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There were no more bill collectors lurking outside their door; that had stopped once Humphrey had sat down with their creditors and worked out a plan to pay his father’s debts in full. Nor were shady characters popping up looking for Lord Wyngate anymore. They had no further need to fear that he would bring some scandal to the family name. And, most of all, his presence no longer hung over the house like some dark cloud, forcing everyone do whatever they could to avoid running into him or doing anything that might set off one of his fits of rage.
It was not until after Lord Wyngate was dead that, upon hearing one of the upstairs maids singing a cheerful song as she polished the furniture, Irene realized just how silent and cold the house had been. Suddenly, despite the black wreath on the front door and the black cloth draped above Lord Wyngate’s portrait, the house was a lighter, brighter place.
Her younger brother, Humphrey, a rather serious, shy young man, had, of course, inherited the title and estate from their father. Aside from the entailed land and the house in London, Lord Wyngate had left little but debts for his heir; for his widow and daughter there had been nothing.
However, Humphrey was a loving son and brother, and he was happy to provide for Irene and Claire. Two years younger than Irene, he had always looked up to and relied upon her. In their childhood, it had been she who had shielded him from their father’s curses and blows.
Humphrey had set about settling his father’s debts and rebuilding the estate, leaving it to his sister to run the household, as she long had done for her mother. Life had moved along smoothly enough as they emerged from the period of mourning into a resumption of social activities. The debts had been largely repaid, and though there was a heavy mortgage on the entailed land that had passed to Humphrey, the money situation had loosened enough to allow for new dresses and the giving and attending of parties.
Irene knew that some found her life pitiable, as she was in her midtwenties and still unmarried, facing life as a spinster, but she did not care. The fact was that she was happy and useful, and she was not one of those women—those she privately characterized as foolish females—who found her life empty if it was not connected to a man’s. Indeed, having witnessed the storms of marriage, she was certain that her life without a husband was far preferable to the one most married women endured.
Then Humphrey had taken a hunting trip to the North of England with a friend. His visit had been extended by first one week, then two, and at the end of the third week, he had returned home, flushed and happy with the news that he was engaged to be married.
Maura Ponsonby, the daughter of a local squire, had caught Humphrey’s eye…and then his lonely heart. She was a jewel, he informed them, and he was the luckiest man alive. They would, he assured them, love Maura just as he did.
When they met Maura, it was easy enough to see why he had fallen in love with her. She was pretty, and she showered Humphrey with attention and affection. However, it did not take them long to see how she also controlled him with her pretty pouting and lively flirtation turning stony and unyielding when she did not get her way.
All smiles and charmingly deferential to Lady Claire before she married Humphrey, she swept into the house after the wedding full of self-importance. As the new Lady Wyngate, she made it quite clear to both Claire and Irene that she was now in charge. Though Irene had intended to turn over the running of Wyngate Hall to Maura, the woman gave her no opportunity to do so, merely informed the housekeeper and butler that she would now be in charge of all decisions regarding the household.
Maura seized every opportunity to show that she was of primary rank in the house, inserting herself into any conversation, informing the butler whom they would or would not receive as callers and when they were at home to such visits, and boldly accepting or declining invitations for Irene and Claire, as well as for herself and her husband.
Lady Claire, as was her way, had submitted meekly to such behavior. Irene, of course, had refused to knuckle under, and the result had been a long series of skirmishes between the two women.
Now Maura, perhaps sensing Irene’s disinterest, broke off in the middle of her description of the bows that adorned the hem of her dress and turned toward Irene, eyes wide, smiling in an arch way that made Irene itch to slap her. “But we are boring poor Irene with our talk of frills and furbelows, aren’t we, dear?” She turned gaily toward the other women, saying, “Irene has little interest in fashion, I fear. Try as I might, I can hardly ever convince her to let me buy her a thing to wear.”
Maura shook her head, a picture of loving despair over Irene’s odd ways, setting her soft dark curls bobbing.
