Miss Wonderful (2 page)

Let
us also note that a daughter might be married off quite young at
relatively small cost, after which she becomes her husband's problem.

Sons…
Well, the long and short of it was, their noble father must either
buy them places—in government, the church, or the military—or
find them wealthy wives.

In
the last five years, Lord Hargate's two eldest had done their duty in
the matrimonial department. This left the earl free to turn his
thoughts to that twenty-nine-year-old Baffle to All Human
Understanding, the Honorable Al-istair Carsington, his third son.

This
was not to say that Alistair was ever far from his father's thoughts.
No, indeed, he was present day after day in the form of tradesmen's
bills.

"For
what he spends on his tailor, bootmaker, hatter, glovemaker, and
assorted haberdashers—not to mention the laundresses, wine and
spirit merchants, pastry cooks, etc.—I might furnish a naval
fleet," his lordship complained to his wife one night as he
climbed into bed beside her.

Lady
Hargate laid aside the book she'd been reading and gave her full
attention to her husband. The countess was dark-haired and
statuesque, handsome rather than beautiful, with sparkling black
eyes, an intimidating nose, and a strong jaw. Two of her sons had
inherited her looks.

The
son in question had inherited his father's. They were both tall men
built along lean lines, the earl not much thicker about the middle
now than he'd been at Alistair's age. They owned the same hawklike
profile and the same heavy-lidded eyes, though the earl's were more
brown than gold and more deeply lined. Likewise, the father's dark
brown hair bore lines of silver. They had the same deep Carsington
voice, which emotion—whether positive or negative—roughened
into a growl.

Lord
Hargate was growling at present.

"You
must put a stop to it, Ned," Lady Hargate said.

He
turned his gaze full upon her, his eyebrows aloft.

"Yes,
I recollect what I told you last year," she said. "I said
Alistair fusses overmuch about his appearance because he is
self-conscious about being lame. I told you we must be patient. But
it is two years and more since he returned from the Continent, and
matters do not improve. He is indifferent to everything, it seems,
but his clothes."

Lord
Hargate frowned. "I never thought I'd see the day we'd be
fretting because he wasn't in trouble with a woman."

"You
must do something, Ned." "I would, had I the least idea
what to do." "What nonsense!" she said. "If you
can manage the royal offspring—not to mention those unruly
fellows in the House of Commons—you most certainly can manage
your son. You will think of something, I have not the smallest doubt.
But I urge you to think of it soon, sir."

A
week later, in response to Lord Hargate's summons, Alistair
Carsington stood by a window in the latter's study, perusing a
lengthy document. It contained a list of what his father titled
"Episodes of Stupidity," and their cost in pounds,
shillings, and pence.

The
list of Alistair's indiscretions was short, by some men's standards.
The degree of folly and notoriety involved, however, was well above
the norm, as he was most unhappily aware.

He
did not need the list to remind him: He fell in love quickly, deeply,
and disastrously. For example:

When
he was fourteen, it was Clara, the golden-haired, rosy-cheeked
daughter of an Eton caretaker. Alistair followed her about like a
puppy and spent all his allowance on offerings of sweets and pretty
trinkets. One day a jealous rival, a local youth, made provocative
remarks. The dispute soon escalated from exchanging insults to
exchanging blows. The fight drew a crowd. The ensuing brawl between a
group of Alistair's schoolmates and some village boys resulted in two
broken noses, six missing teeth, one minor concussion, and
considerable property damage. Clara wept over the battered rival and
called Al-istair a brute. His heart broken, he didn't care that he
faced expulsion as well as charges of assault, disturbing the King's
peace, inciting a riot, and destruction of property. Lord Hargate was
obliged to care, and it cost him a pretty penny.

At
age sixteen, it was Verena, whom Alistair met during summer holiday.
Because her parents were pious and strict, she read lurid novels in
secret and communicated with Alistair in hurried whispers and
clandestine letters. One night, as prearranged, he sneaked to her
house and threw pebbles at her bedroom window. He'd assumed they
would enact some variation of the balcony scene from Romeo and
Juliet. Verena had other ideas. She threw down a valise, then climbed
down a rope of knotted sheets. She would be her parents' prisoner no
longer, she said. She would run away with Alistair. Thrilled to
rescue a damsel in distress, he didn't worry about money,
transportation, lodging, or other such trifles, but instantly agreed.
They were caught before they reached the next parish. Her outraged
parents wanted him tried for kidnapping and transported to New South
Wales. After settling matters, Lord Hargate told his son to find a
trollop and stop mooning after gently bred virgins.

At
age seventeen, it was Kitty. She was a dressmaker's assistant with
enormous blue eyes. From her Alistair learnt, among other things, the
finer points of women's fashion. When a jealous, high-born customer's
complaints cost Kitty her position, the outraged Alistair published a
pamphlet about the injustice. The customer sued for libel, and the
dressmaker sought redress for defamation and loss of trade. Lord
Hargate did the usual.

At
age nineteen it was Gemma, a fashionable milliner. One day,
thief-takers stopped their carriage en route to a romantic rural
idyll and found in Gemma's boxes some stolen property. She claimed
jealous rivals had planted false evidence, and Alistair believed her.
His impassioned speech about conspiracies and corrupt officials drew
a crowd, which grew disorderly, as crowds often do. The Riot Act was
read, and he was taken into custody along with his light-fingered
lover. Lord Hargate came to the rescue once more.

At
age twenty-one, it was Aimee, a French ballet dancer who transformed
Alistair's modest bachelor lodgings into an elegant abode. They gave
parties that soon became famous in London's demimonde. Since Aimee's
tastes rivaled those of the late Marie Antoinette, and Alistair
wouldn't dream of denying her anything, he ended up in a sponging
house—last stop before debtors' prison. The earl paid the
astronomical debt, found Aimee a position with a touring ballet
company, and told Alistair it was time to take up with respectable
people and stop making a spectacle of himself.

