“If you can do anything to the purpose there, I’m sure we’d all be grateful. They say time heals, but it’s being demmed slow about it. No, I bade you here for other charms.”
“My dearest dear, you want to set me up as your flirt!”
“Impudent puppy! Though if I were thirty years younger and not your godmother . . .” She waggled a beringed finger at him. “You’re too attractive for anyone’s good.”
“It does me good,” Gabriel pointed out mischievously, and shot another glance at the mouse. He caught her in a frosty glare, but she immediately looked down. Who was she? A distant dependent of the family? If so, someone should dress her better. Where was the jolly Miss Bunting, Lady Holly’s friend and companion since he’d been a grubby urchin?
“I asked you here,” the dowager said, “to enhance the charms of some young ladies who will attend the ball.”
He stared. “Enhance? You think I’m a dancing master?”
“I’m sure you could be if you waste your all.”
“Devil a bit.”
Did his language cause a stir to his left?
“I have taken an interest in some young ladies, and I wish you to bring them out a bit. Make them blush. That always does a girl good. Why so many refuse to use rouge these days I’ve no idea. Help them to relax and show to greatest advantage. I’m hoping at least one will find a husband. Merely being asked to dance by you will raise their appeal.”
“Only with idiots. There’s more to choosing a wife than snatching another man’s fancy. Money, for example. I assume your charity cases have none.”
“None or very little,” she admitted.
“Beauty?”
“Not to any remarkable degree.” Lady Holly was known for her eccentricities as well as her enthusiasm for Christmas, but this seemed an odd start all around. “Every gel should have at least one grand ball,” she stated, “if only to remember. Wearing a pretty gown, flirting with eligible gentlemen, and only sitting out if she needs to catch her breath. For these, it might be their last chance to attract a suitor.”
“I never knew you had such a romantic heart.”
She pursed her lips at him, but then admitted, “I was mainly thinking of a goddaughter of mine, who seems likely to go off into servitude. But I didn’t want Alice to look particular, and when I considered the matter I found another worthy case. Miss Langsdale.”
“And I’m to make them show to good effect on the market stall. Very well, but in case your plan is devious, note that I will not marry either of them.”
“I hope they’d have too much sense to consider it. You’re a rake and a rascal and will never make a good husband. A scholar or clergyman will probably suit for my gels, or a gentleman of modest estate. I’ve made sure all the suitable ones in the locality will attend.”
If they were local people, the suitable gentlemen would already know the last-chance ladies, but perhaps his godmother’s plan would work on some. To see a Plain Jane blushing, smiling—and yes, the chosen partner of a rake and rascal who was also the wealthy son of a duke—might open a man’s eyes.
He rose. “With such exertion before me, I must find whatever corner has been urgently cleared for my repose.”
“The Angel Room, of course.”
One of the finest guest rooms, correctly called the White Room, but known as the Angel Room because it had a ceiling painted with cherubs. When he’d reached the age to have a room outside of the children’s area, he’d chosen it and always used it when he visited.
“You were so sure I would come?” he said.
“Was I wrong?”
“You’re a witch, I’m sure.” Aware of chilly disapproval as much as of the hot fire, he asked, “Where, pray, is the delightful Bunting?”
“Ha!” his godmother exploded, mistletoe jiggling. “Run off with a man. At her age!”
He laughed. “Bunting eloped? Good for her.”
“Miss Bunting married in the chapel here, in perfect order.”
That was the gray mouse, voice cool as the water one might pour over a drunkard’s head.
“All the same, good for her.”
“Abandoned me,” Lady Holly complained. “Now I’ve . . .” She stopped what she’d been about to say, probably out of kindness. “Now I have the pleasure of Miss Finch’s companionship.”
Joan Bunting had been a cheerfully trenchant lady of about forty who’d been the perfect foil for Lady Holly’s eccentricities and whims. Gabriel felt little optimism about the Finch’s future. Another charity case, he was sure, and none of his concern. Yet, as he left the room, he glanced back at her again, and was disappointed not to catch her in another disapproving stare.
