Just One Season in London (4 page)

“I did. No family connections to speak of, but she'd be moonstruck at the idea of being a viscountess.”

“So moonstruck that she wouldn't even mind if Ryecroft had a mad aunt concealed in the attic of that crumbling house of his. Or if he had a previous wife or two who died under mysterious circumstances.”

“He's hardly old enough for that.”

“Or to be married at all.”

“When one has to marry for money, there's nothing to be gained by waiting.” Lady Stone waved a dismissive hand. “I want you to write a letter for me.”

“Certainly.” Portia went to a small writing table in the corner of the boudoir, got out a sheet of Lady Stone's hot-pressed notepaper, and trimmed her pen. After a while she glanced over at her employer, who was staring abstractedly out the window. “It would be helpful, Lady Stone, if I knew to whom the letter should be addressed and what information you wish it to contain.”

“You've a pert way with you, miss.”

“You knew that when you hired me, ma'am, and you said it suited you right down to the ground.”

“And so it does. Mealymouthed young women give me an ague. The letter's to Robert Wellingham. I want him to call on me tomorrow.”

“Robert Wellingham? The merchant banker? Why do you—” Portia bit her tongue.

“Because,” Lady Stone said blandly, “I find myself in need of financial advice.”

“I suppose that means the merchant banker has a daughter?” But instead of waiting for an answer she knew would not be forthcoming, Portia began to write.

***

Miranda had to admit that Lord Randall was correct about one thing—for late March, the weather was uncommonly fine. When she rode out from Brindle Park the next morning with only a groom in attendance, the air was cool and fresh. She could smell damp earth just coming to life with green spikes that would quickly become daffodils. And she could hear the chatter of birdsong in the newly budded trees.

Escaping from Lady Brindle had not been difficult, for it was clear that Ann Eliza much preferred her carriage to a saddle these days. Escaping from Sophie had been a larger problem. Explaining why she couldn't come along on a simple ride, without raising her suspicions about why Miranda wanted to be alone, had been a challenge.

Sophie had grown up a great deal in the last year. She was no longer a self-centered child, and now the risk was far greater that she would notice and wonder and observe and—unless Miranda was lucky—draw conclusions.

The longer their visit went on, and the more bored Sophie became, the more likely she was to speculate about what her mother was up to. So Miranda's errand had to be done today. In any case, there was nothing to be gained by putting off this all-important interview. The sooner she acted, the sooner Sophie would have her Season.

“'Twere well it were done quickly,” she mused, and the groom who was waiting to assist her into the saddle looked at her in puzzlement as he helped her up, then shrugged at the ways of the quality and went to mount his horse, so he could follow at a respectful, protective distance.

Miranda took a wandering, casual sort of path that was, in fact, not casual at all. They rode through the tiny village and forded a river that was almost too small for the name. A few miles from Brindle Park, Miranda slowed her horse's pace and waited for the groom to catch up. “I've lost my bearings,” she said innocently. “What's that great house up there?”

“That's Lord Carrisbrooke's estate, that is.”

“Is he in residence?”

“Doubtful,” the groom said. “The young earl's still at Oxford most of the time. But his uncle's there just now.”

I know
, Miranda thought. “That would be Mr. Winston?”

“That's the one. Saw him myself at the Blue Boar in the village last night. He sometimes drops in for a pint when he's down from London.”

“Very democratic of him.”

The groom shot her a look. “P'raps it's the years he spent in America.” His tone was flat.

Miranda let the silence draw out, wondering if he would take the opportunity to fill in the other, less savory details about Marcus Winston.

“The men like him,” the groom said finally. “The ones from the village
and
from the estate. Any rate, that's Carris Abbey up ahead. There's a nice view from up on the hill if you'd like to see it.”

Riding up that hill would get her much closer to her goal, so Miranda clucked to her horse and took the direction the groom had indicated. “The young earl doesn't care if the locals trespass on the abbey's grounds?”

“The young earl's too new to the duties to give much thought to it. It's only been a year since he inherited from his grandfather, and the trustees are in charge till he reaches his majority. But Mr. Winston's one of the trustees, and he don't care.”

