Priceless (5 page)

Enigmatic
, Bronwyn thought, her startled gaze fixed on
the immobile lady. When their eyes locked, she realized,
And so sad
.

Adam advanced on the woman and kissed her cheek. “Mab, this is the lady who has consented to be my bride. This is Bronwyn.”

One pudgy hand was extended. Bronwyn took it warily.

“I’m pleased to meet you, child. I am Lady Mab, as my disgraceful son failed to tell you.”

“Lady Mab, dowager viscountess of Rawson,” Adam insisted.

“A title to impress the insolent.” Without moving her head, Mab transferred her attention back to Bronwyn. “Are you insolent?”

Bronwyn was stricken dumb. With a privileged few she was dreadfully insolent, yet she couldn’t admit that.

Tiring of waiting for her answer, Mab said, “I believe you’ve found the girl you desired, Adam.”

“Yes, Mab.”

Unspoken messages lurked beneath the surface, but Bronwyn was too befuddled to decipher them.

Adam asked, “Mab, will you come to dinner?”

“I wouldn’t miss the first meal with my future daughter-in-law.” Mab hoisted herself to her feet.

“I warn you, Robert Walpole is here,” Adam said.

An anticipatory smile spread across Mab’s face. “Perhaps you should warn him, not me.”

“Bronwyn’s my girl, she is.” Lord Gaynor leaned back in
his chair, his supper pushed away and his wineglass tilted. “She’s got all the Edana daring and intelligence. The other girls took after m’wife”—he lifted his goblet in salute—“but Bronwyn’s all mine.”

Lady Nora’s smile strained to remain pleasant. “Dear, surely you jest! You’re not trying to say Bronwyn is intelligent. Why, she’s just a girl who enjoys nothing more than a fancy needlework and a canter on a gentle horse.” She patted Bronwyn’s hand. “Isn’t that the truth, dear?”

Lord Gaynor snorted, ready to disagree. Intercepting a poisonous stare from his wife, he subsided with a cough. “Good dinner, Rawson.”

“My thanks.” Adam wondered if the interminable supper would ever end. He’d had enough of Lord Gaynor, singing his plain daughter’s praises, and enough of Mab’s sorrowing glances. He wanted to get down to the business of the evening, and that he couldn’t do while the ladies remained. His mother, the official hostess, refused to lead the exodus from the table so the men could drink their brandy and smoke their cigars. Stricken with an inspiration, he said, “Since my future wife is seated at the table with us, perhaps she could take the ladies into the parlor
for conversation.” His eyes flashed triumph at Mab. “Would you do that,
Bridget
?”

The insipid girl he’d contracted to never blinked an eye. She rose with a gracious smile. “Shall we depart, ladies? The gentlemen wish to discuss important matters unsuitable for feminine ears. Will we see you later,
Abel
?”

He almost missed it, she slipped it in so easily, and when he did react he saw only the backs of three skirts as the women abandoned the dining room. Dismissing her dig as a slip of the tongue, he glared at his mother and prepared for verbal battle. To his surprise, she stood.

“As my daughter-in-law wishes, I’ll leave you gentlemen.” Before she exited, she turned back. “So good to see you again, Robert. Do return soon.”

As the footman shut the door behind her, Robert Walpole was pulling at the scarf that bound his neck. “I tell you truly, Adam, your mother terrifies me.”

“She knows it, too,” Adam confirmed.

“She’s so big and”—Walpole gestured with his hands—“big.”

Adam smiled fondly. “Most people find my mother a gentle soul, kind to a fault.”

“She’s nice to everyone but me.”

“I think, Robert, you disgust her with your boasting and your licentiousness.”

“Who could be offended by me?” Walpole adjusted his wig. “Besides, women should be womanly. Silly, vain, seeking a man’s attention. Not watching a man with wise gray eyes until he squirms, nor pricking his little fantasies with the sharp end of her tongue.”

“She does do that, doesn’t she?” Adam smiled with wicked pleasure at his friend. “Why do you think she enjoys having you for supper?”

“Cannibalism?” Walpole quipped.

Adam relaxed. “Have you lost your pound of flesh?”

Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Walpole rubbed the expanse of belly beneath the linen shirt. “I’ll have my mistress check later.”

“Not your wife?” Lord Gaynor asked with interest.

“Not tonight. My wife’s not scheduled for tonight.” A leer spread across Walpole’s broad face. “Nor for tomorrow night, either.”

“You didn’t get those five children with Catherine by ignoring her,” Adam interposed.

“There’s enough between my legs to satisfy all the ladies,” Walpole boasted, “and keep the prostitutes of all London in business, too.”

Adam reached for the brandy decanter. “I’ll need a drink to wash that down.”

Walpole’s hearty laugh rang out. “Never had the stomach for whoring, did you, Adam?”

