Too Many Matchmakers Page 3

She had accepted Harry out of desperation, needing to escape from her father’s estate. By the time he offered, she had no longer been able to leave the house, for Nicholas beckoned from behind every tree. His whispers drowned the gurgling of the stream; his spicy cologne floated on every breeze. But staying indoors did not help. He invaded dreams, his last taunting tirade echoing through myriad nightmares. So she had wed Lord Bounty. He was the antithesis of Nicholas – old, wrinkled, safe, and so very, very kind. And he promised to take her away where maybe, someday, she could forget.

  Dear Harry. He had never blamed her for succumbing to Nicholas’s wiles. Rakes were experienced at seduction. She had been a sheltered innocent looking for a romantic hero. The results were inevitable.

  But she had never accepted Harry’s absolution. Despite her innocence, she had known better. Ladies did not talk to gentlemen without a proper introduction. Ladies did not wander about the countryside unchaperoned. They did not make assignations. And they certainly did not allow scandalous liberties.

  Her face heated at just how many liberties she had allowed. Fool! Many times a fool.

  But it was over. Done. Finished. She could not remake the past. All she could do was learn from her mistakes.

  And the lesson in this case was clear – avoid Nicholas.

  Wresting her eyes from his house, she collected a book and forced her mind onto reading.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nicholas pried his eyes open and glared at his valet. Stubbs had dragged the draperies back, letting sunlight stream through the window. From the angle, it couldn’t be much past nine. He should have changed his orders when he’d staggered in at dawn, but he had been too disgusted with himself to think of it.

  Stifling a groan, he tried to push memory aside and concentrate on business. His solicitor would call at eleven, and his man of business at two. Dealing with them would require a sharp mind. Each had clear-cut ideas of what was proper for a marquess. They always argued vociferously over any deviation, but if he remained firm, they carried out his orders to the letter.

  Justin had once asked him why he tolerated such disrespect from his employees, but it was merely good business. Open discussion raised questions that might otherwise have been overlooked. He rarely regretted a business decision. But to be effective, he must be able to think.

  That was especially important today, for assuming control of his uncle’s title and fortune was proving to be far more difficult than he had anticipated. The Woodvale affairs were a tangled mess of questionable investments and poorly managed properties. Servants ranged from very good to potential thieves. Repairs had often been shoddy or ignored. Today’s meetings were only the latest in what promised to be a nearly endless string. Why couldn’t his uncle have been as methodical about his affairs as his grandmother had been about hers?

  His head was far from clear. Cursing under his breath, he sat up and massaged his temples.

  “Have you a headache, sir?” asked Stubbs.

  “Not today.” If only he had overindulged in wine. That morning penalty would have righted itself soon enough. What plagued him was a flaw in his character that he had never before suspected.

  Settling into a chair so Stubbs could shave him, he faced the truth. Lady Runyon had been as insatiable as ever last evening, but he hadn’t enjoyed her. He hadn’t wanted her even before taking her home. So why had he accepted her suggestion? It was a question he had asked three mornings in a row. The answer still eluded him.

  Though he had abandoned raking only two years ago, it had been eight years since he had last indulged in the indiscriminate liaisons he seemed powerless to avoid now. Had a two-year absence from town revived the instincts of a greenling? Or was this symptomatic of a deeper problem?

  Giving up old habits had seemed easy, but in truth he had faced little temptation. His own estate was fairly isolated, and the months at Woodvale Abbey had passed in uncertainty over his status. But none of that explained his recent loss of control. Three liaisons in three nights. A courtesan, an actress, and a society matron who could count more gentlemen to her credit than the other two combined. He had wanted none of them. He had enjoyed none of them – which made his behavior all the more frustrating, for his loss of control reminded him too much of his father.

  He stifled a grimace, lest Stubbs cut his throat.