He strolled along the corridor toward his room, needing no one to show him the way. Pity about Kim. He’d find out more from Edward, Holbourne’s heir. He’d always rubbed along with Edward and Kim much better than with his own brother, the Marquess of Crampton. Always Crampton. Any use of his baptismal name, James, had been sharply discouraged, but here Viscount Brentford was comfortably Edward to the family.
A passing maidservant flickered him a smile and he winked at her. She giggled and hurried on, and yes, her blush had made her prettier for a moment.
“So you came when summoned.”
Gabriel smiled to see Edward. He was lean and dark and could appear a sober sides, but he was a good friend with a lively sense of humor. “I was pleased to escape.”
“Family still as frosty? Have you just arrived? Come to my room for refreshment.”
They were soon settled in Edward’s bedroom, which was large enough for a substantial desk and some bookcases, but cozy with two well-worn leather armchairs and a small sofa. When he’d been moved into it at sixteen, they’d all tagged it the “heir’s lair.”
“I’ve drinks,” Edward said, waving to a selection of decanters. “Need more solid sustenance?”
“I paused to eat.”
“Care to try some Scottish whisky?” Edward picked up a decanter. “Gift from northerly relatives.”
“Is it civilized?” Gabriel asked dubiously.
“Try for yourself.” Edward poured for them both and they took the chairs on either side of the large fireplace. “The Setons were supposed to be here for the ball, but they’ve sent their apologies. Weather.”
“Yesterday I wasn’t sure I’d make it here.” Gabriel sniffed at the liquid in his glass and was encouraged to take a sip. “Not bad. It’s not cognac. . . .”
“And couldn’t be expected to be. I like the smoky notes. It’s more substantial.”
Gabriel toasted him and took a larger mouthful.
“So, life at Straith?” Edward asked. “I heard Cramp married.”
“To forty thousand, which unfortunately came attached to Lady Juliana Pole. She looks around the place so avidly, I fear she’ll slip rat poison into Father’s soup, and she disapproves of me.”
“The Pole family is rather strait-laced.”
“Pole up the arse, as some have said. But her main grievance is my money, not my morals. Enough of that. Tell me about Miss Bunting and Miss Finch.”
Edward chuckled. “Such a turmoil. I think Grandmamma tried to put some spokes in the wheels, but once it was settled she was too kindhearted to make difficulties, and dear Bunting positively bloomed. Odd really, when her beau was gone fifty, fat, and bald, but it’s a love match.”
“Delightful to think that even when we’re fat and bald ourselves, there’ll still be hope.”
“Hard to imagine you reaching that stage.”
“You think I’ll die of dissipation first?”
“I think, like your father, you’ll become all bone and sinew, and retain your hair.”
The idle chat was pleasant enough, but Gabriel found himself wanting to know more about the Finch.
“The new companion,” he said. “Will she last?”
Edward grimaced. “No love match there. Mama’s tried to hint Miss Finch to a livelier wardrobe and manner, but
to no effect. Of course, having taken her on, Grandmamma won’t dismiss her, but it’s not a happy situation.”
“Lady Holly should recommend her to someone else and give her a good reference.”
“But she won’t. Don’t know why.”
“Perhaps she hopes to bring joy into her life. Any idea where the Finch flew in from?”
“Herefordshire, I think. Solid gentry family, recommended by one of Grandmamma’s old friends who knew she’d take in a waif.”
“Waif?”
“Has to be.”
“An orphan of impoverished parents,” Gabriel speculated, “left without the means of survival. In that case, she’d do better to be obliging.”
“People can’t change to suit. It seems my fate to be responsible, and your fate to be . . .”
“Not?” Gabriel supplied without offense. “If you mean I lack responsibilities, I agree, but those I have I respect.”
“And most of us envy you the lack of burdens. Do you have nightmares about Crampton dying?”
“Many. I rejoiced at his wedding and will throw a grand party when he has a son. An even grander one for a second. I can’t imagine why anyone who’s comfortably situated wouldn’t dread such high rank and responsibilities.”
