The Unofficial Suitor Read online

  Caught off guard, it took him a moment to regain control of his emotions before he could reply. “What makes you think my ancestors are any pleasanter to look at than these? I am not noted for my beauty, nor beloved for my charming smiles.” He spoke lightly, as if joking, but for the life of him, he could not look down for fear she might read the pain in his eyes—pain caused by what to her had doubtless been only a casual remark.

  Not even when he married her would he be able to tell her of his humble origins. That information must remain a secret until the day he died.

  Even Lady Letitia would doubtless withdraw her support were she to learn that he did not even know the name of his father, nor did he have the slightest memory of his mother.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  “I am only sorry your daughter could not be with us this afternoon, Mr. Shuttleworth,” Richard commented politely. Besides inspecting the property itself, he had decided it was desirable to make the acquaintance of his neighbors before committing himself to the purchase of the estate, in order to ascertain if any of them would be actively hostile to him.

  To that end he had invited the cream of local society, namely the Reverend Mr. Philip Shuttleworth and his daughter, Squire Fanning and his wife, and Admiral Tucker, late of the Royal Navy, to join them for lunch. So far they had all—or at least, the four who were present—expressed quite freely their delight that Morwyle House would again be opened since the previous owner had been an invalid for years and so had done no entertaining to speak of.

  “As to that,” the vicar now replied apologetically, “my daughter is shy and retiring and does not feel comfortable going about in society. She is quite the little homebody, in fact. It is all I can do to persuade her to attend services on Sunday.”

  “Well, I shall doubtless make her acquaintance there,” Richard responded politely.

  “Have you decided to purchase this place then, Richard?” At Lady Letitia’s question, all conversation ceased and everyone listened attentively to hear what his answer would be. She had asked nothing more than what he knew the others were wishing they could ask.

  “I would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity,” he said with a broad smile, “and whatever else I may be, I am not lacking in common sense. As soon as we return to London, I shall instruct my man of affairs to execute the option to buy Morwyle House.”

  He was heartily congratulated on all sides, and such was the cheerful confusion that it took everyone a few minutes to realize that Arthur Dillingham was attempting to speak. Reluctantly they quieted down so that he could be heard.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, on this happy occasion, I wish to propose a double toast. First to you, Mr. Hawke, and may you enjoy a long and prosperous life here at Morwyle House. And secondly, although it is not quite proper form for me to propose it myself, I wish you all to drink a toast to my wife-to-be, Lady Blackstone, who has today agreed to marry me.”

  Oliver Ingleby sat frozen, his glass halfway to his lips. He had been about to drink the proposed toast to Morwyle House and Hawke’s purchase of the same when Dillingham had uttered those fatal words.

  Mercifully, he was at first too numb with pain to speak, to cry out his denials. But all too soon the reality of his situation penetrated to the very core of his being—his beloved Ellen was going to marry someone else. She was going to be forever beyond his reach.

  Setting his champagne down without tasting it, Oliver rose abruptly from the table and left the assembled company without the slightest explanation. He could not bear to listen to everyone wishing his dearest Ellen happiness, not when all he himself wanted to do was grab Dillingham around the neck and squeeze the life out of him.

  It was fortunate that the rest of the company were too preoccupied with their own affairs to notice his departure since he was too agitated to think of any polite excuse to offer for absenting himself.

  * * * *

  Margaret Shuttleworth stood hidden behind the heavy plum-colored curtains in the library, staring through the window at the group of people eating and talking so cheerfully out on the terrace. Oh, that she could be there among them! If only ...

  Behind her the door opened and Mrs. Beagles quietly slipped into the room and joined her at her observation post.

  “Jim, the footman, told me he heard Mr. Hawke announce that he is going to buy this place. I have already sounded that gentleman out as to his intentions with regards to the servants. Saints be praised, he has assured me privately that he will have need of a full staff. Not only will he retain all of the present servants, but he intends to hire additional help.”

  “That is indeed wonderful. I know what a worry it has been to you all, not knowing if your continued services would be required.” As happy as she was with the others’ good fortune, Margaret could not keep from hoping that her life was also going to change for the better. “Tell me, did you also perchance discover if... if Mr. Hawke is a bachelor?”

  “That he is, although it appears he is already contemplating marriage in the near future,” the housekeeper replied. “Howbeit, there are two other bachelors in the party. Lord Westhrop is not yet leg-shackled, and Mr. Hawke’s secretary, Mr. Tuke, appears to be likewise unattached.”

  “Lord Westhrop looks to be younger than I am, and besides, I could never aspire to wed a peer of the realm. But a gentleman’s secretary ... that would not be aiming too high, would it?”

  Mrs. Beagles, who had been her only friend for as many years as she could remember, was now strangely silent. Finally the housekeeper spoke, but what she said came as a complete shock to Margaret.

  “As to that, I think you should know ...” She turned her head away and did not meet Margaret’s eyes. “I have held my tongue all these years, knowing if I told you truth, it would cause you nothing but pain. But I cannot keep silent any longer.”

