night sky.
He promised Ella and Gordon that while in England, he would seek out the finest telescope he could purchase.
The views from American soil were spectacular, but nothing could match the skies in the middle of the Atlantic.