ISBN 0-8217-7516
The coffee room at Boodle's Club in St. James Street was almost silent. From time to time someone coughed or rattled the pages of a newspaper, but few noises diverted Sir Malcolm Seymour from his gloomy thoughts. He glared at the pinpoint of ruby light reflected from the fire in his glass of claret. If he swirled the wine, the light danced and shimmered. If he held it motionless, the jewel tone lay quiet, glowing and frozen.
Dawn, his daughter, was like that point of light, quiet and unmoving, when she needed to be stirred up, spun into the lively, shimmering young woman she had once been. She was the best of daughters, devoted to her little son, loyal to the memory of the husband with whom she had shared only a few weeks before he went off to the war and met his death. Above all she was kind and attentive to her mother, a lady whose health complaints were as acute as they were numerous.
Nonetheless, Dawn's life should not be so circumscribed. It was neither fair nor reasonable for a lovely young girl, a mere twenty-four years of age, to do nothing but cosset her mother and fret about her fatherless son. She should be out in society, enjoying the company of friends, living again and perhaps even finding another husband.
"Evening, Malcolm."
Sir Malcolm started out of his trance and squinted up at Alastair Grayson, the Earl of Carey. "Carey, evening."
"May I join you?"
"By all means."
"I could use a glass of that claret." The earl motioned to a waiter, gave his order and settled into an armchair. "The club is quiet tonight. I suppose everyone is off at another of those extravaganzas Prinny has conjured up to celebrate the victory. I myself have had my fill of bread and circuses."
"As have I." Sir Malcolm swirled his claret and watched the sparkling ruby radiance spin in his glass. "My concerns of late have been more of a domestic nature. I confess I am not in much of a mood to celebrate, however gratified I am at our dominance over Napoleon."
"Your concerns, then, are much the same as my own. I too am relieved at the conclusion of the war, but I cannot shed my worries about my son."
"About your eldest?"
"Yes. Hugh is . . . not like himself anymore. Withdrawn Almost four years have passed since his wife's death. If anything, he is more despondent now than he was at first."
Sir Malcolm searched his memory while Carey accepted the glass and took a sip. Unless he was quite mistaken, the young Lady Grayson, Hugh's wife, had died in childbirth. "I am sorry to be so absentminded, but I do not recall if the child . . . "
"Oh, my granddaughter is quite healthy and growing rapidly. Hugh dotes on her, as do I. He has diverted all his energies onto the estate, studying new varieties of plants brought from foreign soils. He spends a great deal of his time pouring over arcane publications about the latest discoveries of exotic botanical species." The earl shook his head sadly. "I spent a year or so mourning after my Martha died, but I found the gumption to move on with my life. And I was well over forty at the time. Hugh is 26. He ought to find another wife, get back into public life."
Sir Malcolm straightened up and tossed down the last of his wine. His mind whirled with an outlandish thought. Would Carey be game? "Alastair, what do you know of matchmaking?"
"Matchmaking? A constant pastime of the ladies, but certainly not an activity for males."
"To put it bluntly, you have no lady and my lady is nearly an invalid. Other than you and me, who could undertake the assignment? Now let me tell you all about my daughter Dawn."
* * *
"Mother, you have no need to worry about a thing. Father has seen to all the arrangements." Dawn Neville adjusted the soft cashmere shawl around Lady Seymour's shoulders.
"I am certain to suffer a chill this near the sea." Lady Seymour sighed and glanced toward the windows overlooking the Esplanade, drawing the shawl across her chest. "Should we not have heavier draperies hung?"
"Perhaps. I will ask Mrs. Stamper this afternoon." Poor Mother, always on the verge of the dismals, worn to a nubbin by worry.
"Whatever possessed your father to bring us to Weymouth?"
"The poor old King found many healthful attributes here. He believed the sea air did him a world of good."
"Then why do they not bring him to Weymouth now?"
"I believe all his doctors are at Windsor. Papa had only your health in mind when he made these arrangements. He said he was very fortunate to find this house."
