Birds of a Feather (2 page)

Lady Wicksfield’s lack of sense had provided the second jolt. But not until they’d arrived in town had Joanna faced a more basic problem: Her only knowledge of London society derived from tales her mother had heard from her cousins during childhood and from comments made by her upper-class neighbors. Even Lady Wicksfield had not visited town since her marriage twenty years ago. She doubted that Wicksfield had understood what a handicap that posed, for despite attending most sessions of Parliament, he avoided the social Season. She lacked the intimate knowledge of noble families that would allow her to appraise any suitors. And knowing Society’s rules did not adequately prepare her for mingling with the
ton
.

Every day she discovered additional problems. Lady Wicksfield’s goals were baser than the earl’s. Only his direct orders had kept the countess in the country all these years. Now that she was back in London, she was determined to return regularly, an impossibility if Wicksfield rebuilt his finances slowly through loans and hard work…

But she could handle Lady Wicksfield.

Her conscience was another matter. Her vow to hide Wicksfield’s financial reverses fought daily duels with her innate honesty. She had already faced one determined fortune hunter who believed the earl remained wealthy. And how could she find Harriet a caring husband who was willing to help Wicksfield obtain the loan he needed when she could explain none of the circumstances? After only a week in town, the guilt gnawed at her. She lacked the most basic skills necessary to judge anyone they met, so how was she to manage? Could she even control Harriet?

The girl needed a firm hand on the reins. She already basked in the attention of her growing court of sprigs, blind to anyone’s background or intentions. Unless Joanna steered her toward the most eligible suitors, she would likely form a
tendre
for an impoverished lad or a flattering rogue. Or Lady Wicksfield might maneuver her into the arms of someone who would make her miserable. The woman was already making lists of the wealthiest lords.

Whatever the outcome, they had little time. The Season was near its midpoint. Their late arrival meant that many eligible gentlemen were already courting girls in earnest, so—

A yelp of pain jerked her head around. Pushing her spectacles up her nose, she gasped.

Predator had become prey. The cat was gone, but two boys had cornered the dog and were now tormenting it.

“Stop that!” she ordered, fury blinding her as she raced to the rescue. Helping others had been drummed into her since birth.

Only after a shouted warning penetrated her anger did she realize that a carriage was rapidly bearing down on her.

* * * *

“Admit it, Randolph.” Lord Sedgewick Wylie grinned at the Earl of Symington, his closest friend. “You not only survived a month in town, you actually enjoyed it.”

Randolph laughed. “Thanks to Elizabeth. Her pleasure casts Society in a different light, and our betrothal removed me from the sights of the matchmakers.”

“Deflecting their attention to the rest of us,” Sedge moaned in theatrical agony before turning his quizzing glass toward Randolph’s wife of four hours. “Congratulations, my dear.”

“Will you put that down,” Elizabeth begged, flapping her hand at his glass. “You know how I hate being quizzed.”

“Very well, but only for you.” He made a dramatic production of dropping the glass. “Now may I congratulate you?”

“Thank you, dear Sedge. Your welcome has made the past two months bearable.”

“And your presence has made the Season memorable. London won’t be the same without your company.”

“I never expected such fustian from you.” She shook her head mockingly. “With all of Society prostrate at your feet, will you even notice my absence?”

“How could I not? Impressing you is impossible, for you delight in pricking my pretensions.”

“An admirable sport,” said Randolph with a chuckle.

Elizabeth turned to her husband. “He only welcomed my company because planning our wedding kept his mother occupied.” She had spent recent months with Sedge’s family, being estranged from her own.

“Alas! My secret is revealed.”

“Doing it too brown, Sedge,” admonished Randolph.

His laugh hid an instinctive grimace. “Not at all. Mother is sure to concentrate on me now that you are wed.”

Elizabeth sobered. “Too true. She has regaled me with complaints about your intransigence, and she vows to succeed this Season. So be warned. She may resort to dishonor. Her determination troubles me, for you know how I abhor force.”

“As do I.”

“Is she really that bad?” asked Randolph.

