Julia London (63 page)

“What have you done with the funds?” Paul breathed, working very hard to keep his voice even.

“I told you,” Ethan shrugged, and reached for his decanter of brandy. Lauren snatched the glass container and moved quickly out of his reach, holding it tightly to her chest. Ethan motioned furiously for her to return the decanter. “I will not tolerate your impudence, Lauren.”

“What have you done with it?” Paul bellowed.

Ethan slid a heated glare to Paul. “I engaged a modiste for your foolish sister, I sent a sum to retain a London house from my good friend Dowling for the Season, and that, as they say, is that!”

“A
modiste
?” Lauren gasped.

“You heard me,” Ethan mumbled, and motioned for the
brandy, but Lauren held the decanter hostage. “Oh,
fine
! You probably thought I would marry you to that idiot Goldthwaite! That little pumpkin would not bring as much as a bloody shilling to this place!”

“What are you saying? Have you
betrothed
her?” Paul asked.

“No, I have not
betrothed
her,” Ethan scoffed. “Not yet! But I am giving her a London Season and I will make a good match for her! What, did you think we could go on this way forever? With the likes of
Goldthwaite
sniffing at her skirts, for Chrissakes? I had to take matters into my own hands! I am sending her to London, and
this
time, she will not give it all away!” he bellowed.

Paul stumbled toward a chair, sank into it, and stared helplessly at Ethan. He had expected this, but not with
his
money—money he did not know he even had! Of course he knew Lauren must marry. As hard is it was to maintain Rosewood, there was little choice. But
he
had wanted to be the one to make a good match for her. Lauren wanted to marry for love—she had told him that more than once. And he wanted to be the one to settle on her behalf with a man she could love. Ethan, he would give her to the highest bidder.

“Oh, Uncle, you cannot mean what you say! You cannot send me away! What about the children?” Lauren cried.

Ethan turned his fleshy face to his niece. “What about them? Mrs. Peterman will tend them as she always has,” he said roughly. “Oh come now, what use are you here, lass? The longer you work in those fields, the sooner your looks will fade, and then what use will you be? Even that mindless little apothecary won’t want you then!” he blustered, and shifted a wary glance at Paul. “For Chrissakes, stop looking at me like that! Bloody hell, it’s not like you will
lose
your precious trust. I merely borrowed against it!”

“Oh, that’s rich, Uncle,” Paul scoffed. “Exactly how do you think to repay it?”

“With a betrothal agreement, what else? In exchange for her hand, I will extract an annuity and the paltry sum of your trust!”

“Without a dowry? You have no dowry!” Paul angrily reminded him.

Ethan shrugged indifferently. “Don’t need a dowry with a face like hers, you know. A man would just as soon have a beauty in his bed as another estate to tend. And there is always Rosewood. Not much of a place, but good enough for some, I’d wager, and I reckon you won’t deny your sister a share in it if it comes to that.”

Lauren gasped softly; silence filled the room as brother and sister gaped at Ethan. At last, Lauren spoke. “Have you no
conscience
? Was your barter with the count not enough? Am I to have no say at all?”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell, you make it sound as if I am the first man to give a lass away for an annuity. It is the way of things, girl.”

Lauren shoved away from the wall with that remark, her blue eyes sparkling with fury. She slowly shook her head. “I will not go to London. I will
not
! When and
if
I marry again, it will be to a man of
my
choosing, not
yours
!”

Ethan snorted his opinion of that and drained the trickle of brandy left in his glass.

   She was going. Staring blindly at London through the dingy window of a hired hack, Lauren pressed her lips firmly together. She had steadfastly refused Ethan’s ridiculous plan at first, had even laughed at him in her indignation. That had enraged him; he had threatened to marry her to Thadeus Goldthwaite if she did not comply. Granted,
that
prospect had her walking on pins and needles for a few days, but she knew he had little to gain from a marriage to Fastidious Thadeus, and had brazenly ignored him.

So he had done the one thing that could force her into anything.

She was on the front lawn one afternoon when the vicar came for Lydia. He explained, much to Lauren’s horror, that as Lydia had resided at Rosewood for the last three years without benefit of stipend, Ethan had written they could no longer afford her keep. The vicar had dutifully found a convent willing to take the young girl.

Lauren glanced at her uncle filling the narrow seat across from her and winced as she recalled the terrible row that had caused. As unfeeling as a rock, he had casually informed her that they could not afford to keep the children at Rosewood, and further, the only way they could
possibly
afford it was for her to marry well. Bless him, but Dr. Stephens, having heard about the ruckus from Abbey, had quietly paid Ethan three months of Lydia’s keep. And Lauren had realized on that horrid afternoon that she would go to London.

Paul, having confirmed the existence of his trust with the family solicitor, was the one who finally convinced her she had to go. She
should
be married, he said; she was, after all, fast approaching the grand age of five and twenty. He had wrested a promise from Ethan that she at least would have a say in any offer for her hand, a great concession on Ethan’s part. He reminded her that there was no other hope for Rosewood, and despite her optimism about her trade, there was still the problem of barren land and high taxes. And furthermore, he had argued, it was not outside the realm of possibility that she might actually fall in love with a man in London.

Paul was right. At least this way, she would have some control over her fate. Not like before, when Ethan had found the oldest and most senile match alive for her. It was, she very well knew, the only way she could save Lydia and the children at the moment. Deep down, she knew it was really the only way she could save Rosewood.

