The Country House Courtship (32 page)

“I trusted him like an older brother, sir, and he behaved no differently than one.”

Mr. Mornay looked at her evenly. “You have no older brother to judge by.”

“Yes, sir, I have you.”

Did she see a sparkle of humour in his eye? “I assure you, there was no question of impropriety. I daresay, I thought nothing of it, perhaps on account of the pain in my feet! He only did what was necessary.” Her eyes were wide with sincerity. “Why do you question it, sir?”

“The two of you were gone for more than two hours. Alone. Unchaperoned. It is my duty to question it.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, if that is all, now you know nothing occurred—”

“I would hardly call that nothing,” he replied.

Mrs. Forsythe was frowning. “I encouraged them to go,” she said.

“Not to Glendover,” he replied. “Certainly not to be inside a dwelling alone.”

“I understand how it looks,” Beatrice's face was growing worried, “but you have my word on it, that nothing improper occurred.” She looked at her mother. “You believe me, do you not, Mama?”

“I do, but it does not signify. What matters is what others must think. What the Bartons will think—” Actually, a small flame of hope burst forth in Mrs. Forsythe's breast. Might this not be the very thing she desired? A matter to ensure that her Beatrice must wed the curate? Ought she to say something regarding the settling of Glendover? But not at this time, no.

“No one but Mr. Barton knows we were in the dwelling,” Beatrice said, with passion, “and he is the last person who will wish to make it known—” She stopped abruptly.

“Why is that?” Mornay asked.

She blushed, but spoke quickly. “Mr. Barton wishes to pay his addresses to me. He told me last night; I assured him he must speak to you, or to you, Mama.”

“He wishes to pay his addresses?” This was a surprise. Here he had been ready to put his family into the care of the Bartons at their estate, but now this changed his mind. He said, “Let me speak to your mother.”

She curtsied. “Yes, sir.” But she hesitated. “You are not disposed
against
Mr. Barton for any reason in particular, are you, sir?”

“I am disposed to doing the thing that is proper, whether it involves a Mr. Barton or not.”

Her mother said, “You are not disposed against Mr. O'Brien for any reason in particular, are you, Beatrice?”

She was silent a moment, and she frowned. “I like him very well. Only I do not wish to marry him.”

Mr. Mornay could not help it and replied, “Do not take long walks with a gentleman you do not wish to marry!”

She frowned again, bobbed a curtsey, and left.

Mornay turned to Mrs. Forsythe. “Beatrice should be sent home until I have had a chance to sort through this muddle. I was hoping all my guests might stay at the Manor, but under the circumstances, I think it best to keep more space between your daughter and Mr. Barton. Unfortunately, the same thing holds true concerning Mr. O'Brien.”

Mrs. Forsythe cleared her throat, making him eye her curiously. “I am not averse to having more of an acquaintance develop between my daughter and the curate, sir.”

He raised his brows. “Indeed!” After an ensuing moment of silence he said, “Well, she is your daughter; I will leave her in your hands. Only, pray be careful. Another hint of scandal between them and they must get a license! Is that agreed?”

“Agreed.” She met his eyes sadly. “I will be thinking of Ariana every moment of every day. And yourself.”

“Take good care of my children, and I am content.”

“We shall! Oh, you know we shall!”

“Your Royal Highness?”

“Yes, take a letter for me, quickly, man.” The Prince Regent winced, while his physician continued to poke and prod, but at least the bloodletting was done. For today.

“Busy today, Your Royal Highness,” said the physician, Mr. Watson. “Dictating a letter while your physician examines you!”

“Nothing of national importance, Watson,” he replied dryly. “Have a care there, sir!”

“I need to know if the swelling in your ankles is grown worse, Your Royal Highness.”

The secretary waited patiently, and suddenly the Regent spotted him. “And stop distracting me from my purpose! I want this dashed business over with, directly!” He looked at his secretary. “Yes, well, ‘To Mr. Tristan Barton' (you'll find his direction in your records; he's in Middlesex, near Aspindon House). Where was I? Oh, yes; ‘What's the news, Barton? When can I tell the Lord Chancellor to summon Mornay for the presentation of the title, eh? If there's to be another dashed postponement of the business, I want the reason for it!'” When the man still waited, the Regent added, sounding annoyed, “That's all, man! Get it sent!”

He was never in good spirits if he needed his physicians, and he had needed them this day for numerous complaints. Since the unhappy passing of his only child, Princess Charlotte, the year earlier, the Regent's health was rarely stable. Despite a great deal of bad press regarding him as a father, her passing had been like an arrow piercing his heart. It was lodged there, still, and forever would be, he thought. Some of the pain of the arrow was indeed the hollow ache of regrets, memories of disputes he had had with her; scenes of keeping her from her mother, Princess Caroline, for fear of that lady's ill-advised influence upon his daughter. But had it been his wish really to protect the girl from her mother? Or just the power of spleen, revenging himself upon his estranged wife by separating her from her only child? It all seemed quite, quite empty of reason, now; all it had served to do was cause unhappiness for Charlotte; and now she was gone, and he could never make it up to her.

