The Bride Insists (4 page)

Billingsley felt dazed. “Are you asking me to be a matchmaker?”

“Precisely. And I have some very specific requirements.” Pleased that they were at last getting to the heart of the matter, Clare took a folded piece of paper from her reticule.

Selina Newton had to smile at the stunned expression on Mr. Billingsley's face. She imagined that she'd looked just the same when Clare had first produced her list. It was comforting to have her sense of propriety reflected back to her.

“The first, and indeed the crucial, item is that this man be willing to sign a document guaranteeing that I have control over my own money,” Clare said. “This is the one nonnegotiable point. I'm sure you can draft such an instrument?” She looked at Billingsley.

“Well, yes, but…” That direct green gaze made the most outrageous things seem plausible.

“Other than that, I can be somewhat flexible. I would prefer that he be not more than forty years old, and of good family. I require some level of intelligence and good temper. And I don't see why he should not be… pleasant-looking.” Clare felt a tremor of uncertainty. Was she really going to pledge her life to a complete stranger? She could take the funds she had and find inexpensive lodging, exercise economies… Then she thought of Cousin Simon and how he would enjoy reducing her good luck to that meager outcome.

“Miss Greenough, I don't really feel that…”

“Marriages are sometimes arranged.” Clare didn't know whether she was telling him or herself.

Everett Billingsley suddenly remembered meeting his own wife, more than thirty years ago. He'd been an articled clerk, most of his hours devoted to drudgery, determined to make something of himself. He'd been drawn to Emily because she was attractive and kind—and because she was the daughter of a very successful solicitor with many useful connections. Would he have pursued her otherwise? He admitted to himself that he would not. Yet after all these years of marriage, children, and grandchildren, he loved her deeply and couldn't imagine any other choice. Perhaps Miss Greenough's scheme was not entirely insane. It was only when he acknowledged this possibility that the idea occurred to him. A fact that was to be a great comfort to him on many future occasions.

Clare saw the change in his expression. “You've thought of someone.”

Billingsley was not accustomed to being read so easily. This young woman had managed what many ruthless negotiators had not: she'd thrown him off balance. “I don't say so,” he replied. “I must consider your scheme.” It was, he supposed, a kind of business transaction. Yet if that were so, he would be representing both sides, which was unacceptable. But if the action benefited both equally… His head spun. “You must give me a few days,” he added.

Clare heard the finality in his tone. He would not be pushed. Accepting this, she smiled at him, then rose and held out her hand. “I am so grateful for all your help,” she said.

Billingsley realized that it was the first time he'd seen her really smile. The effect was dazzling. Any young man would be putty in her hands, he thought. He felt in some danger of malleability himself.

The smile stayed on Clare's lips as they said their good-byes and as she and Selina walked down the stairs together. “He definitely knows of someone suitable,” she said as they reached the street.

Perhaps he did, Selina thought. But was that good news?

Over the next few days, Selina helped curb Clare's impatience by insisting on a thorough rehabilitation of the young woman's wardrobe. Though she understood the reasons behind Clare's choice of dull colors and unflattering cuts, the results continually pained Selina's keen fashion sense. And, she pointed out, those reasons no longer applied. Clare didn't need to fade into the background for fear of unwanted attentions or an employer's disapproval. She could dress just as she pleased.

Clare, however, refused to spend any of the money Billingsley had advanced on new clothing. “If things don't turn out well, we may need it for far more important purposes,” she declared. And so Selina set about altering the gowns Clare already possessed.

A combination of exquisite taste and continual lack of funds had forced Selina Newton to become a skilled seamstress. And as she learned, over the years, to sketch a pattern, set a dart, gather ruffles, and sew invisible seams, she came to love everything about the process. From the inspiration for a new gown—from examples she admired or her own ever-expanding imagination—to finding just the right fabric, to constructing the garment, she found pleasure in it all. Clare's wardrobe became a challenge rather than an eyesore as she plunged into the task.

For her part, Clare was amazed at the magic her new friend was able to work on her dowdy old dresses. Her apprehension at seeing her limited store of clothing reduced to a pile of scraps, the seams all unpicked, soon turned to admiration. A line recut here, a tuck there, and Clare had gowns that made her look svelte and graceful—no longer a thin young woman bundled into a bag. Selina also convinced Clare to put away all the caps she had used to hide her hair and to try some new ways of dressing it. By the time the older woman had lured Clare out to the Pantheon Bazaar, she was primed to spend a little money on the amazing bargains they found there. She bought a shimmering scarf that echoed the green of her eyes, a bright paisley shawl, a spray of colorful flowers for retrimming a dull hat, and several pairs of silk stockings. After that, it was no great step to procuring tickets for a play and going out to show off her new look.