At
age twenty-three, it was Lady Thurlow, Alistair's first and only
married paramour. In the haut ton, one pursues an adulterous liaison
discreetly, to protect the lady's reputation and spare her husband
tedious duels and legal actions. But Alistair couldn't hide his
feelings, and she had to end the relationship. Unfortunately, a
servant stole Alistair's love letters and threatened to publish them.
To protect his beloved from scandal and an outraged husband,
Alistair, who had no way of raising the enormous ransom demanded, had
to ask his father's help.

At
twenty-seven came his worst folly. Judith Gilford was the only child
of a wealthy, newly knighted widower. She entered Alistair's life
early in the new year of 1815. He soon vanquished all rivals, and in
February the engagement was announced. By March he was in purgatory.

In
public she was lovely to look at and charming to talk to. In private
she fell into sulks or threw tantrums when she didn't get exactly
what she wanted the instant she wanted it. She expected all
attention, always, to focus on her. Her feelings were easily hurt,
but she had no regard for anyone else's. She was unkind to family and
friends, abusive to servants, and fell into hysterics when anyone
tried to soften her temper or language.

And
so by March, Alistair was in despair, because a gentleman must not
break off an engagement. Since Judith wouldn't, he could only wish
he'd be trampled by runaway horses or thrown into the Thames or
stabbed to death by footpads. One night, en route to a seamy
neigh-borhood where a violent death was a strong possibility, he
stumbled somehow—and he still wasn't sure how—into the
comforting arms of a voluptuous courtesan named Helen Waters.

Alistair
once again fell madly in love, and once again was indiscreet. Judith
found out, made appalling scenes in public, and threatened lawsuits.
The scandalmongers loved it. Lord Hargate did not. The next Alistair
knew, he was being hustled onto a ship bound for the Continent. Just
in time for Waterloo. That was the end of the list.

His
face hot, Alistair limped away from the window and set the documents
on the great desk behind which his father sat watching him.

Affecting
a lightness he didn't feel, Alistair said, "Do I receive any
credit for not having had an episode since the spring of 1815?"

"You
stayed out of trouble only because you were incapacitated for most of
that time," Lord Hargate said. "Meanwhile, the tradesmen's
bills arrive by the cartload. I cannot decide which is worse. For
what you spend on waistcoats you might keep a harem of French
whores."

Alistair
couldn't deny it. He'd always been particular about his clothes.
Perhaps, of late, he devoted more time and thought to his appearance
than previously. Perhaps it kept his mind off other things. The
fifteenth of June, for instance, the day and night he couldn't
remember. Waterloo remained a blur in his mind. He pretended he did
remember, as he pretended he didn't notice the difference since he'd
come home: the idolatry that made him squirm inwardly, the pity that
infuriated him.

He
pushed these thoughts away, and frowned at a speck of lint on his
coat sleeve. He resisted the urge to brush at it. That would seem a
nervous gesture. He was beginning to perspire, but that didn't show.
Yet. He prayed his father would finish before his neckcloth wilted.

"I
detest talking about money," his father said. "It is
vulgar. Unfortunately, the subject can no longer be avoided. If you
wish to cheat your younger brothers of what they're entitled to, then
so be it."

"My
brothers?" Alistair met his father's narrow gaze. "Why
should I…" He trailed off, because Lord Hargate's mouth
was turning up, into the barest hint of a smile. Oh, that little
smile never boded well. "Let me explain," Lord Hargate
said.

"HE
gives me until the first of May," Alistair told his friend Lord
Gordmor that afternoon. "Have you ever heard anything so
diabolical?"

He
had arrived while his former comrade-in-arms was dressing. Gordmor
had glanced but once at Alistair's face, and sent his manservant
away. Once they were private, Alistair described this morning's
meeting with his sire.

Unlike
the majority of noblemen, the viscount was perfectly capable of
dressing himself, and did so while his guest talked.

At
present his lordship stood before the glass, tying his neckcloth.
Since the process involved not merely tying a proper knot but
arranging folds with excruciating exactitude, it usually demanded
that one spoil at least half a dozen lengths of starched linen before
achieving perfection.

Alistair
stood by the dressing room window and watched the passing scene, the
arrangement of neckcloths having lost some of its allure since this
morning.

"Your
father is an enigma to me," Gordmor said.

"He
tells me to wed an heiress, Gordy. Can you credit it? After the
debacle with Judith?"

Gordmor
had warned Alistair at the time to be careful: As only child didn't
know what it was like to share parents' affection and attention with
other siblings, and tended to be overindulged and underdisciplined.

Now
Gordy said only, "There must be at least one heiress in England
who isn't bracket-faced or ill-natured."

"It
makes no difference," Alistair said. "I can't think of
marrying until I'm quite elderly and enfeebled: five and forty—no,
better, five and fifty. Otherwise, I shall make another catastrophic
mistake, and be forced to live with it forever."

"You've
merely had bad luck with women," Gordy said.

Alistair
shook his head. "No, it is a fatal flaw of character: I fall in
love too easily, and always unwisely, and then disaster follows upon
disaster. I wonder why my sire doesn't simply choose a rich wife for
me. His judgment is sure to be better than mine."

Still,
it would rankle, Alistair knew. He would bring his bride nothing. It
was hard enough, depending upon his father for funds. To depend upon
a wife, to feel beholden to her family… The prospect made his
skin crawl. He knew other younger sons wed for wealth and no one
thought the less of them. It was perfectly acceptable. But he could
not quite bring his pride to this point of view. "I wish he had
let me stay in the army," he growled.