An Affair of Honor (3 page)

Nell watched to see how her brother would respond to the rebuke. Sir Henry Sinclair, his principal trustee, was ever a thorn in Kit’s side. Sir Henry was no doubt a very wise man when it came to handling finances, but he possessed no tact whatsoever when it came to handling the boy. Nell knew he was much more likely to lecture than to sympathize. Lately, he had been hoping, vocally and constantly, that Kit would prove himself a gentleman during the upcoming Season. But since Kit’s head seemed to be as full of potential card tables and cockfights as it was of canapes and country dances, Nell had no great hopes of his making it through the Season unscathed by at least one or two of Sir Henry’s fiery lectures. He frowned now, but contained his often uncertain temper.

“I am sorry if I offended you, Mama, but Sir Henry is an old woman. I am not a child to be constantly guarded and scolded, but he treats me like one. I daresay he will tell me I should be grateful for the diversion of my—Lord, she’s my niece, ain’t she?” He shook his head in wonder at the thought of having a niece two years his junior. “Well, he will be sure to say as much, anyway. I’m going to Harry’s.” And, with a bitter glare for his sister’s benefit, he got to his feet and left the room.

She glanced at Lady Agnes. “I hope he doesn’t mean to be difficult, Mama.”

“Kit?” Lady Agnes considered the possibility with knit brows. “I daresay Sir Henry’s right, you know. Or would be,” she added when her daughter looked perplexed. “If he had said what Kit said he said. Oh, dear. I mean it would not be a bad thing if Kit were to find Aurora diverting. Not that it would do as a match, of course.”

Nell grinned. “I don’t think we need worry about that possibility, ma’am. Although it would be very nice if I could manage to find a suitable husband for Rory while she is here.” The mischief was back in her eye. “Just think of all the money I would save Clarissa. She wouldn’t have to spring for a London Season at all if I could get Rory riveted here. Perhaps,” she added, further scandalizing her parent, “I have a turn for economy after all. Do you not think so, Mama?”

T
HE NEXT TWO WEEKS
were busy ones for Nell, and while the time passed quickly by, she found herself growing daily more excited about the prospect before her. She had not seen her niece for nearly six years, for it had not been thought necessary to drag the young girl to any funeral since Uncle Edgar’s and that only because he had died right here in Brighton. But as Nell struggled to remember the scrubby twelve-year-old who had set them all by the ears with her pranks and mischief, she smiled. By no stretch of the imagination could she conjure up an image of Rory as the shy, nearly tongue-tied sort of debutante she had been herself.

No, indeed. There would be no need to coax her into company. On the contrary, it would no doubt be necessary to curb the child’s enthusiasm, because it would not do for her to acquire a reputation for being fast or, worse, flirtatious. But Nell worried only briefly over such possibilities. She had not realized until the opportunity presented itself how much she desired a more active social life. She had indeed been serving as a comfort to her mama. For nearly two years. For there had been nothing really to stop her going back into society the year after Cousin Pallworthy’s demise. Lady Agnes had certainly recommended it. However, she had also looked faintly alarmed whenever Nell had received an invitation that tempted her in the slightest.

Lady Agnes enjoyed, if not actual ill health, at least a languorous disposition. The series of deaths in her family had served only to encourage a natural inclination to indulge her solitary habits. Without her husband’s encouragement, Lady Agnes had discovered little desire to decorate the social scene by herself. An occasional ladies’ card party was all she exerted herself to attend. But her spirits required constant support. And if Nell suggested leaving her to her own devices for an evening, although she would certainly encourage the outing, she would also wonder rather sadly how she would go on without Nell’s companionship. Nell had made the attempt once or twice but had found it difficult to pursue her own pleasures while her thoughts kept returning to Upper Rock Gardens.

Pursuing a social life without her mother’s active support proved to be nearly impossible anyway. Even at the age of four-and-twenty, as a single lady she had required suitable escort. Her brother was still too young for the office, and although many friends from earlier days were married and might have served her, she was made to feel disconcertingly like a third wheel on the few occasions that she had accepted their invitations, and she had quickly been convinced that such arrangements would not answer.

