Susanne Marie Knight

A Noble Dilemma

Susanne Marie Knight

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Aurora Regency
An imprint of
Musa Publishing

A Noble Dilemma, Copyright © Susanne Marie Knight, 2010

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

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Musa Publishing
633 Edgewood Ave
Lancaster, OH 43130

www.musapublishing.com

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First Published by Aurora Regency Historicals/AMP, December, 2010
Aurora Regency is an imprint of Musa Publishing

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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

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ISBN: 978-1-61937-086-9

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Editor: Celina Summers

Cover Design: Kelly Shorten

Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

Not only was the July day excessively warm, but so was the parson’s son. Warm, not in temperature, but in his attentions to young Miss Hasbrouck. He —

“Bethany! Where are you? I need you,” a querulous voice called out from the next room.

Bethany Branford sighed. “Coming, Great Aunt Cordelia.” With great reluctance, she set aside her goose-quill pen and paper, along with the parson’s son’s intentions toward young Miss Hasbrouck.

Although Bethany’s novel wasn’t intended to be autobiographical, she could admit the character of the parson’s son was patterned after Mr. Jarvis, the local blacksmith from the nearby village of Bamburgh, Northumberland. Mr. Jarvis was, of course, a good man to know when one’s horse threw a shoe. However he did exhibit a tendency to linger his sooty fingers against one’s worn, but clean gloves.

At least, he did to Bethany’s gloves when she had business at the blacksmith’s.

“Bethany!”

She pushed away from the writing desk and hurried into her great aunt’s bedchamber. Technically, Lady Cordelia wasn’t her great aunt. When Bethany was ten years old, her widower father had married Lady Cordelia’s niece. He and his second wife experienced six years of happiness before both succumbed to ague, leaving Bethany an orphan with a very small dowry.

“Here I am, Great Aunt Cordelia,” Bethany said as brightly as she could despite the fumes of camphor imprisoned within the sickroom walls. “How are you feeling? May I bring you something?”

Over the years, Lady Cordelia had made a career out of her ill health, but now the Grim Reaper was truly taking her to task. Folds of skin hung heavy on a body that no longer enjoyed eating. Her penetrating blue eyes had lost their luster. A complexion that had once been the toast of the Beau Monde — at least according to Lady Cordelia — was now yellowed and bilious.

“A cup of tea, my gel.” The old woman appeared shrunken in size and lost amidst the pillows as she sat hunched over in her massive bed. “I could use a spot of nice hot tea to loosen the bowels.” Even after five years of tending to Lady Cordelia, Bethany still blushed at such plain speaking about bodily functions. She leaned over and kissed Lady Cordelia’s withered cheek. “Would you care for anything to eat, Aunt? Crumpets? Scones?”

Lady Cordelia never did, but there was always a first time.

The old lady wet her lips as if hungry, but shook her head. Only gruel-like food passed her lips nowadays.

Bethany’s heart went out to her.

When she returned with the silver tea service, she poured a cup for her great aunt.

“Ahh, delicious. Simple pleasures are the best, aren’t they, my dear child?” As she placed the cup back into its saucer, her hand shook. “Bother! The body fails. Soon, yes, very soon, I shall pass onto my Maker. Then you shall be free. Free to find a worthy partner and marry.”

A shiver ran through Bethany. She felt almost as if she were already walking on her great aunt’s grave. Five years seemed like forever to a girl of sixteen. Now she was a woman of one and twenty, serving as a companion and nurse for all that time. She’d had few spare moments to pursue her own interests or to meet eligible gentlemen.

The small village boasted few bachelors, Mr. Jarvis notwithstanding. By the same token, her dowry of only fifty pounds was not a substantial draw either. So it seemed she would never have the felicity of knowing the wedded state.

Ah well.
She shrugged. She did need an income, however, and for this she had a plan. She dreamed of supporting herself through her novel writing. She dreamed of becoming an author.

Of course conventional thinking stated a lady only dabbled in the art of writing; a lady wrote for personal fulfillment. One never wrote for the money.

