The Princess & the Pea (2 page)

"Well." Marybeth rose to her feet, gathered her gloves and parasol, and said with newfound determination. "I wash my hands of them all. If Mother wants a title in the family, she'll have to get it herself. I'll not step from the shores of this country again to seek a husband. There are more than enough eligible men right here in Chicago." A wistful expression drifted across her face. "Still, he was charming..."

"Pity you couldn't live up to the high standards of his mother." Cece said sarcastically. "I think you've had a narrow escape."

Marybeth nodded reluctantly and took her leave. Poor girl. When she had left for London several months ago Marybeth had thought surely she would be the next American heiress to capture a British lord. Cece hated to see her friend return in so defeated a state, even though privately she suspected it was for the best. The mere idea of "Lady Marybeth" was enough to send Cece into spasms of laughter. She'd known Marybeth most of her life, and while the girl could handle the social rigors of Chicago. Cece doubted she could survive life in the ratified, rigid society of the English aristocracy.

Of course, who could? And who would want to? Still, for a young woman whose parents were pressing her to choose a husband ...

"It would get me out of Chicago." she said, more to herself man to Emily, the seed of a scheme growing in the fertile soil of a highly inventive mind.

"Did you say something?"

"No... Emily." Cece said casually. "I have an interesting idea."

Emily's head jerked upright, her eyes wide with apprehension. "Oh no, Cece, not an interesting idea.'"

Cece toyed with a frayed spot on the arm of her chair. "I was just thinking ..."

Emily groaned. "You always get in such trouble when you think."

Cece waved the chastisement aside. "Mother and Father have made no secret of their eagerness for me to marry. I suspect they would leap at the possibility of a marriage involving an English lord. Mother still gets that funny, far-off look whenever she talks about her trip there as a girl."

"But you said they were all fortune hunters, only interested in American money."

"And I meant it." Cece leapt to her feet and paced the room, the excitement in her voice matching the beat of her footfalls. "That's the very thing that makes this idea so delightful. Marybeth was no match for them. She's a darling girl but lacks the kind of cunning
necessary
for a challenge like this." Cece grinned. "I, however, do not."

Emily shook her head. "You can't seriously expect me to believe you actually want to marry an Englishman."

"Of course not, Emily. It's absurd, the way they have used their titles to rob this country of the flower of American womanhood, all the while considering us inferior."

"You've been reading the
Times
again," Emily muttered.

Cece ignored her. "Americans have trounced the British in every conflict since this country was born. We lead the world in innovation and invention. It's time we put them firmly in their place." Her voice rose. "We shall convince Mother and Father to take us to London. We will meet the British head on and, in the best American tradition, we shall defeat them." She turned to her sister. "What was that beastly man's name again? The Duke of Blackrock?"

Emily stared with the look of one watching a runaway carriage and unable to do more than pray the innocent would get out of its careening path. "The Earl of Graystone."

"Only an earl?" Cece smiled smugly. "Well, I am the daughter of a captain of industry. The child of American ingenuity. He doesn't stand a chance."

"What are you planning?" Caution edged Emily's voice.

Cece favored her with a confident glance. "I shall meet this high-and-mighty earl and charm the aristocratic pants off him. Then, when he is mine to do with as I wish, I'll simply inform him he does not meet my standards, or the standards of my family or my country. Then we'll see who is too good for whom."

Emily shook her head slowiy. "This is ridiculous. Aside from the obvious difficulties of selecting a particular man and setting your cap for him, you could actually end up married."

"Nonsense." Cece tossed her head confidently. "I will be in complete control."

"It's a dangerous game you're proposing."

Cece shnigged. "No more so than the ones we play here. I have already experienced more than my share of American fortune hunters. It can't be that different. Besides—" she sank back in her chair, her voice abruptly serious—"if I don't leave Chicago. I shall surely end up married to Clarence Hillsdale. Father sees such a wedding as more a business merger than a marriage. With his family's railroad holdings and Father's meatpacking interests ..." Her voice hardened. "I refuse to marry Clarence."

"He's a nice boy." Emily said helpfully.

Cece scoffed. "He has no chin."

