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How could that be true, after what he’d said? What he’d led her to believe?
She dropped her head and stared at her interlaced fingers as Lord Fenton gallantly offered to escort her to the refreshments table.
Mr Grayling loved her! He’d all but said it.
And then he’d turned suddenly cold though she’d thought at the time she’d only imagined it. Now Fenton was doing his best to persuade her there was no hope in that quarter. It didn’t make sense. Not after what Fanny and Antoinette had said regarding Mr Grayling’s desire for a wife who could show him the warmth and passion which had been so lacking in his first wife.
“I think I’d like to go back to my room and rest awhile,” Thea said with an apologetic smile as she shook her head at the idea of more refreshments. “I think the events of this afternoon have proved more exacting than I had realised until now for I am very tired and would like to be on my own.”
When they were out of earshot and standing on the river bank protected from view by a gnarled willow, Fanny put her hands on her hips and announced, “Well, we’re undone. You saw the way Mr Grayling looked at us and then Thea after George Bramley uttered that instructional tale. Fenton’s right. Aside from the fact that Mr Grayling realizes he’s been tricked, I’m come to believe that the sad truth is he’s not a suitable contender, mutual attraction notwithstanding. If Mr Grayling isn’t mad for Thea and willing to take her with nothing, I’m the first to admit that love can die very quickly for lack of funds.”
Antoinette looked thoughtful as she tore a willow switch from the branch and began stripping the leaves. “I thought our plan couldn’t fail when it was clear they were both so enamoured of one another,” she muttered. She dropped the mutilated branch and looked from Fanny to Bertram. “I can only imagine the things he’s thinking after what our odious archenemy said at the table. Oh, but I hate Mr Bramley so much! I just hope my little George doesn’t inherit anything of his ghastly character.” She stopped, bit her lip, then declared with great vehemence, “We can’t admit defeat just yet! What if suddenly there was someone ridiculously wealthy making Cousin Thea an offer? Wouldn’t that make Mr Grayling reconsider? After all, Fanny, that’s exactly how you snared Fenton.”
Fanny grunted, dismissing her sister’s words with a wave of her hand as she gazed at the gently flowing river. “You are not taking account of the fact, Antoinette, that Mr Grayling isn’t as plump in the pocket as Fenton.”
“Then maybe we can arrange someone who is. Someone like darling Quamby who will allow her all the freedom my dearest allows me.”
Fanny raised her eyes heavenward. “Cousin Thea is not like you, Antoinette. Such a situation would be unutterably distressing to her.”
“What about someone much older who is in the market for a young and pretty wife. Someone who has already sired his heir?” suggested Bertram which brought his sisters’ scorn raining down upon his shoulders.
“You’ve missed the whole point if you think Thea just wants a wealthy husband. The truth is, all that will satisfy her now is Mr Grayling—and that’s entirely your fault!”
“Besides,” Fanny added, “it’s as Fenton says…the two of them will never have enough to live on and be happy. I think perhaps our matchmaking was doomed from the beginning, or rather we made a poor choice, for we should have selected a potential suitor Thea could have been induced to like, rather than encouraged her to lose her heart to Mr Grayling.” She uttered a despairing sigh. “Well, none of it matters now. Mr Grayling knows he’s been duped.”
“All very vexing,” muttered Bertram. “I’m a dab hand with the cards and I thought I was a dab hand at the old matchmaking when I came up with that grand plan to make Mr Grayling believe Cousin Thea was dying.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t such a grand plan after all in view of the fact that Mr Grayling simply can’t afford a poor wife. Or, at least, not unless he were prepared to give up so many of the pleasures he takes for granted and there are few men I know who would, I’m sorry to say.” Fanny dampened her irritation both with herself and her brother. It was not a plan she’d have chosen but having seen how love had blossomed and how easily Mr Grayling had bought the story of Thea’s tragic illness, she’d been buoyed by its possibilities. “Come, I
think we should go back to the others.”
She turned, just as Bertram slapped his thigh. “That’s it! Time to transfer my skill from matchmaking to card fixing. I shall make Mr Grayling a man of fortune and he won’t even know it. Oh my Lord, some of these nights, after I come back as dawn is breaking, I’ve seen fortunes won and lost in minutes.”
“Indeed, you’ve lost the collective Brightwell fortune a dozen times over, Bertram, so I don’t really think you can hope to be successful in such a venture on Mr Grayling’s behalf,” Fanny said drily.
Antoinette sent him a sympathetic glance. “I think you should try to keep anything there is to be won for yourself, Bertram. I did notice darling Quamby seemed just the teeniest bit annoyed when I asked him to bail you out again last week.”
Bertram gave a dismissive snort. “I have a plan, sister dear, that will more than repay Quamby for every time he ever has bailed me out. And after I’m done, I’ll be back in old Grayling’s good books and he’ll be forever grateful to me for lining his pockets with gold and supplying him with a pretty wife to spend it on.”
It was not often Dr Zebediah Horne stared with such critical fascination at his mottled reflection before making a house call, and it was not as if calling on Miss Minerva Brightwell were a rare occurrence either.
He wiped the beads of moisture from his pale brow with his handkerchief and practised his most winning smile. The day was warm though it did not warrant the moisture gathered between his neck and the limp linen of his stock.
He’d thought to walk the distance between his abode and hers, but as he wanted no flecks of dirt to mar his finest pantaloons, Dr Horne took a conveyance Lord to Quamby’s grand estate.
In the grand entrance hall he greeted Lady Quamby with all the deference she was due, though he could never reconcile the chit with being a countess. Indeed, disapproval almost to the point of abhorrence warred with reluctant appreciation as he rose from his bow. The young woman—and a mother to boot—was undeniably a lovely creature but her reputation was scandalous, as was her sister’s.
Poor Miss Thea was tainted by association. Throughout the years Zebediah had attended Miss Minerva Brightwell he’d heard the gossip surrounding the conduct of her nieces and wondered how there could be a blood relationship. More than one wager had centred around who would snatch the virtue of the young ladies.
Zebediah was of course barred by funds and his station in life from being a member of the clubs so enjoyed by his wealthy clientele, but he’d been summoned to various clubs and the residences of the top ten thousand on many an occasion to attend to various maimed or incapacitated young pups.
No, Zebediah had not one ounce of respect for the idle and dissolute rakes who squandered the family wealth of generations and made such thoughtless wagers.
Indeed, the previous evening he’d been summoned to the saloon of the heir to the Earl of Gillingham where he’d found a Corinthian placed on the billiards table with an arrow piercing his right shoulder.
“An inch to the left and this young man would have breathed his last,” Zebediah had told the gathering severely, and been met with the defence that “it was he who bet Lord Mentone two hundred pounds he could not pierce the apple balanced on his head with an arrow shot from 200 yards, and indeed Mentone could not.”
Grimly, Horne had proceeded with the grisly task of removing the arrow, only half attending to the banter of the young men who lounged in armchairs about the room. That is, until he heard the wager Harry Gotts proposed: five hundred pounds that Mr Sylvester Grayling would propose to a certain chestnut-haired miss in a hot-air balloon at a hundred feet.
