Chapter 14
Fourteen
He had taken too long at his cravat. Two hours, in fact. He, Lord Finlay Henry Mackenzie, Duke of Galloway, was nervous. His awareness of the fact was not helping matters either.
Despite the patient ministrations of his valet, the latest and most fashionable way to tie his neckcloth was the very devil to get right, and a pile of tangled and wrinkled cloths was heaped on the floor next to his glass by the time it was just so.
Because it had to be perfect for this evening.
It was, admittedly, only the tiniest of beginnings of the Season, but perception and reputation were built by the flimsiest of glances, occasions, outings.
Regardless of whatever matrimonial outcomes resulted, Finn was determined to establish a name for himself as a Beau Ideal.
Lady Hinsdale’s concert, with her light supper and dancing to follow, was not to be a grand occasion, yet it was still an Opportunity.
And he was determined to apply himself to this task the same as he had to the breaking and training of his hunter, a horse which was even now renowned through several counties (and, it was whispered, into the very Highlands themselves) for its spirit and ferocity.
His valet looked questioningly at him for what seemed the umpteenth time.
Finn nodded his head in assent again. “Yes. More pomade.” He remembered Alec’s cropped dark curls, which he was sure would be relatively untouched.
Still, needs must—all for fashion, all for style, as the Prince Regent would say, pointing at the paragon that was Beau Brummel.
Alec. Finn gave a slight groan. He knew the minute Alec swept into Lady Hinsdale’s house, every female eye would be upon him and the sighing would start.
“It must be swept forward. And up,” Finn said, between clenched teeth.
If there were any way he would be able to compete with his cousin, at least on first blush (and dash it, he would compete on the first blush and not rely solely on his fortune), he would have to be impeccably turned out.
Alec had simply never cared enough. He will have to now.
He will have to if he wishes to get a rich wife.
Finn sat to allow his valet to finish arranging his hair to an acceptable state of perfection.
Then he gracefully stood, surveying himself in the glass one final time.
The figure which stared back at him appeared to be possessed of an unshakeable equanimity, the cultivated air of disinterest securely in place.
He was aware, though, that inside he was fidgeting with impatience.
He was finally eased into his jacket of superfine, the concluding touch.
The fit was exquisite. It should, after the amount he was paying his tailor.
His shoulders were not broad, but broad enough.
And he was grateful his calves had enough shape that he was not reduced to padding them.
If Alec knew he even contemplated such matters, his cousin would have hooted with laughter.
Alec. He had always been more than a cousin; he had been a good friend.
The best. They had spent their childhood years near each other, had gone to school together, and had even begun their careers at Oxford at the same time.
He knew his home had provided a respite from the chaos Alec had to navigate with his dissolute father and his despairing mother.
For Finn, it had all proceeded swimmingly and as expected.
Until Bonaparte, that is, and both of them had been in a rush—again, together—to purchase a commission and take off for Spain.
Which they had. They hadn’t known their childhood was well and truly over until Spain.
And now they each carried it with them, a painting that moved and shifted silently behind their eyes through the day, and which leapt to vivid, colorful life in their dreams at night.
Now Bonaparte was locked away, and the world was quiet again.
Nevertheless, the uneasiness never left Finn, never left either of them.
Both of their fathers had passed away while they were off fighting the French.
Finn had returned to an estate run like a well-oiled clockwork, leaving him time to socialize with his neighbors and take up the silken reins of a gentleman of leisure.
Alec had a more difficult time of it. He returned to an estate a breath away from complete ruin.
He had dived into it, spending hours in the saddle riding around his land and then falling asleep in the study over the accounts.
And Mary, sweet Mary, whom Alec had foolishly married for love before they had ridden off to war, had been of no use.
As a helpmeet, she was definitely deficient; her only accomplishment had been to sit and smile sweetly into Alec’s eyes.
The only daughter of an impoverished gentleman and a neighbor of Finn’s, she had not been reared with the skills to assist them and definitely not with what was needed to cope with the change in the Selkirk fortune.
She had tried to manage while Alec was away but had only made a dreadful hash of it.
Her one accomplishment had been to present Alec with a daughter (though some would say she had failed even in that, by not providing him with a son), whom he cherished and adored.
And, just barely after achieving this one thing, Mary had died.
Leaving Alec bereft. Or had it? The lines of Alec’s mouth became grimmer, and the darkness that stole over his face and gleamed like polished obsidian in his eyes became more frequent.
If it had broken his heart, though, of that there was no sign.
Had his heart ever truly been committed to Mary?
Finn knew Alec had believed himself in love, and who could resist the picture of loveliness Mary presented, with her large blue eyes and blonde curls, and the tiniest of pert noses and the rosiest pair of kissable lips.
Yes, Finn admitted to himself, he had not been immune to Mary’s charms at the beginning either.
It was a foolish match, nevertheless, because even then the Selkirk estates were on thin financial ice, and she brought no money with her.
Alec’s father was too drunk most of the time to care, and his mother had long ago retreated to her rooms and gradually faded away.
