Barbara Metzger (19 page)

“Why? It does not seem to be working.” He poured a glass anyway. The stuff smelled suspiciously like sherry to him. “I think you would do better with a walk in the fresh air.”

“Oh, now you know more than the physician?”

“It is merely that the place is so warm, and so filled with flowers that you are in a veritable hothouse. Who could recover here?”

“My friends have been very kind and concerned, sending bouquets daily.” As opposed to her son, her sigh seemed to be saying, who had brought no token of his affection—merely a selfish wish for her to ruin what little remained of her health.

“I am sure your friends mean well, but they are doing you no good.”

“Fie. Flowers always make a female feel better.”

She removed the cloth over her eyes so she could gaze fondly at the roses at her bedside, from one of her admirers’ forcing houses. She reached out and brought one to her nose, forgetting it was too stuffed to smell that glorious aroma. She brushed the velvety petals against her cheek instead, and sighed in pleasure.

Then she moaned when she saw that Ian had cracked open the window of her bedroom. “What, are you trying to hasten my demise? I’ll have you know that I have left all my worldly goods to Dorothy, so you shall not inherit a shilling. You are wasting your time here, torturing a sick old lady.”

Ian ignored her pleas for pity and opened the window wider. “I thought you wrote Doro out of your will when she would not nurse you through last year’s ague?”

The countess gave a whimper worthy of Drury Lane. “Ungrateful beasts, both of my children. Why, Lady Moncrieff s sons both visit her monthly, and on holidays, or if she feels ill, and her daughter keeps her constant company.”

“Lady Moncrieff holds the family’s purse strings, and a tight hold she has on them, too. Her sons have to travel to Bath simply to fetch their allowances, and the daughter stays on at her mother’s because she has nowhere else to go, now that her husband has stuck his spoon in the wall. Their devotion is bought and paid for. Unlike mine and Dorothy’s, which is sincere.”

“More sincere the farther away you are! Why, I have not seen your sister since Christmas, and you never come to call except when you want something. How did I raise such unfeeling, unmannered brats?”

“Likely you hired the wrong nannies,” Ian replied, for his beloved mama had never lifted a hand to her children’s upbringing. “But come, you seem to be looking better already. Let me call your maid to help you dress so we might go for a walk to the Upper Rooms. Perhaps the waters will do you good.”

“Nasty stuff, I never take it. I have missed my friends, though.”

“And I am certain they miss you, too, especially whichever gentleman sent that entire potted rose bush. They will all be relieved to see you up and about.”

“Not as much as you will, I’d wager. Ian, I am not going to London! I am ill, and this is my home, where I belong in my suffering. When I am not absolutely miserable, I am extremely happy here.”

“Maddox House was your home for decades, and you have the same blasted—the same blooming roses painted all over your apartment there.”

“Maddox House reminds me of your father. You would not wish to see me fall into the mopes, besides having this wretched contagion, would you?”

“You have managed to overcome your despondency well enough whenever you do visit, spending half my income at the dressmaker’s, calling on every dowager in town, attending every ball and Venetian breakfast. You have not acted the grieving widow any time these past ten years.”

“That is nine and a half years since my beloved was taken from me. And that is irrelevant. I am much too ill to enjoy myself in the least.”

“Then you can come be as ill in town as you are here. You do not have to leave the house, just be there!”

“Do not shout, Ian. My head aches too badly. Besides, you do not truly need me. Your message said the girl was nursing her injured brother. No one can find fault with that.”

“They can if she is nineteen and a Pocket Venus.”

Lady Marden blew her nose and sat up, straightening the ribbons on the frilled cap she wore. “Nineteen, you say?”

Ian’s jaw worked harder. “Nineteen.”

“Hmm. Lady Moncrieff’s sons have both done their duty and presented her with grandchildren.”

This was not the non sequitur it seemed, Ian knew, nor his mother’s usual complaint. “I am trying to avoid such drastic measures, Mama. That is why I require your presence in town.”

“What, is the girl unworthy, then? The breeding is not of the highest, but not totally ineligible,” she said, proving that she had looked into the matter.