  Lord James Barrington had rarely curbed his passions, even when they threatened him with danger. He had been a reckless gamester, excusing his massive losses by pointing to the occasional big win. Investments were no different. He had squandered an ample younger son’s portion, lost every shilling of his wife’s substantial dowry, and died deeply in debt.

  In like manner the man’s long string of affairs proved he had rarely curbed his lust. Nor had he bothered to control his temper, cursing his family for disowning him and flying into rages whenever his will was crossed. He had died when a particularly virulent argument triggered an apoplectic fit.

  Nicholas’s disdain was longstanding. He had little tolerance for poor judgment, and he despised wastrels. Which made it hard to admit that his own judgment seemed sadly lacking these days. Why was he back to behaving like a green cub? The loss of control was terrifying – nearly as bad as that summer in Warwickshire.

  It would not happen again, he vowed once Stubbs had removed the last of the soap. He was the Marquess of Woodvale, not some bumbling lad just down from school. He would do nothing without careful thought. No one would ever point to him as an example of a son following in his father’s footsteps. Turning his attention to dressing, he snapped orders to Stubbs with all the finesse of a major general.

  * * * *

  Sheridan Prescott, Earl of Bankleigh, finally rose from the table so the gentlemen could join the ladies in the drawing room. Nicholas glanced at the case clock in the hallway as he followed his host. Attending this dinner was necessary and remarkably boring. But it would be at least another hour before he could leave without insult.

  Since acceding to the title, he had fielded dozens of requests for money, for favors, and for support of investment schemes ranging from the dangerous to the absurd. He refused to help anyone he did not know personally. His man of business could check on the soundness of a venture, but Nicholas needed to know if the money was likely to be invested at all.

  His father’s ostracism had kept him from attending family gatherings in his youth, so he knew few of his relatives. To rectify that problem, he was accepting invitations to social affairs that included family. Lady Bankleigh was a cousin, and the guest list also contained other connections – Prescotts and Barringtons had wed one another so often that their family trees resembled a Gordian knot – so many of tonight’s guests wanted favors.

  Roger Barrington had regaled him with details of a canal venture he wished to back – if only he had the money. His brother Dudley wanted Nicholas to meet an inventor who needed a patron. Both had been frustrated when dinner was announced before they had gained his support. Both would pounce the moment he entered the drawing room. Only their position at the far end of the table had prevented them from ruining his dinner.

  He sighed. He needed time alone. Surprisingly, he missed the quiet he had found in the country, though he would endure torture rather than admit it to his London friends. Slipping into the library, he settled into a wing chair by the window that by day would offer a glimpse of the garden. What should he do about Roger and Dudley? Or about any of his relatives?

  The day had gone from bad to worse. The Woodvale affairs were twisted more than he’d thought, making him wonder how his very astute grandmother had produced sons who were completely lacking. The list of relatives living on his largess was growing alarmingly. Some oversaw minor properties, occupied vicarages in his parishes, or held seats in Commons that were under his control. Others were elderly, with no place to go. But too many seemed to have no purpose in life. That would have to change.

  At least Lady Bankleigh was not one of his dependents. Her husband had a con
siderable fortune. Her only problem – according to her pre-dinner complaints – was their youngest daughter, Sophia, who had reached the advanced age of two-and-twenty without making a match, despite that her dowry was £20,000 plus a lucrative estate.

  So what should he do about Roger and Dudley? Aside from his own distrust of canal ventures, Roger appeared to be a credulous idiot. Loaning him funds would be pouring money down a rat hole. It would be better to find the lad a position that would separate him from temptation. But Dudley was different. Though younger than Roger, he seemed astute. Nicholas wasn’t ready to promise his patronage, but it might be worth his time to meet the inventor.

  Having reached a decision, he was about to rise when the library door opened to admit two ladies.

  “I won’t countenance rudeness to a guest,” stated Lady Bankleigh implacably. “Any guest. Snubbing Charles was unconscionable.”

  “But he shouldn’t even be here,” protested Sophia. “What possessed you to invite the Langleys to a family gathering?”

