Anne Barbour (4 page)

Seth almost gasped aloud at the man's blatant merchandising of his daughter's charms. In the next moment, he nearly laughed. Did Lord Beckett look on him as his daughter's entree into Almack's?

"I'm sure she will find one eventually," he said.

Lord Beckett looked somewhat chastened, but his demeanor brightened as he flung open the gate to the paddock, where several horses could be seen, exercising under the care of their grooms. Seth listened absently as his host enumerated the many and varied points of these animals. To be sure, he was no expert on horses. He fully intended to buy Lord Beckett's string, but could only hope he wouldn't be inflicting a pack of bone-setters on the duke.

"You see that filly? She's out of Rainbow—over there—by Gosweetly. A smart man would snap her up, as the line is pure and strong."

Seth smiled. It was another sort of filly altogether that engaged his interest. He would stretch out his visit to ... oh, possibly a week. That should be sufficient time to assess Miss Zoë's suitability to reign as the next Duchess of Derwent.

"I can see," he said smoothly, his hand on Lord Beckett's shoulder, "that I shall have to make a careful examination of all your cattle, so that I won't miss any prime 'uns."

Chapter Three

Lord Beckett gleefully took Seth at his word, and the rest of the afternoon was taken up with an exhaustive exploration of his lordship's estate.

'Too bad it still gets dark so early," said his lordship as they turned their horses toward the house. 'Tomorrow, perhaps we'll visit the tenant cottages. I've some work going on there that needs seeing to."

"I look forward to it," murmured Seth, his mind on the evening ahead, to be spent in furthering his acquaintance with Miss Zoë.

At the manor house, Eden's anticipation was less than enthusiastic. It was with some relief she had stood at her mother's side to see her father and Mr. Lindow off on their expedition. Zoë had not waited for their departure before hurrying off to her own pursuits.

What was Mr. Lindow's interest in her little sister? wondered Eden as she busied herself with her own daily routine. She had watched with increasing concern the speculative glances that he had cast in Zoë's direction that morning. Could he possibly be in the market for a wife?

She wished now that while she was in London she had paid more attention to the gossip that drifted through the great houses like an unending strand of beads, bright and inconsequential, binding the upper strata of society together with a thread of iron. Her father had said Mr. Lindow served as the duke's man of affairs, and as such—overseeing His Grace's social, financial, and personal interests—wielded a great deal of power. She had heard nothing of his search for a bride.

The only other member of the duke's family of whom Eden had heard was the duke's heir, the notorious Charles, Marquess of Belhaven. Even a mention of the man's name caused a shiver of horror to flutter in the bosoms of the gently bred ladies of the
ton.
The marquess was not just a profligate and a womanizer; he was known to indulge in the most depraved pursuits. He was unable to keep his servants because of the savage beatings he inflicted on them when in a temper—which was most of the time. Not that the gentleman could not be charming. He was eminently personable, and his success with women of every social station was legendary. When he first appeared on the marriage mart, he had been welcomed with open arms by mothers of eligible damsels. Every ball and soiree and musicale that took place in Mayfair was graced by his presence. Unfortunately, he soon revealed himself to be faithless in his loving, and false in his promises. When the lovely young daughter of the Earl of Bainbridge put an end to her life, it was rumored that Lord Belhaven had proposed marriage, seduced her before the settlements were signed, and then transferred his fickle affections to another.

When the girl's brother had called him out, he killed the young man at dawn in Hyde Park.

Such was the influence of the Duke of Derwent, however, that, though Bel, as he was called, was forced to leave the country for a short period, no charges were brought against him. Had the indispensable Mr. Lindow handled that matter? wondered Eden distastefully.

The ladies of the house lunched alone, and, not surprisingly, the conversation revolved around their guest.

"I have heard little of Mr. Lindow," said Lady Beckett thoughtfully, "for he is not often spoken of. It seems to me, however, that I heard that he is not just the duke's man of affairs, but his adoptive son, as well. Something about owing Mr. Lindow's father a favor."

"Really?" gasped Zoë, wide-eyed. 'The duke's foster son? Well," she added speculatively, "that certainly makes a difference. That means he's the Marquess of Belhaven's brother."