“Miss Renslow is everything lovely.” He could almost see his mother’s ears perk up like a hound’s on a scent, so he added, “That is, she is everything a young lady should be.” He stressed the
young.
“Which is why I would see her extricated as quickly as possible from this embarrassment. The situation is entirely my fault, so I need to make amends.”

“By doing what is necessary?”

“By doing what I have to,” he agreed. “If it comes to that. I am hoping your presence will protect her.”

“My coming to London will not help Miss Renslow if people know she has been alone in your house. I have not heard any such rumors, and I would, you know.”

“I fear the tittle-tattle will be spreading soon, like a rash. Your residence at Maddox House can alleviate the worst of the gossip, however.”

“Yes, I can see where you might need me. And I would not wish any aspersions cast on my grandchildren, either.”

Ian’s teeth would be ground to nubs soon, but his mother did seem to be weakening. Or strengthening, as the case may be, in light of the possibilities she foresaw. Ian foresaw more trouble, but he had no choice. “Then you will come?”

The countess blew her nose. “Tell me more about the young woman first. If she sounds nice, I suppose I can jeopardize my own health for her sake.”

So Ian told her what a charmer Miss Renslow was, how caring of her brother, with a delightful sense of humor, intelligence, and kindness. He knew he was digging his own grave with every shovelful of praise he heaped on Athena, but he had to have his mother’s cooperation. To ensure her leaving her sickbed, he described the petite beauty in glowing terms, from her golden locks to her dainty toes, with stops between that would not embarrass a fellow’s mother. “She cannot sing worth a groat, though, and has a stubborn streak as wide as the Thames.”

“She will need it,” Lord Marden’s mother said, even as she rang for her maid to begin packing.

“You will come?”

“How can I not? Besides, I believe that tonic has helped.” Her eyes were less puffy and her nose not as stuffed.

“I believe it is the opened window that is doing you a world of good.”

They both knew there was no tonic like matchmaking to cure a mother.

“But first,” she said, “I need to know exactly what happened to bring the dear girl to such a pass.”

So Ian told her, or as much as he thought she ought to know. When he finished, she wondered how she had raised such a lackwit.

“You must have hired the wrong tutors, too.”

“You are insolent, Ian, and a fool.”

“Yes, but I do not surround myself with roses when I know they make me sneeze.”

Chapter Fourteen

Any husband is better than no husband at all.

—Anonymous

Only a very good husband is better than none.

—Mrs. Anonymous

If Ian had a farthing for every piece of unwanted advice he received, he would be rich. He was already rich. The advice was worthless.

Everyone he knew seemed to be telling him what to do, how to act. People who knew him well, people who had respected his judgment in the past, perfect strangers—all felt entitled to give their opinions. He expected the crossing sweep to offer suggestions next.

His mother, of course, was first.

“You’ll have to marry her, you know,” Lady Marden told Ian after her second day in London.

“What, is the gossip so vicious, then?”

“How should I know? I have not been out of the house since you dragged me here. The journey was so fatiguing, you know.”

Ian had ridden, rather than spend the trip dealing with hot bricks, cool lemonade, dust, drafts, and
Oh, dears.
His mother had her maid, a groom, a driver, and two outriders to see to her needs. Ian had a good horse under him and the wind at his back. The ride had not been tiresome at all to him, just too long. He had been anxious to return to town, to make sure neither Troy nor Athena was suffering. Troy seemed better, with healthier color and more animation. He was having less pain, he said, so was taking less laudanum. Ian was pleased, although the boy had still not left his bed.

Athena had seemed different, more reserved, until he told her he had been to Bath to fetch his mother. Then it was as if the sun had come out, and he was basking in its warmth. Her smile could have brightened midnight. Lud, Ian thought, with that smile and those turquoise eyes, not to mention her slim but shapely figure, Miss Renslow would be the Toast of all of London, if she had the chance to shine in Society. He was hoping his mother could provide that opportunity, but now he had doubts.

“If the rumormongers have not been about their business, why does she need a husband so badly?”

