Hmm. Not a restful sort. But presumably he wouldn’t require a great deal of attention. Besides, she’d learned how to manage his type—hadn’t she lived with them for the last twenty-four years? She glanced up at her papa’s face, with its pattern of broken blood vessels and the bags from too much drink and too little sleep, and sighed faintly. “As you wish, Papa.”
“Good settlements. Took care of you. You’ll have your mama’s gift, of course; tied that up so even your husband can’t get his hands on the principal. For the rest—well, that’s business, and of no interest to you.”
Ah. The reason behind this. “Baron Ware is anxious to get his heir wed, I take it?” she asked in her mildest voice.
“Well, he’s twenty-eight, you know. And a bit of a hey-go-mad fellow. Best to get his grandson off him and settled up before the son breaks his neck on the hunting field or one of his wild undertakings.”
“Is Daniel quite rolled up, then?” she asked, still in that mild tone.
It didn’t fool Papa. He gave her a sharp look at odds with his bleary physiognomy and said, “Aye. Far more than I can manage.”
“That explains it.” Ware, apparently, had agreed to settle Daniel’s debts in return for Daniel’s sister.
“Northwood’s got a bad reputation, but I’ve never heard that he ever mistreated a woman,” Papa said firmly. “He’s only a bit wild, not unkind. And a handsome lad, from what I’ve seen of him. Ware seems to think that he just needs marriage to settle him down. Has to wed sometime. No reason it shouldn’t be you.”
“None at all,” Lottie said agreeably.
Well
, she thought,
so much for the retired-spinster plans
. On the other hand, one might expect that once she had produced the required heir, she might be permitted to retire to the country, anyway, and leave her husband to go to hell in his own way. That would be acceptable. Besides, Papa seemed quite resolved.
She glanced again at the disarray of the desk, echoed in the general disarray of the bookroom. Perhaps it might be entertaining to be mistress of her own establishment, after all. And she did trust Papa to look out for her welfare, as much as he could be expected to, so the terms of the marriage should not be too onerous. “Well, Papa, if Mr. Northwood is agreeable, so am I,” she said, rising from the chair.
“Is Monday next too soon for you? I know you ladies will want to shop for trousseaux, that sort of thing?”
She considered it a moment. “I have no objection to Monday,” she said thoughtfully. “Ellen and I can certainly shop in the meantime. I’ve several ball gowns I’ve yet to wear which should be suitable for the wedding itself. I presume we will have a wedding breakfast here?”
Papa waved his hand dismissively. “Ware’s taking care of all that. We just have to be there. St. George’s, of course.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said mildly.
“I say, Lottie, you’re taking this well. Didn’t expect a fuss from you, but you did have that damnfool notion of setting up your own household once upon a time. Wouldn’t have done, you know.”
“I suppose not, Papa,” Charlotte said.
“This will be quite well. Much better for you.”
“If you say so, Papa.” She hesitated. “Will we be entertaining Baron Ware and Mr. Northwood prior to the wedding?”
“I don’t see the need,” her father said absently. “Ware’s a dead bore. His son’s more lively, but I don’t see the point of invitin’ one without the other. Ware’s the one in charge in this matter—his son’s got nothing to say to the point. Now, run along. Tell Ellen.”
“I shall.” She dropped a polite curtsey, then left the room in search of her companion.
“So you’re
marrying Daniel Mountjoy’s sister? Better keep a tight hand on the checkbook, boyo.”
Tristan finished checking the harness on the pair hooked up to his curricle and glanced up at Gibson. “Say what?”
“Daniel Mountjoy. Man’s a leech. Worst judge of horseflesh I’ve ever seen and don’t ever stake him to a hand of cards. Bet that’s why Chilson’s so eager to marry her off—get her off his books before his heir pisses away her dowry. Don’t imagine there’s much of that to begin with, eh?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Tristan said disinterestedly. “Ware dealt with all that. All I’ve got to do is show up on Monday. Never even met the chit.” He tightened a buckle, then looked across the innyard to where Hapwell was talking to his tiger. Another few minutes, then; it looked like Hapwell was deep in instructions. Stupid to take a tiger on a race, even one like this one, over well-maintained roads at five in the morning, when the only traffic would be the odd farmer bringing vegetables to the Covent Garden market. Dangerous for the tiger, and that much more weight on the carriage. Of course, Hapwell’s carriage was barely more than wheels and a seat; he probably needed the tiger for ballast. His own was more substantial, but so lightly balanced he was perfectly confident that he’d beat Hapwell handily over the five-mile round trip course they’d laid out in the bet at White’s last night. Or was it this morning?
“Hardly a chit, must be damn near twenty-five by now. Solidly on the shelf.”
“Have you met her?” Tristan ran his hand along the back of the nearer horse, feeling the tension in its muscle. The horse soothed at his steady, confident touch—steady, despite the fact that he’d been drinking pretty well continuously since supper the night before. He knew how much liquor he could handle before a race—and, well, a little pickling relaxed him, made his hands lighter on the ribbons.
“What, you’re marryin’ a pig in a poke?” said Berkeley groggily from where he leaned against the curricle, finally catching up with the conversation.
“Guess I am.” Tristan stretched, then shoved Berkeley, so that the tankard of ale he’d just lifted to his lips splashed over his cravat. “Never met her, anyway.”
