Gayle Buck (14 page)

“She is a merchant’s daughter,” said Lord St. John harshly. “I have it on good authority that it is a wealthy family. You will find out more about that, I trust. Pray keep me informed as to the progress of the negotiations.”

The enormity of what he was hearing, and the significance of the other unknown names on the list, hit Mr. Witherspoon so strongly that he was startled into indiscretion. “My lord! Surely you cannot actually contemplate—”

“I can. And I will.” Lord St. John’s voice was steely, its very harshness not brooking question. He turned his head to stare at the secretary. “That will be all, Witherspoon.”

It was dismissal, utter and final. Mr. Witherspoon knew the futility of addressing the viscount when his lordship wore that particular implacability upon his face. Without further words, the secretary bowed and left the room, his bearing stiff with shock. Softly he closed the door behind him.

Lord St. John returned to the occasional table, where he poured himself an ample glass of wine. He lifted it, but instead of setting it to his lips, he stared down into the depths of the fine burgundy for several seconds.

With a violent gesture, he threw the wineglass against the wainscotted wall. The glass shattered, showering wine and sharp shards of crystal.

He felt the sting of tiny cuts in his face and on his hands, but he merely leaned over the occasional table, his head bent, his weight borne by his rigid arms and hands.

The door flew open and a footman rushed in, alarm on his countenance. “My lord! Is there aught amiss?”

Lord St. John turned his head. His eyes were murderously cold. Low and savage, he said, “Get out.”

Visibly recoiling, the footman instantly obeyed.

Chapter 13

Mr. Pepperidge came home early from the City, an unusual occurrence in itself. His mind was obviously exercised by something of grave import. His forehead was deeply creased and there was an expression of fierce inner concentration in his eyes, so that his response to his daughter’s surprised greeting was somewhat vague.

Mary recognized that her father was faced with a puzzle of great proportion. She did not inquire into her father’s abstraction, being familiar enough with his habits to know that eventually he would unburden himself to her once he was in a fair way to making a decision.

After dinner, when they had retired to the drawing room as was their comfortable custom and the coffee had been served, Mr. Pepperidge finally came out of his preoccupation. “Mary, I have had an extraordinary communication today.”

“Indeed, Papa? Has it to do with the South American trade?” Mary asked, calmly embroidering.

“Nothing so mundane as that, my dear,” said Mr. Pepperidge, a troubled note in his voice.

Mary looked up, surprised. That her father would term his greatest mercantile venture as mundane portended something in truth quite extraordinary. “Then whatever can it be?”

Mr. Pepperidge seemed strangely hesitant to launch into an explanation. He uncharacteristically fidgeted in his chair and Mary felt the first stirrings of alarm. Her fingers stilled. “Papa, it is not Tabitha? You have not had ill news, surely. Or William?”

“No, no, nothing of that sort,” Mr. Pepperidge said, making haste to reassure her. He waved his wide hand dismissively. “If it were that simple I should have no difficulty in deciding what would be for the best.”

Mary let her embroidery hoop drop to her lap as she regarded her father with liveliest concern. “Papa, you have succeeded in riveting my attention to an uncommon degree. I do hope that you mean to spare me unnecessary suspense.”

Mr. Pepperidge grunted. He put his hand inside his coat and withdrew a neatly folded parchment. “This is what has exercised my mind so powerfully. It is truly an extraordinary communication. You cannot imagine my astonishment, nor my feelings of mixed dismay and hope, upon reading its content. I am unable to form a proper reply to its author until I have discussed its content with you, for, in short, it has to do with you.”

“I? What could anyone possibly write you about me?” asked Mary, bewildered and astounded.

“Mary, I have received an offer for your hand in marriage,” said Mr. Pepperidge, quite baldly.

Mary received the news in stunned silence, her lips parting. She stared at the parchment in her father’s hand for a long moment. Then her eyes lifted to his somber face and she gave a breathless, disbelieving chuckle. “You must be jesting, Papa.”

“I have never been more sober in my life. I could have been knocked over with a feather when I first read it. Indeed, I am just now coming to accepting its content,” said Mr. Pepperidge.