"His family has nearly as much money as ours. You can't claim he wants you for your inheritance."

"That's virtually his only asset."

"Still. .." Emily cast about for words and her eyes brightened. "What about love?"

"Love? Emily, I am nearly twenty-one. If I was going to find love, I would have found it by now. I doubt the emotion even exists." She sighed in theatrical exaggeration. "I have given up on love."

"I haven't." Emily said firmly, her gaze dropping back to her embroidery.

Cece considered her younger sister in silence. Emily was just seventeen and had a great deal to learn about the world. But she was far too accommodating and proper for her own good and could be quite stubborn about what one should and shouldn't do.

The girl simply had no spirit of adventure. It was such a pity. Emily was almost ethereally lovely, with light brown hair, amber eyes, and a delicate face and figure. Cece, on the other hand, considered herself far too bold, both in spirit and appearance. Her hair and eyes were a deeper, darker version of the younger girl's, her bosom a shade too full, her hips a bit too curved. Cece had long thought it a shame there wasn't a third sister who combined the characteristics of the other two.

"I'm not really interested in love anymore; or marriage, for that matter."

Emily looked up in mute surprise.

"I know it's what's expected of me, but... I have other plans."

"What other plans?" Suspicion colored Emily's voice.

Cece debated the wisdom of revealing her ambitions, even to Emily. It was a secret she'd held close for years, a desire she'd nearly given up on. Now, this idea of going to London, allegedly to look for a husband, could well give her the opportunity she longed for.

She drew a deep breath and leaned toward her sister. "Promise me you won't say a word."

Emily nodded warily.

Cece hesitated, then plunged ahead. "I want to travel the world. I want to float down the Amazon, climb the pyramids, see the Taj Mahal. I want to meet fascinating people and see amazing sights and do remarkable things. I want to be an independent woman. On my own. And I want to write about my experiences and adventures."

Emily shook her head skeptically. "I rarely see you write so much as a letter."

"I've been saving myself." Cece said loftily. "Regardless, I want—" she paused, considering the impact of her words and deciding once and for all to reveal everything—"I want to be a newspaper reporter. A journalist. Like Nellie Bly."

Emily stared. Stunned silence stretched between them.

"It's a wonderful idea. Practically flawless. Don't you see?" Cece's words tumbled out in an eager, rushing stream. "If we go to Europe and I don't marry, perhaps even cause a minor uproar, just the tiniest scandal. Mother and Father will surely see the futility of continuing their quest for a husband. And if I stretch it out long enough, say six months for an engagement and another year to get over my broken heart—"

"Your broken heart?" Emily said in disbelief

"Well, I can't very well let our parents know my true purpose at that point." She threw her sister an exasperated glare. Sometimes Emily could be so annoyingly practical. Where did she get it from? "At any rate, by then I will be past my prime for marriage, practically a spinster. Oh, they will no doubt rant and rave for a time, but they won't bring me back home. It would be far too embarrassing to admit the meatpacking king's daughter couldn't snare a mere British lord. Then I can very likely do as I wish."

"They'll never agree with your plans. Why, you're talking about working for a living. About making your own way." Emily's face paled, and Cece feared she'd made the wrong decision in divulging her dream. "And Nellie Bly? She's so ... so..."

"Daring? Courageous? Intrepid?"

"Scandalous!"

"Emily, she's positively wonderful. I have saved every article she wrote for the
Times-Herald here,
and quite a few from the
New York World,
as well."

"Do Mother and Father even suspect this absurd ambition of yours?"

"No, and they won't find out until it's too late." Cece said. "Remember, you promised."

Emily swallowed visibly, her tone grim. "I won't tell."

"Good." Cece said briskly and nodded. "Now, the first thing we must do is convince Mother and Father of the need to go to England. I'll talk to them in the morning. Father's always so wonderfully easy to manipulate at breakfast. Then we shall have to devise our campaign carefully. Draw up a sort of battle plan."

