Lord Bredon and the Bachelor's Bible, page 1
“As it happens, widowhood agrees with me. I am my own mistress, in charge of my own affairs.”
“And you do not wish to remarry?”
“Why should I? It would only mean forfeiting my independence and allowing some man to make all my decisions for me. Thank you, no,” she said with emphasis. “I am content to find happiness for myself.”
She seemed sincere in her desire to be left alone, but as Edward looked down at her, the room seemed to fade around them. All he saw was Anne.
“I begged you to wait,” he said softly.
Her dark eyes glistened up at him. “And I begged you to stay.”
He shook his head ruefully and tried a smile on her. “It would appear neither of us is very good at begging.”
More from Mia Marlowe
Touch of a Thief
Touch of a Rogue
Touch of a Scoundrel
Plaid to the Bone (ebook novella)
Plaid Tidings
The Singular Mr. Sinclair
Lord Bredon and the Bachelor’s Bible
Mia Marlowe
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
More from Mia Marlowe
Lord Bredon and the Bachelor’s Bible
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
THE SINGULAR MR. SINCLAIR
Meet the Author
Copyright
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
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Copyright © 2019 by Diana Groe
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First Electronic Edition: April 2019
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0662-2
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0662-8
First Print Edition: April 2019
ISBN-13: 978-0-5161-0663-9
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0663-6
Printed in the United States of America
Prologue
A drizzly Tuesday afternoon in London, 1817
Lady Daly studiously avoided looking at the coffin at the far end of the parlor and concentrated instead on the mourners milling about the dead man. She leaned toward the woman next to her and whispered, “What did he die of?”
Her friend did not bother to whisper. “It wasn’t of loneliness, of that you may be certain.”
No one would fail to recognize the snide voice of the second speaker. It belonged to Lady Ackworth, the self-appointed arbitress of good behavior and the general terror of the ton. She kept a running account of all the rakes and roués making the rounds of the great houses and delighted in naming and shaming their hapless conquests. She knew who owed whom exorbitant gambling debts and whose credit was no long welcomed at fashionable establishments. It was generally accepted that if Lady Ackworth didn’t know of something, it couldn’t be of much import and, in fact, had probably never happened.
“Sir Erasmus Howard rarely suffered from the lack of feminine companionship,” Lady Ackworth went on more softly, “especially when Lady Howard was not in Town.”
It was only a whisper, but the unkind accusation seemed to swirl in the air currents above their heads. However, if the gathered crowd of mourners in Sir Erasmus’s London town house heard the gossip’s unkind patter, they were too well-bred to show it. Shortly, the entire assembly would form a procession from the Howard residence to St. Thomas-by-the-Way, a small church on the next block. St. Paul’s was only a few more streets over, but St. Thomas’s was where a brief service would be held, followed by immediate interment in the churchyard.
It wasn’t usual for ladies of quality to complete the entire ritual, the graveside being considered too stark a reality for their delicate constitutions, but Lady Daly and her friend were not the sort to do anything by halves. They’d see Sir Erasmus firmly in the ground, no matter how soggy the walk to his yawning grave.
How else could they speak with authority on the event in the days to come?
“Sadly, infidelity is not an exceptional failing among gentlemen nowadays.” Lady Daly eyed a few peers she suspected of the fault.
“It has always been thus, and frankly, I can’t imagine what gentlewoman would have it otherwise. Once one has had children, one needn’t be troubled with that marital duty, and good riddance to it, say I.” Lady Ackworth made a small moue of distaste. “However, Sir Erasmus would have done well to be more discreet.”
Other than that all-too-common fault, the gossips agreed that Lady Howard had little room for complaint in her marriage. Sir Erasmus had provided lavishly for her during their short union. His young wife never wanted for jewels or a wardrobe cut in the first stare of fashion. If Lady Howard wished to improve her husband’s home, he apparently trusted her judgment on the matter, for he opened his purse wide to let her spend whatever was necessary.
“In many respects,” Lady Daly said, “Sir Erasmus Howard was a fine husband.”
“Indeed. But was Lady Howard a fine wife?”
“She’s managed his funeral well enough.” Lady Daly fingered the delicate black gloves tied up with a sprig of rosemary and a long length of ebony ribbon. Quite correctly, she’d been given the mourning token when she arrived, as had Lady Ackworth. The gentlemen assembled had all been presented with black hat bands and handkerchiefs. The house was draped with ebony bunting, and the servants presented appropriately somber expressions while they offered refreshments which were routinely ignored. No one could fault Lady Howard for not following the prescribed mourning rituals.
