Page 1 of A Symphony for the Earl

Chapter One

A Shocking Discovery in Mayfair, London, 1818

Where on earth had Percy Ferrar obtained a morning coat in such a sickening shade of magenta?

Richard stared, stunned into silence. The young man’s tightly fitted jacket opened to an unfortunate chartreuse-striped waistcoat. From his heeled Hession boots to his elaborately curled hair, the idiot before him was a Macaroni of the first order. Richard winced as a wave of pungent brilliantine wafted across the room.

To collect his thoughts, he turned to the bay window of his study and gazed across the street to Hyde Park. A swarm of carriages, well-mounted equestrians, and elegantly attired pedestrians filled the tree-lined paths. Along with tiresome crowds, the spring ritual of musicales, soirées, and balls grew less appealing each year. He was growing jaded if the whirl of another London Season seemed dull compared to the solace of his country estate.

“Well, my lord? Have you an answer?”

Richard schooled his features before looking back at Ferrar. “Er…what was the question?”

“I offered for Miss Merrick’s hand in marriage, and I’m waiting for your permission to pay my addresses.” Her swain could hardly turn his head, held prisoner by the huge amount of starch required to keep his painfully high collar points in place.

“Ah, yes. I’ve considered your request to marry my sister and my answer must be no, Sir Percy. But I wish you all the best in your quest for a wife.”

“You’re…you’re turning me down? How can you possibly refuse my suit? I deserve an explanation, my lord.”

Richard’s brows snapped together in annoyance. This pointless interview could render a fine morning unsalvageable. “Let me be frank, Sir Percy; your age is the sticking point. You’ve just turned twenty-one, and my sister is but seventeen herself. Understandably, I hope to find Miss Merrick a husband a bit older and more settled in station.”

Now the bonebox looked insulted. Surely, he wouldn’t argue with a peer of the realm? But Richard’s hopes were dashed as Sir Percy elevated like the peacocks in Regent’s Park.

“Surely there must be some mistake. You may be the Earl of Seldon, but my grandfather is a marquis. Our family is an old and impeccable line.” Emboldened, his lip curled in a sneer. “Dare I say there is no stain on my family’s name?”

There it was, he thought bitterly. Once again, his father’s folly was fodder for scorn.

No matter that the entire Ferrar family waded in the River Tick and their fine London house was mortgaged to the hilt. Leisurely, he lifted a gold-rimmed quizzing glass and inspected his guest.

The ninny had the grace to flush a vivid shade of crimson, but persisted. “Despite the scandal of your father’s ruin and his untimely death, my grandfather the marquis, desires—indeed, he expects—an alliance between our families.”

Richard let the oval glass fall, swinging it slowly at the end of its black ribbon. “Does he indeed? Pray continue, Sir Percy.” The strongest among the earl’s acquaintances would blanch at the sardonic invitation, but the boy lumbered on.

“I will inherit one day, and by my soul, an offer of marriage from the future Marquis of Hurd should merit more consideration, even if you are an earl.”

“Then do come back once you are the marquis. I may reconsider your suit.”

Richard moved over to the marble fireplace and sat in a bergère armchair—one of two—making no effort to offer his guest the other. He hoped it might signal the end of a truly painful conversation, but Ferrar merely gaped at him, shifting from foot to foot.

“I offer Miss Merrick a name of consequence and an excellent reputation,” he retorted. “Though my family does not have your inexhaustible fortune, my lineage and certainly my character are more than worthy.”

Richard leaned back, inspecting his well-manicured fingernails one at a time. “Please explain to me, Sir Percy, how losing twenty thousand pounds in one evening at the faro table is character?”

Sir Percy blanched.

“And to drop thousands more at Watier’s in a bet that Lady Swilling dyes her hair? Very honorable indeed.” He raised his quizzing glass again, and the boy pulled at his elaborately tied cravat as if the layers of cloth choked him.

“Perhaps I am too old to recall the excesses of youth, but a midnight horse race in Trafalgar Square while you are in your cups is not character. I heard it cost you more than a monkey and another three to escape prosecution when you er…borrowed Lord Hiram’s bay stallion.” Frowning at his sleeve, he flicked a stray thread from the superfine wool.

“You may think it amusing to mock me, my lord—” Sir Percy sputtered, balling his fists.

Richard rose to his considerable height, forcing Sir Percy, who was quite short, to glare awkwardly above his stiff shirt points. “I’m afraid my answer remains unchanged.” He indicated the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have pressing business at hand. My bootmaker is expected at any moment and he demands my utmost attention. I’m sure you know how particular Hoby can be.” He glanced pensively at Sir Percy’s heavily tasseled boots. “Or perhaps not,” he murmured.

Sir Percy turned scarlet to his very ears. “M-my lord, you cannot dismiss me this way!”

“But I have, haven’t I?” Richard covered a yawn.

Sir Percy struggled to strip off one extremely tight leather glove.