"Mama!" A small voice squealed from the passage.
Dawn opened the door to find her four-year-old son Teddy rubbing his eyes, lower lip trembling on the verge of tears.
"Here darling, do not cry." Dawn scooped up the child and hugged him close, her precious boy.
His nursemaid hurried toward them. "I am sorry, ma'am. He woke in a strange bed and would na' be comforted."
"That's all right, Rosie. I will bring him back to you later."
Rosie dropped a brief curtsy and took herself away.
Dawn kissed her son's rumpled curls. "We are all here at the seaside, darling. Say good afternoon to Grandmother."
"G'aft'n," Teddy mumbled, still half asleep. He laid his head against Dawn's shoulder and closed his eyes.
"He will be back asleep in just a moment." She sat near her mother's chaise and leaned back with a smile, slightly rocking Teddy from side to side.
Lady Seymour reached over to caress his hair. "He is growing so fast."
"I hope there will be other children nearby. He is too often alone."
Her father stepped through the doorway. "I happen to know there is a little girl in the house next door. She is the granddaughter of an old friend of mine, the Earl of Carey."
Lady Seymour arched her brows in surprise. "Lord Carey? How very nice for you, Malcolm. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing him."
"Yes, that is what I was about to tell you, my dear. He is coming to dinner this very evening."
Dawn watched her mother's face change from pleasure to chagrin in an instant.
Sir Malcolm paid no attention to his wife's expression. "I have already spoken to Mrs. Kendall in the kitchen and I am assured she is quite up to the task of preparing a meal for the five of us."
"Five?" Dawn ceased her rocking and shifted the sleeping Teddy in her arms.
"Yes. Alastair's son and heir, Lord Grayson, is here with his daughter."
"But we have only arrived this morning," Lady Seymour said.
"They arrived several hours after we did. As I understand it, they have yet to engage household help, not having had Dawn's foresight to engage the servants by post."
Lady Seymour passed her hand across her brow. "But I am not sure I am up to the . . . "
"My dear, I am sure that Lord Carey would understand if you are too fatigued to join us, though he would be sadly disappointed. I trust you will try your best."
Dawn stood, and spoke softly over Teddy's head. "You rest now, Mother. I will see that all the arrangements are to your standards, as soon as I put Teddy back to bed."
"Why yes, dear, that would be most helpful. And have Tyson see that my lilac gown is presentable, if you please."
Dawn gave Sir Malcolm a quick smile. "Of course."
Together father and daughter backed out of Lady Seymour's bedchamber, softly closing the door.
* * *
Hugh Grayson marked the page in his botanical journal and placed it on the table beside his chair. From his second floor bedchamber he could look out over the broad bay, its smooth waters dotted with boats of all sizes from rowboats to triple-masted frigates and East Indiamen. No one could fail to be moved by the beauty of the scene, though Hugh wondered what in the devil he was doing here. His father had insisted he spend the next six weeks in Weymouth.
Hugh's queries as to why Lord Carey wanted to visit the seaside met with the ordinary reasons, for the air, for the sea bathing, to benefit Emmy, but nothing specific. He hoped his father did not suffer some illness, a recurrence of his gout or some new aches and pains. So far, it did not seem his father was seriously ailing; indeed he was in the best of spirits, had even accepted an invitation to dine this evening at the adjacent house where one of his old friends resided.
Hugh would rather have tried one of the town's old inns, renowned for their antiquity. That would have to wait for another night.
He glanced again at his book, wishing the meal would be informal and his return would be early. Perhaps he would be able to slip away while his father and the neighbor chatted over their port.
In Emmy's room, he paused to place a kiss on the sleeping child's forehead. Her tiny hand curled beside her button nose, her fair lashes lay long upon her pink cheek. She was the very picture of girlish beauty, and as always, he felt the ache of love, of his parental responsibility and his desire to protect her from all danger and disappointment. She was so precious and so fragile. . .