He leaned over to hand the parchment to his daughter. She accepted it hesitantly, bending her head as she began to unfold the pages. He settled a keen gaze on her. “You should know that this offer has been proffered by Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood.”

Mr. Pepperidge, watching his daughter, was not disappointed by the impact of his revelation. She looked up quickly, shock showing plainly in her face.

“Lord St. John?” Mary shook her head, seeking to clear the strange suspended feeling that threatened to overtake her. It was impossible, of course. One’s close-held fantasies did not become suddenly cloaked in reality. Her hands trembled, making the parchment rustle. She shook her head again. “Quite, quite impossible.”

Mr. Pepperidge misinterpreted her reaction. “Now, Mary, before you reject the matter out of hand, let me give to you my considered opinion. I have reflected on little else since this communication arrived this afternoon. It has not been so long ago, in this very room, that I revealed to you my misgivings that you had no family or establishment to call your own.”

Mary could scarcely command her voice, but she forced it out. “Papa—”

Mr. Pepperidge threw up one hand. “Pray let me finish, Mary. You have had suitors; never as many as Tabitha, I grant you. But I suspect that one or two, given proper encouragement, might have come up to scratch. However, I was not entirely disappointed that you did not entertain the notion of offering such encouragement to them, for the simple reason that none of these gentlemen ever seemed completely worthy of you.”

Mary smiled at her father, rather mistily. “You are biased on my behalf, sir.”

“Of course I am. I would be an unnatural parent if I was not,” said Mr. Pepperidge stoutly. He leaned forward with earnestness written large on his countenance. He tapped the parchment with a finger. “Read it, Mary.”

As she obediently turned her eyes to the careful copperplate on the parchment pages, he continued, “The point of it all, Mary, is very simple. I never aspired to such heights as this for you; but now that this offer has come, I ask that you give it the gravest consideration. I will not condemn you if you decide that you cannot accept this suit from Viscount Weemswood. Your happiness means more to me than seeing you elevated to such an exalted position. However, I shall not conceal from you that the thought of my daughter taking her place in circles far above my own touch warms my heart, as well as justifying my pride and faith in those ladylike accomplishments that I have particularly encouraged in you.”

Mary scarcely registered the import of her father’s words through the haze of thickening disbelief that enveloped her as she read the document. It was an extraordinary thing. She glanced again and again at various statements in the formal paragraphs.

Her heart rose as she began to believe what she was reading. The impossible had truly happened. She had received an offer of marriage from Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood. Her idiotic fantasy was on the way to being realized.

The signature at the bottom of the document was one unknown to her. There was nothing to disappoint her in that. The proposal had obviously been drafted at the viscount’s direction. She was her father’s daughter; she understood how business was conducted. A marriage contract was no less a matter of business than any other contract and it would naturally be approached in the same manner. It was enough to know that the proposal would never have been made except through the viscount’s express instructions.

The prospect represented by the proposal both dazzled and terrified her. She looked up to find her father’s gaze intent upon her face. “But why, Papa? Why should Lord St. John offer for me?”

“I suppose his lordship was impressed enough by you in that unexpected encounter in Dover that he recalled you to mind.” Mr. Pepperidge’s gaze sharpened. “I trust that the viscount made an equally agreeable impression upon you, Mary?”

“Yes, of course. How could it be otherwise? His lordship was so quick to recognize my distress and he came at once to assist me after you had fallen on the stairs. I have never forgotten his compassion,” stammered Mary. She did not voice but kept to herself the knowledge that she would never have forgotten the viscount for quite another reason than gratitude. In truth, she did not think that she could have uttered more, for her heart was behaving in such an erratic way that she felt thoroughly discomposed.

Mr. Pepperidge was satisfied, and even pleased. He settled deeper into his chair. “I am glad of it. I trust your instincts, child. You’ve a level head, as I have often said. I must rely upon your good sense in this matter. It is for you to best judge the possibility of happiness that you might find in such a marriage as this.”