“I knew him, years ago.” Miranda hoped it sounded careless, like an afterthought. “Mr. Winston, I mean. Perhaps… Oh, it's a silly idea, I suppose, only I might not get the chance again. I believe I'll ride up to the house and leave my card.”

The groom looked at her askance, but he obviously knew better than to comment.

Miranda felt herself color. It simply wasn't done, of course, for a woman to call on a man socially—even a man she had known from her youth. Only if she had business to take up with him or professional dealings might it perhaps be forgiven. Otherwise she paid her formal calls on a gentleman's wife or mother or sister or hostess, but never directly to a gentleman himself. And never alone, without a friend or maid in attendance.

Ann Eliza had told her, however, that there were no women in residence at Carris Abbey, so there was no one to form a social screen. And in any case, she
did
have business to take up with Marcus Winston.

It just wasn't the sort of business she wanted anyone, except for herself and Marcus Winston, to know about.

Sophie knew that a real lady wouldn't allow herself to droop over the breakfast table, but she was entirely alone. Even the butler had gone about his duties after refilling the warming dishes with food Sophie had no intention of eating. Lady Brindle was already in her garden, and Lord Randall had not yet come downstairs.

What a slug-a-bed he was—though on second thought, Sophie decided it was just as well; if he'd been breakfasting with her, he'd probably have been prosing on again about why she should really learn not to be afraid of horses. She'd told him twice that she wasn't, but he hadn't listened.

But Sophie's biggest aggravation was that her mother had gone out for a cross-country ride by herself, even though Sophie had begged to go along.
But I'd like to see where you used to go as a girl,
she'd said—and she hadn't been entirely untruthful, even if her more important reason was simply to escape the dark pile of brick that was Brindle Park.

However, Lady Ryecroft had said only that perhaps tomorrow she could go, and briskly—before Sophie could scramble to find another line of argument—she had gathered the train of her black riding habit over her arm and gone out.

There had been something distinctly havey-cavey about her mother this morning. Sophie was still mulling over the way Lady Ryecroft hadn't met her gaze when Lord Randall exclaimed from the threshold, “Miss Ryecroft! What a sad thing that I find you here alone!”

Finally
, Sophie thought,
he's said something I can agree with
. “Good morning, Lord Randall. I was just finishing, I'm afraid.” She crumbled her last bite of toast.

“What a pity it is that you do not know how to ride,” he observed as he filled his plate. “I myself stay to break my fast only because my mother insists I eat before I go out.”

“If you're offering a lesson, I am pleased to accept.”

He seemed taken aback. “Well… I… I suppose…”

Before he could weasel out of it—and cost her a ride she sorely coveted—Sophie barreled on. “Lord Randall, you have convinced me of two things—the need for a lady to ride well and your skill in teaching. I am most happy to accept your generous offer, and I'm certain that by the time you finish your breakfast, I shall have returned, ready to undertake a lesson.” And before he could do more than stammer, she had left the room.

She was still trying not to laugh—half in glee at the look on his face, half in satisfaction that, all going well, she would be out in the open air for an hour or two—when she reached her bedroom and startled the pert little housemaid who was tidying up.

At least, that was no doubt what the girl was supposed to be doing. In fact, she was holding Sophie's favorite silk dressing gown and rubbing her cheek gently against the fine fabric. She caught sight of Sophie in the mirror and jerked to attention. “Oh, miss. I'm that sorry, truly I am. I was putting your wrap away and… and…”

“And you were overcome by temptation,” Sophie agreed easily. “It feels wonderful, doesn't it? Let's make a bargain. Help me into my habit as quickly as we can manage, and you can stay and touch whatever you like.”

The girl's eyes rounded. “You don't wish to wait for your maid?”

“I do
not
.” Mary would fret and scold and remind her that her mother must have had a good reason not to take her riding, and if Lady Ryecroft didn't approve of her going out…Well, Lady Ryecroft couldn't be consulted at the moment, and Sophie was in no mood to sit in a dark and dismal morning room and wait for her to come back. Not when it was perfectly acceptable according to anyone's society rules to ride out with her hostess's son.

The housemaid's hands shook with nervousness as she buttoned Sophie's riding habit. “Oh, miss—I've never felt such fine wool. You have lovely things.”