“Worse.” He sighed, wishing their banter had not turned serious. “I appreciate your concern, Elizabeth, but Mother’s insistence is hardly new. She was obsessed with the succession even before Father’s latest spell. My one hope is that she will concentrate on Reggie.” Reggie was his older brother and heir to the marquessate.

“I doubt she means to ignore either of you,” said Elizabeth.

“And she has enough candidates to keep you both busy,” added Randolph. “But count your blessings. Her antics may occasionally make Bedlam seem inviting, but at least she cares for you.”

The reminder dampened everyone’s spirits.

Why had Elizabeth raised the subject of families at her wedding breakfast? It was a depressing topic all around. Poor health had kept Randolph’s family in the country, though they had insisted that he follow tradition by marrying in London. Elizabeth’s father hated her, and her mother wasn’t much better. They had ignored her nuptials, despite Elizabeth’s hope that the occasion might lead to an eventual rapprochement. Her sister had also stayed away, which cut far more deeply. Cecilia had wed Sir Lewis two months ago, but they had promised to be here.

“Pardon, my lord. A letter forwarded from Glendale House.” The butler’s silver tray held a missive directed to Elizabeth.

Sedge exchanged a puzzled glance with Randolph. Her luggage had been transferred that morning, but late-arriving mail did not warrant interrupting a celebration.

“It’s from Cecilia.” Elizabeth scanned the contents and gasped. “He’s—” She swayed as all color drained from her face.

“Has something happened to Lewis?” demanded Randolph, easing her into a chair.

She handed him the letter.

“Good God!” Randolph gestured for wine.

“What is wrong?” Sedge kept his voice low. Elizabeth was clearly in shock.

“Fosdale is dead.”

“Her father?” The news raised intense satisfaction. Sedge had never actively hated anyone before meeting Fosdale, but the man had cruelly tossed Elizabeth out into a raging storm, nearly killing her. And when Cecilia accepted a baronet of modest means instead of forcing Sedge to the altar, Fosdale had tossed her out as well.

“You needn’t whisper,” said Elizabeth. She had regained most of her color. “I was merely surprised.” She shook her head. “But how typical of him. And how appropriate. Refusing to repair the dairy after that last storm killed him.”

“What happened?”

Randolph finished reading. “He was dismissing the dairymaid, blaming her for a decline in cheese production – not that she was at fault, of course; those spring floods decimated the herd.” Disgust filled his voice. “A gust of wind collapsed the building, crushing him. The maid escaped with only a few bruises.”

Poetic justice. Or perhaps divine retribution. Fosdale had been a thorough scoundrel, though Sedge kept the sentiment to himself. Despite the estrangement, the man had been Elizabeth’s father. Shocked eyes belied her composed face. But comforting her was now Randolph’s problem. At least the letter had not arrived before the wedding.

Bidding his friends farewell, he watched Randolph escort Elizabeth upstairs, then encouraged the few remaining guests to leave. The newlyweds would retire to the country in the morning.

Randolph had found a wife who suited him perfectly, Sedge admitted as he headed for his chambers at Albany – he had dismissed his coach on arrival, expecting to remain through dinner, but he liked walking.

In Society’s eyes, Randolph was his oddest friend, for they seemed to have nothing in common beyond growing up on neighboring estates. Randolph was a renowned expert on medieval manuscripts, who cared little for appearance and less for Society. Sedge had replaced Brummell as the quintessential dandy, reveling in gossip and the London Season. Few knew he cared for anything beyond manners and the cut of his coats. Green cubs slavishly copied his style, and even the older bucks looked to him for sartorial leadership.

Yet the bond he shared with Randolph included a plethora of similar interests. Both cared deeply for people, working to better the lives of others. Both kept a close eye on business and estate matters, unwilling to blindly place their fortunes in other hands. And both possessed adventuresome spirits, though expressing them had taken different paths in recent years.

But Sedge kept his serious interests out of the public eye, for Society was suspicious of anyone it could not easily understand. One-word labels were comfortable, imparting the order and structure that made thinking unnecessary. Lady Beatrice was a gossip, feared because she knew everything. Lady Warburton was a hostess, her balls the highlight of any Season. Lord Devereaux was a rake, unprincipled enough that parents kept daughters out of his path. Lord Shelford was a Corinthian, determined to best his own numerous speed records. Lord Sedgewick was a dandy, caring only for clothes and
on-dits.