“A seaman gets enough of whoring when he puts into port.” Adam passed a glass to Walpole.

“Admit it, it was a liberal education,” Walpole teased.

“Education? Well, perhaps. I learned how to make love in four languages.” Adam poured for Lord Gaynor and himself, then set his glass on the table and stared through the amber liquor.

Lord Gaynor, too, lifted his glass and stared through it. “Looks almost like my Bronwyn’s eyes.”

“Mm, no,” Adam said absently. “Her eyes have a tinge of auburn to them. More like sherry.”

“So I’ve always said.” Lord Gaynor downed his drink in validation.

Walpole pushed back his chair. “How are your stock investments proceeding, Adam?”

“As usual.”

“Making a fortune, are you?” Walpole shoved his feet on the table with a sigh.

“I’ve managed to escape the buying frenzy that’s attacked the rest of the London populace.”

“Bless the fools, they’ll fling their money after any ludicrous venture,” Walpole agreed.

“Did you hear the latest?” Adam sipped his brandy. “Some man sold stock in a company to create perpetual motion.”

Lord Gaynor looked from one to the other with wide eyes.

Walpole nudged the plates before him with the toe of his boot. “I’ll go one better. A fellow sold stock in a company to import jackasses from Spain.”

“As if there weren’t enough of them on Change Alley already.” Adam signaled to the footman, and the footman rushed to remove the offending china.

Lord Gaynor chuckled nervously.

“And there was the scheme for extracting oil from radishes.”

“Why?” Adam loosened the ribbon tied at the back of his neck and shook his dark hair to free it.

“Lamp oil?” Lord Gaynor suggested, and Walpole laughed at the wit.

“A good joke. The amazing thing is, there are jackasses”—he lifted his glass to Adam—“who bought stock in these companies.”

“My favorite,” Adam said, “is the promoter who announced he was selling stock in a company for carrying on the undertaking of great advantage, but nobody is to know what it is.”

“And?” Walpole asked with interest.

“And he received a thousand subscriptions of two pounds by midday.”

“And?” Walpole insisted again.

“He disappeared in the afternoon,” Adam reported, his eyes alight with amusement.

Contagious amusement, for Walpole chortled and Lord Gaynor smirked.

Walpole grimaced in disgust. “I tried to tell them. Didn’t I try to tell them?”

“You tried to tell them, Robert. You gave an elegant speech in the House of Commons about the fallacy of assuming the South Sea Company would pay off the national debt.” Adam grinned with false sympathy. “Too bad all the Members of Parliament left while you were giving it.”

“Damned MP’s. Think I’m a common squire, too stupid to see what’s as plain as the nose on my face.” Walpole touched the bulbous growth with his finger.

Adam shoved aside his glass. “How could you fight those bribes? The directors of the South Sea Company spread money so thick, every politician stubbed his toes on the coinage.”

“The South Sea Company?” Lord Gaynor asked with interest. “But aren’t they a legitimate company, authorized by Parliament and the king?”

“That they are. But with so many small companies mucking about, siphoning the investments from the South Sea Company, George Hanover is getting alarmed.” Walpole’s familiarity mixed with contempt for the German ruler who’d accepted the English throne.

Lord Gaynor looked puzzled. “The king? Why should the king care about the South Sea Company?”

“Investments, my dear man. Investments.” Adam stretched out his leg, rubbing his thigh. “How do you think the South Sea Company received permission to push itself on the gullible public with such abandon? John Blunt, the director of the whole nefarious scheme, presented the king with a massive portfolio of stock. As of June eleventh, Parliament will outlaw stock issued by any but companies licensed by…Parliament. The king threw his considerable weight behind that proclamation, you may be sure.”

Lord Gaynor slapped his glass on the table, slopping wine on the polished surface, objecting, “Fortunes have been made with the South Sea scheme.”

“Of course.
I’ve
made a fortune with the South Sea
scheme.” Adam propped his leg on the ottoman his footman brought him. “The directors of the company have shown a remarkable talent in manipulating the market. But mark my words, Lord Gaynor, this is a short-term investment. There’s no profit within the company to back such wild speculation. The project will burst in a while and drag down every poor sop who’s invested with it.”

“If you’ve invested in the South Sea Company, best to listen to your son-in-law,” Walpole advised. “The man has his thumb on the pulse of the stock market in London. No one knows more than Adam.”

His interested gaze on some distant object, Lord Gaynor nodded.

Satisfied, Walpole asked, “How long do you give the company before it goes down, Adam?”

“I’m watching it.”

“Adam….” Walpole laughed. “Cautious man. I say November.”

Adam shook his head in negation.

“Longer?”

“No.”

“Oh, come, Blunt will keep it together until the cold weather, at least.”

“If you say so, Robert.” Adam stood, wincing. “Shall we join the ladies?”

