Twelve
“Gareth, be a dear, will you, and ride over to Lord Raven’s residence? I have just finished inscribing an invitation to the Chartley sisters, and have missed the mail.”
The Marquis of Rochester’s heart missed a beat. He eyed his mama narrowly, for in truth his thoughts had been wandering to the matter of the Chartley sisters—or one in particular—all morning. Lady Rochester had
not
missed the mail, for there was a stack of cream-colored wafers upon the mantelpiece, all neatly embossed in red with the wax seal of the Dowager Marchioness of Rochester. If she had looked closely enough, she would have seen there was another, upon the stack. That was his own, in slightly darker paper, and franked with an equally heraldic crest.
“Mama, you may be the most wonderful mother in existence, but you are also a brass-faced liar! Don’t cozen me into believing you’ve missed the mail, for I shall simply not believe you!”
The marchioness grimaced. “Sometimes, Gareth, you are just like your father! I could never cut a wheedle with him, no matter
how
hard I tried.”
“It is fortunate, then, that he was so besotted with you that you always got your own way anyway!”
The marchioness’s eyes misted over. “Oh, Gareth, I miss him!”
“I, too, Mama.” There was a moment’s shared silence, as Lord Rochester closed his book and ambled up to the fireplace. He placed his hands behind his ample, rather muscular back and contemplated the flames for a moment.
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you are right. It is time I set up a nursery.”
Lady Rochester refrained from jumping from her seat and throwing her arms about her wayward son. No need to frighten him into fits! Gently does it ...
She picked up a tapestry—some paltry thing she despised, but it was simple enough—and sewed a few stitches. She could always throw the horrible thing away later, or give it to one of the housemaids.
“Really, Gareth? Do you have a young lady in mind, or shall I just pick for you, as we have agreed upon? Miss Lambert is well enough, though I fear she has something of a temper. Still, you do not want too meek a wife, or I could suggest Miss Tilbert ...”
Gareth’s eyes lit up in sudden amusement. “Mama, I thought we had agreed you cannot cut a wheedle with me! You know perfectly well none of those young ladies interest me in the slightest!”
“But Miss Chartley does?”
“Miss Chartley does.”
Lady Rochester breathed a long sigh of satisfaction and eyed Gareth closely. Should she mention Primrose, or would that be too precipitant? Too precipitant, she thought.
“Miss Lily Chartley shall be perfect for you! Such a beauty, with her wild, black locks and exotic countenance! You shall doubtless be the talk of the Ton for you, Gareth, are uncommon handsome yourself!”
For a moment, Lord Rochester stared at his mother in blank incomprehension. Miss Lily? Surely she did not think he would fall for an ingenuous youngster several times his junior, who, whilst undoubtedly beautiful, had none of Primrose’s ready wit and steady poise? He stared at her closer. There were laughter lines about her mouth. Little minx! She was bamming him! Well, two could play at that game! He smiled sweetly and announced that undeniably, Miss Lily was supremely well favored.
Lady Rochester seemed taken aback for a moment, which made him whistle, happily, between his teeth.
“Shall I take the invitations over now? I shall speak to Lord Raven upon the subject myself. I will need to fix my interest at
once
if I am to have a chance. Half of England has designs on her already.”
“Fix your interest?” Lady Rochester dithered. Though she had a burning desire to see the marquis wed, she only hoped Gareth was not about to tumble into some terrible mistake. Lily was undoubtedly beautiful but she was hen-witted and rather vain—oh, not copiously so, but just sufficient to try the patience a little. Lady Rochester had a feeling Gareth’s patience did not need trying at this stage of his manhood.
“Is that really necessary? Lord Raven would have to be madder than I give him credit for if he does not hedge all his bets and wait for the greatest prize. And you, Gareth, without wishing to turn your head, must surely rank as
that!”
Lord Rochester lifted his shoulders eloquently. “Mama, you are a doting parent!”
“Nonsense! Unless the Chartleys are being courted by princes and dukes—and if they are, Emily Cowper would have been bound to tell me—you have the decided advantage of rank!”
“Not to mention fortune . . .”
“Precisely.”
“And good looks . . .”
