Fortune's Lady (3 page)

“Perhapsh, but if I were married to the wench, I would be forced to spend so much on a cozy armful in order to keep me happy that I would need a second fortune.”

Althea’s clenched fingers dug into her palms until they tingled. For once in her life she agreed with her father— she wished desperately she were a man. Then she could demand satisfaction from the insolent puppy. As it was, she was simply forced to ignore it, to put it from her mind and try not to imagine how many other similar conversations were going on about the ballroom.

Chapter 3

Catching the encouraging glances of Lady Denbigh and the Countess of Northcote who were taking their places at one of the baize-covered tables, the Dowager Duchess of Clarendon turned to take her granddaughter’s arm and lead her over to join them. After exchanging the briefest of pleasantries, the group fell into profound silence as they drew cards to determine their partners and the dealer. Quiet reigned as they examined their hands. Looking across the table at the calm reassuring face of her grandmother, whom she had been lucky enough to get as a partner, Althea felt the tension that had been gripping her neck and her shoulders from the moment she had entered the ballroom slip away. Here she was on familiar ground. Here no one was looking at her, judging her, calculating how much she was worth or whether she would bear healthy heirs. Here, if anyone thought about her at all, it was to wonder what cards she held in her hand.

But Althea was not entirely correct in thinking herself unobserved. All during her conversation with the Countess of Rothsay and Lady Edgcumbe, the Marchioness of Harwood had kept a sharp eye on Lady Althea Beauchamp, and the more she considered it, the more convinced she became that a young lady of such excellent background and expectations would not only be the perfect wife for her son, but an appreciative and generous daughter-in-law, one who was bound to sympathize with the trials and tribulations of a poor widow whose husband had left her less comfortable than she ought to be, and whose son had not the least notion of the necessary expenses of a lady of fashion. She had observed with some satisfaction the rigid expression on Althea’s face as she performed the quadrille with the unimpressive-looking young Fotheringay and had noted the exact moment that Althea and her grandmother headed toward the card room. Excusing herself to the countess and Lady Edgcumbe, the marchioness had made her own way to the card room, nodding to acquaintances while keeping a sharp eye on the Dowager Duchess of Clarendon and her granddaughter.

It took no great powers of observation to establish that the two of them were very serious card players indeed. In fact, not one of the four ladies seated at their table was looking at any of the others, but concentrated instead on the cards in their hands with the intensity of true devotees.

A sly smile of satisfaction crept across the marchioness’s face. It was perfect. Her misogynist son might resist dancing with the highly eligible Lady Althea Beauchamp, but he would not be as likely to resist a game of cards with her, particularly if he were engineered into it by the one woman he could not ignore— his mother. Nodding in a self-congratulatory manner, the marchioness slipped back out of the card room and returned to her place among the sharp-eyed dowagers clustered along the perimeter of the ballroom to learn more, if she could, about Lady Althea Beauchamp’s prospects. If Gareth would not make a push to reinstate the Marchioness of Harwood to her former position of preeminence in fashionable society, then his mother was going to have to take matters into her own hands.

Meanwhile, left to her own devices, the Duchess of Clarendon, without appearing to do so, also reconnoitered the card room and, assuring herself that her daughter was quite beyond her reach, went in search of her husband.

She found him at last, deep in discussion of poor laws and taxation with Castlereagh and Lord Eldon. Favoring her husband’s companions with a brilliant smile, she apologized for interrupting them. “Forgive me. I apologize for breaking into such an enlightening discussion, my lords, but I do feel that all of you need some relief from this high seriousness. We are, after all, at a ball.”

“Of course, my dear. Would you care to honor me with the next dance?” Her husband responded gallantly enough, but it was clear, as he led her reluctantly away from his cronies, that he infinitely preferred politics to dancing.

“It is not that I wish so much to dance, my lord, as to remind you that we do have a daughter making her come-out. Politics come and go from year to year, but Althea has her first Season only once. I cannot manage anything so critical as finding a suitable husband for her on my own, you know.”

“But my dear, I was working on that very thing.”