It seemed to her one day in the midst of her preparations for her niece’s arrival and the rapidly approaching Season that, had she truly wished to return to an active social life at an earlier date, she might have made more of a push to do so. But in all honesty she had to acknowledge that she had not wished it. Such doings had suddenly seemed childishly foolish. She had felt out of place and old at twenty-four. Not just old, she amended to herself with a slight smile, but quite ancient in fact. Some of her married friends had also seemed childish, as though their mental growth had stopped while hers had gone on. If marriage did that to one, she had decided dispassionately, she could do as well without it. She had her books, her music, her needlework, and her riding to occupy her time. She had also, thanks to Lady Agnes’s disinclination to bestir herself, had a house to run. She had not been bored. But now, it was as if she had a real purpose in life. Though she had not been able to attend the balls and assemblies alone, as a spinster lady she could well serve as chaperon to her niece. She could renew old acquaintances, wear lovely gowns, and generally amuse herself; and, at the same time, she could oblige her elder sister and her niece. Even Lady Agnes could scarcely cavil at being left alone when Nell would be engaged in such an admirable activity. In the past weeks since Clarissa’s letter had arrived, with Nell’s own experience as a dreaded example, it had occurred to Lady Agnes that her granddaughter should be safely wedded as soon as possible.

The day appointed for the arrival of the Crossways family came at last, and while instructing the chambermaid in the final preparations of Rory’s bedchamber, Nell found her thoughts straying once again to the problem of finding a suitable husband for the girl. With the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment of Hussars stationed right here in Brighton, there were, of course, any number of eligible gentlemen available, even if one did not consider the stream of summer visitors that had already begun to descend upon Brighton.

It was expected to be a busy Season. Many tourists had stayed away in recent years, fearing French invasion, but the successful outcome of the Battle of Trafalgar the previous fall had put an end to such worries, and every nook and cranny in Brighton was expected to be full this year. The prince himself had been in town for nearly a week, with his friends and followers arriving daily.

Nell did not doubt that a suitable husband for her niece could be found among these visitors or even among the permanent residents of the town. But the thought of being solely responsible for sifting the suitable from the unsuitable she found a trifle daunting. Back in the days when Mr. Wade, master of ceremonies at the Castle Inn, and Mr. Hicks, his counterpart at the Old Ship, had been at the height of their power, she might have depended upon them to guide her. But of later years their power had begun to wane. Rory might meet some young gentleman at Donaldson’s Library or along the esplanade who had not condescended to sign the visitors’ book—a social solecism of great magnitude in days gone by, but nearly acceptable behavior now—and such a gentleman would therefore be quite unknown to either of the masters of ceremony.

Sir Henry Sinclair might assist her, of course. Lady Agnes certainly turned to him often enough, and Kit, of course, was greatly dependent upon him. But Sir Henry was a gentleman inclined to be overly conservative in Nell’s opinion. Surely, if she turned to him once, he might expect her to bow to his authority rather more often than would be consistent with either her own or her niece’s comfort.

Of course, once she had renewed her own acquaintance with various members of the
beau monde
, there would doubtless be any number of persons to help her. Comforted by that thought, she put her worries aside and turned her mind instead to the pleasure she would enjoy while watching her niece try her wings. The matter of a husband, considering Rory’s ample fortune, would no doubt take care of itself quite satisfactorily. It never once occurred to Nell that the matter might already be well in hand, but she was brought to realize her error immediately upon the arrival of the Crossways party.

She was reading aloud to Lady Agnes in the morning room when the pretty chambermaid who had helped prepare Rory’s bedchamber entered to inform them that the visitors were, at that very moment, descending from their carriage onto the flagway.

“Please, my lady, Mr. Pavingham says he will need Jeremy to deal with her ladyship’s baggage, and so he sent me to tell you they have come and will be up directly.” Lady Agnes inclined her head.

“Thank you, Katy,” Nell said, laying her book aside as she rose to her feet. “Tell Pavingham to show Lord and Lady Crossways and the Lady Aurora into the drawing room, if you please.”

“Yes, Miss Nell.” The maid disappeared through the door, and her muffled footsteps could be heard on the carpeted steps as she hurried back downstairs.

