Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed (3 page)

“Are you trying to make me cry off?” Lord Wraybourne asked in mock fright. “And abandon all that money?”

“Ha! Laugh if you like, my boy. Sermons are damned uncomfortable bedfellows even if they’re printed with gold leaf.”

Lord Wraybourne’s lids drooped even lower, as if to hide amusement. “How very poetic, Uncle,” he murmured. But he was seeing large dark eyes set in creamy skin and a mass of rich ebony hair hanging in a simple braid down to his betrothed’s waist. That hair already disturbed his sleep.

“But enough of your business,” declared Mr. Moulton-Scope, ending any hope Lord Wraybourne had of deflecting him. “You’re old enough to make your bed and make the best of it. I want you to go about your artist and donnish friends and see what you can find. Other victims, rumors, other gentlemen who move in those circles.”

“You suspect a gentleman?”

His uncle nodded. “The victims can tell us very little. When they recover consciousness they are in the dark. But they all agree that their attacker was clean. Now you know how uncommon that is outside of the upper class, despite the influence of Brummell. Sometimes think he should be honored for that, a title maybe.”

“I’m afraid the Marquis of Bath is already spoken for. Lord Wash, perhaps?”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope chuckled. “Aye, that’s a good one. No chance, of course, now he’s fallen out with the Regent. Man’s a fool. Forgot. He’s a friend of yours.”

Lord Wraybourne did not seem concerned. “I do not insist that all my friends be considered totally admirable.”

“Just as well when Ashby’s one of them. Boy’s a reprobate!”

“Lord Randal is nearly thirty, Uncle. He was only a few years behind me at Eton.”

“Then he’s old enough to know better. Too much time on his hands. He’s the sort who’d be well off at the war. I was surprised to see him escorting Sophie as I arrived. You need to watch him.”

“Randal?” Lord Wraybourne was astonished. “He’s like a brother. The Kyles and Ashbys have run together for generations. I grant he’s not husband material but he would never let any harm come to Sophie. I trust him implicitly.” There was a firmness in his tone that was a warning. Mr. Moulton-Scrope heeded it and returned to his business.

“Well. What were we saying? Brummell, Bath, ah yes. Our man is clean. He also reeks of lavender water and has soft hands. Likely a gentleman.”

“A clerk? A music master?” prompted Lord Wraybourne.

His uncle shook his head. “There’s something else. He called each woman by name. He whispered so they couldn’t recognize his voice but he knew them. Was nasty in what he said too, though none of them can think of any man with cause to hate her. The point is that they were chosen victims but trapped in an opportune moment—when they took a shortcut by a secluded path or when caught in a sudden fog.”

“Watched, you mean,” said Lord Wraybourne thoughtfully. “So an employed person is not possible. They have too little free time. An unemployed?”

“Uses a carriage, my boy. A clean one too. Look at the timing as well. Up for the Little Season playing his nasty games. Home for Christmas. Back again now ready for the Spring Season. It’s a gentleman and we want him.”

Lord Wraybourne played idly with the Kyle ring, his crest cut into a cabochon ruby. “I do not relish the role of spy. I cannot see why you have come to me for this.”

“We suspect there may have been more attacks, hushed up to protect the gels’ reputations. You already have the entrée to that group and you have a way with you that gets people to trust you. If, as we suspect, the villain is a gentleman who mixes with these people, who better than you to sniff him out? You have a mind like a mantrap.”

“Mixing your hunting metaphors, Uncle. I was anticipating being rather busy in the next few weeks. Sophie’s making her debut this Season.”

“Does that mean Selina’s coming to town? Do her good.”

“No, my mother won’t come. As you say, she is still mourning my father. Maria is to do the honors.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope choked on a piece of bread. “My Maria?” he exclaimed, amazed at the thought of his daughter in this role. “Good God, she needs a bear-leader herself! Ten years married and four in the nursery, she should have some decorum but she barely keeps on the right side of scandal.”

“Sophie can look out for herself,” said Lord Wraybourne unconcernedly. “She’s been unofficially out for years. But I was expecting to be busy keeping an eye on her, receiving a multitude of offers for her hand as well as preparing for my marriage. It is fixed for June.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope set himself out to persuade. “I’m not asking a lot, David. You
like
to go to readings and
soirées
and such. Just keep your ears open. Take Sophie. It would do her good.”