“To have the rest of the world grovel,” Edward said bluntly.
“Unpleasant, but true.” Gabriel dragged the conversation back to where he wanted it. “So you think Miss Finch was born to be a blight on every feast?”
“Too harsh. Rather, I’d say, born to be invisible.”
Gabriel had not found her that. “If she were invisible, she wouldn’t be blighting Lady Holly’s life. She has a gray presence.”
“Is that why you’re here? To brighten the gloom in Grandmamma’s life?”
“After a fashion, but it’s to do with other burdensome spinsters—the ones she’s invited to the ball for their last chance at wedded bliss.”
Edward groaned and topped up their glasses. “That. We all predict disaster.”
“What inspired her? It being her fiftieth Christmas ball?”
“Perhaps. A remarkable record. The first one was when the king was sane, the Colonies ours, and Versailles still a pleasure palace.”
“When the roads were atrocious, smallpox ravaged, and we would have had to wear powder and paint. We live in better times. Why will Lady Holly’s plan lead to disaster?”
“If her protégées had been going to find husbands in the area, they would already have done so. And neither of them is accustomed to a grand occasion. It’ll be a shame if they’re awkward.”
“Behold, my part. I’m to put them at ease, charm them into blooming, and make them trophies in other men’s eyes.”
“Be careful, or one of them’ll hook you!”
“I’m well accustomed to all the ploys—but what of you? You have the duty to wed.”
Edward shrugged, but he looked away. Did he have something to hide? An unsuitable attachment? Gabriel remembered that years back he’d had a notion that Edward had formed an attachment to someone unsuitable, but if so, it had been a temporary flicker of irresponsibility. If he’d done it again, Gabriel would do his best to support and encourage. Suitable brides were so damned tedious.
“Perhaps Lady Holly is hoping an atmosphere of romance will inspire you,” Gabriel teased. “Is Miss Finch another of her last-chance ladies?”
“Finch? No.”
“Why not?”
Edward opened his mouth, and then shut it. “No point, surely. Dull thing.”
“But,” said Gabriel, “if a fever of romance brought her a suitable offer, it would solve a number of problems, wouldn’t it?”
“By gad, it would. You think you could make her appealing?”
“No squint, warts, or humped back. She’s not beyond all hope.”
“Lay you a monkey you can’t do it.”
“Done,” Gabriel said, smiling with anticipation.
CHAPTER TWO
Twenty sat to dinner that night. Ten were the permanent household of family and high-born attendants, only lacking Kim. The rest were relatives and close friends invited for the Christmas season.
Gabriel noted that Miss Finch had been seated some distance from the dowager. Not a good sign. She was between the elderly chaplain and a plump gentleman who was principally interested in the food. She seemed content.
All the same, he caught her looking at him once, though he couldn’t read her expression. She’d changed out of mouse gray into a dull shade of green he couldn’t begin to describe. Surely it hadn’t been dyed that color on purpose so it must have been reduced to it through time and laundering. The neckline was somewhat lower than her day dress, but filled by a fichu which might even be starched. Yet again her hair was beneath a plain white cap.
Get thee to a nunnery, mouse, if you’re so determined not to play the game.
But then he noticed that a tendril of brown hair had escaped whatever pins she used to discipline it. Gently, it curled against her ear.
He smiled as he turned to pay attention to Lady Garway. She had been a Stretton, and was worldly-wise and handsome. All the same, he’d rather have had Roxie Hayward by his side. She was opposite, next to Edward, lucky fellow. Roxie was a neighbor and when they’d been children she’d tagged along on their boyhood games as often as she’d been allowed. She’d grown up into a lovely woman, spirit untamed, and Gabriel was surprised she hadn’t been snatched up. As well as her charms, she owned a large estate.
When the meal was over, the ladies left, but the gentlemen didn’t linger beyond an hour. No one seemed inclined to talk politics, and Lord Holbourne had never encouraged disreputable talk. The port passed generously, but their host rose before anyone slid under the table or, worse, would be staggering when they joined the ladies.