“Because she is nearly twenty, you noddy. And she does not need a spouse as much as you do, to marry and set up your nursery. But I adore the darling girl.”

Of course she did, Ian thought. Athena had insisted on helping the household get ready for the countess’s arrival, offering to arrange a bouquet of flowers for Lady Marden’s room, until he had vetoed that idea. Then she had greeted his mother with proper deference, catered to her every whim, listened to her complaints and her opinions on the best course of medicine for Troy, and kept her entertained and amused while the countess recovered from the rose fever and the carriage ride. Between her brother and his mother and the dog, Athena had no time for anything—or for Ian.

He should not regret her busyness, nor his mother’s approval of her. That was what he had been aiming at, so the countess would take Miss Renslow under her wing and help her soar. He should not regret how little he saw of her, but he did. He minded that she was at the beck and call of two invalids now, and not sharing minutes and thoughts and smiles with him.

Ian was not making sense, not even to himself. He wanted Athena to have the world at her pretty little feet—he owed it to her and the boy to see her happily settled, making her own choice—but he liked her at his side.

Before the earl could ponder that conundrum, his mother was going on. “Yes, you shall have to marry the precious girl. You’ll never find a more promising bride, I’d swear, nor a better time for it. If you do not take that step now, who knows but that you would wait ten more years before you wed. I could be in my grave without having seen my grandchildren.”

Ian had to wonder what had his mother so enamored of grandchildren. Her own offspring had not interested her in the least. He could not imagine what Lady Marden would do with a sticky, smelly, squalling infant—except take to her bed with a headache. What he said was, “You shall live far longer than another ten years, Mother.”

“I should hope so, but with my frail constitution …” She let her voice fade away, but since she was wolfing down her third pastry from Ian’s French chef’s kitchen, he was not worried.

“You are the picture of health, now that you have stopped wearing live roses tucked in your bonnet’s brim.”

His mother ignored him. “Furthermore, in ten years, you will be forty, but the marriageable chits will still be close to twenty. They will seem even more harum-scarum, so you will choose the first one to hand and be miserable for the rest of your life. And mine. I should not want a skitter-witted daughter-in-law. There is nothing flighty about Miss Renslow, for all her youth and inexperience.”

“No, she is fairly sensible, for a female.”

His mother ignored that, too. “I consider her charming. That is another reason you must marry her. If you do not wed the dear girl, my heart will be broken, not that you’ll care, you ungrateful beast.”

Ian did not wish to break his mother’s selfish heart, any more than he wanted to ruin Miss Renslow. He did not want to hear any more about it, either.

*

He had no choice. His best friend, Carswell, was next, the disloyal dastard.

“You’ll have to marry her, you know,” that gentleman said as he sipped his cognac at White’s. Carswell was looking so perfectly turned out, so elegant, that Ian felt like an unmade bed in his looser clothing, his spotless but simply tied neckcloth, and his tousled hair. He might make a better appearance, he knew, if he did not keep running his fingers through his curls, but he was a creature of habit—and of despair. What did it matter if he was disordered on the outside? He was a shambles on the inside, as well.

“Have the rumors been flying then?” he asked. “I thought my mother’s presence would silence them. Heaven knows everyone in town must know of her arrival, the way cards and callers and invitations keep appearing.” Flowers had been delivered, too, but he had ordered them sent to St. Cecilia’s Home for Girls. He needed his mother out and about, not home with the sniffles.

Carswell nodded. “Everyone knows the countess has arrived, and that adds to the speculation instead of dampening it. If everything were aboveboard, there would be no need for her presence. Besides, you do not roll out the heavy cannon to shoot a mouse, do you? No, a fellow brings his mother to town to meet her future daughter-in-law, not to chaperone an unknown from the country. You could have married the young woman off to some needy second son, or shipped her back to her family without too much stir, I suppose. But to keep her here, with your mother? The scandal may have been averted, but now, expectations have been raised.”

“Raised how high?”

“The betting books are three to one in your favor. In Miss Renslow’s favor, that is, of having your ring on her finger before summer.”

“Marriage would be doing neither one of us a favor, by Zeus!”