With a quick glance into the oval mirror on the wall near the door, Nell smoothed her slim, pale yellow skirt and pinched her tiny puffed sleeves into shape, then twisted a chestnut side curl firmly into place. A damped forefinger tidied an eyebrow, and she was ready. She smiled at Lady Agnes.

“Shall we go down, Mama? I confess I am anxious to see how Rory has turned out. And to see Clarissa and Crossways, too, of course.”

Lady Agnes smiled vaguely as she gathered her vinaigrette and lace handkerchief. Thus armed, she preceded her daughter to the landing. On the first step, she turned.

“Did Kit say when he would join us, dear? I am afraid I don’t remember. We’ve scarce seen the wretched boy all week.”

“He didn’t say,” Nell replied, her own irritation with her errant brother carefully masked under a placid tone. “He knows perfectly well that Clarissa and Crossways must leave directly after dinner, however, so I daresay he will dine with us.”

“I wish they would stay the night,” Lady Agnes said fretfully, turning to continue her way downstairs.

“Well, they won’t, so don’t press them to do so,” Nell warned. “You know Crossways has requested that dinner be put forward in order that they shall be able to reach London before midnight. He has business to attend to there before they go on to Chatham.”

“I know,” her ladyship returned over one shoulder. “’Tis merely that—Clarissa, darling!” Her tone changed dramatically when the doors into the drawing room were flung open by the young footman, Jeremy. Lady Agnes held out her hands—vinaigrette, lace handkerchief, and all—to her elder daughter.

While they exclaimed their greetings, Nell noted only that her sister had grown plumper since their last meeting before her attention was claimed by the fact that there were four people in the room, and not three as she had expected. Despite her desire to renew her acquaintance with her niece, her gaze was drawn, perforce, directly past the young girl, toward the darkly handsome gentleman behind her.

He was easily six feet tall, and his lean, muscular body was clad in buckskins, highly polished top boots, a buff waistcoat, and a dark brown coat. It was apparent, even to Nell, that his tailor possessed a skill far superior to that of her brother’s man, for the dark coat was perfectly cut to fit a pair of the broadest shoulders she had ever seen and then nipped in again to hug the gentleman’s lean waist and narrow hips. No ordinary tailor could have achieved such splendid results. The extraordinary breadth of shoulder gave the dark gentleman the appearance of being slightly top-heavy, but the buckskins did nothing to conceal the rippling muscles in his thighs and calves, so one could not doubt that his long legs would capably support his magnificent torso.

Nell realized she was revealing unmaidenly curiosity by staring at the gentleman’s fine form and, with heightened color, lifted her gaze to his face. His thick, dark hair was brushed forward so that tapering locks and heavy sidewhiskers framed his tanned, strong-featured countenance. His jaw was pronounced, and the chin that rested upon the well starched folds of his neatly tied cravat gave the appearance of being firm to the point of stubbornness. His wide, straight mouth was, in Nell’s opinion, well formed, though his lips showed a marked tendency to twitch just as her gaze came to rest upon them. Hastily, she forced herself to look away, noting only the way his dark brows seemed to knit together in a natural frown above deep-set hazel eyes and high, well-defined cheekbones before she smiled an absent-minded welcome at her sister and the Earl Crossways. Nevertheless, a sharp tug at her memory seemed to suggest something familiar about the stranger’s face. It was Clarissa’s high-pitched laughter that finally recalled her to her senses.

“Really, Nell, you look quite bemused. I told Huntley you would remember him, but he was as sure as he could be that you would not.”

“Huntley?” Uncertainly, she looked back, only to find her gaze locked with a pair of twinkling eyes. The memory chord was plucked again, but the memory itself eluded her.

“Yes,” Clarissa replied, clearly delighted. “Mama … Nell, forgive my manners, won’t you, and pray allow me to make known to you the seventh Earl of Huntley, our darling child’s betrothed husband.”

Nell was still perplexed. The name meant nothing to her.

“Philip Radford at your service, Miss Lindale.” He bowed, watching her closely with a lurking twinkle still evident in those deep-set eyes. His voice was low and a little gruff, but having heard it she wouldn’t have needed the name to guide her. She remembered the voice, and the sound of it took her back over the years to her own short-lived social whirl.