“You are so generous, my dear Lady Wyngate,” murmured Mrs. Littlebridge.
“I am well content with my clothes,” Irene responded coolly.
Lady Claire, as always, quickly stepped into the conversation to avoid the possibility of conflict. “Miss Cantwell, you must tell us about the wedding at Redfields. I am sure we are all eager to hear about it.”
Irene’s mother had chosen the topic well. The marriage of the Viscount Leighton to Constance Woodley a week before had been the highlight of the social year, and an invitation to witness the wedding at Leighton’s family estate had been highly sought after. All those who had managed to attend were assured of being welcomed almost everywhere for their description of the wedding.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Littlebridge agreed. An inveterate social climber, she loved nothing more than gossip and storing up tales that she could repeat to make herself appear more important than she was. “Was the bride radiant?”
“She is pretty in her own way,” Miss Cantwell admitted. “But no family to speak of. One cannot help but feel that the viscount has married down.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Littlebridge nodded sagely. “A bit of a country mouse, I hear.”
“Exactly.” Miss Cantwell gave the other woman a thin smile. “But then, Leighton always has been a bit…well, unconventional.”
Irene, who felt sure that Miss Cantwell’s opinion of the viscount’s oddity sprang more from that very eligible bachelor’s complete disinterest in her own person than from anything else, said, “I quite like Miss Woodley—or I should say now, Lady Leighton. I find her refreshingly unpretentious.”
Maura let out a little brittle laugh. “You would find that admirable, of course, Irene. Not everyone admires a lack of refinement as you do, I fear.”
“I believe Lady Leighton was a good friend of the viscount’s sister, was she not?” Lady Claire said quickly.
“Oh, yes, Lady Haughston took her on as one of her projects,” Mrs. Littlebridge affirmed. “She introduced the girl to her brother, of course.”
“And before that, she completely made the girl over.” Mrs. Cantwell spoke up. “Constance Woodley was an utter dowd before Lady Haughston came along and turned her into a swan.”
“She has a knack for it,” Lady Claire commented. “There was that Bainborough girl last Season, and before that, Miss Everhart. Made excellent marriages, both of them.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Cantwell nodded. “Lady Haughston has a golden touch. Everyone knows that if she takes a girl up, that girl is destined to make a good marriage.”
“Why, Irene,” Maura said playfully. “Perhaps we should ask Lady Haughston to help you find a husband.”
“Thank you, Maura, but I am not looking for one,” Irene replied tartly, looking the other woman in the eyes.
“Not looking for a husband?” Mrs. Littlebridge said lightly, and gave a laugh. “Really, Lady Irene, what young girl is not looking for a husband?”
“I, for one,” Irene replied flatly.
Mrs. Littlebridge’s eyebrows lifted a little in disbelief.
“Such words are fine for pride’s sake,” Maura commented, casting a knowing smile toward their trio of callers. “But you are among friends here, Irene. We all know that any woman’s true aim in life is to marry. Otherwise, what is she to do? Live in another woman’s house all her life?” She paused and turned her gaze to Irene. “Of course, Lord Wyngate and I would like nothing better than to have you as our companion for the rest of our lives. But I am thinking of you and your happiness. You really should talk to Lady Haughston about it. She is a friend of yours, is she not?”
Irene heard the bitterness that underlay her sister-in-law’s sweet tone. It had always been a thorn in Maura’s side that she had come from a provincial family of genteel breeding but unimportant name, that she had not spent her life, as Irene had, among the ton, known to and received by anyone of consequence.
“I know Lady Haughston, of course,” Irene replied. “But we are no more than social acquaintances, really. I would not call Lady Haughston my friend.”
“Ah, but then, there are so few who could be called your friend,” Maura tossed back.