Knowing he’d not pry any other commitment from Adam, Walpole stood and jostled Lord Gaynor’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Must join the ladies. Leg bothering you, Adam?”

“A bit.” Adam straightened and reached for his malacca cane.

“That’s what you get for catching a Spanish cannonball.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Adam said. “Only the bits of deck where it hit.”

“Damned Spaniards.”

“Not at all.” After leading them to the drawing room, he stood aside to let them precede him. “The wealth carried on that one Spanish ship was the hen that laid my golden egg.”

Walpole slapped Adam’s back as he passed. “Yes, and you’ve been squeezing the poor chicken ever since. I can hear it squawking clear down at my country home.”

“Norfolk’s so dull, a little squawking would…” Adam’s voice trailed off as he surveyed the placid occupants of the drawing room. “Where’s my mother?”

Walpole lifted his hands in wonderment.

Alarm shot through Adam. “My God, where’s Bronwyn?” Not that he cared for the silly twit, but his genteel mother disapproved of his cold method of choosing a bride. He’d seen her strip Walpole of all dignity and courage, and he feared it would be a poor start to a marriage should she do so to Bronwyn.

Olivia lifted her frightened gaze from her hands, and Lady Nora demanded, “Why?” Ignoring them both, Adam wheeled around, the nagging pain in his thigh forgotten, and headed for Mab’s study. The sight that greeted him there brought him to an abrupt halt.

The two women sat in the light of the candles, sewing. Low and sweet, their voices spoke in harmony. No impatience turned Mab’s mouth down. No fear made Bronwyn’s hand tremble.

He couldn’t believe it, and his eyes narrowed as he considered the domestic scene.

His mother saw him first. “Abel! Come and visit with us.”

Cautious, suspecting a trick, he limped into the room and sat down on the far side of Bronwyn’s settee. “It’s Adam,” he corrected pleasantly.

“So it is.” His mother chuckled like the traitor she had proved to be. “So it is. We’re just working on the clothing for the Boulton boy. His parents died of the typhus last
year, if you’ll recall, and I’ve arranged to have him apprenticed to a candlemaker.”

“Is he old enough?” Adam asked, his hands placed precisely on the amber knob of his cane.

“He’s ten, and the people who have taken him are kind.” She placed a stitch with precision. “I make sure of that. Did you need something?”

“No, I…missed Bronwyn in the drawing room and feared she might have lost herself in the corridors.”

“Not at all,” Bronwyn said. “Mab invited me to visit her, and I was honored to comply.”

Incredulous, Adam said, “You call her Mab?”

Bronwyn glanced at him, at her hostess. “Isn’t that right?”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, but she only allows—”

“My beloved relatives to call me ‘Mab,’” his mother interrupted. “And as my daughter-in-law, you’re welcome.” Her rebuke stripped him of his indignation. “That’s why I requested that you call me by my first name.”

She invested the phrase with significance, she spaced each word individually, and he registered her meaning. For some reason Mab had decided to extend her protection to his intended. He would seek her reasons later; for now he must play host to his guests. He stood and bowed. “If you’re ensconced so cozily, then, I will leave you and attend to my business.”

Mab waved a hand in dismissal. “A sound idea, son. After all, you’ll be starting a family soon. You’ll need to be on sound financial footing.”

Adam glanced at the girl who would be his bride and shuddered. It did his vanity no good that she looked at him with equal horror.

Bronwyn still stared at the doorway after Adam had vanished.

He had his mother’s eyes. But while his mother’s gave
comfort with their warmth, the man’s eyes were anything but comforting. Disturbing, yes, and intense—vividly gray, with long, black, curly lashes that emphasized the lazy droop of his lids.

“You don’t like him,” his mother observed.

“Not a bit,” she answered absently, then swung her appalled gaze on Mab.

Mab didn’t appear perturbed. She sat on the mammoth chair designed for her contours and sewed a pair of boy’s pants. She seemed so placid, so peaceful, a large, amiable queen in her home. Only her hands betrayed the lie. They wielded the needle faster than Bronwyn’s eye could follow.

Wishing she could swallow her words, Bronwyn stammered, “That is, Lord Adam is an unknown quantity to me, and I’m unable to declare whether I like him or not. He’s a kind man, I’m sure.”

Mab’s gaze stabbed her. “Kind? He’s the kind of man who can make a woman feel stupid and ugly.”

Bronwyn gaped at her, then decided,
In for a penny, in for a pound
. “And unwanted,” she said defiantly.

“Surely unwanted. However, if you continue to keep silent, keep house, keep out of the way, he’ll soon learn to tolerate you.”

Picking up the shirt Mab had given her, Bronwyn nodded and stabbed the material with her needle. “That’s the best I can expect from marriage.”

Quiet reigned, but Bronwyn realized she had distressed the big lady with the sweet face.