A Wedding In Springtime

chapter Four

Mr. William Grant entered the halls of White’s flanked by his friends, James Lockton, the Duke of Marchford, and Duncan Maclachlan, the Earl of Thornton.

“I was of the understanding you were trying to separate yourself from female company, not add to their ranks in your household,” said Mr. Grant with a drawl only one as fashionably attired as he could deliver. In a long-tailed coat of claret superfine, he could have put any dandy to shame, had it not been for his rebellious blond curls, which were a bit too natural for a true aficionado of fashion.

“If you are referring to the opera singer, I was merely enjoying the view, not offering a carte blanche,” replied Marchford, taking his customary seat in the hallowed halls of White’s gentlemen’s club.

“I ken he is referring to the companion yer grandmother recently employed,” explained Thornton with a slight lilt to his voice, even though the Scottish lord had been educated in England. More somber in appearance, with his short, black hair and gray eyes, Thornton’s olive green coat and gray waistcoat were a drab contrast to Grant’s colorful attire.

“If I recall correctly, you said not days after you returned that Granny would be removed to the dowager house within a week,” said Grant with a smirk.

Marchford was spared the indignity of replying by the timely arrival of his burgundy, served to the Duke and Lord Thornton. Mr. Grant, naturally, was offered his preferred whiskey, the fault, he had claimed, of a Scottish ancestor. Though Marchford may have wished it, Grant was not inclined to drop the topic.

“Not that I mind your inefficiencies. I made a bit of brass on your tardiness,” said Mr. Grant.

Marchford paused, his burgundy halfway to his lips. “You bet against me, old friend?”

“You cannot expect me to pass on the prospect of easy blunt,” said Grant with an unapologetic smile. “You have been away too long. Your grandmother has ruled London society and the Marchford household for how many years now? Why ever since—”

Marchford’s eyes flashed, and Grant exchanged a glance with Thornton.

“Give or take the past four decades,” Grant amended vaguely. “If you think the Dowager Duchess of Marchford is going to pack up and leave London in the middle of the season, you must have bats in your attic.”

“I am only asking her to do what she demanded of me. Has she not written me often asking me to return and take up my responsibilities? I cannot bring a wife into the house with grandmother reigning supreme.”

“I doubt yer grandmother thought yer marriage would require her to leave London,” observed Thornton.

“Lady Louisa cannot possibly manage the household with grandmother there. You have met the lady. A more timid creature I have never beheld. I fear she will be bullied by the housemaids, let alone the dowager,” said Marchford.

“Perhaps yer bride and the dowager could forge an alliance,” suggested Thornton, always one to promote a steady course.

The duke shook his head. “No. My grandmother will not share the reins. I will not do that again.”

Having been his friends since their Eton days, Thornton and Grant knew well the fights between Marchford’s mother and grandmother, which eventually led to his mother’s demise. The men became engrossed with their respective drinks, and the subject was dropped.

“Ye visited yer intended?” asked Thornton, breaking the silence.

“Just yesterday,” said Marchford.

“I am a witness that you were not in the room with her for more than a minute. Even you cannot qualify that as a ‘visit,’” said Grant.

“I did visit her upon my return,” defended the duke.

“But that was almost three weeks ago. Have ye not visited her since?” asked Thornton.

“I doubt Lady Louisa has changed much in the passing weeks. Indeed, I find she was not significantly different since the last time I saw her three years ago.”

“Your affection for her astounds me,” drawled Grant, a smile in his blue eyes.

“Is it quite impossible to break the arrangement?” asked Thornton.

“The Duke of Marchford is obligated to marry the Lady Louisa. And so he shall.” Marchford spoke without emotion and took another sip of his wine. His friends were well aware of the long-standing arrangement. The longer it stood, the clearer Marchford’s ambivalence toward the match became.

“What a romantic you are, my friend,” mocked Grant. “A toast then, to your impending nuptials.” He raised his glass in salute. “I don’t envy you. With the burden of titles comes the expectation of a legitimate heir only a wife can provide. Now me, I am most blessed to be unencumbered by the burden of producing an heir. M’sisters have produced enough nephews to take on my estate once I quit this earth, and I have no embarrassment of means which necessitates the hunt for an heiress.”

“So, ye have quite decided not to marry?” asked Thornton.

“I cannot fathom a state more fatally dull than that of marriage. Have not the temperament for it, I fear. I’ll leave the heiresses to you, my friend. I shall live quite comfortably without the burden of a wife. Think I’ll write a new will every year naming a different nephew as heir and watch them fall over themselves to win my affection. What an amusing diversion it shall be.”

“When you become a mean-spirited old man, remind me to cut our acquaintance,” said the duke.