“Now, Gareth, you are teasing me. I know perfectly well that though you are
passing
handsome, you care nothing for such matters. Poor Reece, how he puts up with you, I cannot conceive!”
“Reece is contented enough, when I don’t have a fancy to be a coachman. But Mama, we stray from the point.”
“That you need to make an offer? It is a nonsense! Bring the girls out and see how they do. You may look them
all
over if that is your wish.”
“Aha!” Gareth chuckled.
“What?” Lady Rochester sounded pettish, but Gareth only smiled provokingly. If his mama did not want the older and more judicious
Primrose
for a daughter, he would eat his elegant beaver. Since he was reasonably certain he would not have to resort to such drastic measures, he retrieved it from the occasional table where it had lain, and thrust it, rather, upon his head. It looked singularly debonair, a fact that was not lost on his eagle-eyed mama.
“You will not do anything rash?”
He regarded her innocently, but she was in no way reassured, for a telltale dimple had appeared on his chin. The boy was so like his father, he was impossible to scold.
“My lord?” The butler interrupted their conversation with a murmured apology.
“There is a gentleman below stairs who desires speech with you. I informed him you were not at home to visitors, but . . .” The butler shrugged his shoulders in as expressive a way as he was able, for he was not a man not given to excessive displays of emotion.
“Does he have a name, this mysterious personage?”
“Ah, yes! I would not have bothered you else. It is the Viscount of Barrymore, my lord.”
“How intriguing! Show him up, if you please! Though I have pressing business”—he glanced teasingly at his mama—“I believe it can wait.” So saying, his lordship stuffed three beautifully gilded invitations into his perfectly fitting morning coat of emerald superfine. Had Reece, his redoubtable valet, witnessed this specta cle, he would surely have fainted. Thankfully he did not, for the act was followed by something equally unforgivable—the removal of his beaver, which was flung rather unceremoniously onto a hat rack. Sadly, it missed.
“The proposition is fascinating. Is your backer reliable?”
“Impeccable.”
Lord Rochester raised his brows slightly. He would
have
to be, given the scale of the project Barrymore was outlining. Despite the fact that he and the viscount tended to move in different circles, he found he rather
liked
the man. Denver, Lord Barrymore, was a neck or nothing kind of man. A gambler, undoubtedly, but a whimsical one at that. Rochester was one of the few to suspect him of not taking his attire nearly as seriously as his fame suggested. He had that slightly satirical look about him that Gareth suspected was a kind of mocking salutation to society and its foibles. Though fastidious, his eyes gleamed with a certain wry amusement that belied outward appearance. Now, he toyed with a wineglass, fingering the rim so that it emitted a high, rather soprano note. He grinned and set it down.
“Oh, don’t look so superior, Gareth! I may call you that, may I not?”
The marquis surprised himself by nodding amiably.
“My backer is no other than Lord Raven himself.”
Gareth’s eyes sharpened. He made no comment as he reached for the crystal decanter and poured himself another glass of smooth, amber-shaded liquid.
“Lord Raven? Now why would he be interesting himself in newfangled nonsense like railways?”
“It is
not
newfangled nonsense! Raven has a Midas touch and a positively indecent knack for sensing where there is money to be made. He doesn’t believe it beneath him to be making money on anything but rents from his land.”
“No, but there are many among us who do.”
“Then we must look to our laurels, for it will be the merchants and the industrialists who take over the power of England, you mark my words!”
“You have a point. I have often thought we are an archaic bunch.”
Lord Barrymore, for once, was serious. “It is you and I, Gareth, as peers of the realm, who can make a difference. Let us blacken our hands a little with hard work—what of it—we shall see the rewards tenfold in wealth, but in more than that—in being at the forefront of a great new dawn, where man is limited not by the number of his horses, but by the power, only, of his imagination.”
“That is a very sweeping comment.”
“It can be substantiated. Only think! If we can develop a steam-driven engine with the power of forty horses, coal can be extracted and carried into British homes at so much less time and cost. It will mean even the poorest tenant can have fires in their grates, and warmth in their homes. God! It can mean that
other
steam-based engines can be designed, for there will be the coal to fuel them.”
“And you own the mines.” Lord Rochester’s tone was dry, but there was a sympathetic crease to his brow that reassured Barrymore, a little.