Mary could not shake aside the doubt that suddenly formed in-her mind. Surely she had not made such a striking impression upon the viscount that he had felt the same blinding flash of love that she herself had experienced. Surely it was not possible, and yet his lordship had sent a formal proposal of marriage.

She could not still that lamentable practical portion of her brain and she said, with a small frown, “Papa, I still do not understand. Surely Lord St. John could have his pick of ladies from his own class. Why should he offer for me?”

“It is just like you to put your finger on the crux of the matter,” said Mr. Pepperidge approvingly. “You do not know, then. The viscount was the heir presumptive to the old Duke of Alton. Do you not recall my mentioning that his grace was wedded? The talk is that the new duchess will present a babe to his grace. Without ducal expectations, and with his own inheritance mortgaged to the hilt, Lord St. John must naturally marry for substance.”

“Of course. How stupid of me not to have realized,” said Mary, as she felt something plummet leadenly to her toes. There was a curiously hollow feeling where her heart had been. She very meticulously refolded the document to its original creases.

“It is disgraceful how the nobility squanders their substance. I shall never understand it,” said Mr. Pepperidge He shook his head in utter bewilderment.

“Do you advise me to marry a profligate then, Papa?” she asked dully, her interest not actually engaged by the question. There were such swirling emotions inside her that she did not know what to think, let alone what to say. But one must say something.

Mr. Pepperidge frowned thoughtfully, completely unaware of his daughter’s state of mind. “I do not recall ever hearing that Lord St. John is himself a reckless steward. I believe that his lordship stepped into an inheritance already devastated by his father. But do not be anxious, child. I shall make it my business to discover the truth. Once more you have touched upon a point of importance.” He sighed. “It is a pity that you were not born to business, Mary.”

Mary made a credible effort to smile. If the warmth of her expression did not quite reach her eyes it was because the pain of disillusionment was so strong. She shook her head, admonishing herself that she should not mourn the loss of something she had never actually possessed. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “It is to be a marriage of convenience, then. My inheritance, conveyed by my person, is to be exchanged for a title.”

Mr. Pepperidge frowned deeply, misliking the manner in which she had reduced it. “You make it sound as though I have put you on the block, Mary.”

Mary did smile then. “No such thing, Papa. I do know how truly you value me. This is but a simple business arrangement. You have the commodity which Viscount Weemswood deems essential to the survival of his world, whilst I stand to gain a title and every advantage imaginable for myself and my descendants.” The calm timbre of her voice did not reflect her inner turmoil. “I hope that you do not allow his lordship to skin you, Papa.”

Mr. Pepperidge’s face reflected his pleased amazement. “Mary! Does this mean that you are willing to accept his lordship’s offer?”

“Yes—no! I do not know.” Mary pressed her hands to her temples for an instant. When she raised wide confused eyes to her father, all appearance of tranquility had vanished. She whispered, “Papa, I never wished to sell myself.”

“My dear Mary!” Mr. Pepperidge was deeply shocked.

Mary dropped her hands to her lap. “Oh, I do not mean that precisely. But I-I had always hoped to find that same affection that was always to be witnessed between you and my mother.”

“Aye, so I would have wanted for you, Mary.” Mr. Pepperidge rose and came over to place his heavy hand gently on her shoulder. “It is not a romantic beginning, child. But marriages of convenience have been known to deepen into love. You must be guided by your own heart. You have already made plain that you have found something worthy of respect in the viscount. That is not a bad start, Mary. Many begin with much less.”

She did not reply, nor did she raise her bowed head.

Mr. Pepperidge sighed and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “I will not press you. Reflect on it before you give me your answer. Now go to bed, child. You must be wearied indeed by the shock I have given you this evening.”

Mary obeyed, not because she was in truth tired but because she craved solitude in order to think everything through. She let her tiring-woman make her ready for bed, submitting to the brushing out of her hair before the maid departed. Mary unfolded the pages that had brought her, all in the space of a few minutes, unutterable happiness and despair. For a very long time, she pored over and over the marriage proposal. She had it practically memorized word for word when at last she folded the parchment and laid it aside on her bedstand. She cupped the candle flame and blew it out, then settled beneath the bedclothes.