It was odd, Sophie thought, that until recently, she hadn't wondered how Lady Ryecroft had managed to eke out a respectable wardrobe for each of them from nothing more than her housekeeping money. “Nice, yes—but nothing next to what a girl needs for her first Season.”

“Will you be on your way to London soon, then? Lord Randall will be there, and Lady Brindle plans to spend the Season in the city this year too. Her maid has already started packing, and they go in a few days, I believe.”

Sophie paused, her fingers frozen on the brim of her hat. Then she finished adjusting it to show off her curls to best advantage and reached for her gloves and crop. “Perhaps.”

Lord Randall is going this year…
Why hadn't it occurred to her that he was of an age to look for a wife? Despite his pompous attitudes, perhaps he was worth a little attention after all. She wouldn't be the first young lady to subtly encourage a suitor—and if Lord Randall
was
looking around for a bride, why shouldn't he look at Sophie and perhaps make a decision before he ever got to London?

He was an only son who would inherit a sizable estate… sizable enough, perhaps, to lend a hand to assist Rye with Ryecroft Manor. And his mother and her mother were already bosom friends. It was perfect.

She pushed aside the thought of having to listen to his prosing ways day after day and made up her mind to be congenial, charming, and captivating. And, as she ran lightly down the stairs to join him, Sophie decided that her first action—if the choice were ever hers—would be to rip down this dark and dingy pile of brick and build something light and fresh and airy in its place.

***

The
footman who opened the huge and creaking door at Carris Abbey looked startled to see a woman alone, but he quickly composed his face as Miranda pulled a folded sheet of paper from her sleeve and held it out. “Please see that Mr. Winston receives this immediately,” she said. “I'll wait for an answer.”

She could almost see the thoughts clicking in his head, but a moment later he stepped back from the door. “If Madam would care to come in…”

He showed her to a small reception room which was chilly despite the coals burning merrily in the grate, and disappeared. Miranda held her hands out to the fire and noted that her fingers trembled. Now that it was too late to back out, she was so nervous that her stomach was turning flips.

Think of Sophie
, she told herself.
Think of Rye.

What she wouldn't allow herself to think of just now was that message—how long it had taken her to compose it and how many sheets of hot-pressed paper she'd wasted and how much she now wished she hadn't sent it off with the footman.

If she left right now, slipping quietly away to the front door and letting herself out…

But she had sent the groom around to the stables with the horses, not only so he wouldn't be able to overhear, but because she'd had no idea how long she would be inside and didn't want to keep the animals standing in the chilly air. She could hardly go chasing after him. Besides, the abbey was huge—it could be half a mile or more to walk from the front door all the way around the far wing and the stables.

A step sounded in the passage.
Not the footman
, she thought and tensed. But it wasn't Marcus either. Instead a butler, stiff and correct in a black morning coat, came into the room. “Mr. Winston will see you,” he said and stood aside to guide her down a long hall to a big square library at the back of the house.

Then she was inside, and the butler was closing the door as he went out.

A man rose from behind a desk that seemed the size of a cricket field. Miranda stopped dead on the carpet halfway across the room, as if she'd run into a glass wall.

Marcus Winston had been an uncommonly handsome young man—but maturity, she thought, suited him even better. When he was eighteen, he'd been almost too good-looking, with the classically perfect features of generations of Carrisbrookes mingled with the dark, exotic beauty of the woman who had been his mother. It had seemed that fortune, while cheating Marcus of a father's name—for his mother had not been the wife of the earl when her son was born—had tried to make up for it by giving him every other advantage.

Now, however, he was thirty-nine. The Carrisbrooke nose no longer looked too perfect to be real; his shoulders were broader, and he was taller than he'd been in her memory. But his hair was just as dark and, she suspected, just as inclined to wave if he would let it grow long enough. Though she had found him behind a desk, there was an air of energy about him. He seemed to have alighted there only because he was required to do so. He seemed more a creature of the outdoors, where he could act and move and breathe freely.

“Miranda,” he said. His accent had shifted ever so slightly. Perhaps the years he'd spent in America had added an extra note to what had always been an extraordinarily deep and rich voice. “Lady Ryecroft, I should say. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

The spell was broken, and she went forward, offering her gloved hand. “I am visiting my friend Lady Brindle—you remember Ann Eliza, of course?”