Lady Beckett started visibly. "The Marquess of Belhaven?" she exclaimed. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Why, I expect everyone has heard of him," said Zoë with a giggle. "He's the most notorious rake in London, isn't he?"

"Yes, he certainly is," responded Lady Beckett repressively, "although his name is hardly mentioned these days in polite company."

"My!" Zoë's eyes glistened. "What's he done?"

Lady Beckett pursed her lips, but Eden replied prosaically, "If rumor is to be believed, he seems to have gone down the list of deadly sins and committed each of them with a great deal of care and thoroughness."

"My," breathed Zoë, obviously much impressed.

"But, I'm sure," added Eden, "that half of what's been said about him isn't true. Well, I don't see how it could be. A man can only fit so much debauchery into his schedule."

"Eden!" remonstrated Lady Beckett. She turned to Zoë. "Suffice it to say, young lady, that the Marquess of Belhaven is not a fit subject for discussion in a decent home."

"Yes, Mama," said Zoë with a demure smile, bending her attention to her salad. A moment later, she lifted her head. "But wait. Sally Brevers mentioned him just last week. Something about his setting fire to Lord Church's stable."

Despite herself, Eden gasped. "Set fire to a stable? Why would he do that?"

Lady Beckett shifted in her chair. "Never mind."

Zoë, who knew her mother well, merely giggled again. "Of course. Mama. I suppose you would not be in the way of knowing of the affairs of such an exalted personage as the Marquess of Belhaven. I'll ask Sally. Perhaps her mother has heard something."

Lady Beckett stiffened. "None of your sauce, young woman. As it happens, I heard of the incident at the Tellisand's soiree, just before we returned home. Lady Winterhaven told me. And she, as all the world knows, is of the highest
ton.
I should not be repeating such a tale, particularly in front of you two, but—" She laughed self-consciously. "It seems the marquess had brought one of the earl's housemaids out there for a ... well, an assignation. He'd been drinking heavily and somehow managed to kick over a lantern. As you can imagine, the whole place went up like a tinderbox, but the marquess was too dr— indisposed to get himself and the maid to safety."

"Lady Winterhaven told you all this. Mama?" asked Eden curiously.

"Indeed, she did. Apparently, the maid screeched her head off after she was rescued. The whole neighborhood was privy to the scene."

"Rescued?" Zoë dropped her fork into her salad, now forgotten. "Who rescued her? Did the marquess get out, too? Never tell me he perished!"

"No, of course not. A passerby happened to notice the smoke, or perhaps the flames. At any rate, he dashed into the stables and pulled the two to safety."

"An intrepid passerby," murmured Eden.

"Yes, indeed," agreed her mother breathlessly. "At any rate, no respectable female will give him the time of day."

"Well!" declared Zoë with an impish smile. "He sounds perfectly fascinating."

"Zoë!" exclaimed her mother, an almost ludicrous expression of horror on her face.

"Mmm," interposed Eden. "He sounds a dead bore to me. I encountered his like a few times in London, and they were invariably set up in their own estimations and could speak of nothing but their own scandalous exploits, which were generally highly varnished."

"I suppose," said Zoë casually, apparently dismissing the subject. However, Eden detected an ominous gleam in the girl's cerulean eyes.

Eden changed the subject with a deftness born of long practice, but an explanation of Mr. Lindow's interest in Zoë had entered her mind. Papa seemed to think that Mr. Lindow might be on the hunt for a bride. Certainly someone in Zoë's position might be considered the proper pride for an untitled gentleman of unimpeachable connections but limited means. However, it occurred to Eden that the gentleman's interest in her sister was appraising rather than amorous. Still, Mr. Seth Lindow had put in an unwonted appearance at Lady Saltram's ball.

Goodness, might he have formed a
tendre
for Zoë? It did not occur to Eden that she, too, was gently bred and that Mr. Lindow might be looking at both Beckett sisters in his discreet quest for a bride. Eden had long since abandoned any idea of marriage for herself. Indeed, though she was not opposed to the institution, and she had received one or two offers in her salad days, her heart had never been touched. She did not regret her single state. On the other hand, men were invariably attracted to Zoë, and it had been to Zoë that Mr. Lindow's attention had gravitated as naturally as a needle turning to a magnet.

