It was not as if the Bannisters were in urgent need of funds. Whatever his failings as a father and brother, Squire Bannister was a knowledgeable agriculturalist and a competent landlord. His farms brought in excellent rents, though any stranger entering the room where Chloe sat might have been pardoned for doubting it.
She glanced about the shabby parlour, dingier than ever in the chill grey light of the rainy April day. Edgar saw no point in lavishing the blunt on new furniture and carpets which his muddy riding boots and breeches and his muddier dogs were certain to besmirch in no time.
Dene Manor had more than enough rooms to set aside one as dog-free. Chloe had never dared suggest such sacrilege.
As though aware of her thoughts, the setter slouched on the hearthrug pricked up his ears, then rose and came to lay his head on her lap. Hastily she moved her sewing out of his way. Georgina’s letter fluttered to the floor.
“What am I to do, Fury?” she asked, scratching behind his silky ears. He closed his eyes in bliss.
Her eldest nephew strode into the room. “Aunt Chloe, Merrow says there’s a letter from Georgie?” Seeing the paper on the floor, he stooped to pick it up.
“It’s addressed to me, but you had best read it, John. I need your advice.”
“Mine?” The sturdy young man positively glowed. Though proudly in charge of the estate during his father’s absence, he was not accustomed to being consulted by the aunt who had been a mother to him for half his life.
He dropped into a chair. Fury changed allegiances, and John absently fondled his head as he read.
“Look at these spots, she’s been crying!” he said indignantly. “Can Father really make her marry an ancient cradle-snatcher?”
“You know your father,” Chloe said.
“He’ll bully her into it. But nothing you can say will make him change his mind. Just going up to Town without his express command would be enough make him kick up a fine dust. He’ll foam at the mouth if you try to argue with him.”
Chloe shuddered. “Yes, but how can I abandon Georgie without even trying?”
“Then you want to go?”
“I don’t want to go.” Nothing could be further from her wishes than to travel so far from her Lancashire home, to a terrifyingly unknown metropolis, to confront her choleric brother. “I feel I must. At least I should be there to support her spirits.”
“I hate to think of poor Georgie alone. Doro will not be of the least use to her.” He scanned the letter again. “Sir Lionel Tiverton—what business has he taking a bride of eighteen? I wish I could go with you and have it out with the old goat, but what with the planting and the lambing....”
“No, you cannot leave Dene, John. Edgar would never trust you again. But you have given me an idea. If he proves adamant—”
“When he proves adamant.”
“I shall try whether this Sir Lionel will not be more reasonable. Surely he cannot have considered the feelings of a young girl tied to an elderly gentleman, the natural repugnance....” Chloe could not continue. Her own father had proposed just such a match for her, and only the decrepit bridegroom’s timely demise had saved her from the fate now threatening Georgina.
* * * *
“Darling Aunt Chloe, I knew you would come to the rescue!”
Chloe turned from the superb Canaletto view of Venice hanging over the marble mantelpiece, just in time to catch her niece in her arms. Georgie hugged her fiercely.
“I am come, dearest, and I will do my utmost, but you must not count on your papa listening to me.”
“At least you are here. You cannot guess how I have missed you.”
“And I you, Georgie.” Chloe had not meant to make that confession. It was in the nature of things that her charges must grow up and go their own ways.
Come autumn her youngest nephew, Paul, would be off to join Bernard, his middle brother, at school. Dorothea was Lady Welch. John was courting the vicar’s daughter, a pleasant, sensible girl who would rightly expect to take over the reins of the Dene Manor household when they wed. And Georgina was bound to find a husband to her liking soon, if, by a miracle, Chloe contrived to preserve her from the aged Sir Lionel.
“Doro is sympathetic when she remembers,” Georgie said, “but you know how she is. She cannot keep her mind on any subject for more than two minutes together. And my brother-in-law and Lord and Lady Chingford are all that is civil but quite distant. I cannot confide in them.”
“It was very obliging in Lord Welch’s parents to invite you to stay for the Season.”
“I wish they had not!”
“Come now, dearest, you cannot tell me you have not enjoyed yourself at all.” With a tired smile, Chloe looked her favourite niece up and down. She was a charming sight in a fashionable high-waisted gown of peach sarsnet, her light brown curls threaded with a matching ribbon. “Gracious, such elegance. What is this nonsense about not being pretty enough to snare a peer?”