The duchess’s finely arched brows rose in disbelief.

Even now, after twenty-five years of marriage, her expression of patent incredulity caused a flush to rise to her husband’s bony cheeks. He knew, and he had always known, that it was only his fortune, his family, and his title that had won the beautiful Miss Dorothea Williston, toast of a long-ago Season, as his wife.

The Willistons were a respectable family, though not wealthy or illustrious enough to command the attention of the
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until the second daughter, Dorothea, made her appearance. Exquisitely beautiful and possessed of a captivating manner, she had taken the
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including the Duke of Clarendon, by storm. Even now, the duke could not believe that it had been he, among all her suitors, who had had the good fortune to win her hand.

Though he was well enough convinced of his own importance as one of the last of the illustrious Beauchamp line, and fully cognizant of the respect he commanded as the Duke of Clarendon, he still carried within him the knowledge that Henry Beauchamp, scorned by his schoolmates at Eton as a prosy old bore, offered no competition to the dashing fellows who made up the lovely Dorothea’s circle of admirers. And despite a quarter of a century as the acknowledged victor in the competition for her hand, he could still never quite believe he had won it.

“And how, pray tell, does a discussion of taxation with Castlereagh and Eldon have anything to do with finding a husband for our daughter?”

“Eldon has a son and Castlereagh has a brother.”

The duchess was nonplussed. “William Henry Scott? Charles Stewart? My lord, Althea can command a duke at the very least, and a wealthy one at that.”

“Perhaps, but who is to say that the right political connection is not more powerful than money or a title? The Beauchamps have been helping to govern this land since the Conqueror. I will not let that glorious tradition die out simply because I have been blessed with a daughter instead of a son.”

“But Stewart? He is a second son, and a rather harum-scarum one at that, while Scott simply has no cachet at all.”

“Well, Castlereagh’s wife is not likely to give birth to an heir now. And both men move in the highest circles.”

“‘Political
circles.” His wife snorted in disgust. “I can see that it is all up to me to make Althea a match worthy of her since neither my husband nor my daughter will make the least push to do so.”

“No, no, my dear. I promise you, I shall speak to St. John and Montague at White’s tomorrow. They both have sons of a marriageable age. You may count on me, I assure you.” The duke, appalled by the thought of having to spend a second Season assiduously attending all the
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functions, hastened to reassure his wife of his total support.

Somewhat mollified, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. Her husband was not a graceful dancer, but he did creditably enough and at least he did not disgrace himself like Lord Kiloran who insisted on capering around the floor as though he were half of his advanced age. And there was no denying that with his silver hair, angular features, and long patrician nose her husband looked every inch the duke he was.

The slight frown that had begun to wrinkle the duchess’s brow disappeared. She was suffering a temporary setback; that was all. A recalcitrant daughter and a husband oblivious to the finer points of matchmaking in the
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were daunting to be sure, but her daughter was an incomparable of incomparables and her husband was a man of rank, wealth, and power, even if it was only political power. She was just going to have to be more forceful in her representations to both of them of the necessity of their joining with her in her efforts to find Althea a husband worthy of them all.

The duchess began her campaign to enlist their compliance immediately after the ball as they drove back to Clarendon House. Chatting brightly, she ignored their silence as they gazed out the carriage windows at the elegant facades of the houses they passed with their well-scrubbed steps, brilliantly polished brass, and exquisite fanlights over imposing doorways. “My dear”—she turned to her daughter—”you were quite the toast of the evening. Even in such a sad crush it was abundantly clear that you were the object of all eyes, and certainly the center of the largest crowd of admirers. Why the group around Lady Mary Sotherton was nothing to the one around you.”

Althea sat mute, having learned from years of experience that it was useless to point out that her popularity was largely the consequence of her being one of three unmarried daughters of dukes present that evening. And since one of them had a dreadful squint and a laugh like a donkey and the other was the only daughter of a man whose heavily mortgaged estates were in dire need of an infusion of money from a wealthy son-in-law, it was not entirely surprising that she attracted attention. The duchess would simply ignore such a rational response or would label it unattractively pert.

