It was a damned good thing he wasn’t anyone less than the Duke of Grantham, or he never could have managed it. As it was, he’d need Basingstoke and Montford to see the thing done.
Thetonwasn’t going to fancy the long hours of travel to Fairford, but they’d hurry off to hell itself if three dukes and two duchesses awaited them at the end of their journey.
He jerked open the drawer of his desk, snatched up a handful of paper and a new quill, and dipped the nib into the bottle of ink. He stared down at the blank page for a long moment, considering, then scrawled,
Basingstoke,
I’ve urgent need of you and your duchess in Fairford. Come at once, and bring Montford and the Duchess of Montford with you. Grantham.
There. It was a bit brusque, but they’d come, if only to satisfy their curiosity. He never spent any time at Grantham Lodge, and he’d certainly never invited any of his friends here.
Neither Basingstoke nor Montford could resist a mystery, especially Montford.
He read the note over once again. Yes, it would do. It was just cryptic enough to lure his friends here.
Now, as far as his mythical future duchess was concerned . . .
Damn it, why the devil had he told Miss St. Claire he was thinking of marrying, of all things? He wasn’t—not seriously, at any rate. Before he’d left London it had crossed his mind that Lady Emily Bolland might make a proper wife, but he’d hardly spared her a thought since he’d arrived in Fairford.
God knew the house party alone was bad enough without throwing a fictional betrothed into it, but she’d caught him off guard, and then she’d been gazing at him with those green eyes, and . . . well, he’d panicked.
It was too late to fix it now.
He’d have to invite Lady Emily. She’d come to Fairford at once if he beckoned her, if only because she fancied herself the future mistress of Grantham Lodge.
That might prove to be a problem.
He’d told Miss St. Claire he was courting this lady, so he’d have to play the part of the besotted swain, and Lady Emily was a touch too eager to be courted, and she could become a trifle irritable if she was thwarted in any way.
She was a renowned London beauty, but she was one of those sulky, petulant ladies that were so fashionable these days. There was no denying she had a lovely face, but he wasn’t much enamored of her sullenness. Why, he even preferred Miss St. Claire, who was an impertinent, cheeky bit of baggage, to a peevish, bad-tempered bird of paradise.
For all her othermanyflaws, Miss St. Claire did have a pretty smile.
She smiled with her whole mouth. Hers was a country girl’s smile, not the simpering half smirk so common amongst the fashionable ladies of London.
No, he didn’t fancy a fortnight of Lady Emily’s company, but if not her, then who?
There was no one. He didn’t have many friends in London. Aside from Basingstoke and Montford and their wives, there was no one he wished to invite to his home. He had no friends at all here in Fairford, which was . . .
Perfectly fine. Just the way he wanted it.
He reached for another piece of paper, and scrawled a terse note to Lady Emily, bidding her to come to Fairford. Then he set it aside and took up another piece of paper. Within the hour, he had several dozen briefly worded invitations, each sealed with the Grantham crest, and resting in a pile at the corner of his desk.
He sat for a while, staring at them.
He had one final invitation to write, but did he dare?
It was devious, to be sure. Underhanded, and unworthy of a gentleman. Breaking Miss St. Claire’s door down hadn’t been his finest moment, but this would be much worse. If he did proceed, and the scheme worked—and his schemes generally did—then the ramifications of it would be far-reaching.
But not necessarily bad. Indeed, when one considered how bleak Miss St. Claire’s current situation was, one could argue he was doing her a good turn. Didn’t every young lady want to marry a peer? It wasn’t as if Miss St. Claire had a prayer of making such a match without his interference—er, his help, that is.
Yes, his help. That was more accurate. She’d be made a viscountess, after all.
All it would cost her was half of a house.
Hishouse. Perhaps not legally—not yet—but his all the same, and a part of the Grantham family property since his mother had wed his father. It had taken him years, decades, to retrieve each piece of the legacy his father had lost—years of watching, waiting, and meticulous planning—but bit by bit he’d gathered up the pieces of his past, like a boy collecting seashells on the sand—and put them back together again.
All but Hammond Court. Year after year, it had eluded him, the last piece of a puzzle that would make him whole again.