Clare enjoyed the performance. She enjoyed the cold supper they ordered afterward. Indeed, she was finding pure pleasure in many small things. For the first time in years, Clare could spend her days doing whatever she wanted, and with that freedom came an ability to savor the choices she made. She remembered how much she loved raspberry jam; on a walk in the park she watched people riding and recalled the wind in her hair as she galloped down a country lane. Each trivial action was transformed by the fact that no one had told her to do it or forbidden her to think of it. Though she'd lived in London for years, she now began to savor some of what the metropolis had to offer. It was like being released from a subdued, colorless limbo into a landscape flooded with brightness and life.

***

Down in the city, Everett Billingsley frowned over a letter that had arrived in the morning post. Simon Greenough's reply to his missive suggesting that Miss Greenough needed to rent a house in town was couched in a positively insulting tone, as if he were addressing a servant. He declared that they would not be wasting his great-uncle's hard-earned fortune on “fripperies.” The “girl,” as he referred to his twenty-four-year-old cousin, would be better off in a room or two. She could hardly need more than a maid. Billingsley got the impression that he would have liked to suggest a nunnery. It seemed that Miss Greenough was right; it would be a continual battle to get a penny from this man. She would not be establishing herself in society on her own.

Billingsley put down the pages and wondered what to do. This difficulty did not mean that he should do as she'd asked. If he made an introduction, he was, in essence, benefiting another client at her expense. Literally, in fact, at her expense. Her fortune was the counter in this game. It was not a deception, of course. She'd urged him to do it, and she would also gain something she wanted. And yet… Billingsley's scrupulous soul revolted at the prospect, even as his kind heart ached at the thought of leaving two young people caught in familial traps when he might aid them. And then it came to him. It was quite simple. Should the matter go forward, and should Miss Greenough still refuse to engage her own advocate, he would ask an unbiased colleague to review all the documents he prepared and give an opinion. That should ensure all was fair and aboveboard. His conscience salved, Billingsley pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote a note.

***

Jamie returned to Andrew's rooms in the late afternoon to find Harry already there. His two friends lounged on either side of the fireplace, absorbing its warmth on this icy February Tuesday. “That took you an age,” said Andrew. “What was so urgent that you had to rush off to the city on such a filthy day? Not bad news, I hope.”

Jamie threw his greatcoat onto the sofa and sank into the remaining armchair, still feeling a bit dazed. “My man of business has found me an heiress,” he said.

The other two sat up straight and stared at him.

“She is prepared to marry a penniless man…”

“You're saved!” cried Harry. “Break out the champagne, Andrew.”

“Under certain conditions.”

“What sort of conditions?” Andrew wondered.

“What does it matter?” said Harry before Jamie could reply. “Take the heiress and run, my lad. Good God, isn't this what you've been praying for?”

“Harry, why aren't you off somewhere hunting with your aristocratic relations?” Andrew asked.

“Because I have duty here in town. Don't change the subject.”

“What's the catch?” asked Andrew. “Is she a hunchback, or a shrew, or a madwoman?”

“Well, of course she's mad if she'll have Jamie,” said Harry.

Jamie gave him a look. “She wants…” He hesitated. Somehow, he was reluctant to tell his friends that the young woman in question insisted on being in control of her money, and that he'd be required to sign documents guaranteeing this. It was… a bit humiliating. Billingsley had assured him that he wouldn't have to go to her for every penny he wished to spend. Still… A man should have control over his own household. “There would be a written agreement between… us,” he temporized.

“A marriage contract.” Harry nodded as if this were only natural.

Billingsley had told Jamie to think of what he would ask, what resources he needed to redeem Trehearth. But it was difficult to get his mind around the idea that his wife would control his finances.

“Which would ensure the funds to save Trehearth?” Andrew asked.

That was the crux of it. If he could get that, did the rest really matter? It didn't, Jamie thought. Trehearth was the important thing.

“
Is
she an antidote?” asked Harry.

“Billingsley promises that she is not.”

“Well then? What's the problem?”

“There is none, I suppose.” Jamie found that he couldn't confide any further. The agreement would be a private matter, after all. His friends would never know that he had relinquished the financial reins. “It's just… I know we've joked about it. But when it really comes down to taking a wife as a… business matter…”

Harry and Andrew looked at Jamie, and then at each other. Their friend seemed quite forlorn. He'd drifted into deeper waters than they were used to navigating.

“If you were in love with someone else, of course you couldn't consider it,” Andrew acknowledged. “I know. After I met Alice, it was impossible even to look at another.”

Harry opened his mouth to mock this sickly sentiment, then closed it again. Jamie's expression was so serious.

Jamie got up and went to the sideboard, where the brandy waited. He'd uncorked it, ready to pour, when he hesitated. If he really had a chance of saving his estate, then he didn't need to stick his head in a bottle any longer. “I still have to meet her,” he said, to himself as much as his friends. “Perhaps she'll dislike me, and this will all be for naught.” Jamie didn't dare really hope. He'd fallen into that trap before, hatching a host of schemes over the years to save his heritage. The blow when they failed was almost unendurable. It hurt so much more when you hoped. He poured himself a large glass of brandy.

“You must exert yourself to be charming,” said Harry. “I can give you a few pointers, if you like.”

