Miss Chawner, a tall young lady with shiny brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose, came forward. “Welcome, my lord. From upstairs I could hear Papa tell our butler to open the door, but I see he beat poor Bagley to it.” Even though her tone was a slightly severe, the loving look she gave her father more than made up for her chastisement. “Please join us. Papa is having coffee, but I know you prefer tea.” She glanced at Beresford. “And you, sir.”
“He’s not a sir, poppet, he’s an earl. This here is Lord Beresford.”
She sank into a graceful curtsey. “Welcome, my lord.”
Her father showed them into a breakfast room painted a bright yellow. Gas lamps were affixed to the walls, and gilt edged the white trim. Curtains with a cream background and a riot of brightly-colored flowers framed the long windows.
“She seems too nice for Lord Oliver,” Nick whispered.
“She is extremely nice, with a will of steel. I don’t like seeing people go to waste, and that is exactly what is happening with Lord Oliver.” Rupert took the seat Miss Chawner indicated. Beresford sat next to him.
They feasted on rare beef, ham, eggs, toast, tea, and coffee as they discussed commerce, tariffs, and the state of England’s economy. After several minutes, Miss Chawner set her cup down. “What brings you here, my lord?”
“There is a gentleman who must marry well. His name is Lord Oliver Loveridge, the third son of the Duke of Stafford. He is not himself a peer, but his family is influential, if not abundantly wealthy. The duke will settle a small estate on Lord Oliver when he weds, as well as raise his allowance to support a family.”
Creasing her forehead slightly, she glanced at her father. “I have heard of him. He is not perfect husband material, but I believe I can make something of him.”
“He has gambling debts,” Nick added.
She shrugged lightly. “What man in search of a wealthy wife does not? His gambling will have to cease, as will his late nights.” Once again she looked over at her father. “What do you think, Papa? I’m not growing any younger.”
“If you decide you want him, poppet, you shall have him. I’ll wrap him up all right and tight, Bristol fashion.”
“Very well.” She turned to Rupert. “Please make whatever arrangements you must for me to meet with him.”
Nick, who’d been watching her with something akin to fascination, set his coffee cup down. “You don’t have to accept him.”
Miss Chawner’s eyes widened. “What an idea. Of course I do not. I shall meet with him and make my decision.” A wicked grin appeared on her lips. “If we agree to wed, he will dance to my tune, or he will not dance at all.”
Beresford swallowed. “I understand.”
Deeming it time to take their leave, Rupert stood. “Thank you. I’ll be in contact soon.”
She and her father rose, and Mr. Chawner accompanied Nick and Rupert to the door. “Thank you, my lord. I’m glad you came by.”
Once on their horses and headed back to Mayfair, Nick said, “I don’t understand why she wants to marry into theton. Wouldn’t she have a more pleasant life with a man of her own status?”
“It was her mother’s dream, and she intends to honor her memory.” They rode on in silence for a few moments. “Make no mistake, Miss Chawner is the type who makes her own happiness. Like a cat, she’ll land on her feet.”
Apparently accepting how the matter with Miss Chawner stood, Nick turned to the business at hand. “How do we approach Lord Oliver?”
“We don’t. I know his father and will make the suggestion. In the meantime, it’s your job to keep Miss Corbet safe.”
“Bloody hell!” He urged his horse to a trot. “I’m supposed to meet with her this morning. She’ll have my head if I’m late.”
“Do you know your way back?”
“I’ll find it.” Nick saluted as he cantered off.
For a man who swore with such fluency and had led troops into battle, he was interestingly afraid of Miss Corbet.
Rupert considered changing, then going to Mount Street, but he decided against it. He would send the flowers he’d ordered from his estate instead. He must also apply his mind to finding a way to get Vivian out of that Cleopatra costume. Obviously, she was afraid to be naked; therefore, it behove him to find something more comfortable for her to wear. Preferably with less starch.
An hour later, he dashed off a missive to Madame Lisette, a well-known and extremely expensive modiste his mother and most of his female friends patronized. How soon she could do what he wanted, Rupert had no idea. Still, even if it took a day or two, at least he’d have achieved his goal.
He’d just finished changing when Harlock notified him Madame had arrived. “Bring tea. I’ll be down directly.”
Madame Lisette was perched upon one of his large, comfortable leather chairs, sipping a cup of tea, when he entered the room. Fashionably but simply gowned, she gave an impression of competence.
