What a chance! She might marry and then her mother could be made comfortable.
Lady Barlow had seen the chance too, but she’d decided on a far bigger chance than what was currently on offer. They would regretfully decline Lady Heathway on account of Lady Barlow’s ill health—she required Grace by her side. Lady Heathway would have no recourse but to invite Lady Barlow to London too.
They might both be made comfortable. Immediately.
Since then, her mother had been far more energetic than she’d been in months. She was full of plans and almost convinced the maid to pack her trunks before Grace put a stop to it. They had declined Lady Heathway and nothing further might come of it.
Lady Barlow took to pacing the drawing room and waiting for the post to be delivered. It could not be many days before the letter arrived that invited them both to London.
Grace was afraid that letter would not come. And, when her mother realized their hopes were dashed, that she had gambled a step too far, she really would take to her bed and never rise from it.
Grace Yardley would find herself entirely alone in the world.
*
Penelope Prescott mightbe a marchioness now, but she had not always traveled in such a lofty sphere. She had begun only the daughter of a second son of a viscount. That uneasy circumstance had meant that her father had need of a living, and he had been given a living held by her titled uncle. She had spent her childhood as the daughter of the local vicar, all the while seething at her cousins’ good luck to have been born to the eldest son.
Fortunately, her father had done well for himself and become a bishop. He had scraped together a passable dowry and rented a modest house in Town to allow her a season. Otherwise, she did not know where she might have ended up.
She had arrived to that first and only season with a vague feeling of not being up to snuff. Daughters of dukes and earls fanned about, wearing enough jewels to have paid for her entire wardrobe. A girl in her position might hope her looks would level the field, but she did not have that advantage either. She was not ugly, that she knew, but she was not the sort who would lay claim to a season as beingthegirl. It seemed everything in her life was to be middling, and she carried round a constant prickly feeling that made her want to cry and rage at the same time. She should have accepted her lot in life, but she could not.
Penelope had put her attention on how she might improve her chances. Particularly, how successful ladies managed theton. She’d noticed one thing especially—a lady who spoke her mind appeared rather striking,ifit were done well.
She was determined to do it well. At her delicate age, she could not have spoken out like a Mary Wollstonecraft, it would have been regarded as vulgar. No, she instantly perceived that she must only have an original opinion on small, everyday things.
She had mastered the technique and it turned out she very much enjoyed having decisive opinions and sharing them out freely. She had since kept it as a lifelong habit.
Lord Heathway, only a viscount when she’d met him, had been charmed to discover that she did not think the park wonderful, though everybody sang its praises. Rather, with the amount of horse droppings and throngs of unwashed people milling about, it was an unkempt barnyard.
He had wished to know more of her opinions, and she had obliged. There were contrary opinions on books, and plays, and popular dishes. She’d even gone so far as to claim she thought white soup overrated. She actually did think that and thought it still—who ever thought to put almonds into a soup was a madman.
All went along splendidly between them until one evening when the viscount had taken a certain Miss Granger into supper, rather than herself. Penelope did her best to pretend she was not vexed, but fortunately, she was not entirely successful. The lord had divined her contrary feelings on the matter and was further charmed. He asked for her hand the very next day.
She had since reached the pinnacle of society. She was a marchioness, and her friends were all respected and powerful ladies. She could even go toe-to-toe with the duchess, and sometimes she did.
She was well aware that she was named Lady Naysay by those in society who thought themselves a wit. She supposed she ought to be offended by it, but she was not—thetonwere a flighty set, and they often required a naysayer among them.
Now, she paced the drawing room. Her friends had long departed and she awaited the arrival of her nephew.
George, though he did not yet know it, would escort her to Lady Barlow’s ramshackle dower house to retrieve Miss Yardley from the clutches of her ridiculous mother.
George would not need to know the precise details of the scheme, as she thought he might not be in full agreement. As it was, she had informed Lord Heathway of the plan to bring Miss Yardley to Berkeley Square in small drips, which he took in with good humor. Except when he was apprised of the dowry to be supplied, which he had taken in with less good humor. She had not bothered to warn him of the impending bills from dressmakers and such, feeling that particular sort of news was better arriving in small blows. In the end, he would not say much about it. He spent far too much gambling, which he did not seem to be very good at, and she was kind enough not to say much aboutthat. Her nephew, on the other hand, could be more difficult to manage. The young man did insist on having his own opinions on things.
Ranston knocked softly and opened the door. “Lord Gresham to see you, my lady.”
*
George Wade, ViscountGresham and heir to the Earl of Clayton, had received a message from his aunt while in the midst of a very interesting game of piquet. The lady should not have been able to divine where to find him, as he had not been at home, but he was well aware that she had her methods. One of her footmen had cornered one of his own and pried the address from him.
He’d stayed long enough to finish the game, and relieve Sir Matthew of a hundred pounds, and then he’d set off to Berkeley Square. He’d learned long ago that there was no point in ignoring a summons from Lady Heathway—another would come, and then another, and another—it would be as paper birds flying at him from all directions. Her notes delivered by breathless footmen had even become a joke at White’s. He suspected there had even been bets laid on when the next would arrive, though he had not dared look in the bet book to find out.
As he was led into the drawing room, he hoped he would not find her out of sorts. She was very difficult to manage when she was out of sorts.
“Dear George,” she said, looking not particularly out of sorts.
“Aunt,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“How considerate of you to make haste to my side,” she said.
