If Wishes Were Earls (7 page)

More?
Roxley, who, having been nudged by Aunt Essex, fell into line behind the Hathaways, glanced back at his aunt in real alarm. He’d never played with other children, never been outside in the country, and certainly had no idea what “more” might mean.

Though having seen how this Harry Hathaway managed herself, “more” would certainly be the death of him. Which ran rather counter to what Aunt Eleanor had ordered when she’d sent him to Foxgrove.

More like banished.

Roxley was of half a mind to remind Aunt Essex that he was the sole remaining Marshom capable of holding the earldom, but his aunt was already ensconced on the settee, having launched into an avid discussion with Lady Hathaway about the upcoming Midsummer Ball and the need for new buntings.

And then something happened.

Harriet Hathaway looked over her shoulder at him, and smiled. Her grin, which it turned out was missing a few teeth, did something rather odd to his heart. It erased all his enmity from earlier and left no doubt in his mind that this Hathaway was indeed a girl.

Her eyes sort of sparkled a bit when she smiled like that, and without another word, she reached back and caught hold of his hand.

Warm, round fingers wound around his, and she tugged him out the doors and into the bright sunshine. “I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.” This was followed by her spitting on the ground, as if that bound her words around him in some sacred childhood ritual he knew nothing of.

Still, he took it as a good sign. For having witnessed her scrappy nature, up close as it were, it also implied—just as he suspected—that his life was in imminent danger.

He was about to smile back when he found himself in the middle of yet another valuable lesson that had eluded his solitary childhood.

The pecking order.

“Look, Harry’s got a suitor,” one of boys mocked. It was either Benjamin or Benedict.

It was impossible to tell the pair apart. But those words were enough to send a raucous volley of laughter through all the boys.

Roxley tugged his hand free, and scowled at them. “How dare you laugh at me,” he said, doing his best to imitate Aunt Eleanor, who had quelled a group of lads in the street with much the same statement. “I am the Earl of Roxley.”

His imperious stance and words only made the Hathaways laugh harder.

Even, to his embarrassment, little Harriet.

“Well, I am!” he repeated, knowing even as he said the words, they were not helping his cause.

“Yes, well, prove it,” the one named Chaunce declared, slapping him on the back so hard he stumbled forward. “Race you to the trees.”

And that was all. The lad pointed at a stand in the distance and took off like an eager colt, galloping across the lawn.

The rest of the Hathaways whooped and yelled complaints about a “head start” and “cheater” and then followed their sibling with the same exuberance, racing across the lawn in anything but a walk.

Only Harriet stayed put.

Yet it was obvious from the way she quivered with excitement that her veins hummed with the same valiant blood. “Well?” she said, elbows jutting out at sharp angles as she stuck her fists to her hips. “You know how to run, don’t you?”

Then she took off like a fleet little doe, quickly catching up with her brothers. Roxley followed and was winded and humiliated by the time he reached the trees—well after the Hathaways.

All
the Hathaways.

If he expected to be mocked and taunted yet again, the Hathaways had their own way of doing things. That he was game to try won them over. And in the true world of children, they claimed him with all their hearts.

Especially one Hathaway in particular.

“Y
ou won’t flatten him now, will you, Miss Hathaway?” Lady Kipps remarked, and there was a round of laughter all around.

“I’m rather undecided on the point,” Harriet replied, looking not at the earl but her brother. Oh, the Kempton curse might be lifted, but Harriet would remain cursed for the remainder of her days.

Cursed with five ruinous, horrible brothers. Glancing over at this one, she changed that tally to four. Four brothers. She was positively certain, if the opportunity presented itself, she’d murder Chaunce before the night was over.

Couldn’t he see how Lady Kipps would be telling one and all what a hoyden Harriet Hathaway was—once a hoyden, always one, she’d imply to each and every audience she could find. Not a lady . . . hardly proper.

Though, sadly, Harriet realized, bludgeoning her brother might just prove that point. How utterly unfair!

“I’m certain Miss Hathaway has learned her lesson now,” Miss Murray was saying, in a way that suggested that it was her certain belief that Harriet probably hadn’t improved much in the ensuing years.