He turned away, his throat thick with emotion. In a moment, he coughed, driving away the sting, then spoke to the nurse. "We will be at the house next door. Send Harold if you need us."
Harold, his father's valet, Emmy's nurse, and Lamb, their coachman, were the only three servants who had accompanied them to Weymouth. Tomorrow he would have the agency send over a few candidates for the posts of cook, housekeeper and footman, enough to keep the household operating efficiently.
Hugh met his father in the foyer and followed him down the steps and a few feet along the paving stones to a brick house almost identical to their own.
In the drawing room, Sir Malcolm welcomed them with a wide grin. "Alastair, wonderful to see you again. And Hugh, it has been many years since I last saw you. May I make you known to my wife and my daughter, Mrs. Neville?"
As he uttered the requisite niceties, Hugh had to stop himself from staring at the pretty young woman who curtsied before him. He could not recall when he had been so instantly taken with a lovely countenance and sparkling blue eyes. Her mother, wrapped in a thick shawl and holding a handkerchief to her chest, nodded a greeting.
He settled in a chair and listened to the conversation among the two elder gentlemen and Lady Seymour. She recited a long list of ailments and her respondents offered a variety of theories on the salubrious effects of the water and air at the seaside. This was sure to be a long evening.
He dared not let his glance wander to Mrs. Neville. If she happened to meet his gaze, he would have to speak to her, and no subject came to mind beyond the nature of the Weymouth climate. He tried to assume a pleasant expression, a look of rapt attention to the empty discourse across the room. He had never been any good at social conversation and usually tried to avoid situations in which it was required. Such as this very moment.
"Would you not agree, Hugh?" Lord Carey's voice startled him.
"You are always the best judge, Father." He dared not confess he had not grasped a word in the last few moments. Apparently his answer sufficed, for the talk continued. Soon dinner was announced and they rose from their chairs. Lord Carey offered his arm to Lady Seymour and followed Sir Malcolm out of the room. That left Hugh no choice but to offer his escort to Mrs. Neville.
He bowed to her, keeping his gaze averted. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he could not miss her half smile as she laid her hand on his arm, still saying nothing. Hugh wished he could hear her voice again. A quarter hour ago, when she greeted his father, her tone was soft and melodious. Since then she had not spoken.
Sir Malcolm directed them to seats and immediately launched into an account of his daughter's resourceful selection of a cook for their summer residence. "She had the aspirants send a few examples of their receipts, and clearly this Mrs. Kendall had the superior choices. Clever idea, eh?"
Lord Carey nodded. "Yes, indeed I would say so. What do you say, Hugh? Should we not try the same system?"
Hugh was about to agree when Mrs. Neville spoke.
"Perhaps, Lord Carey, you should wait to make that decision until you have sampled the dishes we serve tonight. There is some distance between the list of ingredients on a sheet of paper and the tenderness of a joint or the delicacy of a butter sauce."
Hugh forgot his determination to avoid looking at her. She leaned forward, blue eyes twinkling and eyebrows arched mischievously. Her tone was as light-hearted as her words, and her full lips curved in a luscious grin. His fingertips tingled with the urge to applaud.
His father chuckled. "How right you are, Mrs. Neville. But from the delicious fragrances already in the air, I would say that your system must have worked to perfection."
The footman, as if given a theatrical cue to enter the stage, offered a steaming platter of oysters and clams to Lord Carey.
Throughout the two removes, Hugh felt more and more at ease. He said little but kept his attention on the conversation, most of which centered upon the food and its excellence.
Mrs. Neville offered only a few comments from time to time, delivered in her quiet yet musical voice. Hugh observed her, usually quite indirectly. This was one evening when he was grateful for his good peripheral vision, for he could hardly restrain himself from staring at her.