“True, though Raven will get the most out of the venture, I suspect.”
“A king’s ransom, in fact.”
Barrymore grinned. “Better than a
Raven’s
ransom!”
Lord Rochester swallowed and allowed the light to filter into his glass, causing his spirits to sparkle, for a moment. Raven’s Ransom. That is what he might have when he married Primrose. He pushed the thought from his mind. It was unworthy of him, for his attraction, he knew, had little to do with Lord Raven’s ridiculous offer. He squinted at Barrymore, who looked more susceptible to such a prize. Would not a gambler by nature be drawn, inexorably, to such a tantalizing prospect? He liked Denver, the young Viscount Barrymore, but he could not set aside the suspicion.
“Let us talk of the ransom for a moment. Half of London is doing it, why should not we?”
“What shall we say?” A militant sparkle suddenly entered the viscount’s eye.
“Shall we say that the Chartley sisters are worthy of such largesse?”
“We can, but if your implications are as insulting as I infer, I would have to run you through with a sword.”
“And why, pray?”
“Because one of them is imminently to become my betrothed.”
Lord Rochester felt as though he had been kicked in the pit of his stomach. He stood up and walked away from the table, for had he remained, the Huntingdale crystal would undoubtedly have splintered on his superb marble floor.
“By Lord Raven’s honorable consent, I presume?”
“What else?” Barrymore shrugged his shoulders in an engaging fashion, but the marquis was not in a humor to be mollified.
“May I ask which one?”
“Oh, the fairest diamond of them all. But come, let us not bandy lady’s names about. It is not my custom.”
The fairest diamond. Then he
did
mean Primrose! Oh,
why
had he chosen to tease his mama and delay fixing her interest the very moment he knew he was smitten? Lord Raven, surely, would have chosen him above some trumped-up popinjay who took more account of his waistcoats then he did of his pockets. Barrymore was notoriously in debt, despite owning, as he claimed, some of the wealthiest mines on English shores. And look at him now! He had some strange, faraway smirk on his damnably handsome countenance that caused the usually mild Lord Rochester to want to throttle him. He kept his voice steady, however, and snapped his fingers to have the dishes removed. A lackey stepped forward at once, though it was not generally the marquis’s custom to treat him so.
“I shall help you with your little project, Barrymore, if you grant me one small request.”
“Anything.” The viscount felt a slight tingling about his pulses.
If the marquis joined forces with him, the project would not fail. Everyone who knew anything knew that Lord Rochester had a passion for science. It was he who, for a wager, had put up the blunt for Matthew Murray’s steam locomotive that had so inspired Richard Trevithick. He had also, some time past, traveled to the colonies to see Oliver Evan’s noncondensing high-pressure engine. That same year, Oliver had built a steam-powered boat, the first of its kind. Lord Rochester had been one of the first to venture upon it. His rank and indisputable knowledge lent credence to any venture that might otherwise appear ramshackle. If Rochester endorsed it, one might be sure the whole of the
bon
Ton would. Now he was asking a small favor, and Denver felt certain that whatever it was, he could offer it.
“Anything? Excellent. Then we are agreed. I shall write to my acquaintance, George Stephenson, at once. I shall also procure for you all the expert knowledge you might require for an enterprise of this scale. Though you may not use Hedley’s design, he shall be consulted on the project, for I believe his ideas are sound. In return, you shall drop your claim to Miss Chardey. I believe that with the revenue from this enterprise, you shall make the Raven’s Ransom look paltry. You don’t need it, Barrymore, drop it.”
There was a moment’s silence as the viscount digested this stipulation. On the one hand, he saw Lily, smiling, intriguing, adorably merry, tantalizing in the extreme, and extraordinarily—quite extraordinarily beautiful. Truth to tell, in respect to her, he had almost forgotten the Raven’s Ransom, for Raven’s wager was a two-edged sword. He knew that by honorably claiming one, he could not expect the other. How
dare
the man! Without thinking that in some respects Lord Rochester was correct, Lily’s fortune
had
been a lure to him from the outset, he could only see the great insult that besmirched his very real feelings for the irrepressible Miss Lily. He kept his tone even as he looked Gareth, Lord Rochester, squarely in the eye. There was no vestige of the amicable accord that had been evident earlier.