There was a moment of startled silence at that cutting remark, but then Maura adopted an expression of embarrassment and raised her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my, how that must sound! Of course, I did not mean that you have no friends, dear sister. There are a number of them, of course. Are there not, Lady Claire?” She cast an appealing glance at Irene’s mother.
“Yes, of course.” Color stained Claire’s cheeks. “There is Miss Livermore.”
“Of course!” Maura exclaimed, her expression clearly stating her relief that Irene’s mother had managed to come up with an example. “And then the vicar’s wife back at the country house is so fond of you.” She paused, then shrugged, as though abandoning the futile search for friends, and leaned forward, looking at Irene earnestly as she said, “You know that I want only what is best for you, don’t you, dear? All any of us want is for you to be happy. Isn’t that true, Lady Claire?”
“Yes, of course,” Claire agreed, glancing unhappily at her daughter.
“But I am happy, Mother,” Irene lied, then turned back to Maura, continuing in a flat tone, “How could I be anything but happy, after all, living here with you, dear sister?”
Maura ignored her words, going on in the same earnest, helpful way. “I want only to help you, Irene. To improve your life. I am sure you must know that. Unfortunately, not everyone knows you as I do. They see only your demeanor. Your sharp tongue, my dear, keeps people at bay. However much they might want to get to know you better, your, well, your acerbic wit, your bluntness, frightens people away. It is for that reason that you have so few bosom friends, so few suitors. Your manner is most unappealing to men.”
She looked to her friends for confirmation. “A man does not want a wife who will correct him or who will ring a peal over his head if he does something amiss. Is that not true, ladies?”
Irene’s eyes flashed, and she said tightly, “Your information, while no doubt well intentioned, is of little use to me. As I told you, I am not interested in acquiring a husband.”
“Now, now, Lady Irene,” Mrs. Cantwell began, with a condescending smile that grated on Irene’s nerves.
Irene swung toward her, and the light in her eyes made the other woman swallow whatever she had been planning to say. “I do not wish to marry. I refuse to marry. I have no intention of giving any man control over me. I will not meekly become some man’s chattel or let some man with less wit than I have tell me what to think or say or do.”
She stopped, pressing her lips together, regretting that she had let Maura push her into revealing so much of herself.
Across from her, Maura let out a little laugh and cast a wry look at the other women, saying, “A woman does not have to be under a man’s thumb, dear. She simply makes him think that he is in control. She just has to learn how to lead a man into doing exactly what she wishes. The trick, of course, is in making him believe that it was all his idea.”
Their visitors joined Maura in her arch laughter, and Mrs. Littlebridge added, “Indeed, Lady Wyngate, that is the way of the world.”
“I have no interest in such pretense and trickery,” Irene retorted. “I would rather remain a spinster than have to cajole and lie to be able to do what I should have every right to do.”
Maura clucked her tongue, looking sympathetic. “Irene, my dear, we are not saying you should deceive anyone. I am merely talking about making the most of your looks and covering up…certain aspects of your character. You dress much too plainly.” She gestured with disdain toward Irene’s body. “That gown you are wearing, for instance. Why must it be that drab shade of brown? And you have no need to wear such a high neckline. Why not show off your shoulders and arms a little? Even your evening gowns have such an air of severity—it is no wonder men rarely ask you to dance! Is it not enough that you are so tall? Must you stand so arrow straight and hide your shape?”
Irene could hear the real frustration creeping into Maura’s saccharine tones, and she knew that however much her sister-in-law might enjoy pointing out Irene’s defects under the guise of helpful advice, Maura was also honestly put out by Irene’s lack of suitors. Maura would love to be rid of her altogether, and marriage was the only option open to her, short of murder—which not even Irene would accuse Maura of being capable of. No matter how much Humphrey was under his wife’s thumb, even Maura must know he would not agree to turning his own sister out of the house, and in any case, the woman surely knew that such callous treatment of her husband’s sister would earn her the disapproval of the ton. No, as long as Irene remained unmarried, Maura was saddled with her—a fact that doubtless irritated her almost as much as it did Irene.