Whether Zoë would see the austere Mr. Lindow as a possible mate was another matter. Pretty, flighty Zoë dreamed foolish dreams of capturing the heart of a nobleman, whereupon she would live a life of "happy ever after" in beautiful gowns and expensive jewels with all of London at her feet. Mr. Lindow could not know that Zoë lusted to be called "my lady," or even "Your Grace," and was unlikely to be satisfied with life as a mere "Mrs." To be fair, it must be said that, beneath the frivolous exterior, Zoë held some unexpectedly old-fashioned notions about loving and cherishing, and "till death do us part."

Ah, well, Eden concluded briskly, perhaps the gentleman had come to Clearsprings for the reasons he had stated. He wanted to buy some horses.

The rest of the luncheon passed with no further reference to the Lindow family, and after the ladies had risen from the table, Eden hurried to her chambers to collect a rather ungainly satchel. This she took from the house and set out on horseback for one of her favorite spots on her father's estate. It lay in a forested area just beyond the immediate environs of the house near the curve of a small brook. Dismounting from her mare, Hyacinth, she turned to delve into the satchel, from which she brought out a paint box and a small canvas. Reaching for the small easel strapped to her saddle, as well as a folding stool, she made herself comfortable. She had chosen as her subject a young, bare-branched tree that stood alone in sharp contrast to the new green of the budding trees behind it. As she arranged paint bladders and palette knives, Eden felt a surge of excitement. Would Mr. Rellihan approve of this work? She recalled the interview with the small, excitable gallery owner, not six weeks ago, in London.

"Sure, Miss Beckett, I like what I see, but... well, t'be honest, it's not what is selling now. Your paintings are too ... too bold, particularly for a lady. Folks want their flowers to look like flowers, not like splashes of fire and lightning leaping out of the forest."

Eden had barely managed to conceal her disappointment at his words. She had been irresistibly pulled toward art since, as a four-year-old, she had been scolded for scribbling pictures in the back of her copy books. Consideration of any talent she might possess had not entered into her passion. She knew only that sketching and painting were as necessary to her as the air she breathed.

"I can't
not
make pictures," she explained to her family when they ridiculed her hobby horse. She had hoped that her paintings might prove salable, thus providing her with a possible independence from her family. The thought of dwindling into spinsterhood, at the beck and call of her relatives in times of petty crisis, she found depressing in the extreme. She hoped to put by some money unknown to her father—money that would allow her to live her own life in dignity.

At least Mr. Rellihan had encouraged her to continue her painting, and said he would examine them again the next time she was in town.

Unmindful of the passing hours, Eden worked steadily. It was only when the slanting rays of the afternoon sun began to lose their warmth that she returned to her surroundings. With an exclamation, she restored brushes and palette to the satchel and mounted Hyacinth.

Lord Beckett and Seth, returning from their own excursion, intercepted Eden as she left the stable. Lord Beckett waved absently. Seth noted with interest the paint-stained satchel, but said nothing. By the time the two men had been relieved of their mounts by stablemen and had taken a restorative glass of good Irish whiskey from the desk in Lord Beckett's office next to the tack room, Eden was nowhere to be seen.

Pleading the need to remove the dirt of the day's explorations from his person, Seth hurried to his chambers, where he found Moppe awaiting him.

"So, how was yer day?" queried the servant as he assisted his master out of his top boots.

"Actually, I quite enjoyed myself," replied Seth in some surprise. "Lord Beckett is something of a bore—I don't think he ever entertains a thought beyond the state of his crops—but he has a beautiful place. It made me long for Highacres."

"You ain't thinkin' of goin' up there, are you?" Moppe asked in an ominous tone.

"No, you hopeless city grubber, not in the immediate future, but once I get this business of Bel and his future settled, I may well retire to the country for an extended period. I could use some time in God's clean air and sunshine. In addition, I've left Highacres unattended for too long—and I miss it," he added in a low voice.

"You say that," returned Moppe, "but you've lived most of your life in the city. You dream of fresh air and sunshine and birds twitterin', but a few weeks o' talkin' to nobody but the cows and you'd be ready for Bedlam."