A False Proposal (8 page)

Did Jack really believe what he’d told Louisa, or was he simply warning her to back off? Cass felt tears of gratitude well in her eyes and blinked them away before anyone could notice.

“Cassandra has responsibilities here at home,” Louisa continued, seemingly not sensing the bite behind Jack’s words. “She must not sacrifice her sister to her own pleasure.”

With deliberation, Jack set down his knife and fork. Trying to keep his temper in check, Cass realized.

“Indeed, Cousin, Cass has done precisely the opposite these last few years. Given up her own pleasures to the rearing and education of Pippa. She is a friend to Adam and his family as much as I, and if she wishes to, she will attend.” Jack turned and pointedly looked at her.

“It’s only for a week,” Cass said. Suddenly and beyond all reason, she wanted to go. She wanted to be at that house party more than she’d wanted anything, ever. It was a chance, wasn’t it? Possibly the last one she would have to shed her past and make a new life for herself. She was tired of being an observer of life’s richest experiences. She longed to take part. Despite her insistence that she was on the shelf, she knew she was too young to give up on happiness.

Up until Louisa had begun badgering her about it, she’d been thinking of ways she could politely decline. Adam was too handsome, too charming, too…too impossible to resist. For one dizzying moment, she pictured herself in his embrace, the two of them alone in a sequestered woodland nook. Oh, she was vulnerable, and she knew it, but what was the point of living if she never again took a risk? So Cass said, “The Caldwells have offered many times to allow Philippa to take her lessons with their daughters if I have reason to be away. I shall send a note to Henrietta requesting that she stay with them for a week. Pippa will be thrilled.”

“Excellent plan,” Jack said. “And Cousin, you need not trouble yourself to come. There will be a sufficient number of ladies available to act as chaperones.”

Louisa’s mouth curved down in disapproval, but she maintained her composure, even though her face was rigid as a board, her words sharp as a razor. “It is my duty to chaperone Cassandra. If she insists on attending, I shall go as well.”

“Suit yourself,” Jack said. “But the matter is settled. Let’s hear no more about it.”

For a brief moment Cass had allowed herself to imagine an entire week without her cousin. But Louisa’s presence wouldn’t make a great deal of difference, actually. One could always elude her chaperone, with a little planning and ingenuity. She turned to the footman standing nearby. “Robert, would you tell Martin I shall need the carriage this afternoon?”

“Whatever for?” Louisa practically shouted.

Cass looked at her directly. “I am going to see the dressmaker. If I’m to be at a house party for an entire week, I need some new gowns. There’s to be a ball; it said so right on the invitation.” And then she smiled.

Louisa sputtered, choked, and was silent.

Chapter Nine

Since the weather was fine, Adam decided to drive his curricle down to Surrey. In his younger days, he’d had a reputation as a fine whip, and he still loved handling the ribbons. His matched pair of chestnuts needed a good outing, and so did he. Not healthy for horses to stand idle for too long. Humans, either. Deborah would be arriving tomorrow in her traveling coach, and they had no need of two such conveyances during their stay in the country.

Centuries old oak, beech, and ash grew in stately clusters in the thickly wooded countryside, reminding him how refreshing it was to be back in these environs. It had been too long since he’d been away from London, with its smog, filth, and jangle of competing noises every hour of the day. Not that he was looking forward to seeing his father. Though the upcoming visit had been on his mind since Hugh had told him about the summons, he still had no idea what the old man wanted. He was certain his brother had to be mistaken about it having something to do with debts of honor.

How would his father react to Adam’s decision to seek one of the Haslemere seats in Parliament? He couldn’t imagine why he would oppose it, what possible objection he could have. Then again, since Adam had neither seen nor spoken with him in so many years, there was no way to predict his father’s state of mind. He might thwart his son, out of spite, because of Adam’s loyalty to Deborah. Since he and Deborah had left, Benjamin Grey had never cared for Adam the way he did Hugh. The old man had informed Adam years ago that Hugh would be his sole heir.

Adam would have the devil of a time convincing Sir William, a longtime friend of his father, to support him as the new Member if he knew of the acrimony between them. He’d have to set up a meeting with Sir William while he was down in Surrey, and he’d need to cultivate other prominent locals, what few there were. Adam hoped that this business with his father would be quickly concluded. He wanted it over with and settled, whatever it was, so he could get on with his plans. It galled him that he might need his father’s intervention with the baronet.

Despite his vow to banish her from his thoughts, Adam’s mind kept wandering to Cassie, and the fact that he’d be spending the week with her. Deuce take it, it was a damned sticky situation to be in. When he’d kissed her the night of the dinner party, her unhesitating enthusiasm had shocked him, so he suspected that she was interested and ready to explore that side of her nature. Which could lead down a path he most adamantly did not want to follow, the one that led directly to the altar. God knows, he wasn’t in the habit of seducing virgins, but he didn’t know if he was strong enough to keep his distance from her, his opposition to matrimony notwithstanding.