Gabriel strolled into the drawing room to find the ladies sitting in groups and Lady Garway playing the piano, very well. His quarry was sitting at a distance from the fireplace talking to a large older lady. Ah, that was Mrs. Pennard, a distant relative of the countess’s who’d been given the sinecure of companion so as to have a home and income.
The gentlemen spread out to mingle with the ladies. He strolled over to the quiet couple.
“Mrs. Pennard,” he said. “How delightful to see you again.”
The older lady smiled, and even blushed a little. “So kind of you to remember me, Lord Gabriel.”
“It’s not much over two years since I last visited, ma’am.”
He turned to the Finch, but she rose. “I should relieve Lady Garway at the instrument.”
He glanced over. “I believe Miss Minchingham will beat you to the opportunity to shine before the gentlemen.”
Ah-ha! A blush. And it did improve her, but he noticed that she’d re-imprisoned that wanton lock.
“Please don’t hurry away, Miss Finch. I hope to hear more of Miss Bunting.” Her eyes flickered around as if seeking escape, but then she sat again. He moved a chair closer and sat down. “Was it truly a love match?”
“I wasn’t here, my lord. Mrs. Pennard knows much more.”
Mrs. Pennard obliged with a full and boring account of courtship, hesitations, and final connubial bliss. Miss Finch sat, hands in lap, and Gabriel saw why Edward thought her invisible. She was trying to disappear. Perhaps he should call her the “gray ghost.” The “pallid green ghost” did not have the same ring.
“Will you attend the ball, Mrs. Pennard?” he asked when he had the chance.
“Oh, yes, my lord. I always do. So kind. Of course, I do not dance much. Such exertion as one gets older, and unpleasant to perspire. But I do enjoy a quieter set.”
“And you, Miss Finch?”
“I will not attend.”
Mrs. Pennard obliged with the protests. “But you must, my dear! The dowager will be most disappointed if you do not.”
Miss Finch frowned. “Why? Will she need my services?”
“She likes to see people enjoying her Christm
as ball,” Gabriel said. “It has a long tradition, and it’s been the spark for a number of happy unions. You can have no objection to a ball, can you?”
“I don’t think it’s suitable for someone in my position, my lord.”
“Mrs. Pennard plans to attend,” he reminded her.
Her lips tightened in annoyance at being caught out on that. “I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“Of course not, dear,” Mrs. Pennard said, patting her hands. “And I’m sure in some houses ladies such as we would not be invited, but I assure you that’s not the case at Holbourne. You will be welcome, indeed obliged, to attend.”
“Then, of course I must.” Surely no other lady had heard sentence of dancing with a heavier heart.
Gabriel’s idle interest turned to sharp curiosity.
Who are you, Finch?
What is your story?
“Do you perhaps need practice in dancing, Miss Finch?” he asked. “We have a day before the ball, and I’m sure any number of people would enjoy an afternoon dancing party to learn some new steps.”
“I will attend, my lord, but I won’t dance. I assume that is not an obligation.”
“Goodness, dear, do you have moral objections?” Mrs. Pennard asked.
“I simply do not care to dance.” Distinctly harried, the Finch rose. “Excuse me. I must see if Lady Holly requires anything.” She went to the dowager. A moment later she left the room.
Full retreat.
“Odd lass,” Mrs. Pennard said. “Never know what’s going on in her head. But very obliging.”
In general, Gabriel wouldn’t indulge in this sort of gossip, but he felt the need. “Do you know her background? Daughter of a clergyman, or such?”
“A country family, I believe—squirearchy—but I’ve heard no details.” She lowered her voice. “It’s clear she’s a charity case, of course. Probably gaming. Father ruined. Blew out his brains. Left daughter destitute.”
It wasn’t impossible, but Mrs. Pennard had a taste for overblown drama.
“Or simple misfortune or mismanagement.” He’d mined Mrs. Pennard for all she had to offer and was pleased when the chaplain came to invite her to make up a table for whist. Three tables were forming, but Gabriel evaded involvement there. He had a wager in hand. He’d wanted a word with Roxie, but she must have already left.