  The truth? Margaret felt faint with apprehension. Was there something wrong with her? Something she herself did not perceive when she looked into her mirror? Some fatal flaw about her person that had made her father deem it best to shut her away from the world and deny her the right to go out into company?

  Folding her arms across her ample bosom, Mrs. Beagles said bluntly, “Squire Fanning’s eldest son, Manfred, offered for you when you were eighteen, but your father turned him down flat. Said you were still too grief-stricken over your mother’s death to think of marrying anyone.”

  Feeling herself begin to tremble, Margaret immediately stiffened her muscles, lest Mrs. Beagles notice and offer her sympathy, which would be her undoing. One word of pity would doubtless cause her to lose control and break down completely, which was too embarrassing to contemplate.

  “I see,” she said finally, once she felt herself able to speak again. “That would explain so much.”

  The housekeeper did not need to ask what it explained—she knew, as did everyone else in the village, that from the time she was eighteen, a full three and a half years after her mother had died, Margaret had withdrawn completely from society.

  Being in Margaret’s confidence, however, Mrs. Beagles was the only person in the parish who knew that it was the Reverend Mr. Shuttleworth himself who had decreed his daughter’s withdrawal, and that Margaret had not only protested vigorously, but had also begged and pleaded to be allowed to continue making social visits. Unfortunately, neither tears nor reason had availed her one whit.

  “My father explained to me that since we did not have the necessary funds to allow me to be presented in London and since the local society was beneath our touch, I would find it easier to adjust to my lot in life if temptation were removed from my path, lest I contract a mésalliance. As my father, he knew what was best for me, and as a dutiful daughter, I was to obey him in all things. He quoted from the scriptures at great length to justify his position.”

  “There is more,” Mrs. Beagles said apologetically, “but perhaps it is better if you do not know everything.”

  With effort Margaret forced the necess
ary words out. “Tell me. Please, if you are my friend, do not hold anything back.” She bowed her head and listened with increasing pain while the housekeeper revealed the extent of her father’s perfidy.

  “Do you remember Lord Kormly? He visited here at Morwyle House when you were three-and-twenty.”

  “I remember him. He spoke to me once at church. He seemed a very pleasant man.”

  “Indeed he was—he made a most favorable impression on all of the servants here. And ...” The housekeeper’s voice faltered, “and while he was here, he asked your father for permission to call on you.”

  “I must assume ... that my father denied him permission.” So many wasted years, Margaret thought with agonizing pain in her heart. She might have been married seven years by now—might have three or four children—if only...

  “Yes, and I was that angry with your father, if I’d’ve been a man, I would have eloped with you myself,” Mrs. Beagles added.

  That would explain why Lord Kormly had cut short his visit after specifically mentioning to her that he planned to spend the summer. And why her father had decreed that she henceforth wear bonnets with concealing brims and not speak to anyone after services were over.

  Raising her eyes, she looked out the window at Mr. Hawke’s secretary. John Tuke—a strong name for a strong man. But his eyes were too clear, his expression too open, for her to hope that he might be her rescuer. Even were he to notice her, which was an unlikely circumstance, given the rules her father had laid down for her conduct, it was most unlikely that he could penetrate her father’s defenses.

  “You do not suppose my father may have mellowed somewhat through the years?” she said, unable to keep the wistfulness entirely out of her voice. “After all, it is not as though he enjoys my company of an evening. He rarely speaks to me over dinner, and then he invariably locks himself in his study afterward. Surely he could easily hire a housekeeper to take over my chores, and it would cost him no more than my keep does now. Perhaps, now that we have such exalted neighbors, he might allow me to accept an occasional invitation. Do you not think it possible?”

  Mrs. Beagles did not reply. Turning to look at her, Margaret saw tears in the housekeeper’s eyes.

  “Child, child, do not get your hopes up. You were invited here today, but your father made your excuses.”

  “Without telling me anything about it. I see. If that is the way it is, then I must resign myself to my situation.” Holding her head up straight, Margaret turned away from the window. “I should be getting home now, lest my father discover I have played the truant and punish me for it.”

  Her father had never struck her in his life, but then he had not needed to. He was adept at the cutting remark, the stinging rejoinder, the annihilating look. His cruelty was too subtle, too refined, to give her something solid to protest against.

  Trudging down the lane toward the vicarage, she made no effort to conceal herself. Due to her father’s efforts, no one in the village would tip his hat to her or in any other way acknowledge her existence. But on the other hand, none of the villagers had ever betrayed her by the slightest word when she occasionally escaped her father’s watchful eye. Which was little enough to be thankful for.

  * * * *

  “Why do you wish to dally so long amongst the vegetables?” Lord Atherston asked. “The roses are a much prettier setting for a beautiful woman such as yourself.”

  Cassie could not very well explain to him that years of hunger made her see more beauty in a well-developed cabbage than in the finest cabbage rose. Thinking quickly, she invented a plausible explanation for her abnormal interest in edible plants.

  “I find a kitchen garden can be most revealing if one wishes to ascertain the true condition of an estate. Neglected carrots and turnips are significant, and should alert one that the management of the estate is not as it should be.”

