“IfLord Grayling will excuse me for taking you away, there is someone I should like you to meet.” His tone was curt, as if he had been trying to attract her attention for some time.
“Pray do not let me monopolise you, Miss Franklyn,” Lord Grayling said, with another elegant bow. “We shall have plenty of other opportunities to get to know each other better.”
“I look forward to it very much, Lord Grayling,” she said, curtsying. Rather disgruntled, she allowed Bertram to tow her away.
10: Dinner At Landerby
“What are you doing?” Bertram hissed, as they weaved through the crowds filling the saloon. “He is not on the list!”
“He is a lord and unmarried,” Bea hissed back.
“But not on the list.” He drew her aside into a quieter corner of the room. “Trust me, Lord Grayling is not looking for a wife.”
“Mama says that no man ever is, right up to the point he proposes. Besides, the duke said he has an eye for the ladies, so that means—”
“Bea, if we are to succeed in our objective, you must listen to my advice. Grayling is not hanging out for a wife, and if you persist in flirting with him so outrageously—”
“I was not flirting with him!”
“Well… allowing him to flirt with you, then, you will not only be wasting your time, you will put off the ones whoareon the list. No man likes to know that he is a woman’s second choice. Come and meet Medhurst and Brockscombe, and get to knowthem before you start homing in on a particular target. But no flirting, mind — just be yourself.”
Before they reached them, however, a slender man with dark hair jumped in front of them. “Atherton! Is this the neighbour you told us about? Won’t you introduce me?” His accent was marked, but Bea could not quite place it — somewhere in the south of England was all she could say for certain.
“Of course,” Bertram said, but the tone was clipped. “Miss Franklyn, allow me to presentMrHerbert Fielding, the newly installed parson of… where is it?”
“Higher Brinford in Brinshire… somewhere between Staffordshire and Shropshire, and I’m not installed yet. The wheels turn very slowly in ecclesiastical matters. How do you do, Miss Franklyn. Delighted to make your acquaintance, quite delighted. I hope you’re pleased with Landerby Manor?”
Before Bea could answer, Bertram cut in impatiently, “Yes, yes, but I have promised to introduce Medhurst and Brockscombe to Miss Franklyn, and you are holding us up, Fielding.”
“We shall have plenty of opportunities to talk, Mr Fielding,” Bea said kindly, even as Bertram tugged at her arm, and muttered, “Comealong!”
Lord Thomas Medhurst was a pleasantly-featured man who smiled benignly at her but his eyes often slid past her to gaze about the room. Viscount Brockscombe was far more attentive, a tall, well-built man with a jolly face and booming voice, who paid her florid compliments while busily exercising his wit at the expense of others in the room, then laughing at his own humour. Since Mr Fielding had followed them, and joined in with his own more subtle style of wit, Bea was kept well entertained until they were summoned to dinner.
This was held in the echoing Great Hall, the stone floor and great height of the ceiling making it feel cool after the crowdedand overheated saloon. Bea found herself with Lord Thomas on one side of her and Lord Brockscombe on the other, which she suspected was exactly as Bertram had intended. He was directly opposite her, with one of the duchess’s plain cousins on either side of him. Mr Fielding was on that side, too, waving cheerfully at her as he took his place. The marquess, still looking bewildered as if he was not sure quite what he was doing there, was seated beside the duchess, with one of the very pretty girls on his other side, smiling winsomely at him and throwing triumphant glances at some of the other girls less fortunately situated. Her eye fell on Bea, hesitated momentarily, then passed on, uninterested.
The meal passed slowly. Lord Thomas spent most of it ogling the very pretty girl beside the marquess, who tossed her blonde curls and laughed every time the poor fellow opened his mouth. Viscount Brockscombe was better company, for he teased Bea unmercifully with every tired jest about Yorkshire that he could think of, but at least he was attentive, and very willing to fetch her this and that dish to try. When she could divert his mind into other channels, he was helpful in identifying the other guests.
“Who is the blonde girl beside the marquess?” she asked him in a low voice.
“That is Grayling’s sister, the Honourable Miss Grayling. Did you not meet her in town this spring? She has just made her come out.”
“I never saw her, that I can remember. We move in different circles.”
“Yes, that would be it. She never got vouchers for Almack’s, and Grayling was outraged by that, positively snarling about the Patronesses, but one has to behave to be admitted there. Since Grayling has been reviling them all over town for years for excluding his older sister, it was not very likely that they wouldtake the younger to their bosoms, is it? She failed to take, too, which was another crime to set at their door, apparently.”
“I did not take either,” Bea said uncomfortably. “Not everyone does.”
“Oh, indeed. Or wants to, I dare say,” Lord Brockscombe said easily, not at all discomfited. “But Grayling had been touting it that she was bound to make a great match the instant she set foot in town, so it was a blow to his pride that she did not.”
“She is so pretty,” Bea sighed. “I cannot imagine why she did not have suitors three deep around her.”
The viscount laughed, and raised an eyebrow. “You think men only look for beauty in a wife, do you? Hmm.” He glanced at his friend, whose eyes were still fixed on Miss Grayling. “Well, some do, perhaps, but most of us are more sensible, and look for other qualities — a large fortune, for instance. A hundred thousand pounds trumps a pretty face any day of the week.”
He laughed at his joke, or at least Bea hoped it was a joke. And yet, was that any different from her own attitude? She was attempting to trade her forty thousand pounds for a title, and as high a rank as possible, so she could hardly blame a man who bore a title for looking for a wealthy wife. That was the way of the world, but it left an unpleasant taste in the mouth, nevertheless. For the first time, she wondered at her own ruthlessness. Was it really so important to be Lady Something? Would it not be just as wonderful to be Mrs Something, so long as he was a gentleman? It was the man attached to the name that mattered, surely? Was it not?
And yet, if it were all about character, how was she to judge? It was all so difficult!
***