“I shall never be half so beautiful as Doro,” Georgie said dispassionately, drawing Chloe down to sit beside her on a blue striped satin sofa. “It takes that sort of beauty to be noticed if one has neither great family nor great fortune.”
“Dorothea is a beautiful widgeon. You have ten times her intelligence!”
“Most gentlemen do not wish for intelligence in a wife. Only look at how Lord Welch adores Dorothea.”
“Still? I own I have felt some concern as to whether he might grow disillusioned.”
“No need to fret, Aunt Chloe. He is not much cleverer, just enough to let him feel superior! But even if some clever men desire a clever wife, one must first attract notice or there is no opportunity for conversation. The balls in London are quite different from the assemblies at home, where one knows everybody except a few visitors—like Lord Welch when Doro caught his eye. Here the gentlemen see me as just one among dozens of hopeful young ladies.”
“But you do have admirers, Georgie,” Chloe said, distressed.
“Oh yes, young men with insufficient prospects to please the blue-blooded heiresses, or Papa. And Sir Lionel.” Georgina raised hopeful brown eyes to meet Chloe’s. Her expression changed abruptly. “Oh, how selfish I am, dear Aunt. You are much too tired to think about my troubles this afternoon.”
“I daresay I look positively hag-ridden,” Chloe said wryly. “As Edgar’s travelling carriage is here in London, I came overnight by the Mail rather than face the expense and complications of a post-chaise and having to stay alone at an inn. I am not certain what I ought to do tonight. Lady Chingford is not expecting me. She will think me horridly encroaching.”
“I’ll ask Doro,” said Georgie, rising, but at that moment the drawing-room door flew open and her father strode in.
“Chloe!” he bellowed. Already, rich food and lack of exercise had increased his bulk, though city living had not noticeably paled the carmine complexion. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Chloe flinched. After a few weeks of blissful peace and quiet she found herself unprepared for Edgar’s loud, perpetually angry voice. The thought of the storm she would raise when she explained her errand appalled her. Her head began to ache.
“Hello, Edgar,” she said apprehensively.
“Hello? Is that all you have to say for yourself? You’re supposed to be supervising the dairy and poultry yard at home, not gadding about like a damn spring chicken!”
“John promised to keep an eye on the maids, though they are all quite competent and honest.”
Her brother snorted. “They’ll steal me blind without constant watching.”
“It is only for a few days, Edgar.”
“And what about Paul?”
“He has gone to stay with the vicar while I am away, so he will not miss his lessons, nor run wild.”
“It’s you that’s run wild, devil take it! What the deuce do you mean by chasing after—?”
“How do you do, Miss Bannister,” said a cool, calm voice. A tall woman advanced into the room, richly clad in a pomona-green gown of gros de Naples silk, trimmed with yards of the finest Valenciennes lace. Her cap was an elaborate froth of matching lace lavishly adorned with green satin bows and ribbons. She made Chloe feel drab and dowdy in her practical carriage dress of slate-grey merino, the one she often wore at home to drive the gig to the village or to visit tenants.
Edgar fell back, bowing. “You recall my sister, Lady Chingford?” he enquired in a much moderated tone.
“Naturally. I trust your journey was not too shockingly tiresome, ma’am?”
“A little, thank you, my lady.” Chloe curtsied.
She was not surprised at Edgar’s respectful demeanour. Quite apart from his esteem for a title, the Countess of Chingford was an imposing figure who would certainly not allow herself to be browbeaten by a mere country squire. Only habitual indulgence toward her son could explain why she had permitted him to marry a lovely nobody like Dorothea.
Meeting her at their wedding, Chloe had found her distinctly awe-inspiring. Now, travel-worn and uninvited, she felt altogether inadequate to deal with her ladyship.
To her relief, Lady Chingford did not ask her reason for coming but merely said, “Dorothea will be happy to see you. I expect you will like to take a dish of tea while a chamber is prepared for you. Pray ring the bell, Miss Georgina.”
Over tea, Chloe meekly, if sincerely, agreed that she would be glad to lie down for an hour or two. Edgar took himself off with a disgruntled mutter about an appointment at his club. Dorothea came in and greeted Chloe with delight.