“And your hair!” Maura went on relentlessly. “Heaven knows it is a trifle…unruly.” She frowned at Irene’s curling mass of dark golden hair, pulled back ruthlessly into a knot. “But the color is quite nice, really. And your lashes are long and luckily brown, not fair, so that you do not have that hairless look that one sees in some blondes.”
“Why, thank you, Maura,” Irene murmured drily. “Your compliments overwhelm me.”
Maura shrugged. “I am simply saying that you could make yourself look much more attractive if you would just try a little. Why, one would think that you are trying to drive men away rather than attract them.”
“Perhaps I am.”
There was a moment of stunned silence; then Miss Cantwell let out a nervous titter. “Lady Irene! One might almost suppose you are serious.”
Irene did not bother to respond to the woman’s remark. Miss Cantwell would never understand, any more than any of the other women present, that Irene truly did not want to marry. Marriage was the goal of every woman’s life, as far as they were concerned. The pursuit of a husband was the focal point of a woman’s coming out—and of every Season thereafter, until she finally managed to snag one.
Marriage-minded mothers mapped out campaigns for their daughters like war-hardened generals. Skirmishes were played out on the fields of ballrooms, opera boxes and open-air carriage rides through Hyde Park, and the weapons of choice were frocks, curls, flirtatious glances over the top of one’s fan and—most lethal of all—gossip. Victory lay in snapping up an eligible bachelor, and few considered the years that lay ahead after the all-important ring was placed upon their finger.
No doubt Miss Cantwell and her mother were in the midst of that vital fray now. They would assume that any protestations Irene made were simply sour grapes for having lost that battle herself, for being a twenty-five-year-old spinster with no prospects other than living with her family for the rest of her life.
Irene sighed. She did not envy Miss Cantwell the marriage she hoped for. But she did wish that she could muster more equanimity to face the future she would have because she would not marry.
Maura leaned forward and laid her hand on Irene’s arm, smiling sweetly. “Now, dear, do not sigh. ’Tis not so bad. We shall find you a husband yet. Perhaps we should pay a visit to Lady Haughston.”
Irene grimaced, irritated that she had given Maura any glimpse of her discontent by sighing. “Don’t be absurd,” she told her crisply. “I told you, I am not seeking a husband. And if I were, I would not ask some silly butterfly like Francesca Haughston to help me.”
She stood up, too annoyed to worry about her bad manners. “Excuse me, ladies. I fear I have something of a headache.”
Then she turned and strode out of the room without waiting for a reply.
A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among Lady Wyngate and her friends, Francesca Haughston sat in the sitting room that was her favorite spot in the house, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the formal drawing room, and decorated in a sunny yellow that seemed to catch every stray ray of sun that flowed in through the west-facing windows. It was a pleasant place, furnished with pieces that, if a trifle shabby, were comfortable and dear to her. It was the room she used most, particularly in the fall and winter, for it was warmer than the other rooms, and it was cheaper to keep a fire here than in the larger drawing room. Of course, the fire was not of importance now, as it was the middle of August, but it was still the room she chose whenever she was alone.
Since the Season was over and many of the ton had returned to their country seats, she had few visitors these days, only her closest friends. As a consequence, the formal withdrawing room was kept closed, and Francesca spent her time here.
She was seated at the small secretary beside the windows, her accounts ledger open before her. She had been poring over the figures, but the pencil now lay in the trough between the pages, and she was gazing out at the small side garden, where the roses were putting up a last colorful show before autumn arrived.
Her problem, as always, was money—rather, a lack of it. Her late husband had been a profligate spender and unwise investor, and when he had died a few years ago, he had left her with little but her fashionable clothes and her jewelry. His estate, of course, had been entailed, passing to his cousin so that she no longer had a home except in London, a house that Andrew himself had purchased and had been able to bequeath to her. She had closed off all of one wing in an effort to economize, and had, with regret, let many of the servants go, keeping only a skeleton staff. She had also greatly curtailed her spending.
