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“The man was tired to death, not interesting!” Ruthven clamped down on his impatience. Frances was right, he thought, mocking himself silently. He did enjoy a bit of drama now and again, and here was Clare, taking all the fun out of his announcement. Paint a liveried servant, for God’s sake! He cleared his throat, recalling all the wandering attention.
“He wo
n’t be here long enough for you to paint him,” Sophia said, inadvertently taking the wind out of her husband’s sails once more.
Ruthven cleared his throat again. “He is a servant of Lord Chandos, the Marquess of Chandos, to be more exact.”
“We now have two very exact gentlemen,” Frances remarked.
“Who is he, Papa?” Viola asked, cocking her head to one side. It was a pose she’d practiced before the mirror for many hours. She knew it made her thick hair tumble seductively over her right shoulder, showed off her slender neck. She would save her special pout for a more appropriate moment. “Is he a relation we didn’t know of? How very odd.”
“No, not really, but he soon will be,” said her father, not noticing her feminine efforts.
Frances sat forward in her chair. “Tell us,” she said, her voice suddenly tense, for she knew when her father was serious and when he was not. He meant what he said now, and she felt suddenly frightened.
Ruthven responded to the seriousness of Frances’ voice, and said, “Listen well, all of you. It all began seventeen years ago, just after your mamma died in childbed. I was in the Lowlands, visiting a friend near Lockerbie—”
“More like you were raiding,” Frances said, trying to break her awful uncertainty through jest.
“Not that time!” the earl roared. He mopped his brow, and continued more calmly. “I’d just left old Angus and was on my way home. It was late and a dark moonless night, and had started to rain. I sought shelter. Instead I found a villainous nest of bandits. They’d captured the Marquess of Chandos, planned to butcher him after they’d gotten some ransom money. In any case, I saved his skin. He was most grateful, as you can imagine. Couldn’t believe that a Scot would save an Englishman, and all that. I told him I’d been educated at Oxford. The long and short of it was that he offered me anything—money most likely was on his mind.” Ruthven halted a moment, shooting a look toward Sophia. He cleared his throat again, and plowed forward. “I’d just lost your mother, and was feeling like a miserable excuse for a man—indeed, that was why I risked my hide for the fellow. I simply didn’t care. In any case, I never intended at that time to remarry. And I had three daughters whose futures were uncertain at best. I told Chandos that I wanted a husband for one of my daughters. He agreed. And that, my dears, is that.”
“That was a long time ago,” Frances said sharply, breaking the silence. “A very long time ago. I have difficulty believing that this Chandos would truly give up his son, particularly to a Scottish nobody. That is not the way marriages are made. Particularly not in England, as Adelaide and Sophia have told us many times.”
“Lord Chandos is a man of honor,” Ruthven said, his voice a bit cold and formidable. He looked toward plump, serene Adelaide. “Why do you think she’s been here for the past sixteen years?”
For the first time Adelaide spoke. “Why, sir,” she said, her placid eyes twinkling just a bit, “you didn’t want your daughters to speak with a brogue as thick as the clouds at Ben Nevis.”
Frances had a brief bout of insight. Was that also why he had remarried—an Englishwoman? Sophia was well-bred and educated, no matter that her father was an ironmonger in Newscastle. Was that the reason no soft brogue was allowed out of the mouths of any of the Kilbracken children? It was a chilling thought.
“True,” said Ruthven. “Now, girls, have you any questions?”
“Questions!” Frances jumped to her feet. “You’ve never said a word about any of this! Questions, indeed! This is ridiculous! Marry a man none of us has ever seen? What could you be thinking about? What if he is a toad? A wastrel? What if we all hate him? I can’t imagine that he could possibly have any fondness for us!”
“Fondness has nothing to do with this,” said Sophia sharply. “He will be here shortly and ... well, look each of you over, I expect. The advantages can’t be lost, even on you, Frances. The earl is wealthy, he is heir to his father’s estates and title. The one he selects will be able to help the others. A Season in London, new clothes, parties, eligible gentlemen, and all that.”
“It’s barbaric!” Frances shouted.
“Hush, Frances,” Viola said, her green eyes narrowing in thought. “There are three of us. What makes you think the earl would select you?”
Because Frances is beautiful, intelligent, loving, and only occasionally willful. She is more like me than any of you. Ruthven said nothing aloud, merely looked from one daughter to the next.
“It’s still conscienceless,” Frances said. “Clare, you are appalled, aren’t you?”
“Clare,” Sophia interrupted, “just like you, Frances, and you, Viola, will wed the earl if he choses her. I needn’t tell you that we are living in improverished splendor. Dear Alex will have little enough when he reaches his majority, not the way we are progressing, despite all your dear father’s efforts. Indeed, it’s true all over Scotland, as all of you well know.”
Sophia was silenced at a look from her husband. We aren’t all that impoverished, he was thinking. He would take care of his son, damn his mother’s sharp tongue and her father’s generous dowry. He said, “I have corresponded with Chandos over the years, as I told you. He has offered a settlement of ten thousand pounds—yes, that’s right, ten thousand pounds—upon the marriage. And there’s another advantage. The sister the earl selects will be able to help the other two.” Sophia had already spoken volubly of this advantage, but he had seen the mulish set of Frances’ mouth, and said it all again. “He is well-placed, needless to say. A Season in London would not be amiss, an opportunity for all of you to marry well.”
“What does the earl look like, Papa?” Viola asked, cutting to the root of the matter.
“A fine-looking young man, so Chandos has told me,” Ruthven said. “He was the second son, but after his brother died over a year ago, he became the marquess’s heir. He was Lord Philip Hawksbury, but now is the Earl of Rothermere. He is about twenty-seven and was a military man until the death of his older brother.” Actually, Ruthven thought suddenly, Chandos had thought to marry his elder son to one of the girls, until four or five years ago. Then he’d changed his mind, for whatever reason.
“Humm,” said Viola. “Have you a likeness of him, Papa?”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Frances. “And I’ve heard all about likenesses. Adelaide told us about the supposed perfect portrait of Anne of Cleves sent to Henry VIII. She turned out to be a squat, myopic—”
“I wonder if he’s interesting enough to paint,” said Clare in a wistful voice, interrupting her sister’s tirade.
“Do you know, Papa, what kind of lady he fancies?” Viola asked, trying another practiced ploy of running her fingers through a lazy curl of dark red hair on her shoulder.