He felt excessively guilty for his fascination with the lady. More than three years had passed since his wife's death, a time in which he had voluntarily isolated himself from the company of ladies like Mrs. Neville, attractive and lively young women who might tempt him to forget his Beatrice and her suffering. Yet here she was, fortunately married to someone else, but nearby for their entire summer sojourn in Weymouth. Perhaps it was time for him to learn how to conduct himself in social situations again. He had to learn how to talk with ladies without tearing himself apart with guilt.
So comforted, he gave a little smile in her direction. Her eyes met his for an instant before she looked down shyly. Her chestnut hair was dressed simply, pulled away from her face and tied with ribbons matching the light blue of her gown. Her cheeks were pink, marked by tiny dimples on either side of her exquisite mouth. Something about those lips made him drag his glance away and fidget with his napkin.
Grateful to find a diversion, Hugh helped himself to a ripe pear from the fruit bowl and concentrated on trimming away its stem. He cut off a chunk, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly, savoring its fresh sweetness and letting the succulent juice trickle down his throat.
He gave a tiny sigh of pleasure, quickly catching himself and glancing around the table. His father and the Seymours had not noticed. But Mrs. Neville was watching him, that little mischievous smile alive on her face. He felt himself redden in embarrassment.
"They are particularly delicious, are they not?" She spoke softly, only to him. "I could barely resist gobbling up the entire basket this afternoon."
He swallowed and picked up another slice. "Where does your cook find them? I should like to know who grows such excellent specimens."
"Mrs. Kendall tells me she has her secret sources. I suspect she may be more forthcoming after she feels secure in her position. After all we only arrived this morning."
"Perhaps I should pay her a visit later. She might have a recommendation for the position in our house."
"Ah," she said, "you must promise not to try to lure her away. I am already quite taken with her abilities."
"Perhaps she has a twin sister."
Sir Malcolm turned his attention to Hugh. "Who has a twin sister?"
"I was just saying I wish your Mrs. Kendall had a twin sister to cook for us."
"Yes, I wager you do." Sir Malcolm gave a hearty laugh.
Lord Carey leaned toward Lady Seymour. "I suspect you will have many guests eager to be invited to your table this season."
Lady Seymour waved a hand in the air. "La, I pray I shall be well enough to entertain now and then. Of course, Lord Carey, you and Lord Grayson are always welcome at our table whether I am up to joining you or not. Sir Malcolm and Dawn will be glad of your company any time."
"Why, I thank you," Lord Carey said. "If tonight's repast is any indication, we shall avail ourselves of your hospitality frequently."
"And now, I beg leave to retire for the evening. It has been a most fatiguing day." Lady Seymour stood, as did Mrs. Neville.
Hugh rose with the others and bowed his good evening and thanks. He was sorry to see Mrs. Neville follow her mother from the room. Just as he was beginning to feel more comfortable near her, she was gone.
The men sat again and the footman brought a bottle of port. The conversation between his father and Sir Malcolm turned to the news from the Vienna meetings on the peace settlements. Arrangements were being made for the Little Corporal, as they called Napoleon in some circles, to be exiled to Elba where he could occupy himself with ruling a tiny island instead of most the continent of Europe.
Hugh let his gaze linger on the fruit bowl. He had not studied the varieties of pear trees that grew in England. Perhaps one of the books he brought along had a section on fruits that would tell him more. He would have to see what information he could find from the cook as well. His thoughts drifted back to Mrs. Neville watching him savor the pear. Her eyes were. . .
". . . to lose so many young men. Dawn's husband had been gone only a few months when he was killed. . . "
What the blazes? Dawn Neville is a widow!
* * *
Dawn tiptoed out of Teddy's room, pleased he was sleeping soundly. Her mother was settled for the night too, all the potions and draughts dutifully measured out and consumed, the draperies adjusted and readjusted, the oil lamp positioned and repositioned, the bedclothes arranged and rearranged. At last, with a familiar sigh of self-pitying tribulation, Lady Seymour had whispered good night.