“If I were such a fortunate person, I would feel exceedingly gratified. Were you not? Come now, Althea, do not be sullen. It is not in the least becoming. Were you not gratified at the very particular attention you were shown by such eligible young men as Fotheringay?”

Althea gritted her teeth as the image of the bragging, tipsy young lord and his friends rose before her eyes. “Yes, Mama,” she responded dully.

“Really, Althea. You could show a little enthusiasm for all that I am doing to ensure that you are suitably launched. Even dukes’ daughters with expectations can end up on the shelf if they do not exhibit a little animation.”

“Yes, Mama.” It was also useless to express the heretical notion that being “on the shelf” appeared, to Althea at least, to be a delightfully comfortable place to end up. Untroubled by interfering husbands or parents, free to pursue one’s own interests, and not obliged to spend hours with dressmakers in order to appear to advantage at yet another stultifying function, being “on the shelf,” seemed like a paradise compared to being the incomparable of incomparables.

“Your mother does make a point, Althea. A young woman has only one way to carry on the honor of her family, and that is to ally her name with one that is equally illustrious. Since you were born I have tried to inspire in you the proper respect and reverence for the long and honorable tradition of the Beauchamps, and I am sure you intend to see to it that this tradition continues.”

“Yes, Papa.” Althea felt herself receding into the darkness. Was she a person to anyone but herself, she wondered? Did anyone wish to make her acquaintance or spend time with her because they appreciated who she was and not because of the fortune and connections she stood for?

The vision of a dark cynical face and scornful eyes raking over her rose before her. Well, there was one person at least who did not seem to care that she was the Season’s most eligible young woman. It annoyed her intensely to be dismissed out of hand as she had been, to be judged before she was even acquainted, but it also intrigued her. Who was this Harwood whom her mother considered to be unfit for a properly brought up young woman, and why did he harbor such a disgust for Lady Althea Beauchamp? At least she could look forward to amusing herself at the next fashionable squeeze by trying to discover the answer to this riddle.

Chapter 4

Oddly enough, Althea was not alone in her wish to learn more about the person with whom she had briefly exchanged glances at the St. John’s rout. Though he was not even aware of his desire to do so until he found himself surveying ballrooms for a beautiful face with a flawless complexion, sapphire eyes, and hair so dark it appeared shiny blue-black, Gareth too had been unable to forget the woman who caught his attention, unwilling though it was.

Gareth’s mother, on the other hand, was fully conscious of her desire to see the sought-after Lady Althea Beauchamp again and make her acquaintance. In fact, an introduction to Lady Althea had become her major goal in attending the select events to which she dragged her son. Gareth still protested at the number and frequency of these functions, but if he seemed a little less resistant to the idea of escorting his mother than he had been previously, she was too intent on her quarry to remark upon it.

After observing Lady Althea at several of these fashionable gatherings, the marchioness was able to assure herself that at some point in the evening, Althea and her grandmother never failed to escape to the card room, and she laid her plans accordingly. The Marchioness of Harwood could not equal her son in his skill at cards— she had neither the wit nor the concentration for it—but she was no worse than most of those crowding around the tables and a good deal better than many.

She knew that her son, while faithful to his promise to accompany her, did try to limit the time he spent at
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affairs by leaving as early as possible, often seeking her out midway through the evening. Taking this into account, she carefully constructed her strategy.

“My dear Lavinia”—she fixed Lady Edgcumbe with a knowing eye as they sat together at Lady Nayland’s annual ball—“you are such a sensitive creature. Surely your head aches as much as mine does from the heat and the crowd. Do let us repair to the peace and quiet of the card room.”

Lady Edgcumbe glanced at her companion in some surprise, for usually the marchioness, who still retained some her former beauty, preferred to be as close as possible to the very center of activity and attention. But there was an insistence in Sally’s voice that piqued her curiosity. “Very well.” Smoothing out the ample skirt of her purple satin gown, Lady Edgcumbe rose in stately fashion and followed her friend in the direction of the card room.