Lord Wraybourne laughed. “She would likely run away from home first.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “She needs a tight rein, David. Selina has neglected her the last little while. I’ve heard of her on the town in Bath while still a schoolgirl. Don’t
you
start indulging her. Find her a strong older man for a husband. One who’ll keep her in hand or she’ll bring disgrace on us all.”

Lord Wraybourne’s face had set in hard lines. “Sophie will never disgrace her name.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope met hard blue eyes and was surprised to find himself blustering. “Well, I didn’t mean . . . Lovely girl . . . I only mean . . . Damn you, David, stop doing that. You look just like your father and he always scared me to death!”

Lord Wraybourne relaxed and laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling the weight of sudden responsibilities. I don’t need your problems too. You really have nothing to go on, you know.”

“Of course, I know! It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m just thrashing around in the hope of finding something, anything to go on. If you keep your eyes and ears open you may hit on something . . .”

“. . . or end up with a needle in the rear,” interrupted Lord Wraybourne dryly.

“Or that. At least I can trust you. You could never be responsible for these kinds of acts and you’d never use perfume, thank God.” He suddenly looked very tired. “David, I don’t know what to do or what to look for but I need you to help me do it.”

Lord Wraybourne’s fine features lit with genuine amusement. “How can I resist such an appeal? I’ll be your eyes and ears, Uncle. And if I see anything that could be a needle I’ll report back to you.”

“Needle, pin, bodkin—anything with a point to it, boy . . . anything with a point.”

 

Mr. Moulton-Scrope hummed a light tune as he strolled on his way to his office. He hadn’t been at all sure he could get his nephew to assist him. He always felt a little ill at ease with him, never knew what to make of him. Some people made the mistake of thinking Lord Wraybourne idle because he made life appear effortless. As if anyone could manage such vast estates profitably in idleness, even with the best of staff.

A few had even made the error of thinking him an easy mark when he had been a young man. There had been two duels that he knew about. Both swords, of course. They had ended with a neat, healable pinking and another man taught new respect for Lord Wraybourne.

Trust David to snap up the richest heiress in the country. Mr. Moulton-Scrope would give a deal to know how he’d managed it. It might be amusing to see what the little bride would make of the enigma that would be her husband. Unless she was a total fool she would have a pleasant, ever-courteous partner in life, but there was another man behind the surface. It would be a shame if she was never to discover him, a shame for her and for David both.

It was all his father’s doing. The old Lord Wraybourne had been something of a
grand seigneur,
a favorite of the king and great on dignity and duty. He had left his four other children to his wife to rear and concentrated on his heir. Couldn’t say he’d done a bad job. David was popular, pleasant, and an excellent landholder, but there was something . . . It was exactly like him to pick a bride by the book.

It was as well it wasn’t a love match, however. He had no wish for David to be distracted in the next few weeks. Perhaps he’d have a word with Maria too, for all the good it would do. If she could keep Sophie in line, then maybe Lord Wraybourne would apply his mind to the problem. Overall, Mr. Moulton-Scrope was in an optimistic frame of mind as he entered the lofty halls of the Home Office that day.

I
T WAS A day later that the crucial issue of the
Post
arrived in Gloucestershire and Jane Sandiford read the announcement of her betrothal.

As she was preparing to change for dinner, an early meal, of course, for they kept country hours, she was summoned to her mother’s
boudoir.
Jane was past childhood and her height and shapely figure made her look very much a woman but visits to her mother’s room were still associated with punishment and she had to suppress her nervousness as she approached the heavy paneled door. Lady Sandiford was in a rare state of geniality, however, and her thin lips even curled in a smile as she proffered the paper to her daughter.

“You will wish to see this, Jane. It contains your announcement.”

Jane took it but realized after a moment that she was supposed to read it then and there. Suddenly daring, she asked, “May I keep this, Mama—as a memento?”

Lady Sandiford rarely expressed her feelings in movement. Perhaps she felt it might jeopardize the precision of her posture and demeanor, but this request caused an eyebrow to twitch infinitesimally.