He derived considerable amusement from Society’s antics, much of it rooted in this willful blindness. Few people acknowledged that Lady Warburton was as obsessed with gossip as Lady Beatrice. No one admitted that Devereaux knew as much about horses as Shelford did. And as for himself, not only did people ignore his intelligence, the pleasure he derived from helping others, and even his love of history and literature, but disclosing these interests would actually reduce his credit.

Not everyone adored him, of course. Some even held him in contempt. Like Lord Peter Barnhard, whose vast wealth had failed to dispossess Sedge of the most lavish suite in Albany or of London’s most desirable courtesan. Or young Lord Braxton, who craved wealth and the power to ostracize those he didn’t like. Or any number of sprigs who dreamed of leading fashion rather than following it.

Did any of these aspiring arbiters understand the responsibility attached to the position? Bestowing his favor on the wrong person could expose Society to predation. Yet withholding his favor could harm innocents. Every day he had to assess others, often with little information at his disposal. Questioning his judgment kept him awake more nights than he cared to count.

Perhaps that was why his assumed
ennui
had become all too real. The shallow concerns of a jaded society now seemed trite rather than diverting. Even wielding his enormous credit to deter greenlings from trouble no longer brought satisfaction.

“Stop that!”

The command cut through the usual street sounds, pulling him from his reverie. A woman dashed in front of a carriage, oblivious to its approach.

“Look out!” he shouted, sprinting forward.
Stupid wench!
Didn’t anyone think before acting these days? Only two months ago, Randolph and Elizabeth had each courted death by refusing to consider the consequences of their actions.

As did you,
reminded his conscience.

“Move out of the street!” She had frozen at his first warning and now stiffened, turning his way rather than toward the carriage. He lunged, jerking her to safety and slamming her against his chest hard enough to drive the air from their lungs.

Nice body,
noted his mind even as his eyes took in her appearance. Well-worn half-boots. A threadbare cloak over a serviceable gown. Spectacles perched on the tip of a pert nose. Plain bonnet hugging her head. Obviously a servant, for she lacked an escort. But her features were refined, so she was probably a governess or companion.

“Not at all the thing to walk about in a fog,” he drawled once he managed to inhale. His heart pounded from the aftermath of fear. Pain stabbed his left arm, which remained weak from a break suffered during his own recent lapse in judgment.

“Tha … dog … boys … I don’t—”

He’d overestimated her position. Her voice was cultured, but shock had reduced her to incoherence. Such a woman would make a poor governess. Too bad. Lack-wits had never attracted him.

Nor would they now, he decided, setting her firmly aside. The unflattering garments hid a wealth of curves that were stirring interest in his nether regions.

“Are you blind or merely stupid?” he snapped to cover his reaction.

“What—”

“Pay attention! You could have been killed.”

“D-dog.” A finger directed his attention across the street.

Two boys shifted their eyes from the departing carriage to the woman who had nearly died. Discerning their sport was easy. Hands pinned a whimpering dog to the ground.

Raising his quizzing glass, he adopted his most disapproving frown. “Well, well, if it isn’t Tom Pratchard. Up to no good again?” This son of a Jermyn Street tobacconist had a penchant for mischief. He must speak to Pratchard himself this time. The lad’s mother had done nothing to curb his tendencies. He didn’t recognize Tom’s redheaded companion, though learning the boy’s identity would not be difficult. But that was for later. The moment he stepped off the curb, they fled. He turned his gaze to the dog.

“And Maximillian. I might have known you would be here. What have you done now?” Squatting at the animal’s side, he checked him for injuries. Max licked weakly at his gloves. But aside from one shallow cut, he seemed intact.

By following him, the woman had successfully traversed the street. She crouched in the gutter, making incoherent noises. Either she was more addled than he’d thought or fright had affected her wits.

Max took in her concern, wiggling with pleasure when she scratched his ears. He always groveled to females, treating them to none of the questionable temper he inflicted on males. Thus they all adored him.