  Nicholas sank deeper into his chair. It was too late to reveal his presence. He could only hope they would leave quickly.

  “Lord and Lady Langley are friends, and you know very well why we included Charles. But giving him a disgust of you changes nothing. It merely validates your reputation for sharp-tongued arrogance. You have become far too particular, Sophia, which is why your father had to arrange an offer. Charles needs your dowry too badly to allow bad manners to put him off, and he has the spirit and determination to control your megrims once you are wed. You still have a choice, though. If you dislike Charles, then accept someone else. But one way or the other, you will wed this Season.”

  A sniff hinted that Sophia was on the verge of tears.

  “Pull yourself together,” commanded Lady Bankleigh. “No lady displays unseemly emotion. You, of all people, should know that. I will expect you in the drawing room in ten minutes. Your behavior will reflect your breeding and your training, starting with an apology to Charles. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “If you tarnish your image, you will reduce your chances of bringing someone else up to scratch.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Lady Bankleigh departed. Nicholas slumped in his chair, hoping to escape detection. But Sophia did not remain by the door.

  “My lord!” she gasped, freezing near the window.

  “Sorry to eavesdrop,” he said with a shrug. “But you gave me no chance to gracefully leave. Do they really expect you to accept Mr. Langley?”

  “Yes.” The word sent tears coursing down her face. “How can they be so unreasonable? He is a rake, a rogue, and a wastrel, caring for nothing and no one. And he is naught but another fortune hunter, with no money and seven people between him and a title.”

  “Then why would your parents force you to wed him?” He was not intimate with the Bankleighs, but they seemed caring. Forcing their daughter into an unsuitable match did not fit his impressions.

  “They are not exactly forcing me,” she admitted, settling onto an adjacent chair and dabbing at her eyes. “But when I remained unwed after my fourth Season, Papa swore that it would not happen again.”

  “What is wrong with London gentlemen that you have received no offers?” She was not a beauty, but neither was she an antidote. He did not know her well, but her training seemed impeccable, and her dowry was enormous. Why had the eighth marquess not found her a match if her father was incapable of doing so? As head of the family, it was his duty. Of course, Nicholas had already discovered that the man had performed only those duties that required little effort.

  “It is not the lack of offers that Papa hates, but the fact that I have turned them down. I despise fortune hunters and am uncomfortable with frivolity. But beyond that, I wish to marry for love. My dearest school friend made a love match. She positively glows, even after four years of marriage and two children. But I’ve not met anyone I truly care about.”

  “Have you discussed your feelings with your parents?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve tried, but they do not believe in romantic love, especially in the upper classes.”

  “But they do care for you, so why would they force you into accepting Charles?” he asked again.

  “They are using him to pressure me. His parents are their closest friends. He needs money. I have money. So they have decreed that unless I accept another offer this Season, I must wed Charles in July.”

  “Has he offered for you, then?”

  She sighed. “I’ve not spoken with him since they delivered their ultimatum. In fact, Mother’s complaint tonight arose because I cut him in the drawing room. I know of no formal offer. I cannot believe that he likes me, but he must have agreed. How else could they enforce their threat?”

  “Is there anyone else you care about?”

  “No one. But somehow I must find a husband.”

  He sighed. “Perhaps I can produce a suitable candidate.” He mentally reviewed the list of single gentlemen he knew well enough to approach. Featherstone and Wilkington were dedicated rakes, Linkley drank too much, Oglethorpe would game away every penny of her dowry without a qualm. Did he know no one decent? “What about Sir Francis Pelham? He has a comfortable fortune of his own.”

  She snorted. “He is a shameless flirt who spends all his time in London, Brighton, or his friends’ hunting boxes. I cannot abide living in town.”

  “Lord Houghington?”

  “Surely you jest. He hasn’t a thought in his head beyond clothes. Granted he is not a flirt, but the only thing he cares deeply about is cleanliness. Moving to the country would horrify him.”