Late in the afternoon he passed through the village. He caught a few curious stares, but not many people were about. The half-timbered cottages and tiled roofs reminded him of his youth. When he and Hugh were boys, they would race to town on market days, buy themselves some sweets and cider, and make their way home with sticky hands and faces. Adam smiled, pleased that he could conjure up a few good memories of his boyhood with his brother.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him when he reached the boundaries of his childhood home. When Adam led his horses onto the approach road, he found it rutted and unfit for driving. The park, never well-tended at the best of times, appeared neglected and run down. His eyes roved over hedges, shrubs, and bushes, all needing to be trimmed or pruned. Leaves from last autumn lay in wet clumps under the trees, while droopy flowers poked up here and there as though at random.

The house itself was in a sorry state of disrepair. Built during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, it was a manor house of solid construction, but even when Adam was growing up, it had needed constant patching up. Now it appeared to be falling into near ruin. When he dismounted, his boots crunched on shards of broken roofing tiles. One wing of the place seemed to be sinking. Shutters on some of the second story windows hung precariously, threatening to fall on some unsuspecting person at any moment.

Adam lifted the grimy brass knocker on the front door and waited for Wesley to let him in. And waited. He’d decided to try his luck at the kitchen entrance when the door slowly swung open, and poor old Wesley, looking as dingy as everything else, ushered him through.

“Mr. Adam,” he said, his once strong voice now a bit shaky. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“Thank you, Wesley.” Adam swung around and looked at his curricle. “Is there anyone to see to the horses?”

“I shall tell Albert right away, sir.” The old man turned, as if to bustle off.

“One moment, Wesley. Is my father at home?” He pulled his gloves off and handed them, along with his hat and whip, to the old fellow. A look of puzzlement crossed the man’s face, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he should do with them. After a moment, he set them on the hallway table.

“Follow me, Mr. Adam. Your father is in his library.”

They climbed a flight of stairs lined with family portraits, Grey ancestors dating back to the Great Rebellion after which they’d acquired the house. Seized by Cromwell’s men after the Protectorate ended, it was awarded to a Grey who’d been a loyal supporter of Charles II. It had remained in the family ever since.

At the top of the stairs, a narrow passage opened out into the Great Hall. Unfortunately, the term “great” no longer applied. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and no fire burned in the hearth. There wasn’t a servant in sight; the place seemed as silent and drab as a poor man’s tomb. They exited the hall and re-entered the passage leading to the billiard room, the gun room, and finally, the library.

“Mr. Adam Grey, sir,” Wesley announced in sonorous tones, as if he were the major domo of some great house.

Adam stepped over the threshold. The room was dark and chill; no fire burning in here, either. Try though he might to recall the arrangement of the room, still he came up empty. Only the rustling of papers signaled Adam as to Benjamin Grey’s location.

“Father?” Adam said, somewhat disoriented.

“Over here,” his father said.

A bit of light seeped in through a crack in the heavy drapes.
Why are they drawn when it’s so dark in here?
He made his way toward the voice, detouring around books and papers, and even a sleeping dog. His father sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers and not even rising to greet the son he hadn’t seen in years.

“Hello, sir,” Adam said.

“Well, well. You came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Didn’t you receive my message?”

“Yes, but I still doubted.”

Adam’s eyes were gradually growing accustomed to the dark, and what he saw before him shocked him even more than the condition of the grounds and house. His father looked haggard, and far older than his sixty-two years. Greasy hair hung in limp clumps, framing a face lined with the effects of debauchery and drink. Was he ill? Gout? Liver disease, to which heavy drinkers so often succumbed? Even worse, he might have the French pox.

“Don’t just stand there, boy. Be seated.” He waved at a chair, and Adam gratefully sank onto it.

“A brandy?”

Sighing with relief, Adam nodded. Brandy was the only thing that might get him through this. “Please.”

His father rose, allowing his son to study him further. Slightly stooped, he moved slowly toward a table laid with all manner of decanters, bottles, and glasses and poured them both a drink. After handing Adam his glass, he remained standing and raised his own drink. “To your return,” he said, reaching out to clink his glass with Adam’s.

Adam rose for the toast, but made no response.

“Sit, sit,” the old man growled. You must be wondering why I asked for this visit. How many years has it been?”

Adam slowly reclaimed his chair. “I don’t know. Between the war and my European tour, at least four or five, maybe more.”

“Since it will serve neither of us well to waste time, I’ll get right to the point. It seems, due to some of my more egregious habits, I’m on the verge of ruin. Much as it galls me to ask you, I need your help.”

“What’s brought you to this pass, Father?”