Bethany withheld a secret chuckle. Fie on conventional thinking!

A low groan from the bed captured her attention. As she glanced at Lady Cordelia’s long-suffering face, a stab of worry lanced through Bethany again. She feared her relation had the right of it: the Great Leveler would soon knock at the door for her great aunt, bringing with him blessed relief from pain…and then oblivion.

Bethany reached over to gently squeeze her great aunt’s hand. She blinked back tears. Dear Lady Cordelia Greyle was going to her greater reward. Without permission, a tear trickled down her cheek — a hot, salty tear for both Lady Cordelia and for herself.

“What do you think, Davy?” Lady Petunia twirled around the library as a spinning top might after just being launched. “I must know your decision.”

David Greyle, the fourth Earl of Ingraham, looked up from his overcrowded desk to regard his sister’s trim and fashionable form. He had just returned from Paris. The blasted war was over, thank the heavens. But catching up with all the business correspondence waiting for him at home after six months abroad was, most assuredly, going to be the very devil.

He frowned. What had Petunia been talking about? He took a stab at the obvious. “You look a rare sight, Pet. You always do. Marriage agrees with you.”

She was a delightful girl, her coloring as light as his was dark. Dressed to perfection in a half-mourning jaconet round gown over a pale grey sarsonet slip, she looked as fine as fivepence…and she knew it.

For a brief moment, he wondered who had died, but quickly dismissed the thought as inconsequential.

He continued his perusal. Petunia’s honey blonde hair swept atop her head in a mass of appealing curls that threatened to tumble down about her slim shoulders at the slightest shake. Her locks wisely stayed put however, for her personal maid would have, no doubt, been dismissed otherwise.

The new Viscountess Weatherhaven spoiled this vision of loveliness by pouting and stamping her small slippered foot. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

Such a termagant! Lord Weatherhaven certainly had his hands full. David pushed away from his big, oppressive desk and stood. He reached over and tugged on one of her curls.

He could not help but grin. She was still so easy to tease. Being a big brother had its privileges.

“David Petruchio Greyle! Stop that. You stop this instant.”

Ouch.
Leave it to Petunia to dredge up his detested middle name.

Fearing she might hurl one of his books at him, he curved his arm around her waist and led her to a straight-backed chair. “Sit. Let us cry peace, shall we? I must confess, I was woolgathering whilst you spoke.”

He sat on the edge of his desk in front of her. “You have my full attention now. Satisfied?”

She folded her arms across her chest and said mulishly, “Visiting the continent hasn’t improved your manners, Davy. Don’t you serve refreshments to your guests?”

You are not a guest but a pest.

He prudently held his tongue. Now that he had Petunia in a good humor, it would not do to spoil it.

Leaning out into the corridor, he instructed Stevens the butler to take care of this trifling detail. Then he returned to the edge of the desk. “Now, my patience runs thin. What, exactly, did you come to my townhouse for?”

“You do know our Great Aunt Cordelia passed away around a fortnight ago?”

The Greyle family tree was very large. Although he had only one sibling, there were cousins galore, aunts and uncles, and on and on. Not to mention his mother’s side of the family. But the name did ring a bell.

“Lady Cordelia Greyle. Did she live in Northumberland near the Scottish border?”

Petunia beamed. “The very same. I hardly knew her, of course, but I must say, ’twas a grand funeral, worthy of the Greyle name. So many relations came to pay their respects and offer me best wishes on my marriage. ’Tis a pity you could not attend.”

He kept his own counsel on the matter. Given the choice between a village funeral and Parisian entertainment, he definitely preferred the latter.

Stevens entered with refreshments, including sweet apple fritters, one of Petunia’s favorite desserts from her childhood. Her gaze fastened onto the fried dough as if she was inwardly warring whether to grab a few. Greedy gobbling might be appropriate behavior for a six-year-old, but certainly not for a young matron of three and twenty.

Restraint won out. She performed her hostessing duties instead.

David took a gulp of coffee. “So tell me, what does Great Aunt Cordelia’s passing have to do with me?”

