She rushed to her shelves, searching…searching. There! She found a dusty old copy of Debrett’s. Its spine likely hadn’t been cracked in fifteen years or more, but it should still contain what she needed. She laid the heavy volume on the desktop and flipped it open, scanning the histories of the noble families of England, looking for the seal that matched the one she held in her hand.
Tonight she’d learn who betrayed her father. Then she’d find a way to make sure they paid.
Chapter One
Shropshire, April 1817
H
e’d never wanted to be the earl, but the one thing Geoffrey Wentworth had learned since becoming such was that an earl could get away with practically anything.
He sincerely hoped that included matricide.
“Let me understand you plainly, Mother,” he growled, resisting the urge to brush the road dust from his coat onto the pristine drawing room floor. “You called me away from Parliament claiming dire emergency…” He swallowed, his throat aching with the need to shout. By God, he’d nearly run his horse into the ground to get here, aggravating an old war injury in his haste. His lower back burned almost as badly as it had when he’d been run through. He breathed in, striving to keep the irritation from his voice. “Because you would like to host a house party?”
Genevieve Wentworth, Lady Stratford, sat serenely on a floral chaise near the fireplace, as if he’d politely dropped in for tea instead of racing at breakneck speed to answer her urgent summons. Geoffrey eyed her suspiciously. His mother was typically a calm woman, but he’d been known to send seasoned soldiers scurrying with no more than his glare. She hadn’t so much as flinched in the face of his anger. No, in fact, she looked strangely triumphant. His stomach clenched. Mother was up to something, which rarely boded well for the men in her life.
“Geoffrey, darling, do sit down,” she began, indicating the antique caramel settee across from her. “It strains my neck to look up at you so.”
“I should like to do more than strain your meddlesome neck,” he muttered, choosing to remain standing despite the ache that now screamed down his leg. He turned his gaze to the older gentleman standing behind her. “Et tu, Brute?”
His uncle, at least, had the grace to look chagrined. Geoffrey shook his head. Uncle Joss always had been easily led. Geoffrey knew his mother played Cassius. This conspiracy had been instigated by her.
Joss squared his shoulders. “Now, m’boy, I must agree with your mother. It’s high time you accepted your responsibilities to this family and provided an heir.”
Hell. So that was what this was about. Well, he wasn’t going to fall in with their scheme. He’d nip this and, after a hot meal and a night’s rest, be on his way back to London. The Poor Employment Act wasn’t going to finish writing itself, and Liverpool wanted it ready to present next month. What was more, Geoffrey had received a disturbing letter that needed to be dealt with. He itched to return to Town to investigate whether the blackmailer’s claims held any credence. The note implied that his late brother had been paying the scoundrel for his silence to protect the family, but Geoffrey couldn’t believe a Wentworth had done anything treasonous. Still, the threat needed to be neutralized.
“Host all of the parties you want, Mother. I’ve never tied your purse strings.” He pivoted toward the door, determined to escape yet another lengthy discussion about duty. Pain flared through his back and leg. Christ, he’d very nearly given his life for duty. Yet his mother didn’t understand that. No, in her mind, duty was defined by one word—heirs. “I shall be quite tied up in Parliament for the foreseeable future, so you needn’t worry about inconveniencing me with your entertainments.”
He’d barely stepped one booted toe into the rose-marbled hallway when her words stopped him cold.
“It is not I, dearest, who is hosting our guests, but you.”
Me? He scoffed for a moment before the rest hit him. Is? As in right this moment?
The fist in his stomach tightened. The ride to Somerton Park had quite jarred his teeth loose. He’d blamed it on spring rains, but it could have been…Hell, it would have taken a legion of carriages to rut the road so deeply. He scanned the hallway.
Where were the servants? He’d yet to see one, not even Barnes. Sure, Geoffrey had bounded up the front steps straightaway, but there were always a few maids milling about in the entryway or the main rooms, unless…
Unless they were all busy seeing to the settlement of guests.
He turned slowly, his only family rotating back into view. Uncle Joss’ easy smile faltered at whatever he saw in Geoffrey’s expression, but Mother’s widened with a familiar gleam that struck fear into every wealthy titled bachelor in Christendom.
Geoffrey advanced, his boots clicking an irregular rhythm against the drawing room’s walnut floors. He prayed his suspicions were incorrect. “What have you done?”
“Taken matters into my own hands,” his mother confirmed in a satisfied clip. She stood, her skirts swishing smartly as she retrieved a handwritten list from atop her escritoire. “I have been observing ladies of suitable age, station and character for quite some time now.” She waved the list for emphasis. “Since before you returned, even. In fact, wartime is an excellent time to judge one’s integrity, at home as well as on the battlefields. It is imperative that the future Countess of Stratford be above reproach.” She sniffed, probably expecting him to argue, as his older brother would have done were he still alive. Since Geoffrey wholeheartedly agreed with his mother on that one point, he remained silent.
“Though I’m sad to say we’ve lost some wonderful candidates to marriage recently, there remains an excellent list from which to choose,” she finished, tapping the vellum she held with one perfectly manicured finger.
“Absolutely.” Uncle Joss nodded, his head bobbing several times in quick succession. “I’ve even added a few names m’self. And they are all here on display, just for you.” He winked.
Winked! As if they fully expected that Geoffrey would just fall into line, peruse their list of names and pick a wife at their whim. He imagined they intended him to court said wife during their little house party and propose by the end of the week.
Bloody well not.
Geoffrey straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, slipping into the stance that had become so natural during his military life. “I hope you have better entertainments planned for your guests than Catch an Earl by His Nose or I fear they will be sorely disappointed.” He again turned to the door, lamenting for only a moment the hot meal and good night’s rest he would have to forgo. “As I shan’t be here.”
He strode toward the hallway, contemplating the wisdom of pushing his horse another two hours back to the nearest coaching inn. It couldn’t be helped. A man had to stand on principle, after all. He would not have a bride foisted upon him. The earldom, yes. The responsibility of bringing his family back from the brink of financial ruin after more than a decade of his brother’s negligence and reckless spending, certainly. But a bride?
Never. Whom he married would be his choice alone. And he had very specific requirements that his mother wouldn’t possibly understand.