A staccato laugh burst out. “Gambling debts. What else?”

Jesus. Hugh had been right
. “How bad is it?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “I told you I was facing ruin! Are you blind? Haven’t you taken it all in? There’s no money left. I’ve let most of the servants go, except Wesley, Albert, and Mrs. Godwin. A man has to eat.”

Mrs. Godwin, the cook, must be in dire straits if she’d stayed on after the other female servants had departed. And Albert, his father’s valet, was doubling as a groom and God knew what else.

“What about Hugh?”

“Hugh does what he can, but he’s as penniless as I.”

“Yet you sent him to London for the season. To find a woman of means, I take it?”

“Precisely.”

With a scowl, Adam said, “What are the chances of that? With your—and his—reputation, who would accept him, especially once word gets out about the state of your finances?”

“Chances are slim, but we had to try. There are desperate women out there. Desperate women with fortunes.”

Adam shuddered. The idea of his brother preying on innocent young girls whose fathers simply wished to be rid of them sickened him. “I don’t know how I can be of help, Father. I’ve little incentive to pay your debts.”

The elder Grey tossed back the rest of his brandy and leaned forward, his piercing eyes pinning Adam to his chair. “I have a proposition for you.”

Adam stared back at him for a long moment. “Let’s hear it, then,” he said, reasonably certain he would come to regret those words.

“The man who holds my vowels and mortgages, Sir William Broxton, has a daughter he wants to marry off. You’re his choice. He’ll forgive my debt if you marry the chit.”

With a sinking feeling, Adam realized his father was speaking of the very man crucial to his chances of becoming an MP. But he wasn’t about to agree to a marriage for a seat in Parliament. “Impossible.” Adam considered a moment. “You want Hugh to marry. Let him have her.”

“Sir William wants you, the military hero.”

“I’m no hero, sir.” Adam detested the label. “And I can’t imagine why he would want his daughter to marry into this family.”

“Her name’s Eleanor. A pretty little piece.”

A memory came rushing in. A yellow-haired little girl who had sometimes accompanied her father when he came to Longmere on business. “Ah, now I remember her,” Adam said, rolling his eyes. “She’s barely out of the school room. I must be a good ten years older than she.”

“She’s twenty, and marriages are arranged every day between people with far greater gaps in their ages than that. It’s nothing.”

“No. I won’t do it.”

His father went very quiet, and Adam recalled that this always occurred when he was at his most intimidating. The elder Grey made his way back to the drinks table and refilled his glass, not offering any to his son. “It is my understanding you wish to stand for election. I happen to know Sir William wants to get rid of that old fool he’s been sponsoring for years. Through the baronet’s auspices, you may succeed. However, without his help, you don’t have a prayer. He owns the seat. Your marriage to his girl would assure your election.”

Hugh must have informed him after the dinner party. Adam felt his political ambitions slipping away. Even so, he would not trade a seat in Commons for a wife he neither knew nor wanted. His refusal had to be irrevocable and beyond question. Before he could consider the consequences, he said, “I am recently betrothed, and under no circumstances would I consider breaking my engagement.”

His father slammed the brandy glass onto the desk. The amber liquid splashed out and ran in lazy rivulets toward the papers scattered across the surface, enough of it that Adam could smell the rich, woody scent.

“You’re lying! Hugh would have mentioned it in his missive—”

“It only just happened. In fact, I am en route to a house party at my mother’s estate for a celebration. We have not even drawn up the marriage settlements yet.”

The old man grunted. “Then there is still time to cry off, if you haven’t put your signature to anything. You must think of your future!”

Adam struggled to keep his temper. “Don’t pretend to care about my future. It’s your own hide you’re worried about.”

If his words offended, there was no sign. His father went right on pressing his case. “You say you and your mother are having guests? Include Eleanor Broxton. You may change your mind when you’ve seen her. A prime article, they say.”

Adam felt nothing but distaste at the thought of inviting Miss Broxton, but he needed time to think through this wrinkle in his plan. At least he’d be showing courtesy to the girl by including her. That might appease her father—his too.

“Very well. I shall ask Deborah to send round an invitation for her. But that will be the extent of it.” He made his way to the library door, where he hesitated. “How much do you owe Sir William?”

“Over 50,000 pounds.”

“Good God, Father!” Adam jerked open the door, his escape now seeming quite urgent.

“Not so fast, boy. You haven’t said. Who’s to be your bride?”

Without wavering, Adam named the woman who’d been haunting his dreams. “Cassandra Linford.” He strode through to the corridor before the old man had time to react. Adam’s lack of belief in ill omens notwithstanding, he felt a sharp sense of doom settle in his belly. How ironic that he’d thought his father might have a positive influence over Sir William. None of this boded well for his career as an MP, or for a future bond with Cass.