“What lesson might that be?” she couldn’t resist asking, trying to sound demure and innocent.

“That a lady never strikes a gentleman,” the heiress informed her, as if Harriet needed the benefit of Miss Murray’s superior education.

“One can hope,” Roxley remarked to no one in particular.

Chapter 3

It is my only wish, Miss Darby, that we hadn’t met, so that this day would never come to pass—where I must take up an honorable course and do what is right for my regiment, my country, my king. I know you shall not forgive me—why should you when I cannot forgive myself.

Lt. Throckmorten to Miss Darby

from Miss Darby’s Reckless Bargain

M
uch to Roxley’s dismay, Fieldgate arrived just then and claimed Harriet for the next dance. Kipps offered to dance with Miss Murray, and Lady Kipps wandered off seeking more interesting gossip.

Roxley used the opportunity to escape his aunt’s notice and slipped away.

“Harriet Bloody Hathaway,” he muttered under his breath, as he watched the viscount squire her to the dance floor. The minx had a way of leaving him all tangled up. Always had. And especially when he saw her with that bounder Fieldgate.

Not that you’ve been much better . . .

No, he hadn’t been.

And the moment she got off the dance floor, he’d do his demmed best to explain everything.

That is if she didn’t box his ears first.

Apparently, Harriet would have to get in line for the privilege. “Roxley! Is that you?” called out a short lady in a large plumed turban, who plopped into his path like a wayward garden toad.

“No, I fear not, Lady Gudgeon,” he said politely.

She laughed. “Oh, you are as droll as ever, my lord—even if you are all but rolled up.”

He wished he could be rude and just depart, but that would hardly do. His aunt thought Lady Gudgeon quite discerning so it would never do to snub the woman—not when he’d already antagonized Lady Essex once this evening.

The baroness, not waiting for any further pleasantries, launched right into the object of her desire. “I have been in Bath of late—”

How unfortunate you chose to return
, he mused, though with a polite smile on his face.

“And I am overwrought with worry regarding your aunt, Lady Eleanor.”

Aunt Eleanor? Whatever could she have done now? One would think that a lady of her age would be past shocking society, but leave it to Essex’s twin to continue her lifelong pursuit of infamy.

“And I came back to London straightaway—”

Of course you did. If only to be the first to report my aunt’s latest peccadillo.
If there was ever a wager being placed on who was faster, Lady Gudgeon or the Royal Mail, Roxley knew exactly where he’d place his blunt.

“Only to discover that my dearest friend has fallen prey to the same dire situation. Dear Roxley, I implore you to do your duty.”

Between her jabbering and her wavering feathers, Roxley was starting to feel slightly dizzy. “My duty?”

He hadn’t the least notion what she meant.

Lady Gudgeon was happy to indulge him. Roxley couldn’t say he shared in her joy.

“Yes, of course, your duty,” she said, her thick brows waggling as if that made this all clear.

There was only one duty that he knew—having been reminded often enough by his aunts—that he had yet to fulfill. “You mean marriage?” he exclaimed. “Why, my dear Lady Gudgeon, are you proposing?” He leaned over and with a most serious tone said, “Whatever will Lord Gudgeon say?”

The old girl blinked, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Roxley! Oh, heavens, you are a wicked fellow. Not me! I am only here to remind you that you are the head of your family.”

“So they tell me,” he agreed with a solemn nod.

“And your dear aunt, my particular friend, Lady Essex, is in need of your wisdom.”

Now it was Roxley’s turn to blink. Since most society thought him a fool, it was a rarity, no, this was perhaps the first time anyone had ever called upon him for that particular talent. “Heaven help her on that score,” he told the matron. “My wisdom?” He looked around. “Are you certain you have the correct Roxley?”

Lady Gudgeon was not only blunt, she did not suffer fools. She rapped him sharply on the sleeve with her fan. “Mind what I am saying. Your aunt is in dire straits and needs your guidance.”

He rubbed his arm as he looked up and across the room where his Aunt Essex was holding court.

