Fran Baker (2 page)

“I don’t give a fig for fashion, Maret.”

“That is only too apparent, dear boy. Busick, please remove that thing from his lordship’s neck and bring me a fresh muslin.”

The valet stepped from the shadows to take the crumpled cloth from Stratford’s hand as his lordship untied it, then disappeared silently from the room. He had long been used to Mr. Maret’s dictates where his master’s dress was concerned and far from resenting the interference, actually welcomed the fact that he could influence the viscount into presenting a more fashionable appearance.

“You had best tell me what has put you into such a pet, Stratford,” Jacques said as the valet left the room. “I cannot endure an entire evening having you wear me out with this tiresome energy of yours.”

“My grandfather has decided it’s time for me to wed,” Colin told him. “And I promised him to do so as quickly as possible. The damnation of it is that I cannot think of one woman of my acquaintance for whom I would even remotely wish to offer.”

Maret studied the lines on the square face before him. He saw there what few others had ever seen, for at the moment the unhappiness was clearly etched into his lordship’s features.

“But where is your hunting spirit?” he asked lightly. “The matter seems simple enough to me—we must go on the hunt for a suitable bride for the Viscount Stratford.”

Colin put his head back and laughed with full enjoyment. “Jacques, you astound me,” he said at last. “I should have realized that only you would be capable of finding me a proper wife. By all means, let us find me a bride—tonight! Where do we conduct the hunt?”

“Lady Carmichael’s ball, of course. All the young ladies will be there displaying their wares.”

Busick returned to hand Maret a freshly starched square of muslin which the beau whipped adroitly round Stratford’s neck and skillfully tied before stepping back to admire the effect of his handiwork. “Perfect.”

“Do you think a diamond, perhaps?” Busick inquired.

“No, diamonds,” Colin said. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite, my lord,” answered that little man unhappily as he bowed out of the room.

“I believe it is time we set out to discover which lucky lady is to have the honor of becoming the Viscountess Stratford,” Maret said.

“I entrust the matter to you with complete confidence,” Colin responded as they descended the stairs.

Chapter 2

The appearance of Viscount Stratford and Jacques Maret at Lady Carmichael’s ball caused even more than their usual stir as the news of their arrival rippled through the excited belles and their grasping mamas.

“I had no idea they’d returned to Town,” whispered one turbaned matron to another.

“My dear Mrs. Baldwin, surely you realized that those two make it a habit to always be where you least expect them,” responded her companion behind her fan.

Thrilled to have London’s two most sought-after bachelors grace her evening, thus assuring the rating of her ball as a success, Lady Carmichael waited breathlessly for them to reach her. “I am so pleased,” she gushed as the pair came forward, “to have you attend my small gathering.”

Her small gathering consisted of some two hundred of the Town’s beau monde squeezed into her drawing room, numerous small salons and her columned ballroom. Several people had opted for a few rubbers of whist in the salons, but Stratford and Maret went purposefully into the marbled ballroom. There, beneath the bright glow of hundreds of candles, they were entertained by an orchestra at the far end of the room and surrounded by elegantly dressed guests passing the latest
on dits
and drinking vast amounts of flowing champagne.

“I perceive that my instincts were, as usual, correct,” intoned Maret as they stood surveying the scene. “Every fresh miss of the season is here.”

“Well, to quote the earl, pick one and be done with it,” Colin said impatiently as his dark gaze swept the room.

“Dear boy, you cannot rush an artist,” Maret protested.

They moved leisurely through the rooms, nodding to acquaintances and skillfully depressing the attentions of overzealous mamas and social climbers while intently studying and eliminating various damsels from the rank of viscountess. They were seriously regarding a slender fair beauty whom Stratford had termed delectable when that unfortunate miss laughed.

“I cannot feel that you can possibly wish for a wife whose laugh sounds like a jungle screech,” Maret remarked.

“No, I must admit, even my dogs bark more gently,” agreed the viscount. As he turned his gaze from the blonde, he suddenly said with a hint of disgust, “Oh, Lord, here comes my cousin Daniel.”

“What, the preacher-faced one?” Maret asked as he raised his quizzing glass.

“He’s a good enough fellow, but he’s so damned solemn and pure, he makes Cromwell look like a hardened libertine.”