“I did.” Berkeley dragged a hand across his mouth to wipe away the ale that had managed to get to his lips from his cup. “Came out at the same time as m’sister. Not a bad-looking girl—had a few interested parties but nothing came of it. Don’t know whether they never came up to snuff or she turned ’em all down, or her pa did. Only spent a couple Seasons in Town. Don’t know what the problem was.”
“I don’t care,” Tristan said. “All women look alike in the dark, eh? Throw her nightgown over her head and I won’t care what she looks like underneath. Nobody says I have to pay any other attention to her.”
“I say,” Berkeley frowned. “Not very gentlemanly. Girl is a lady, after all.”
“Yes,” Tristan said, “but nobody said I was a gentleman.” His lip curled in a sneer. “My father least of all.”
“Your father,” Berkeley said, then he belched. “Your father… is an ass. You’re not as bad as all that.” He looked at Gibson. “Is he as bad as all that, Gibs?”
“No. He tries, but he’s a lousy rake. Only beds married women, won’t debauch an innocent or an honest wife. Doesn’t gamble to excess….”
“Gambling is boring,” Tristan said absently. One couldn’t count races like this one, at any rate. He hadn’t done it for the money, though he was sure the betting was going heavy, from the crowd of gentleman gathered in the shabby yard. It was for the fun of it—and to prove to Hapwell that skill at driving was more important than the carriage beneath one.
“And always lends me money when I ask for it. Drinks too much, but don’t we all? No, Woodsy is an abject failure as hellspawn.” Gibs shook his head sadly. “Berks, you’re more of a hellspawn than poor old Tris here.”
“I am?”
“Yes. For no other reason that you refused to spot me a pony last week.”
Berkeley sniffed. “I draw the line at subsidizing your gambling excesses.”
“You, sir, are not drunk enough if you can still pronounce subdisi… dubsidize… that word,” Gibson said, in the clear, careful tones of the very inebriated. “We are drinking to Northwood’s wedding. Drink up.”
“You, sir, are going to end up facedown in the gutter one of these days, and you’ll be robbed and stripped naked. Then what will you do?” Berkeley said, belching again.
“Stand up and stagger home naked,” Tristan said absently. “Just as I would.”
“Your wife’ll like that,” Berks said.
“I assume you mean me, since Gibs hasn’t a wife. As to that, I daresay she’ll have many things not to like about me,” Tristan said. A barmaid came out of the inn with a brimming pitcher; he intercepted her and held out his own mug. “Fill ’er up, luv; I’m off to Hammersmith in a moment,” he said, giving her a noisy buss on the cheek. “Will you long for me when I’m wed, sweetheart?”
“From wot I ’ear of you, luv,
that
won’t change your life none,” she retorted pertly.
He laughed and gave her a gentle pinch on her round arse before letting her go. She flirted her skirts at him as she walked away. “I should marry that one,” he said, and he took a drink.
“I say,” Berks said, horrified, “you
can’t
!”
“Of course not,” Tristan replied. “I’m already betrothed.” He stood up, raising his mug high. “To my blushing bride!”
A roar of approval rumbled through the yard, and he tossed back the ale, pleased with himself. “There. As proper a toast as you’ll ever see.”
“I hope it don’t,” Gibs said.
“Don’t what?”
“Change your life none.”
“I don’t see where it should. She’s just a woman.”
“Well,” Gibs sighed, “right now, it’s just a woman. But later there will be children; I mean, didn’t your pa say that was the whole point?”
Tristan shrugged. “I don’t know anything about children. That’s her area of exper, experzeet. Ex-per-tease.” He grinned in triumph. “Expertise. At least, I assume so—she’s a woman, after all. It’s what they’re good for.”
“Not all they’re good for,” Berks said.
Tristan laughed and held up his tankard in silent salute, then handed it to Berks. “Hold that for me,” he said. “I’ll need it when I come back. Assuming I haven’t broken my neck on the way.”
“You won’t,” Gibson said. “Charmed life.”
Tristan gave him a brief, bitter smile, then vaulted into the seat of his curricle and gave Gibson the nod to let go of the horse’s head. Hapwell followed suit, his tiger jumping up behind, and they trotted out of the innyard to where a string lay across the Hammersmith road. “Ready, then?” Hapwell called, and Tris called back, “Readier than you, Hap!” with a laugh.
Someone dropped a Belcher handkerchief and they were off.
It was a beautiful morning for a drive, the road dry, the sky lightening and bright with the promise of sun later. Tris took an easy lead, his heavier carriage holding the rutted road better than Hap’s, which had a tendency to slide. He grinned, enjoying the rush of excitement he’d always felt when racing: the chill breeze in his face, the rumble of the hooves and the wheels and the road, the thrill of those moments when the carriage shot up a rut and hung for a moment in midair before striking the road again…. It was like the hunt, when one felt the horse’s muscles bunch beneath one and suddenly one was flying. Moments like these he could forget his past, his future, time, and life, and his father’s disapproval. Moments like these he was no one, nothing, a leaf in the wind, the wind itself, an echo of his own voice. He laughed aloud, and his horses, used to the sound, picked up the pace until he no longer heard Hapwell’s wheels behind him.