Petunia sipped her coffee and fluttered her long lashes at him. “You remember Lady Cordelia was our father’s dearest aunt? I would like to honor her memory by taking care of her companion. Well, more like nurse, really. Invite the girl to London, introduce her around. Perhaps she can find an eligible
parti.”

“Good luck with that.” Matchmaking was none of his business. At the mature age of nine and twenty, he had eluded the parson’s mousetrap entirely. God willing he had a few more years of freedom left before he would need to get leg-shackled.

Petunia finally succumbed to temptation. She picked up an apple fritter, then gently bit off the end. Apple chunks, thick with cinnamon sauce, gushed out onto her hand.

“Oh! I forgot how messy this is.”

Smiling, David reached into his tailcoat, removed a linen handkerchief, then leaned over to give it to her. Would the Viscountess Weatherhaven ever grow up?

He returned to the edge of his desk, confident that he had adequately handled whatever concerns his sister had wished to place on his plate.

He was wrong.

“Davy, I cannot sponsor the girl. Weatherhaven insists he and I must travel to Paris before the winter sets in. ’Tis your duty — ”

“My duty? What is this companion to me? Do you see this?” He swept his hand across the length of his overburdened desk. “All pressing matters demanding my attention. I have neither time nor inclination to play nursemaid to either a slip of a girl or to an antidote — whichever the companion may be. This summer’s harvest was dismal. I need to make certain my tenants do not suffer. The prime minister has said the nation faces a stormy winter — literally and figuratively. Lord Liverpool has the right of it. So, Pet, if you wish to take on the responsibility of this unattached female, be my guest.”

“That’s just it, Davy. I want her to be
your
guest.”

He smiled without mirth. “Your wants are not up to me to fulfill. Take them to Weatherhaven.”

“But you are the head of the family and she is our cousin.” Petunia set her cup on the saucer and looked at him expectantly.

David left the corner of his desk to sit back in his chair. He took a deep breath, then released it. As the fourth Earl of Ingraham, he supposed that was true.

Blast.

“Tell me about this person,” he ordered.

“I don’t know much about her. Only saw her briefly. The poor girl had so many details to handle at the funeral. I’m certain she had not a moment of rest. Busier than a honeybee, she was.” Petunia tsk-tsked. “But to the point, Miss Branford is her name. Her father married Cousin Marta, daughter to Lady Anne, Cordelia’s sister.”

David rubbed his temple. It was the devil having so many relations. Who could keep them straight? “Miss Branford’s age? Disposition? Portion?”

“Twenty or so years, I believe,” was Petunia’s prompt response. “As for disposition, she must have a soothing one because she took care of Lady Cordelia for five years. And dowry, well, it cannot be substantial.”

“Parents?”

“Orphaned.”

“Hmmn.” Looking after an invalid, especially when one was so young said a great deal about Miss Branford’s stamina. She deserved a reward for her dedication.

David walked toward the library’s large bay window. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in, warming him as he watched several fashionable carriages pass by.

“Send for the chit, then. There are still three weeks left of the Little Season — a golden opportunity for the girl to meet an eligible
parti
.”

His sister joined him by the window. “But Davy, where will she live? She cannot stay here in a bachelor’s residence.”

“The townhouse will no longer be a bachelor’s residence when our mother returns from Bath in a few days. I daresay she will be pleased for the excuse to take a young miss under her wing — introducing Miss Branford to polite society.” He placed his hands on Petunia’s shoulders. “Your role in this, my Pet, is to take part in these festivities, for as long as you are in London. If I have the time, I shall squire you ladies to a ball or two. With the backing of the Earl of Ingraham, Miss Branford might take. If fortune smiles on us, she might even receive an acceptable offer.”

Petunia clapped her hands together. “Oh, I hope so! I am certain Miss Branford will be excessively grateful.”

“Just so. And now I must bid you good day.”

After his sister placed a kiss upon his cheek, she took her leave. David dismissed Petunia, indeed, all silly females from his mind and returned to his work. Whether the unknown Miss Branford would be grateful mattered to him not a jot. What was most important in this affair was to have it successfully concluded.