The young man coming toward them did indeed look solemn, but there was a friendly shine to his hazel eyes that bespoke a kind nature. Physically, the two cousins were as dissimilar as their modes of life. Daniel was of moderate height rather than tall, and though he was dark like Colin, his face was more oval than square and his eyes did not turn down in the lazy manner of Stratford’s. His nose was narrow where his cousin’s was broad and no one would ever describe his straight lips as sensual. Daniel Baldwin was, moreover, of a calm temperament utterly foreign to Colin Phillips.

As he reached his cousin, Daniel stretched out a hand. “You did not rusticate long, Colin. Did Grandfather give you a proper set-down? My mother was certain he would.”

“I fear I must once again disappoint my Aunt Minerva,” Stratford replied. “I believe you are not acquainted with my friend, Jacques Maret? My cousin, Daniel Baldwin.”

Baldwin bowed correctly, but the friendly light went out of his eyes. Mr. Maret was, in his opinion, a disturbing influence on one whose tendencies were already far too wind. Stratford’s reckless escapades had long been a source of embarrassment to the Baldwin side of the family, whose members were forever counseling the young viscount to more sedate pursuits, thus spurring Stratford on to some of his worst scrapes.

With a coldness that quite amused Jacques, Daniel turned away from him to inquire of his cousin, “Why did you not stay longer at Hallbrook? I’m certain Grandfather would have liked your company and it would do you no harm to ruralize for a bit.”

Colin gritted his teeth at this, prompted by his resentment of such advice to reply, “As a matter of fact, it is on the earl’s directive that I am here. He wishes me to take a wife—something I fear I cannot do by remaining at the Keep.” He leaned toward Maret, who was scanning the crowds through his beribboned glass. “Have you seen any prospects yet, Jacques? If we spend all night looking for my bride, we’ll not have time for a game of piquet at White’s.”

“What is this?” Baldwin looked from one to the other with a grave frown.

“Maret is being so obliging as to find me a likely chit,” Stratford offered as bait. He was rewarded, for his cousin’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in dismay.

“You cannot be serious!” he protested. “Marriage is not a matter for such levity.”

The viscount shrugged and said with a wide yawn, “Why not? One petticoat is much like another. It makes no odds to me which of them shares my name.”

“Colin, if this is your idea of a joke—” Daniel began.

“Unless I mistake,” Maret cut in, “a thing which I am not prone to do, that little beauty will utterly destroy the current fashion for blondes.”

The two followed Maret’s gaze and saw a lovely vision in white satin and lace sitting delicately on a gilt chair across the room.

Miss Helen Lawrence was a petite brunette of breathtaking beauty. Had she been named for Helen of Troy it would have been no less than her due. Beneath a crown of glossy chestnut curls was a finely structured oval face in which two dainty brows were arched over sparkling blue eyes and a small straight nose was centered above a pair of red heart-shaped lips. These features came delightfully together in her creamy face to such effect that all three men were, for a lengthy pause, awe-struck. Her figure, too, was such as must please even the most discriminating, being small, graceful and proportioned exactly.

“She appears a suitable viscountess,” Colin said at length. “I commend you, Jacques. Your taste, as always, is impeccable.”

Maret continued to eye the lovely girl as she laughed with a cheerful blonde seated next to her. “What do you wager, Stratford?” he asked.

“A hundred guineas that she’s mine within a fortnight,” Colin promptly answered.

“Are you that uncertain of your charm? I should say five hundred would be nearer the mark,” his friend said as he dropped his glass and faced him, amusement stamping his face with a faint tinge of color.

“My god!” Baldwin exclaimed in horror. “You cannot place a wager upon Miss Lawrence as if she were some horse!”

“Observe, Maret, how the fates smile upon your choice. My good cousin knows the beauty. Introduce us, Daniel.”

“No,” said that worthy flatly. “I will not be made a party to this improper charade.”

Stratford studied his cousin with an amused glint. “My dear Maret,” he began sweetly, “did I ever tell you of the time I called upon Cordelia Glover in her private boudoir only to find my cousin—”

“Colin,” Daniel interrupted, “you cannot wish to tell that tale.”