At that moment, the widow appeared at the head of the long staircase and made her way sedately down. She seemed to be floating, for her head of raven hair didn’t bob a bit and there was a becoming sheen to the whites of her dark eyes, evidence, no doubt, of private grief.
Lady Daly nodded in tacit approval. It was beyond distasteful to express strong emotion in public, but a hint of contained sadness was wholly proper.
The widow didn’t smile to acknowledge the presence of the other mourners. At least, not by conscious volition. Everyone who knew the lady was aware that, by a trick of musculature, the corners of her mouth naturally turned up ever so slightly.
The effect was reminiscent of the Mona Lisa, of whose enigmatic smile Lady Daly had only heard rumors. She found it charming. Lady Ackworth, on the other hand, always held that the tiny expression revealed a bit of smugness, as if Lady Howard were keeping a delicious secret and the slight smile betrayed her.
“She looks terribly pale, doesn’t she?” Lady Daly said.
“Black will do that to a body.” Lady Ackworth smoothed the skirt of the bombazine gown she kept at the ready for just such occasions. “It makes everyone appear wan, which equals boring. Look at me. I’m positively peaked.”
However, Lady Daly didn’t think Lady Howard appeared wan or boring. She looked far lovelier than a widow ought. There was a huge difference between pale and listless, and pale and...mysterious.
“I’ve heard her new situation means she’ll have to come down in the world quite a bit,” Lady Daly leaned in to whisper.
“I should say so. Not only is Sir Erasmus’s mother still living, which means there will be two dowagers splitting that portion, but her stepson, Sir Percival, has considerable debts. Now that he’s inherited the baronetcy, his creditors will make short work of the estate’s assets, so the dowagers’ due will be smaller yet.” Lady Ackworth made a tsking sound. “This may very well be the last time London Society sees Lady Howard.”
Threadbare gentility loomed in the widow’s future. For the first time since Lady Daly arrived to join the mourners, real tears of sympathy pressed against the backs of her eyes. Too many gentlewomen were reduced to penury by the untimely demise of their men. Fortunately, her own husband—such a clever man—had arranged to die before he could accumulate too much debt. Lord Daly had left their son with a solid estate in Surrey and her with a lavish annuity that was the envy of the ton.
“It’s a pity all around. Sir Erasmus was quite a bit older than Lady Howard, but he was certainly no dotard,” she said. “Had he been ill long?”
“No. Death came to him suddenly.” Lady Ackworth narrowed her eyes at Lady Howard, who was accepting condolences with an air of gracious resignation. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”
“Was it apoplexy that carried him off?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“A weakness of the chest perhaps?” Lady Daly wondered aloud.
“The Howards have always had the constitution of a horse.”
A ghastly thought crossed Lady Daly’s mind. “You don’t suspect...foul play, do you?”
“Did I say so? What a distasteful idea!” Lady Ackworth whipped out the ornate black fan she kept specifically for funerals and beat the air with it. “I’m surprised at you for broaching such a disturbing topic when we are practically at the gentleman’s graveside.”
Severely chastened, Lady Daly bit her lower lip.
“Still...” Lady Ackworth cocked her head to one side, as she always did when deciding to appropriate someone else’s idea and make it her own. “For a gentleman as hale and hearty as Sir Erasmus to be stricken so unexpectedly...it does make one wonder if he was hastened to his death somehow.”
Lady Daly glanced across the room at the widow, who was seated near the wide front window, looking out into the deepening twilight. A small frown drew Lady Howard’s delicate brows together, and combined with that mysterious smile, hers was a face at war with itself. Less charitable souls might misconstrue the expression entirely.
“I wonder what Lady Howard is thinking.”
If she could have peeked into the lady’s mind at that moment, she’d have been more than disturbed. Only one thought was singing through Lady Howard’s whole being.
I’m finally free.
Chapter 1
They say money can’t buy happiness. I say as long as money is what they take in exchange for a berth on a ship bound for an exotic shore, it buys all the happiness I require.
—from the travel journal of Mrs. Hester Birdwhistle
May 1822
If the unfortunate pianoforte had a soul, it would surely have made a deal with the devil. Anything to escape being hammered to death by Miss Frederica Tilbury. Not that the young lady, known affectionately as “Freddie” to her friends, was playing the wrong notes. All the right ones were there. The trouble was that all of them were being delivered with the same ruthless conviction of one who was killing snakes.