Blue-eyed and golden-haired, Doro was an amiable, sunny young lady, not at all vain. Her manners and conduct were above reproach, thanks to her compliant nature and her aunt’s training. Chloe had early realized that to attempt to inculcate anything more profound into that featherhead would be labour lost. She was not at all surprised when her elder niece showed not the least curiosity about the reason for her unexpected visit.
Lady Chingford was taking both girls to pay some calls and visit a modiste. Before leaving, Georgie escorted Chloe up to a small but elegantly appointed chamber, the bed and window hung with rose-pink damask.
“Go properly to bed and sleep,” she urged. “We shall drive in the Park after the modiste, so we’ll be out for several hours. When I come back you will be rested and we can discuss what to do about Sir Lionel. I know you will think of something. Bless you for coming, dearest Aunt.”
“I only hope I can be of some use,” Chloe said wearily.
Her clothes had already been unpacked for her. A maid brought hot water and took away her carriage dress to be cleaned. After washing off the worst of the travel dirt, Chloe unpinned and brushed her long, fair hair, then slipped between smooth sheets, lavender-scented just like at Dene.
The bed was as comfortable as it was elegant, yet slumber eluded her. Her stomach rumbled ominously, reminded by the cup of tea that dinner yesterday was two spoonfuls of lukewarm soup, breakfast a buttered roll hastily downed before the Mail dashed on. It was her own fault. Too timid to assert herself with a demand for fast service in the inns’ coffee-rooms, she had been equally too shy to ask the countess for something to eat with her tea.
There was no getting away from it, she was a milk-and-water person, Chloe told herself sadly. By the age of six-and-thirty she ought to have learned to stand up for herself, or at least to stand up to Edgar rather than shaking in her shoes whenever he raised his voice. Instead here she lay, unable to find oblivion in sleep, filled with dread at the coming interview.
But Georgina relied upon her. She had to compose herself and prepare her arguments. Since she could not sleep, perhaps a walk would calm her spirits, as it always did at home.
When she recalled Lady Chingford’s silk and lace, Chloe’s best walking dress, a blue cambric muslin, seemed woefully provincial. For want of better she donned it, adding a darker blue spencer. She pinned up her hair, put on her chipstraw bonnet with the blue ribbons, found her gloves, and made her way down to the vestibule. A footman in grey livery and white wig stood there, a trifle intimidating in his stiff impassivity.
Lily-livered she might be, but Chloe refused to let herself be intimidated by a servant. “If anyone asks for me,” she said, “tell them I shall be back shortly. I am going for a walk.”
A flicker of surprise was instantly suppressed. “Alone, miss? You don’t wish me to attend you?” he enquired stolidly.
“No, thank you.” On a sudden impulse, she asked, “Do you happen to know where Sir Lionel Tiverton resides?”
“Yes, miss. Sir Lionel is staying with his sister, Lady Molesworth, on Albemarle Street. Number 14, I believe.”
He gave her directions and opened the front door for her. Setting off along the pavement, Chloe thought she might as well go and take a look at the old gentleman’s residence. It might inspire her with some idea of how to approach him when, inevitably, she failed with Edgar.
The traffic in the streets was fascinating. Carriages of every size and description rumbled past with jingling harnesses and hooves clopping on the cobbles; the pedestrians ranged from ladies and gentlemen clad in the height of fashion to a grimy sweep and his black-faced boys; pedlars hawked everything from clean sand for scouring pots to hot pies with a savoury smell that made Chloe’s mouth water. Her empty stomach squawked so loudly she was surprised no one turned to stare. Unfortunately she had left her purse behind, or she would have abandoned genteel manners and devoured a pie right there in the street.
Her mind on food, Chloe came to Number 14, Albemarle Street. She stepped up to the green front door and rapped with the brass lion-head knocker before she recollected she had only been going to look.
Aghast, she was ready to turn and run, but the door swung open.
“Yes, madam?” said the black-clad butler.
Chloe gazed at him in despair. It was no good asking for Lady Molesworth: how would she explain her visit? Her only hope was that Sir Lionel was out or, more likely in view of his age, taking an afternoon nap.
“Is Sir Lionel Tiverton at home?” she asked, heart in mouth.
“If you will step in, madam, I shall enquire.” Closing the door behind her, he proffered a silver salver.