“On the contrary, cousin. I shall enjoy relating that little incident to everyone here—including, I perceive, your dear mama. Unless, that is, you introduce me to Miss Lawrence.”

“But that’s infamous!”

Colin laughed outright at this, then turned to Maret. “Five hundred it is, Jacques. To be doubled if I have her within the week.” The terms were accepted with a half-bow and Stratford directed a curt command to his cousin. “Daniel, lead us on to the future Viscountess Stratford.”

“I must protest this entire disgraceful proceeding. Your behavior is scandalous.”

“I do hope so,” the viscount drawled, giving his cousin a gentle nudge toward the beauty.

The trio crossed the room in silence, arriving at their destination as the strains of the waltz being played came to an end. Pushing through a knot of gentlemen surrounding the gilt chair containing their object, Baldwin bowed to an older lady seated on the left, “Good evening, Mrs. Thacker.”

She responded with a surprisingly youthful smile. “Good evening Mr. Baldwin. I’ve seen your mother here, but have not yet had a chance to speak with her. All is well with you?”

“Yes, ma’am. May I present my cousin, Viscount Stratford, and a friend, Mr. Maret?” Daniel said stiffly as the pair moved forward. “They have been looking forward to meeting you. Gentlemen, Mrs. Thacker, a dear friend of my mother’s.”

An amused, knowing glint came into her eye. She nodded at each in turn, saying, “How do you do? I should like to make you known to my daughter, Miss Amelia Thacker—”she indicated the giggling blonde on the beauty’s other side—“and my niece, Miss Helen Lawrence.”

The dark goddess looked up, her lovely lips forming a silent circle as she saw the two handsome men—the one so very dark, the other so very fair—standing before her.

“I am happy to meet you,” she murmured in a musical voice.

“Not near so happy as I,” Stratford said with a perfect bow. “May I dare hope you will honor me with a dance?”

She hesitated, glancing toward her aunt. When that lady tipped her head in a brief nod, Miss Lawrence rose gracefully and said in a soft voice, “Of course, my lord. It is I who am honored.”

With practiced ease, Stratford extracted Miss Lawrence from her ring of admiring beaux and led her into the set then forming. They began the country dance in silence, but presently, as the steps brought them together, the viscount remarked, “I must remember to say my prayers this evening.”

“My lord?” questioned Miss Lawrence, her puzzled smile displaying two delightful dimples at the corners of her pretty mouth.

“I must certainly thank the Fates that led me here to meet you tonight,” he replied with his most charming smile. “I begin to appreciate young Montague’s feelings upon meeting Juliet.”

Miss Helen blushed. She could not be unaware of her beauty, but she was not used to such outright flattery and had, indeed, always felt herself unworthy of such compliments as her loveliness brought forth. Watching the light mantle of color rise over her cheeks, Stratford coolly calculated his next remark.

“I wonder that I have not seen you before, Miss Lawrence.”

“I’ve not been in London long,” she responded, thankful to have the subject changed. “Indeed, this is my first ball, though I’ve been several times to the Assembly Rooms in Norwich.”

“You are from Norfolk, then?”

“Yes, my lord. Our home is in Willowley near Norwich.”

“It is a great pity that I’ve never before had occasion to visit Willowley near Norwich,” he said softly.

The speaking look beneath the heavy lids unnerved her and she colored prettily as she stammered a brief reply. As he continued to rake her over lazily with his dark eyes, she managed to observe, “Lady Carmichael must be vastly admired, for there are ever so many people here.”

“It is my belief that is because they all knew what I did not . . . that you were to be here tonight.”

She paused, then made a fresh attempt. “Your cousin, Mr. Baldwin, has been very kind. He escorted Amel—Miss Thacker—and me to Astley’s yesterday.”

“I trust that in future, Miss Lawrence, you will have no need to look to my cousin for escort.”

When the dance took her away from the viscount, Miss Helen felt a wave of relief. His fulsome compliments, delivered as they were with an easy charm that never dispelled the mockery from his black eyes, had quite overset her. She was a simple, direct girl, not used to the light manners of the
ton
. She had never before encountered the art of dalliance as practiced by society and was unsure how to respond to Stratford’s flirtatious comments.

He resumed when they again drew close by stating, “The bucks in Willowley must be flatter than the Broads there to have let you out of the vicinity.”