Even so, Francesca barely managed to scrape by. The easiest and most obvious way by which she could become wealthy—marrying again—she had rejected out of hand. She would have to be in much worse condition than she had yet fallen into to be willing to embark on that path once more.
There was a noise at the door, and she turned her head. Her personal maid, Maisie, stood there, looking uncertain. Francesca smiled and gestured to her to enter.
“My lady, I did not wish to disturb you, but the butcher’s man is here again, and he has been most insistent. Cook says he refuses to sell her any more meat until she pays her account.”
“Of course. Yes.” Francesca opened the slender drawer of the writing table and took out a coin purse. She pulled a gold coin from it and held it out to the girl. “This should be enough to hold him off.”
Maisie took the coin but continued to stand there, looking worried. “I could take something to sell for you, if you want. Maybe that bracelet.”
Over the years since her husband’s death, in order to survive, Francesca had sold off much of her jewelry and a number of other valuable items. It was Maisie who had taken such things to the jeweler’s or the silversmith. Of all the people in the world, it was Maisie who knew her best and whom she trusted the most. Only a few years older than Francesca, Maisie had been her maid since she married Lord Haughston, and had been with her through every up and down. Maisie alone never suggested to Francesca that she ease her situation by accepting one of her many suitors.
For the past few years, Francesca had ingeniously supported herself by bringing out young girls and helping them find husbands on the marriage mart. Faced with the harsh reality that she was running out of items to sell or pawn and that there was little opportunity for a woman such as herself to earn her way other than to marry or to sell her virtue, she had sat down and assessed her skills. There was one thing at which she was an expert: attracting suitors.
She had, of course, some natural advantages in that area. Her figure was elegantly slender, her hair a guinea gold, and her large eyes were a vivid dark blue. But there had always been a great deal more to Francesca’s success in the social world than her physical attributes. Just as her family’s long and respected lineage could only place her in the upper reaches of society, not make her a leading light of the ton, so, too, could her looks account for only a portion of her appeal.
Francesca had style. She had personality. She knew how to smile to make the dimple flash in her cheek, how to look at a man over her fan in a way that made his pulse speed up, or to gaze up at him in a manner designed to make the hardest heart melt. Quick of wit, she could engage in conversation on almost any topic and bring a smile to almost any lips. She knew how to dress for every occasion, and, moreover, she had an unerring sense of color and cut that rarely steered her wrong. Social occasions were her natural milieu, and she not only gave memorable parties, but she could enliven even the dullest gathering.
All her life she had helped her friends with questions of style and taste, and when she had guided the daughter of one of her late husband’s relatives through the treacherous social waters of a Season and been rewarded by a gift of a large silver epergne from the girl’s grateful parents, she had seen a way to maintain her style of living without really appearing to engage in that object of horror to English aristocrats: gainful employment.
She had pawned the silver epergne she was given, and paid her servants and many of her household bills with it. Then she had proceeded to maneuver herself into the path of mothers with marriageable daughters, especially those whose daughters had not really “taken.” A suggestion here, an offer there, and soon she had a steady stream of young girls whom she helped to turn out and find an eligible husband.
Her most recent project had been the result of a wager with the Duke of Rochford. The duke had promised her a bracelet if she won, against Francesca’s promise to pay a visit with him to his rather terrifying great-aunt Odelia. It had been absurd, and she had entered into it only because Rochford had goaded her. However, to Francesca’s surprise, the whole thing had resulted in Francesca’s own brother falling in love with and marrying Miss Constance Woodley. It had scarcely been what Francesca had envisioned, but it had turned out in the end to be something much better.
The duke had given her the bracelet, as well—a circlet of perfect deep-blue sapphires linked together by sparkling diamonds. The bracelet lay upstairs in the bottom compartment of her jewelry box, next to a set of sapphire earrings, given to her long ago and never sold.