Edward Lovell, Lord Chatham, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, along with the twenty or so other captives who’d made the mistake of attending the recital. The annual event was sponsored by a group of marriage-minded mamas, each of them hoping that her daughter’s performance would capture an eligible bachelor’s attention. Year after year, stage-struck young ladies displayed their talents. The program included singing, playing a variety of musical instruments, recitation of poetry, and, in one case of a singularly misplaced notion of what constituted a talent, imitating bird calls.
Edward decided Miss Oglethorpe’s pheasant call might come in handy during shooting season, but otherwise, a wife who whistled or twittered with any regularity would dance on his last nerve.
He gritted his teeth as Miss Tilbury’s assault on the keyboard continued. It was doubly difficult to bear because the young lady was his sister Caroline’s particular friend, and Caro would expect a report on her performance. Edward decided he could truthfully say that Freddie hadn’t missed a note. She pounded them all with equal enthusiasm.
And lack of feeling.
Edward did not suffer from that particular failing. He felt more than most, and still bore a black armband for his father. For the past half year, a longer time than most gentlemen wore such remembrances, the band had been a daily item in Edward’s ensemble. That small sliver of mourning had become a part of him, as much as his sandy hair and piercing blue eyes. It went part and parcel with his newly acquired earldom.
Since his father’s death, Edward had managed the Chatham estate’s business with methodical coolness. In fact, for the past few years, the old earl had accepted his help with the workings of the estate, though he would brook no major changes while he was alive. Sadly, the economies Edward had wished to implement had come too late to keep the Chatham ledger book from tipping dangerously into dun territory.
But Edward had conceived a plan to manage that, however personally distasteful he might find the notion. He took the responsibilities that went with his station very seriously. It was a matter of honor that he be able to provide for his large family and many retainers.
Seeing to the needs of those who depended upon him was part of what nobility meant to him. Gone were the days of pleasing himself, with no thought for how his actions would impact others. He was a tree beneath whose shade many could shelter in safety.
Even to his own mind, that sounded a bit pompous, but Edward reminded himself of what he was willing to do to meet his responsibilities. Weighed against that, pomposity was the least of his sins. In any case, he was growing accustomed to the demands of his new life as the earl.
Answering when someone addressed him as Lord Chatham was another matter entirely. He still half expected to hear his father’s voice responding from behind him.
When Frederica Tilbury ceased tormenting the piano, there was a blessed lull in the recital program. Edward’s friend Sinclair leaned toward him and whispered, “Remind me again why we are here.”
Sinclair had also been elevated to a title, but Edward rarely thought of him as Lord Ware. Sinclair was married to Edward’s sister Caroline, which made him his brother-in-law as well as earl of a solid estate in the Lake District.
“Your favorite brother-in-law,” Sinclair had often teased him.
As he was Edward’s only brother-in-law, and destined to remain so, the distinction was much less grand than Sinclair made it sound. Besides, Edward always preferred to count Sinclair as his friend.
He’d discovered quickly that a peer of the realm had toadies by the hundreds, acquaintances by the dozens, supplemented by occasional allies in the House of Lords. However, a gentleman of title and property had few enough true friends that he was honor-bound to treasure them.
Besides, Sinclair was the only one who still called him Bredon. It was the courtesy title Edward had grown up with, the viscountcy associated with it a lesser possession of his father’s. Edward had carried the name with him to Eton and he still thought of himself as Lord Bredon.
“We are here with a purpose,” he whispered back to Sinclair. “To find the young lady whom I shall make my countess.”
“Oh, good. I’d hate to think you were looking for an actual musician in this lot.”
Actually, Edward was looking for more than a countess. He required an heiress.
Luckily, he didn’t have to guess which debutante was a fortune with feet. A few weeks ago at White’s, he’d stumbled upon a pamphlet entitled A Register of Ladies of Means, or The Bachelor’s Bible. The current crop of marriageable ladies was listed within its dog-eared pages, complete with their ages, addresses, and expected dowries.
Edward wasn’t diving into this endeavor blind. He didn’t have to sleuth out an alliance that would meet the needs of the estate. Thanks to The Bachelor’s Bible, he knew exactly which debutante he must pursue.
“Are you merely window shopping today?” Sinclair asked. “Or have you settled on a particular young lady?”
Edward nodded grimly. “Miss Martha Finch.”
She was the daughter of an extremely well-heeled baron. According to The Bachelor’s Bible, her hand came with the princely sum of eighty thousand pounds. Even that astounding sum wasn’t enough to permanently right the listing Chatham ship, but it would plug the leak long enough for Edward to enact his reforms and rebuild the family wealth.
