The letter seemed to say that she would relocate to London for the social season and live with this duchess. The finest houses in London were to open their doors. There was a modiste and a wardrobe mentioned.
Could any of it be true? She must be certain before she allowed her hopes to bloom.
“Back, forth, back, forth,” the earl said. He pointed to the letter. “The end.”
The earl looked perfectly satisfied that he’d explained all. Isabel, having some experience teasing out her father’s meanings, said, “Back and forth. There are other letters. Are they in your study?”
The earl nodded and then waved Rogers over with the half-chicken. Isabel leapt up. Her father could have the chicken. She must find those letters. She must know everything about what had been arranged.
*
Mr. Harry Vance,only son of the 2ndBaron Leighton, surveyed the accounts with a satisfied eye. The estate was more and more profitable, thanks to his close management. His father, getting on in years, had taken a step back and handed him the reins. He had made sure the reins were in steady hands.
He managed things carefully for good reason. His family had somewhat recently joined thetonand it would be all too easy to slip out of it again. His grandfather had been a gunmaker who had done a particular service for the crown and been rewarded with a title and an estate.
Were Harry not careful and the estate was to run into financial difficulties, they might find themselves living as titled paupers. They did not have the network of rich and connected relatives that might bail a family out. Everything they did was up to them alone.
He did not have the luxury of going to Town and acting the foolish young gentleman—betting ruinously and then counting on somebody else to rescue him from his own idiocy. Nor did he imagine he would do so if he did have such a luxury, as it seemed very stupid to imperil one’s estate by betting which color cat would pass by the bow windows of White’s next.
As it was, the cash reserves had grown significantly, and he was well-cushioned. He had sought out advice from other gentlemen—some prudent and some not particularly. By far, Bertridge had provided the sagest counsel. People might find the fellow stiff on occasion, but he had been enormously helpful in showing him how to diversify to better protect his interests.
It was necessary that he protect his interests for his peace of mind—money built the walls of a fortress of security, and he intended his fortress to be very well fortified.
Someday, he would have a son. That son would experience his place in society as Harry did not.Hewas still too close in generations to trade. He was accepted by most, liked by nearly everybody, but peered down on by some. The likes of Lady Heathway and the Duchess of Stanbury could not be quite satisfied with his pedigree.
It would be different for the fourth-generation baron. That seemed to be, as far as he could gather, the magic length of time when a family’s history was washed clean. His son would be better connected than he was, and then his grandson even more so. Eventually, his family would have a network of relatives through marriage that could be called upon if necessary.
Eventually, all thought of his family having come from trade would fade away.
He would be glad of it. Not because he was ashamed of his gunmaker grandfather. It was quite the opposite. That man had been hardworking, intelligent, and ambitious. His grandfather had been everything he admired in a man. No, he would be glad because it irked him whenever he felt the disdain for his grandfather’s beginnings coming from another quarter.
He would be glad that his son would never feel it.
Harry smiled as he thought of the highhanded Duchess of Stanbury. She had been far more friendly to him last season than she’d ever been. Naturally, she had her reasons and they had nothing to do with his charm.
She was great friends with Viscountess Rembly and those two were forever intent on hunting down anybody who would consent to take the viscountess’ daughter into supper at a ball. Miss Rightstone was a harridan of a female who’d been smacking her fan upon unsuspecting gentlemen through her fifth season. Still, he did not mind the occasional escorting, it was only a favor and as awful as she was, he did not like to think of a lady of any sort set adrift with no partner.
It had amused him to see what the duchess would try next. It seemed whenever she was particularly fearful that Miss Rightstone would be shunned, he was magically invited. She’d opened doors all over Town, somehow arranging that he would be invited when he usually would not have been. Then, she’d drag Miss Rightstone to his notice. If it were a ball, he was to take Miss Rightstone into supper. If it were a musical evening, he was to praise Miss Rightstone to the skies.
It was a testament to the duchess’ supreme confidence in the idea that other mortals existed to serve her that she imagined he was a puppet dangling from her strings.
It was quite the opposite—he had keptherdangling on the line as if she were a fish. Sometimes he complied with her directions, sometimes he did not. It tickled him to recall the Tredwells’ masque last season—he’d gone as a fox and dodged this way and that so he could never be caught. Miss Rightstone’s Queen Elizabeth I and the duchess’ Egyptian had looked for him all night.
Harry could only imagine what sort of gambits the duchess would roll out in the upcoming season as Miss Rightstone had left last season just as unmarried as she’d come into it. As for Miss Rightstone herself, he’d not indicated the slightest interest, as he had none. He would continue to squire her occasionally, as otherwise he was not certain who would.
He did not mind the duty too much because there was no lady so far that hewasinterested in. He hoped that circumstance would change, but so far it had not.
If he had one indulgence, it was that he would marry by preference, not by pounds and pence. He worked diligently to see that his funds needed no propping up with a dowry—he would give his time and effort to the estate, but he would not sell his heart to it.
While he was hoping to encounterher, the one that he looked for, the duchess would carry on with her schemes. He would do his part and squire Miss Rightstone when it was not too inconvenient. He hoped the lady would meet somebody suitable this season, as she was dangerously close to becoming a spinster.
In the very near future, he fully expected his arms to be once more bruised by the lady’s surprisingly sturdy fan. He was set to go to London and open his house on the morrow, and Miss Rightstone was certain to already have that weapon raised and paused for a smack.
The season would unfold and he would walk through it as he always did—everlastingly cheerful, doing favors where he could, but quietly searching forher. He did not know who she was or what she looked like. He only knew that when he saw her, he would feel something.
The ladies he had danced and dined with through the seasons had all been most pleasant, excepting Miss Rightstone and one or two others. But even the most beautiful or kind or amusing had not stirred anything in him.
He was certain that when he sawher, he would know. When that happened, he would not hesitate in his pursuit. He would have his lady by his side.