She steepled her fingers under her chin and grinned. "We are, after all. Americans. We defeated the English in the War for Independence and the War of 1812. We have the blood of George Washington and Andrew Jackson flowing in our veins. Nothing will stand in the way of showing them, once and for all, that Americans are not merely their equals but their betters. And I, Cecily Gwendolyn White, vow right here and now to best them on their own ground. On my own terms."

Emily stared at her sister in amazement, her words faint with disbelief. "God help the British."

Jared Grayson prowled the edges of his mother's parlor, cluttered with the treasures and trophies of generations. His restless gaze skimmed the opulent setting, its flaws apparent only to the knowing eye. Visitors never noticed the chip in the Ming vase strategically turned toward the wall, the fraying edges of the Persian carpet, the cracks in the ornate plaster ceiling. He stepped to the marble-topped table bearing a crystal brandy decanter amid its other offerings. At least the liquor was still the best. He poured a generous glass and swiftly downed a hefty swallow. The satisfying burn of the amber liquid steeled him to the inevitable confrontation ahead.

"So, Mother," he said casually, "what was wrong with the last one?"

"Did you say something, dear?" Lady Olivia Grayson glanced up from her position behind a delicate ladies writing desk strewn with calling cards, notes, and invitations. Strands of graving hair escaped the confines of her perfectly arranged coiffure. Spectacles perched on her nose. She was the picture of harmless domesticity. Jared knew better.

"I said what was wrong with the last one?"

"The last what, dear?" Olivia said innocently. Jared downed another pull of the potent liquor and resolved to remain patient, no matter how difficult that would prove to be. "The last heiress, Mother? The last potential Countess of Graystone? What was wrong with her?"

"Which one was that? Let me think ..." Olivia drew her brows together in a pouting expression of thoughtfulness. "I remember now. It was the girl from that odd sounding place. Oh yes, Chicago." She tossed him a delighted smile, as if applauding herself for remembering.

Olivia's deliberately vague manner would have softened the resolve of anyone not thoroughly familiar with her tactics. The uninitiated would have, at once, taken pity on this still charming but obviously bubble-headed vision of mature femininity. Jared, however, was all too accustomed to his mother's tricks. When she behaved as if there was nothing in her head but cotton, as if her mind was clouded and feeble, as if she was not as sharp as a woman half her age. Jared's senses stiffened like a hound picking up a scent. The Dowager Countess of Graystone was up to something.

He drew a deep breath. "Yes, Mother, the one from Chicago. Her finances were exceptional, her background acceptable, and she was not unappealing. In point of fact, I found her quite an inviting little morsel."

"She would have gone to fat." Olivia's eyes snapped, her attitude at once keen and discerning. "She was already well on the way to having not one but two chins."

Jared suppressed an impudent grin. Olivia Grayson was no longer a sylphlike figure herself.

"I saw that, Jared."

He allowed the grin to escape. "I know you did, Mother. That's what makes it so delightful." He swirled the brandy in his snifter and considered his next words. "All right, Mother. While I hardly think that's a suitable reason to eliminate a young woman worth million from my quest for a suitable wife, I will accept your reasoning. But I remain curious about the others. The chit from San Francisco, for example." Jared leveled a steady gaze at his unruffled parent. "She had no lack of fortune and the proper amount of chins."

Olivia smiled serenely. "Insipid. Shallow. Possibly stupid. I would not rule out inbreeding somewhere in her background."

He swallowed a laugh and nearly choked on the effort to retain his composure. "What of the girl from Baltimore?"

She sighed with feigned regret. "Flighty. Absolutely no sense of decorum. And her brows nearly met above her nose." Olivia shook her head. "Simply not becoming in a countess."

Jared stared. Annoyance battled with amusement. His mother was far more perceptive than even he gave her credit for. Why hadn't he noticed that brow business? More than likely he simply hadn't cared enough. This search for a wife was an unavoidable necessity, nothing more.

He narrowed his eyes. "Very well, then. Tell me what was lacking in the New York heiress. She was lovely, one chin, two separate and distinct brows. She seemed neither too reserved nor too forward. Her ancestry was outstanding, her wealth excessive. What on earth was wrong with her?"

Olivia spread her hands before her in a gesture of inevitability and shrugged. "The poor child could not sit a horse to save her soul."