Far from being offended, Grant merely laughed. “Speaking of mean-spirited, when and how do you propose to remove your grandmother from London? You are aware her bringing in a companion is a direct attack on your authority.”

“No, no,” disagreed Thornton, “merely a shot across the bow, warning ye to proceed no further.”

“Who is this companion? Perhaps I could seduce her away for you.” Grant laughed at his friend’s raised eyebrows, adding, “Always at the service of a friend.”

“The companion is a Miss Penelope Rose,” reported Marchford. “I met her yesterday and she had no compunction in accosting me with her sharp tongue. As for being seduced, she does not appear to be prone to that particular vice.”

“It is becoming more and more clear why yer grandmother invited her into yer home,” observed Thornton.

“The Rose sisters.” Grant swirled his drink and looked up at the ceiling. “Pretty things the lot of them—golden hair, sparkling blue eyes, took London by storm about three seasons ago. Though being the daughters of a deceased country clergyman in no way recommended them, they had faces that made one forget. I confess even I, only for the briefest of moments, considered making an offer to the eldest, but fortunately Lord Stanton got there before me.”

“A narrow escape,” commented Marchford.

“To be sure. Not aware there were any Rose sisters left to be had.”

“I believe Miss Penelope Rose is the middle sister. You have been introduced to her, I am sure. She is the only brunette of the family,” said Thornton.

“I do not remember her.”

“Ye only remember the pretty ones.”

“True.” Grant eyed his drink with suspicion. “Must have something to do with the whiskey.”

“Considering giving it up?” asked Thornton with a raised eyebrow.

“Goodness no! Serves its purpose well.”

“So, what are ye going to do with yer grandmother’s plain companion?” Thornton asked Marchford.

“I am going to do nothing with her, and with any luck, my opportunities to meet her will be few indeed. My grandmother is, naturally, welcome to take her new companion with her when she moves to the dowager house in the country.”

“And how do you propose to remove your grandmother from her roost?” asked Grant.

The duke checked a smile. “In advance of her moving to the country, I have transferred her accounts to my man of business for my estate in Hertfordshire.”

“Ye cut off her funds?” asked Thornton, eyebrows raised high.

“She still has the pin money that is hers,” said March. “But the extra blunt I provide her every month will now only be available when she resides in Hertfordshire.”

Grant shook his head and gave a low whistle. “You are a brave one, my friend. If you awake with a hatpin through your heart, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“What did she say when ye told her?” asked Thornton, his eyebrows still elevated.

“I left her a note.”

“Coward,” accused Grant.

“True,” acknowledged Marchford. “I would rather face down Napoleon’s army than take on a straight fight with my grandmother. I fear I would not emerge the victor.”

“If you would oblige me by continuing to lose, I shall continue to be flush with funds,” commented Grant.

“You would oblige me by not betting against me!” demanded Marchford.

“You cannot ask me to pass a bet I cannot lose.”

“You doubt my ability to be the master of my own house?”

Grant looked over his whiskey with a smile. “Easier for you to depose Napoleon from France than oust Granny from Marchford house.”

Finishing their respective drinks, the men left for Tattersall’s to inspect the prospect of new horseflesh.

After the men left, a gentleman in a drab coat quietly left the club and walked down the streets of Mayfair unnoticed by passersby. His appearance was so commonplace as to render him practically invisible. He turned into a fashionable house and was admitted without question.

“Good afternoon. Please enjoy some tea and tell me of your day.”

The man accepted a teacup and recounted the entirety of the conversation between Marchford and his friends.

“It is not much to go on,” commented the host, “but we must make what we can of this animosity between Marchford and the dowager.”

The spy nodded in agreement and removed his gloves for tea, revealing hands covered in red disfiguring scars.

“Cover your hands, man!” demanded his companion. “No one cares to see those ugly burns.”

The man stared at his hands, the scars from his burns giving the appearance of melted red wax. “The night my father met his fate on the guillotine, I burned down his house. I got too close. Sentiment perhaps. I wished to put certain items into the flames myself.”

“Were you not the cause of your father’s death?”

“I revealed the truth about him to the tribunal; his death was his reward.”

“Reward?”

The spy gave a brittle smile. “He was put to death the same day as that witch, Marie Antoinette. I am sure it gave him a sense of aristocratic pride.”

“Ah, Madame Guillotine,” said his companion wistfully. “Nothing can last forever, but we look forward to a future most bright. Here’s to Napoleon.” The companion raised a teacup.

“Here’s to the reward he provides for information,” countered the man.

“You are not a true believer in the cause.”

“I am a true believer in the power of gold.”