“Can you not see what I do?” Lady Gudgeon whispered as she squinted in the same direction. “She is in grave danger.”

The only danger Roxley could imagine this night that was in store for any of them was the disagreeable supper Lady Knolles was known to set down before her guests.

“Lady Gudgeon, I am certain there is no harm about to befall my—”

Rap.
“You must save her, my boy! Everyone is talking about it tonight. They all see what poor, dear Lady Essex does not.” This was followed by another significant, squinty glance across the room to where his aunt stood.

Roxley did his best to come up with an answer. “How that turban hardly works with that gown?”

Thwack.
“No, you fool. Look!” She nodded again.

“The Duchess of Preston? I assure you, her dog was not invited.”

Lady Gudgeon colored at the reminder, for the duchess’s dog had chased the lady across Hyde Park one infamous afternoon . . . a memory the lady preferred to forget.

“Oh, good heavens, Roxley! Not that duchess.
Lord Whenby.
There at her elbow. How could you not notice?”

Whenby? Whatever had Lady Knolles put in the punch bowl? First Harriet, and now Lady Gudgeon.

“I try not to notice my aunt if I can help it,” he confessed, even as he was trying to place Whenby. But he couldn’t. Not from his clubs. Not at the races. Not at boxing matches. Roxley hadn’t the least notion who this aging gallant was.

But apparently the female half of the
ton
did.

“Must I remind you, she is your responsibility.”

“I think my aunt would disagree.”
Vehemently.

Lady Gudgeon leaned closer, holding up her fan to hide what she was saying. “Whenby is out to fleece your aunt.”

Roxley pressed his lips together. The old fool could try. After all, it was usually the Marshoms who were doing the fleecing. But he knew he needed to mollify Lady Gudgeon or he’d never be rid of her. “I hardly think—”

“Of course you don’t,” she snapped, clearly having run out of patience with him. “You never do! But you must try, Roxley. Now more than ever. Whenby is a ruinous, scandalous roué—”

Lady Gudgeon was worried about Lady Essex’s reputation? Finally something amusing about this entire conversation.

Had the dear old matron ever really met his aunt?

He endeavored to keep a serious expression. “You think Lord Whenby is going to seduce my aunt?”

“I don’t know what he is about, but it can’t be good.” Again the fan came up. “Whenby is barely received.”

“Probably because he is barely known,” Roxley pointed out. Then he remembered why the name was vaguely familiar. “Then again, my lady, I do believe he was part of the Duke of Preston’s house party last summer. Lady Juniper would hardly have included this fellow on her guest list if—”

“Lady Juniper? Whatever would she know of men? Married what, three, nay, now four times—and willingly. Bah! Whenby’s poor
ton
, clearly evidenced by the fact that he’s lived on the Continent for ages. Everyone knows what
that
means. Don’t let it be said that I didn’t warn you. When Lord Whenby leaves your aunt ruined and penniless you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

Roxley crossed his arms over his chest and took another look at this fellow. “You must own, Lady Gudgeon, that if all of that were to befall my aunt, Lord Whenby would bear some responsibility in the matter.”

“Bah! You’ll see! When it all tumbles down around your ears, you’ll see that I was right.” With that, Lady Gudgeon stormed off.

Wasn’t his life already tumbling down atop his ears, as Lady Gudgeon so eloquently put it?

Straightening his coat and shaking off the remaining ill-will the lady left in her wake, Roxley took a quick glance around the room, searching for Harriet—and found her still dancing with Fieldgate.

Would this demmed set never end?

In the meantime, he took another look around the room and spied his old friend Poggs, probably the only remaining man in Town who still owed him money—and had been like a fox to ground in paying up.

Roxley crossed the room and clapped his hand on the baron’s shoulder before the wily fellow could give him the slip. “Poggs!”

“Roxley!” the baron said, smiling widely. “Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Looking for him? This was rather out of character for Poggs. Roxley had quite expected the fellow to bolt once he’d caught wind of the earl’s approach.

“And here I thought you were avoiding me—”

“Never, never, my good man!” Poggs said, looking overly affable. “Should I be?”