  “But you should not bother your pretty little head about such matters,” the baron said, a trace of condescension in his voice. “That is a subject for Mr. Hawke to concern himself with, and as he has pronounced himself satisfied with the condition of the estate, so should we all be. I would not be so impatient, my dear Lady Cassiopeia, except that I have been wishing to speak to you in a more romantic setting.

  “On the other hand, since we have achieved a measure of privacy here amidst the broccoli, perhaps ‘twere best that I seize the moment, so to speak.”

  Something of her shock must have shown on her face, because he immediately began to reassure her. “Please, you must not think that I am being forward. I would never dream of speaking to you directly before I have received permission from your brother. Indeed, such action would be reprehensible on my part. But I do feel it is entirely allowable for me to inform you that I have arranged an interview with your brother for tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  Apparently he thought she was going to say something, because he held up one hand, palm toward her. “No, no, do not think that I am expecting you to make known your sentiments at this time. That would be pushing things beyond what would be seemly. But you need have no fear that I shall spend the night in an agony of suspense. I am sure enough of your feelings that I am willing to wait until tomorrow to hear what your answer will be.”

  Cassie was surprised to hear that he was sure of her feelings, because she was not. She should, of course, be quite content to marry such an amiable man, especially considering the men Geoffrey had threatened to sell her to.

  She doubted even Digory could find anything offensive about Lord Atherston. He was all amiability and was even displaying an amazing degree of sensitivity, and she knew she had nothing to fear from him.

  Taking her hand and placing it gently on his arm, he began to lead her back through the gate to the formal gardens, where the others were still strolling about, enjoying the auspicious weather.

  “I know you will be delighted to learn that the kitchen garden at Atherston Hall is quite well tended.” He chuckled at his own cleverness, and she smiled up at him.

  Strangely enough, her smile required a great deal of effort. Although by rights she should be as happy as Ellen was, Cassie felt almost ... sad. But that could not possibly be. Knowing that she was going to be the recipient of an unexceptionable offer was no reason for her to be cast down in the dumps. More than likely she was merely fatigued by the ride out from London and by all the walking about under the hot sun.

  John Tuke moved away from the shrubbery that had concealed him from Lady Cassiopeia and her suitor. Although John’s eavesdropping had been unintentional, it was nevertheless fortuitous.

  As quickly as was possible without attracting undue attention, he sought out Richard, who was ensconced on a wrought iron bench beside Lady Letitia.

  “Might I have a word with you privately, Richard?” he asked. “Something has come up that you should know about as soon as possible, assuming it is not already too late.”

  “If it concerns Lady Cassiopeia,” Richard replied with a smile, “then you may talk freely in front of Lady Letitia. She is privy to my plans, and has even offered sound advice in the past.”

  “As you wish,” John said. Then he quickly related what he had overheard.

  “Less than twenty-four hours,” Richard said calmly, no sign of emotion visible on his face. “That gives us little time to formulate a plan, much less carry it out.” Turning to Lady Letitia, he inquired, “Do you perhaps know a way Atherston could be discouraged from wishing to marry?”

  “I doubt anything anyone might say would persuade Atherston to remain a bachelor. In fact, he feels it is imperative to marry as quickly as possible. He has three younger brothers, you know, and he is quite determined to cut them out of the succession.” She paused, then said bluntly, “And if you are too much of a blockhead to use that information, then I must tell you, Richard, I wash my hands of your affairs.”

  Despite her white hair and lined face, her smile was so engaging, it was easy for John to see how she had managed to ensnare f
our husbands—although ensnare was not the correct term. Doubtless each of them had considered himself to be the most fortunate of men.

  “So, my Lord Atherston wishes an heir, does he?” Richard mused.

  “And a spare,” Lady Letitia said quite tartly. “In fact, I would imagine only a household of sons will satisfy him.”

  “Then we must arrange to celebrate his forthcoming nuptials with him, John. This evening would not be premature, would it?”

  Catching on at last to what his friend was planning, John smiled also. “One should never postpone celebrating, lest the cause of the celebration likewise be postponed.”

  * * * *

  Sitting beside dear Arthur, Ellen could not keep from smiling as they drove back toward London. Betrothed, and to such a handsome man. She sneaked a peek at him. Yes, she would be the envy of all her contemporaries, some of the more catty of whom had warned her that lacking a son, Arthur was falsely raising her hopes—in the end he would choose a much younger woman to take for a wife.

  But he had not—he had chosen her! Oh, how he must love her! Her heart felt as if it would burst in her chest, so happy she was.

  “Morwyle House is pleasant enough,” Arthur broke the silence, “but I should not choose to live there myself.”

  “And why is that, my dear?”

  “Too close to London. Why, everyone and his brother will be thinking of an excuse to drop by and wangle an invitation to stay for a few days or even a few weeks. For my own part, I much prefer living in Northumberland. I shall not be sorry to shake the dust of London off my feet forever.”

  “But ... but ...” Ellen frantically cast around in her mind for some plausible explanation. Surely dear Arthur did not mean what he had just said. He must have been joking—or had he been? “What about... what about my daughter Persephone? It is only a few years until she must be presented in court—and of course, she must have a London Season.”