“You?” hooted Andrew. “If you want to know how to woo a woman properly…”

“And send her right off into a rival's arms,” Harry finished.

The conversation veered into comradely taunting. Jamie sipped his brandy and wondered precisely how one charmed a female who was perfectly aware that it was her money rather than her person that most attracted you.

***

Nothing could change the unenticing buff color of her best gown, Clare acknowledged. The hue did not flatter her. But with the new cut Selina had contrived and the green scarf draped over her arms, it had a fashionable look. And her hair was quite transformed, pulled up into a high knot, with curls clustering around her face. She could wish that she had more color in her cheeks, but the overall result in the mirror went a good way toward calming her nerves. “What time is it?” she asked Selina.

“It's just ten. You've half an hour to spare.” Though she still had doubts, Selina didn't voice them. They'd heard from Billingsley about Simon Greenough's intransigence. It seemed that Clare was right about her cousin. And if Clare was forced back onto a governess's budget, the beautiful zest for life that Selina had seen emerging would be dimmed. That would be heartbreaking to see. Mr. Billingsley seemed a trustworthy man. Selina knew he wouldn't recommend a blackguard. But if she had any reservations at all about this Baron Trehearth after meeting him, she was not going to hold her tongue.

Less than half a mile away, Jamie stood before the cheval glass in Andrew's bedchamber and regarded his reflection. His dark blue coat had been made by Weston; the quality was evident, but so was the age. New clothes had not been in his budget since he reached his full growth. He had no fashionable pantaloons, only breeches of the same vintage as the coat, and he was overly conscious of a tiny fray in the cuff of his fine linen shirt. Harry had insisted on lending him a new neckcloth. The kindness had not taken all the sting out of the necessity. Andrew had wanted to give him detailed advice on how to tie it, as if he didn't know perfectly well. He was glad they were both occupied this morning. He was in no state to take their teasing, or their genuine concern.

His face looked back at him from the mirror, dark and unsmiling. Was this the sort of engaging fellow likely to win an heiress? He tried a smile; it looked insincere to his hypercritical eyes. He told himself that he ought to feel grateful for the chance of salvation. But that was it, wasn't it? This was only a chance. He was about to present himself for approval. Some chit he'd never seen before was going to look him over like prize livestock and decide his fate. His brows came together at the thought. He hated the prospect. He'd almost rather chuck the whole thing than take the chance of rejection—and yet another painful collapse of all his hopes. Almost. “Smile,” he told the fellow in the mirror. “And try to look like you mean it, for God's sake.”

The bell rang. Everett Billingsley was fetching him for this delicate appointment. Jamie wasn't sure whether the man wanted to help or just be certain his candidate came up to scratch. When he went down the stairs and opened the door, however, Jamie found he was glad to see the older man. Over the years, Billingsley had always had his best interests at heart, and he seemed to think this eccentric plan could succeed. Through the short carriage journey, Jamie told himself to rally round and do his part.

***

The employee of Mivart's Hotel who ushered the visitors upstairs to a spacious private parlor wondered what dire matter they were calling to discuss. Both the ladies within and the gentlemen arrivals looked serious as a funeral. But he was destined never to know the answer, for as soon as he had opened the door and announced their names, he was dismissed.

Clare and Jamie gazed at each other in surprise, each remembering the moment when they'd passed outside Billingsley's office. Unconscious of their previous encounter, the man himself stepped forward to make the introductions. He wasn't accustomed to feeling so awkward and would have been glad to be elsewhere. But he'd set this affair in motion. He had to be present to give what help he could.

As the couple greeted one another, Selina tried to get a sense of the young man. She also remembered him from the corridor outside Billingsley's office, where he'd seemed to simmer with angry energy. Observing him, she realized how much she cared for the happiness of a young woman she'd met only a few weeks ago. Clare was spirited, intelligent, kind. Selina would not stand by and see her throw her life away. As she and Billingsley withdrew to a sofa on the far side of the room, giving Clare and Jamie space to get acquainted, Selina resolved to pump the man for every detail of Lord Trehearth's history and character.

It was the girl with the tiger eyes, Jamie thought as they sat down in a pair of armchairs before the fire. Without a shapeless cloak muffling her form, she looked spare and elegant. With that pale hair and skin, he might have said cold, if it weren't for the spark in those penetrating eyes. The feel of her slender frame in the curve of his arm came back to him. Light as a bird, he remembered. It made him wonder if the spark could catch fire.

A tension she'd hardly been conscious of relaxed as Clare gazed at him. She had to admit that she was glad he was handsome. She'd been braced to accept a plain man in order to achieve her goals; she would have, of course. But Lord Trehearth's dark good looks did no harm. He held himself with the poise of an athlete, and he still gave off that impression of barely contained energy she remembered from their first encounter. “It's rather hard to know how to begin,” she said. It was, in fact, impossible. What could she say to a man she planned to purchase as a husband? The thought made her flush and smile.