With this sorrow upon him, every annoyance of state, every governmental duty was more tiresome than the last. At least if he got Mornay in the House of Lords, it would put another vote in his favour; he had no energy to influence the Lords, no energy for most things, in fact. Except when he was at table; yet his epicurean delights on that head were catching up with him more than ever. Hence the deuced need for frequent bloodletting, and attacks of the gout, and his accursed digestive difficulties, not to mention the ever-widening girth which the press loved to attack him for!

He no longer cared what the other Lords would make of it; he wanted Phillip Mornay's vote in the House, by Jove, and he wanted the business done with. He was willing to create a new title—the College of Heralds had already sent Mornay a list of possible usages, and he had only to approve one. They'd studied the Mornay family tree as far back as they could go to create their list of names.

Meanwhile, the Regent's letter was written up properly, transposed for palace records, and stamped with the prince's seal. It went by special messenger to Middlesex.

Tristan Barton was granted a reprieve, which he met with secret rejoicing. When Mr. Mornay had emerged from his discussion with Mrs. Forsythe, he quelled the possibility of their housing any of his guests at the Manor, using as his reason a desire to keep his relations beneath one roof, if possible. The Manor was not large enough for all of them. Barton breathed a sigh of relief. Then, when he finally had Mr. Mornay to himself, he saw the opportunity as one in which to ply the man further on the business for the prince.

“Mr. Mornay, as you know, my sister and I descended upon this neighbourhood rather suddenly, would you not agree?”

“I'll grant that.”

“I wanted to come clean to you, sir.”

Mr. Mornay raised his eyebrows.

“Yes?” He little wanted a long conversation at the present time, but this was an offer too intriguing not to pursue. What did Mr. Barton have to come clean for?

“I came to this neighbourhood solely on your account; to speak to you on behalf of the prince.” When Mr. Mornay only made the slightest response, pressing his lips together with a look of mild disgust, he added, “Does that not astonish you?”

“You are not his first emissary, Barton, and shall likely not be the last. I suspected you might have been, actually. What does he want this time?”

Mr. Barton felt his trump card had just been snatched from his hand, but continued, “Well, sir, I shan't beat around the bush; he wants you to accept the honour of the title, and to take your seat in the Lords, with all haste.”

Mr. Mornay waved his hand dismissively. “I know that; I have no time for that, now. You may tell him I'll speak with him when next I'm in town.”

Mr. Barton eyed him regretfully. “I do hope, Mr. Mornay, that you will give me leave to speak of this again to you when your wife is recovered.”

“My wife is not ill,” he returned, softly.
Was he trying to remind Mr. Barton, or himself, of that fact?

“There is one other matter, if I may be so bold.”

Mr. Mornay looked at him knowingly. “My sister-in-law.”

Mr. Barton's brows drew together in surprise. “You knew?” He was astonished, because it seemed impossible to him that Mr. Mornay could have construed his feelings regarding Beatrice when he had only so recently determined them himself! How on earth did Mornay surmise them?

“I do, now,” he said.

Mr. Barton did not know what to think. Was Mr. Mornay telling him he had known before, or that he had suspected such, and that he, Mr. Barton, had only now affirmed it? Dashed if this man wasn't some sort of mystic! No wonder the prince wanted him in his party.

“Your acquaintance with her is too short for us to discuss anything on this point,” Mornay said. “And, I must tell you, her future may already be settled.”

Mr. Barton blinked at him. “Are you telling me, sir, that she is betrothed?”

“Not exactly; no.”

Mr. Barton was still perplexed, but his brows cleared at this response. He had a new thought. “Is there a reason for which I would not wish to align my name with Miss Forsythe's? Is that what you allude to?”

Mr. Mornay took a breath. “How could that be the case, sir, when my name is linked to her family's?” Before Mr. Barton could respond, he added, “However, if a small dowry is reason enough for you to avoid an alliance, then you should reconsider. Otherwise, I merely think you are too hasty in your thoughts, and I have reason to believe there may be a prior complication.”

“A prior complication?” He stared at the man.

As if reading his thoughts, Mornay added, “Nothing to cast doubt upon her character, I assure you.”

His brows cleared. “You are referring to the incident this morning with O'Brien. I am prepared to accept the word of Miss Forsythe upon that matter.” But that had indeed been his first thought; if Miss Forsythe was in any way connected to a scandal, it would make her less of a prize; yet that in itself might not affect his hopes. In fact, it might seal his standing with Mornay, who could be grateful to the man who would take her, despite this past “complication.” He gazed evenly at his neighbour.

“May I take it then, sir, that you have no objection to me as a suitor, if this…
complication
can be resolved to your satisfaction?” This was the least he needed to know, but it was something.