  “Lord Albright?”

  “A crashing bore. His interests encompass only horses and pugilism.”

  “Lord Jefferson Janssen?”

  “I’ve already turned him down twice. Have you ever seen his poetry? It is enough to put one off food for a month.”

  “I can see why your mother believes you to be too particular. Jeff is a very solid specimen and one of my more reputable friends. The verse is actually written by his cousin, who is arguably the worst poet in history.”

  “It doesn’t matter who wrote it. Lord Jefferson quotes it. How can one be serious about a man who can compare my eyes to Scylla and Charybdis with a straight face?”

  He was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. “I can see that your mind is quite made up. Perhaps I can find someone that you have not already met.”

  “Thank you, but I fear it is hopeless. It would help more if you would convince Charles to withhold any offer.” Bidding him farewell, she returned to the drawing room.

  Nicholas pondered her situation for several minutes, but could find no real solution. Nor was he certain that the threat was real. Perhaps it was Bankleigh’s way of forcing her to seriously consider her suitors. She was, indeed, excessively particular.

  But he could not be sure of their motives, so his first step must be to meet Charles Langley. He knew little of the fellow, who was at least six years his junior.

  Half an hour later, Langley accompanied him to White’s, pouncing on the chance to leave Bankleigh House – not the reaction of a willing suitor.

  “You must be relieved to be back in London,” Langley commented over a hand of cards. “Country living palls rapidly.”

  Nicholas said nothing.

  “You might want to cultivate Lady Forester, by the way. She likes to play coy, but I’ve heard she’s worth it.”

  “Is she?” The sparkle in Langley’s eyes and the slight curl of his lip hinted at personal experience with the lady.

  “So they say. Forester ignores her dallying. He never intended to wed her.”

  “I heard otherwise.”

  “Fustian! He was stuck in the country for a few weeks and needed a flirt. She knew from the beginning that he wasn’t serious.”

  “So what happened?”

  Langley shrugged. “She must have set him up. If he had known her parentage, he never wou
ld have risked it. But he thought she was a daughter of one of the tenants. She led him on for a month, then arranged to have him caught stealing her virtue. Her parents demanded an immediate wedding, of course. And their breeding was just high enough that they made it stick. That was last autumn. They’ve been in town ever since. He is as licentious as ever, but at least he lets her go her own way.”

  “Not all husbands are so tolerant.”

  “The smart ones are. All wives stray once they’ve produced an heir. Forester already has one, so why should she wait? All she wanted was a title and wealth.”

  He bit back a sharp reply. Langley was young yet. At that age, he had spouted the same nonsense. “Dalliance is hardly universal,” he said mildly. “Plenty of husbands demand fidelity from their wives. A goodly number even expect it of themselves.”

  “Until they spot a trim ankle or a well-endowed bosom.” His voice was unusually cynical. “My trick.”

  Nicholas nodded, shuffling cards for a new game. Was Langley’s cynicism real, or was he trying to convince himself that marriage to Sophia would be bearable? If it was the latter, then Sophia would face an even worse future than she feared.

  Justin arrived in the card room. “Hawkins and Bowles are racing tomorrow,” he said, pausing behind Nicholas to watch the game.

  “Where?” asked Nicholas. A crowd was gathering around his table. He rarely played cards in the clubs, so curiosity was inevitable.

  “Hampstead to Finchley, to Highgate, and back. About ten miles,” said Lord Jefferson Janssen.

  “Should be a good race,” predicted Farley. “Bowles has that new pair of chestnuts.”

  Langley dealt.

  Even as Nicholas focused on his cards, one ear listened to the discussion of the race. It was a habit developed from years of practice. He no longer needed wagers to support himself, but he still filed personal details that might someday come in handy.

  “The chestnuts are flashy, but they’ll never beat Hawkins’s grays,” swore Shelford.

  Shelford knew horses. He was a renowned member of the Four-in-Hand Club and had set numerous speed records over the years.