He bowed over her hand. “Of course.” There was a faint note of irony in his voice. “She must approve of me more now than she did when we were children, if she too has come to visit me.” He looked past her, as if expecting to see Lady Brindle in the doorway.

Damn the man—even as a youngster he'd been acute to every hidden meaning, to every half-truth, and particularly, to every hint of a slight. But then, he'd had reason. From the time he'd come to the abbey at the age of ten, he'd been passed off as a sort of undefined cousin who was being housed and educated by the sixth Earl of Carrisbrooke because the nobleman had a generous heart. But the entire county had known the truth—that Marcus was, in fact, the unacknowledged son of the earl by one of his many flirts.

While Marcus's half brother, the legitimate heir, was referred to as
my lord
, Marcus himself was allowed the benefit of the Winston name only because it was impossible to deny the family resemblance. And there were so many branches of the Winston family that it was easy enough to lose one nondescript twig on the tree…

“She was unable to accompany me this morning,” Miranda said. “I came only because I was riding past and I did not want to let slip the opportunity to pay my respects, in case you were departing again soon.”

“Unable?” he said softly. “Or unwilling? Or does she have no idea you're here? I'm willing to wager the latter, my dear. You've come without a companion or a maid, to see me. I must wonder why.”

The butler came in with a tray, and Miranda moved aside to stare at a stack of books on a nearby table so she could keep her back turned until he departed again.

As the door closed behind the servant, Marcus said, “Come and have some tea and bread and butter. Or”—she heard the splash of liquid against crystal and turned to see him holding a goblet full of deep red wine—“would you prefer to join me?”

She reached out for the goblet.

His eyes darkened; Miranda suspected he was feeling satisfaction. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to a settee, “and tell me what you want.”

Her throat was so dry that the wine seemed to stick as she swallowed. She settled on the little sofa, perching on the edge of the cushion. He took the seat beside her, turning to face her, his big hand cupping his wineglass.

“You spent a long time in America,” she said.

He shrugged. “There was nothing for me here. An illegitimate son has no expectations.”

Was there just the faintest note of bitterness in his voice?

“The newspapers say you made good there.”

His eyebrow quirked. “I did well enough, as it happens.”

Miranda felt incredibly clumsy—but there was no tactful way to ask the question, so she might as well be direct. “Well enough to be in a position to lend me money?”

He sipped his wine, and for a long moment she thought he wasn't going to answer. Finally he said, “So I was right all those years ago, when I told you that you were a fool to marry Henry.”

She didn't look up, but her voice was firm. “No, you were
not
right. I have my children, and not for the world would I give them up.”

“Your children. Yes. An heir and a spare, I believe?”

“A son and a daughter. It is only for them that I ask.”

He sprang to his feet with a sort of coiled energy that almost frightened her, and strode across the room to refill his glass from the decanter on the corner of the big desk. “So you come to me for funds because their father was improvident. How ironic, Miranda. My apologies—Lady Ryecroft.”

“Please, Marcus. It's been a long time ago. Henry died when Sophie was barely a year old and Rye was only three.”

“I wrote you with my condolences when I heard. You didn't answer.”

She bent her head. “I should have done, I know.”

“I asked you to come to me then.” There was an edge to his voice.

“But how could I, Marcus? I had my son's heritage to think of. I couldn't simply take him away from all that.”

“A heritage of entailed land, mortgaged houses, and debts acquired to keep up appearances for society. Yes—what a heritage it is, the way our English nobility lives.”

“It wasn't entirely my husband's fault,” Miranda said. Then she shook her head. “It hardly matters now how the situation arose.”

“But it is dire, or you would not be here. I suppose your son has asked you to come to me for a loan?”

“Of course he hasn't,” she flared. “Rye has no notion I'm here. He's in London just now, and he thinks I'm simply visiting Ann Eliza. He would never agree to let me…” Her voice trailed off.

“Ask for money from the illegitimate son of a peer?”

“Ask for money from an old friend,” Miranda finished. She turned the goblet between her fingers, watching the dregs of the wine swirl against the cut crystal.