The Selkirks were a sad family.
Finn turned in the glass one more time to ensure everything was just so.
His valet, bent almost double, was checking every inch of his attire to see all was in place.
Pulling himself upright, the man headed once again to the dressing table and returned, handing Finn a precisely filled snuff box.
Finn took it from him and placed it inside the inner breast pocket of his coat.
He loathed the stuff, but it was part of the uniform.
Uniform! He snorted, causing a start from his valet.
“It’s fine, Davies, it’s fine. Would you please check the carriage is waiting out front? ”
With a little bob, his valet turned and left the room.
The carriage should be there. In fact, it had probably been waiting for the last hour.
De’il take it! He was deucedly late. He paused for a moment before leaving his dressing room, his thoughts sliding back to where they had been only a few moments before.
Had Alec ever been in love? Now, Finn wasn’t so sure.
His friend tended to let his emotions sway his thinking.
The war had tempered that, but even so, he had seen the way Alec had looked at the beautiful blonde woman they had encountered at the Tower.
There was, come to think of it, a resemblance to Mary.
With one major difference: the woman at the Tower was magnificent.
She glowed. However, they as yet knew nothing about her.
She was a Beauty, that was certain, and likely to be the Season’s Beauty.
But a Beauty with a fortune or without? Because his friend could not afford to marry for Love again.
Whatever that was.
Well, Finn knew one thing it was. It was Marjorie.
If there was one creature on this planet whom Alec loved, it was his daughter.
And, if he was being honest with himself, Finn was in total agreement.
He felt a sudden warmth and feeling of reassurance.
Marjorie. She would help keep her father balanced and centered, with his mind on the present course.
It would stop him from losing his head. And who knows, perhaps said Beauty might be just the thing for a certain duke with a perfectly tied cravat in the pink of fashion.
A Beauty and a Nonesuch. Now, that would be the perfect ending to a romance.
He gave a little shrug of his shoulders in satisfaction.
He opened his door and was stepping out when he suddenly remembered.
She had not been alone; there had been another young woman with her.
Shorter, a touch plump, a nice bosom—How could I have forgotten that?
— who had kept her bonnet decidedly forward on her head.
She had engaged in conversation with Marjorie.
Who was she? It probably didn’t signify.
He was on the first landing when he heard a second set of footsteps, sweeping down from the other staircase.
The grand staircase in the Mackenzie’s elegant Berkeley Square townhouse swept up to the first landing and then split into two, going up to meet either side of a gallery which looped elegantly around the top of the entrance hall.
His mother’s room was on the other side of the house to Finn’s, and the speed and tread of the footfalls, combined with the swish of expensive silk, could only mean one thing.
He had definitely taken too long with his cravat.
“Good evening, Finlay,” said Elizabeth Beauchamp Mackenzie, the Dowager Duchess of Galloway.
He stopped and turned to face her. “Good evening, Mother.” His feeling of chagrin deepened as he saw that, yes, she was clearly dressed for an evening out. Attempting to assume a pose of sangfroid and disinterest, he let out a slightly strangled, “You are going out, Mother?”
“Yes, Finlay. I am going out. As you well know. Lady Hinsdale’s concert. I presume you are still planning to attend? Excellent. Then you shall escort me.” His mother arched an eyebrow and held out her hand.
Finn paused, knowing he had been attempting to take the coward’s way out and finding he was not able to abandon it quite yet.
“Ah, I—I believed you were planning to have a party with one of your close friends, Mama. Lady Cadogan?” The last came out so feebly, even he could not help wincing as her eyebrow arched still further, accompanied by a slight pursing of her lips.
All she said was, “Yes, I was, but she sent a note round late this afternoon that she is feeling unwell, so who other than my eligible son to escort me? As I had instructed you most firmly, this was the one early event you must attend and be seen at. I was sure I could rely on you. I see I timed it exactly.”
Was that what the butler had been trying to tell him as he rushed upstairs to get ready?
Damn this being a Nonpareil business. Nevertheless, realizing there was no way out, Finn stepped forward within reach of the maternal hand which had never wavered, and his mother elegantly placed it on his arm.
A tall woman, whose silver hair had been swept up into a fashionable arrangement, she still had to look up at her towering offspring.
Her gray silk dress was provided with a loop of silver rosebuds, which she had slipped over her right hand, allowing her to lift the train of her skirt out of the way and fall beautifully at the same time.
Her face was carefully schooled to stillness, a trait which Finn had learned from her.
An alert intelligence in her blue eyes let anyone of discernment know she would not suffer fools gladly.
In point of fact, at this moment she was looking at her son as though he was most decidedly one of those fools.
“Of course,” he stammered. “I am dreadfully late. I was to pick Alec up an hour ago.”
“Humph,” was all she replied. “It will be good for him to learn patience. What, pray tell, is that concoction you have around your neck? The reason for the delay, I presume.”
Fighting to retain the last vestiges of his dignity, he took a silent inhale and did not reply. Without a further word, the two of them descended the rest of the way and were ushered by the footmen into the Mackenzie family carriage.