“Well, now that you mention it, there is that matter of that wager from last spring—”

“Oh, yes, well, you’ll be utterly diverted when I tell you the most interesting
on dit
. Why, I daresay you’ll forget that trifling vowel entirely when you hear what I have to tell you—”

Roxley doubted he’d forget such a large debt or dismiss it as trifling. His Marshom forebears would rise up from their graves and haunt him for such a thing.

Forgiving a debt, indeed!

Poggs, meanwhile, continued nattering on. “—for you see I’ve had a letter from my mother—”

“Your mother, you say?” Roxley scratched his chin. “No, I can’t say I am diverted. Not in the least.”

“No, no, Roxley! You miss the matter entirely. My mother wrote me with instructions to seek you out.”

“Your mother wants to pay your debts?”

The man’s brow furrowed and he leaned in. “No. And I prefer that she doesn’t hear of them either. She can be rather difficult over such things.”

Roxley pasted a sincere expression of concern on his face and nodded his agreement. There were times like these when it was rather convenient to have been orphaned at a young age. No parents to fuss and worry over one’s indiscretions.

Though he did have his aunts . . .

Speaking of which . . . Poggs’s next words couldn’t have surprised him more. “I must warn you, Roxley. It is a personal matter.” The man lowered his voice and leaned closer still. “About your aunt.”

Roxley reeled back. What the devil? More tales of Essex and her swain? He’d put an end to this affair if only so he wouldn’t have to be bedeviled by the gossip. “Yes, yes, I know all about that.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Lady Gudgeon was just filling my ear with dire tales of—”

“Lady Oriel,” Poggs said, nodding in agreement. “Then again, it might be Lady Ophelia. Devilishly tricky to tell the two of them apart.”

“Lady Oriel?” Roxley shook his head. “No, you must mean Lady Essex. My God, this Whenby fellow gets around if he’s romancing Aunt Essex and Aunt Oriel.”

“Whenby?” Poggs squinted. “Never heard of him. But you will want to hear this. My mother wrote that she was
seen
.” The baron’s bushy brows rose noticeably.

“Seen? Whatever the devil does that mean? I don’t think she’s ever been invisible, so I would assume she’s always been ‘seen.’ ”

“No, no. You don’t understand,” Poggs hurried to say. “She was
seen
.” Then he nudged Roxley with his elbow as if that made the entire puddle of mud crystal-clear.

The earl threw up his hands. “Poggs, do get to the point.”

“I thought I was. My dear Roxley, my mother wrote to me that I must carry word to you that your Aunt Oriel was seen in a rather high flyer of a phaeton, not even a sennight ago.” Poggs’s toady chest puffed out until it appeared that his buttons would pop.

“Lady Oriel, you say?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And this was cause for alarm? Scandal enough for your mother to put pen to paper?”

“Of course. Now I hope you don’t think ill of me for carrying such a tale—”

“My dear Poggs, once you’ve repaid me what you owe me, I shall most likely forget your very existence.”

“That would be overly kind of you, my lord,” the fellow agreed rather too hastily. That is until the words slowly sank in. “No, no, Roxley. You haven’t got the entirety of it. Your aunt was
seen
.” When Roxley continued to gape at him, the man took another deep breath and continued, “Your aunt was seen in a phaeton. A rather fast one. If you know what I mean.”

“Yes, Poggs, I know what a phaeton is. I’ve seen one. Hell, I own two.” Owned, rather.

The man nodded happily. “Then we are in agreement that this is a most disagreeable business.”

“You mean disagreeable in the fact that I am having a devil of a time getting my hundred pounds?”

“No longer, sir,” Poggs replied, for some unfathomable reason appearing quite indignant over the mention of his debt. “You must see that! I’ve done the honorable thing and warned you.”

“Warned me? About what?”

“About your aunt.”

“Yes, yes. In a phaeton.

“Yes, exactly,” Poggs replied happily.

If only Roxley could share his elation. “What the devil do I care about my Aunt Oriel riding about in a phaeton?”

“Care? Why, you should be outraged! I would be if my dear aunt was lingering in the company of Sir Bartholomew Keswick!”