“You have been most carefully reared, Jane. Where did you acquire so trite a notion? I am forced to wonder whether Mrs. Hawley has followed my directions for your upbringing as I would wish.”

Her mother’s slightest displeasure still had the ability to throw Jane into a panic, for it had so often meant the removal of a treasured object or occupation. Soon she would have to lose her companion and friend but not yet, she hoped. Carefully, she formed phrases which would be acceptable and yet still achieve her end.

“I am sure Mrs. Hawley has always done exactly as she ought, Mama, and I am grateful to you for your care of me. Surely a little sentiment is permissible at such a time as this. I would wish to treasure this sign of my future dignity.”

It seemed her expressions were acceptable for once. Apart from saying acidly, “The sign of your future dignity is the ring you wear, Jane,” her mother raised no further cavil and Jane was free to escape with her prize.

In truth it was the paper itself, and not the betrothal announcement, which was the prize. The newssheets were not allowed in the schoolroom. The idea of having one in her possession—to read every article without censor—was both novel and exciting; but first there was her announcement.

Safe in the quiet upper corridor, Jane looked for the words which predicted her future. How happy those words might once have made her. Now they seemed only to promise a further extension of her misery.

When Jane first realized that her mother was thinking of a marriage for her, she had been astonished and thrilled. Though she knew it was the usual lot of women to marry, especially when they were heiresses and the sole continuance of a proud bloodline, it had never seemed possible that something so momentous would happen to herself. Nothing ever happened at Carne.

Though her mother never discussed the subject, Jane had nonetheless gleaned scraps of information pertaining to her future. She discovered that her mother had queried her acquaintances, seeking an eligible bachelor of high position and impeccable morals. What Jane never heard was the results of the inquiries. She had a vague notion that she would end up as the wife of a bishop and was a little disappointed that he would doubtless be old. She had managed, despite her stringently regulated upbringing, to gather the raw materials for very typical romantic dreams, and she would have preferred a young, handsome knight-errant for her husband.

On the other hand, she had learned to take such pleasures as were presented and consoled herself with the fact that any marriage would take her away from Carne and give her a position in Society, perhaps even afford the opportunity to travel a little. A bishop would surely be good and gentle, and Jane was rather frightened of men.

She had become so attached to the notion of her kindly old bishop that she had been taken aback when her mother baldly announced that they were to receive a visit from the Earl of Wraybourne, who would doubtless make Jane an offer of marriage if he found her acceptable. Jane knew there was no purpose in questioning Lady Sandiford, who would only decry the vulgar curiosity. It would, of course, be demeaning to go to the servants for gossip. Fortunately, Jane had one valid source of information—her governess, Beth Hawley.

Mrs. Hawley had come to be Jane’s companion nearly ten years before. She had been the wife of a young naval officer less than a year when the Battle of Copenhagen made her a widow. At first Jane had seen the tiny, pale-faced woman as yet another extension of her mother, but as Beth’s grief faded and the two became acquainted, friendship had flowered. It was this friendship that was largely responsible for the young woman Jane had become.

Without offending the strict rules laid down for Jane’s upbringing, Mrs. Hawley had enriched the girl’s education. If only textbooks and sermons were allowed, Mrs. Hawley sought the best-written and most sensitively considered ones. With the introduction of music lessons came ballads and lullabies. The rudiments of history and geography could be expanded to cover a great deal of human knowledge. Thus, the governess had most scrupulously adhered to the directions of the girl’s parents while still managing to encourage her spirit and sense of humor.

If anyone in the house could tell her more of Lord Wraybourne, it would be Beth. Unfortunately, even that lady could be little help since she had never moved in Society. She rather thought that the gentleman occasionally spoke in the House, and she had never heard any scandal of him—that was the sum of Beth’s knowledge. Jane had been forced to fall back again upon imagination, from which she had constructed a revised picture of a stern, but kindly man her parents’ age, elegantly yet soberly dressed, much given to reading weighty tomes on statesmanship. Jane convinced herself that marriage to this paragon would be even better than life as a bishop’s wife. She would be the wife of a government man, hearing all the great issues of the day discussed around her dinner table.