With no regrets on leaving behind the small village…and the parson’s son, Miss Hasbrouck entered the post chaise bound for London. Her new position as governess awaited, and she prayed her new employer would consider her a rare find. She —

“Oooh! Here we are in Lunnon!” Elsie, the young housemaid who had been sent to bring Bethany to her mistress, jumped up and down on the squabs of the Countess of Ingraham’s elegant barouche.

Bethany stopped writing and put her goose-quill pen and papers away. Wide-eyed, she stared out the window at the huge city of London. Here was a new chapter in her life, and she was more than eager to turn the pages. The long, tedious journey from Bamburgh to England’s capital had given her a chance to not only indulge in writing, but also plan her future. She gulped. Truth be told, the city was overwhelming but not in a good way.

People, people everywhere! On either side of her carriage, so many men of every shape and size, in every type of dress warmed on the sidewalks and the cobblestone road it was a wonder her coach could proceed at all.

Peddlers pushed wobbly carts loaded with fresh fruits and vegetables; their voices shrill and piercing as they hawked their wares. A few worn-looking women begged for food from these venders, but without success. Poverty-stricken men huddled in groups on the street corners, gesturing wildly…menacingly…angrily.

The tall, strange buildings, one right after the other, loomed on either side of the narrow street. They blocked the late afternoon sunlight, casting a pall over everyone contained within the manmade cavern. These congested edifices surrounded the carriage, which added to the grim atmosphere.

Bethany pulled her new black scarf tighter around her. All mourners at Lady Cordelia’s funeral had received scarves and black gloves. Bethany, for one, was glad for the added warmth of the scarf. Her pelisse had seen better days and was no match for the cool October weather. A chill invaded the barouche, along with pungent, offensive smells arising from the street.

She shivered. Naturally, she was still in mourning for her great aunt and it seemed London imitated her grief, and mourned as well.

Bethany was tired. Tired of death. Tired from handling the funeral arrangements, seeing to all the mourners’ various needs and comfort and dealing with the solicitor about the sad lack of money. Right now all she wanted was peace and quiet so she could grieve without distraction. And then get on with her life.

And write.

She sighed.

“It won’t be lon’ now, miss. Grosvenor Square be only a few more blocks.” Elsie turned to stare out the window. “Excitin’, isn’t it, miss? I just love the hubbub ’n all the things to do in Lunnon.”

Hubbub had no appeal for Bethany. “Please, tell me again about the Countess of Ingraham, Elsie. Is she very kind? Are you certain she is looking forward to having me as a guest?”

The answer was obvious; after all the Countess had sent the vehicle for her, hadn’t she? But Bethany need the extra reassurance.

The maid bobbed her head with youthful enthusiasm. “Yes, miss, I’m assured her ladyship is. I got it on the best authority as I have not, as yet, met her ladyship. The butler, Stevens, let it slip to the cook, who then told the housekeeper, who whispered it to us maids that her ladyship’s married daughter be quite determined for you to visit.”

Bethany blinked, trying to digest that convoluted sentence. Nowhere in that chain of words was the information she sought. Oh well, perhaps the Countess would consider Bethany a rare find, too.

She could dream, couldn’t she?

The carriage stopped in front of a magnificent townhouse. The building was a fine example of the Palladian style of architecture. It had four Corinthian columns and three marble arches at the entryway. Very, very impressive. And quite out of Bethany’s realm of experience.

The coachman opened the carriage door and helped her down. After thanking him, she waited for the maid.

Elsie shooed her on. “Go ahead, miss. I’ll take care of your baggage.”

Bethany nodded then proceeded up the front steps of the townhouse. She stood by the black hardwood door for just a moment, then inhaled a sharp breath for courage.

There. Better. She picked up the brass knocker and rapped it twice against the door.

A small man in a grand uniform and white curly wig — perhaps it was the butler, Stevens? — opened the paneled door. His dark gaze traveled from her threadbare pelisse to the standing barouche in the street. He then inclined his head. “Welcome to London, miss. Please do come in.”