Dawn closed the door of her bedchamber behind her, threw herself on the bed and tore the ribbons from her hair. What she wanted to do was cry, weep away her frustration, so carefully masked for the last few hours. Instead she flopped over on her stomach and sank her face into her pillow. How could Father have humiliated her like that? She would never have believed he would do such a deceitful thing as to take a house next door to Lord Grayson, then dangle her before him like a prize sow at market day.
She slammed her fist into the feathers and wiped away a tear. When her father had whispered in her ear that Lord Grayson was a widower, just as they were all making their introductions, she had been tempted to excuse herself entirely. She wished she could hide away and never reveal the depths of her mortification. But something, some sense of daughterly duty, some aversion to impropriety kept her in her place.
This was so unlike her father. Completely out of the ordinary. Never before had Sir Malcolm hinted he would interfere in her life. Oh, once or twice, or perhaps three times he had suggested she might eventually look for a second husband.
She would never marry again. Her only aim in life was to raise her son without interference. She had seen how a new husband could be envious of his wife's children. Peg's new husband sent her little son off to board with the vicar several parishes away. Peg never got to see him. Or Maria, also a widow from Peter's regiment. Her new husband wanted his own son and though he was never cruel to Maria's fatherless child, he definitely treated him as an outsider in his family.
Though people always told her little Teddy needed a father, she knew better. She had heard even worse stories than Maria's and Peg's. Now her father installed the family right on top of an eligible widower like Lord Grayson. Dawn gave the pillow a final thump, then clutched it to her chest. It was so odious, so awkward, so obvious.
But, had it been obvious to Lord Grayson? The man hardly gave her a second glance except when they spoke about the pear. He had not acted like a man on the lookout for a second wife. It was his father who had carried on most of the conversation. Perhaps Grayson was just as much a dupe in this situation as she was.
Dawn fluffed the pillow, set it in place and smoothed the cover. She had to admit that Lord Grayson was quite attractive, in a distant sort of manner. Most of the time at the table, his thoughts must have been far, far away. His dark hair lay in casual waves, his brown eyes set deep under generous brows. The wide forehead, the chiseled features, all were handsome in a very classic way. Peter's face had been more boyish, with golden hair and light blue eyes. In height Peter had been about the same, just less than six feet, but Lord Grayson had a more muscular build.
She reached for the miniature of Peter she kept by her bed. It was rather a poor likeness, a hasty job by a second rate artist, but it was all she had. She often tried to recall every detail of his face, and sometimes she thought she remembered his looks exactly. Other times, she admitted reluctantly, the particulars were blurred.
Her tears fell faster now, altered from vexation to sorrow and regret. Theirs had been a short courtship and an even shorter marriage. In all they had known each other only seven weeks, though in their youthful exuberance, they promised each other everything, adoration, passion, and joy. But he would never come back. No matter how much she had prayed the announcement of Peter's death had been an error, she knew from the letters she received from his fellow officers that he had died in Spain.
She shivered and blew her nose. A self-indulgent tantrum would not change the situation. Her father was pushing her at Lord Grayson, and the target was either oblivious to the fact or completely uninterested. Whichever it was, she must spend the summer here, some of the time in his company. Her father would never consent to take them home, and her resistance would only provoke his most obstinate reaction. Sir Malcolm's good nature was well known, almost as ubiquitous as his stubbornness.
She curled herself around the long-suffering pillow. Lord Grayson seemed unaware of her father's intentions and anything but eager to know her. As the heir to the earldom, no doubt he would look to the highest circles of the ton if he needed a second wife. She had never even had a London season, having married Peter before her mother had convinced any of their relatives to take on her presentation.
Which made her father's reckless aim even more humiliating to her. When they realized Sir Malcolm's purpose, perhaps Lord Grayson and his father would simply flee Weymouth and solve her problem in one fell swoop.
That optimistic thought sustained her as she prepared for bed. But when she drifted off to sleep, her dreams were disturbingly dominated by the dark eyes, wavy hair and broad shoulders of her newest acquaintance.