Francesca looked up at her maid, who was watching her shrewdly. Francesca shook her head. “No, I won’t sell it just yet. One must keep something in reserve, after all.”
Maisie said only, “Yes, my lady,” in a noncommittal tone as she tucked the coin into her pocket and turned to leave the room. At the door, the girl paused and cast a last, considering look at her employer before she went out into the hall.
Francesca saw the glance. She knew the maid was curious, but Maisie was not one to pry, and, in any case, Francesca had no answer for her, really. The bracelet, and Rochford, were topics best left alone.
What she really needed to think about was what she was going to do to get by until the next Season began. It was unlikely that she would come upon a mother or father eager to marry a daughter off until next April, when the new social Season would start and there would be debuts at court and a large number of routs, balls and soirees at which parents could show off their nubile young daughters and see what prospective husbands awaited.
There was what was often termed the Little Season, which took place roughly from September to November, during which some of the sophisticates, bored by their sojourn in the country, returned to London to enjoy its entertainments. However, it was not the prime husband-hunting venue that the full Season was; there were far fewer young girls and, indeed, fewer people in general. Francesca knew that it would be unlikely that she could find a prospect to “help” during this time.
And while the payment she had given him would hold the butcher off for a few weeks, there were a number of other creditors who would soon be importuning her, and she hadn’t enough to hold them all off. Perhaps she could come up with a stray silver tray or some such thing to sell; she would have to go up to the attic and dig through all the trunks. Even so, she did not think that one or two small silver pieces would get her through until April.
Of course, she could shut down the house and go to stay at Redfields, where she had grown up. She knew that her brother Dominic and his new wife would welcome her graciously, but she hated to impose upon the newly married pair. They were scarcely back from their honeymoon. It was bad enough that the couple had his parents living in the manor house just down the lane from them. It would be unfair to saddle them with his sister, too.
No, she would spend a month at Redfields at Christmas, no more. She could, she supposed, follow the example of her good friend Sir Lucien, who, on the frequent occasions when he found himself short of funds, always managed to wangle an invitation to this estate or that for a few weeks. Of course, a handsome, entertaining bachelor was a most sought-after guest to round out the numbers of a house party; it always seemed that there were extra women. Besides, she hated having to maneuver someone into inviting her for a visit.
Perhaps it would be better to visit one of her relatives. There was Aunt Lucinda, with her deadly dull daughter, Maribel. They would be happy to have her join them in their Sussex cottage, and after a time there, she could spend a few weeks with Cousin Adelaide, who lived in a large rambling manor house in Norfolk and always welcomed visitors to help her oversee her enormous brood of children.
On the other hand, Francesca decided, it would not hurt to sit down and write to a few friends and mention how deadly dull it was in town now that everyone had left….
She was distracted from her thoughts by the entrance of the parlor maid. “My lady, you have visitors.” She cast an anxious look over her shoulder and turned back to Francesca, saying quickly, “I asked them to let me see if you were at home—”
“Nonsense!” came a booming woman’s voice. “Lady Francesca is always home to me.”
Francesca’s eyes widened. The voice sounded familiar. She rose to her feet, pulled up by a vague but powerful sense of foreboding. That voice…
A tall, stout woman dressed all in purple swept into the room. The style of her clothes was at least ten years out of date. This oddity was no indication of a lack of funds, for it was quite clear that the velvet from which they were sewn was new and expensive, and the hand at work was that of a master. Rather, it was simply proof that Lady Odelia Pencully had ridden roughshod over the desires of some modiste, as she was wont to do over everyone who came into her path.
“Lady Odelia,” Francesca said faintly, stepping forward on leaden feet. “I—What an unexpected pleasure.”
The older woman let out an inelegant snort. “No need to lie, girl. I know you’re scared of me.” Her tone indicated no regret over this fact.