So she had reluctantly agreed. Yet she privately doubted a decent man was to be found among London’s aristocracy. Lauren knew how the
ton
lived. Marriages were made for
gain, adulterous affairs abounded, and she could not imagine that a single one of them could look at her charges without lifting their noses.

More important, she was quite certain not one of them could compare with Mr. Christian, the man she had not been able to purge from her heart.

When she had finally conceded, Paul insisted on accompanying her and Ethan to London. Lauren had pleaded with him to stay at Rosewood for the sake of the children, but he would have none of it. He had railed about his duty to her and Rosewood. He was a
man
now, he insisted, and would not allow her to go to London without proper escort. Furthermore, he harbored some fantastic notion that he would earn back all that Ethan had borrowed and more by investing the money he was sure he would win at the gaming hells. He had taught himself to gamble, he explained, and according to Dr. Stephens, he was quite good.

So the three of them had trooped off to London after tearful good-byes to Mrs. Peterman and the children, and repeated assurances from Dr. Stephens that he would look after things.

And so here she was, she thought sadly, trying to appear as if the whole sordid event were tolerable. They rode in silence—with the exception of an occasional grumble from Ethan—to the Russell Square town house he had rented from his old traveling companion, Lord Dowling.

When the hack finally stopped in front of the small house, the front door flung open, and a middle-aged man with a shock of white hair appeared on the front steps as they climbed out of the conveyance. “Lord Hill,” he said, as if announcing their arrival to the street.

“Bring round a brandy, man,” Ethan groused as he waddled up the steps to the door, and unceremoniously pushed past the butler as Lauren and Paul trailed behind. In a blatant disregard for protocol, the butler looked at Paul, and then Lauren, and shrugging, moved to pass them. He muttered
the name of Davis in doing so, and Lauren supposed that he meant to convey his identity.

“I am Paul Hill, and this is my sister, Countess Bergen,” Paul responded. At that gentle reminder, Lauren flushed terribly, hoping that the butler—at least she
thought
he was the butler—would not see how that irritated her. Paul knew how angry she was at Ethan for making sure the entire population of London knew she was a countess. They both knew very well how she felt—it was hardly her title to bear, seeing as how she had been little more than a glorified nursemaid to Helmut. Nonetheless, Ethan had written long letters to his friends bragging about the “the countess.” The title, he had boasted to her, would bring him a few pounds more.

The butler shrugged again and disappeared inside. Exchanging dubious looks, Paul and Lauren hesitantly followed.

The interior of the town house was a shock to Lauren’s senses. The small entry was papered in red and light blue, and in the corner stood a full suit of armor, taking up so much space that one had to step around it. Walking into the front parlor, Lauren stifled a gasp. Lined with dark paneling, it boasted various armaments of war from every century in every conceivable space. She would have thought it a man’s study had it not been for the pianoforte at one end and a scattering of plush, floral print chairs and a couch about the room. Various works of arguable-quality art lined the walls, interspersed occasionally with a delicate china sculpture. It was the oddest mix of styles and furnishings she had ever seen, and she could not help thinking it was all very hideous. And very fitting.

Davis reappeared as she removed her bonnet, carrying a tray with one brandy and a stack of letters. He attempted to hand the letters to Ethan, but he waved them away as he helped himself to the snifter. Davis abruptly thrust the letters at Paul. “Correspondence,” he muttered. Paul took the
small stack; Davis shuffled across the room and disappeared through the door.

“My God, these are invitations for Countess Bergen,” Paul exclaimed.

Lauren jerked around, her eyes landing on the small stack he held in his hand. “Invitations?”

“Marvelous, marvelous!” Ethan gleefully exclaimed, and slurped his brandy. “Read them, go on!”

Paul opened the first one and frowned. “This is from Lady Pontleroy of Mayfair, inviting Countess Bergen and escort to a supper party, Wednesday next. And this one is from Lord and Lady Harris…”

“But … but how do they know me?” Lauren exclaimed.

“Ah, my good friend Dowling has done it! The coot owed me a personal favor, but I did not think he would have sufficient time before he was off to the Americas. Lord and Lady Harris? Now there’s a feather in your cap. Aye, appearances are everything to this set! They would much prefer to have a title at their table than their own flesh and blood.” He laughed and tossed the rest of the brandy down his throat. “You will do well to remember that, lass”

Lauren hardly knew what to say to that. Ethan was worried about appearances? Good God, so was she. From all of London’s appearances thus far, this was going to be the longest few weeks of her life.

Alex sighed impatiently and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been escorting his great aunt, Lady Paddington, for a turn about the blasted park for a good half hour now, yet she showed no signs of tiring. Aunt Paddy, as the family affectionately called her, clasped her plump hands tightly in front of her and contentedly surveyed a group of young women strolling together. “Mrs. Clark said that Arthur most decidedly has his eye on the pretty Miss O’Meara, did you know? Unfortunately, she comes from a rather large family,” she said with a nod toward the young lady in question.

Alex could not, for the life of him, imagine what the size of her family had to do with anything. “Really?” he remarked with bored indifference. “I rather thought Arthur was interested in Miss Delia Harris.”

“Oh! Arthur is uncommonly stubborn! He pays particular attention to a different girl at every event!” she groused. “There is Miss Charlotte Pritchit. Nice girl—it’s her
mother
,” Paddy whispered, and looped her arm possessively through Alex’s. “Good day, Lady Pritchit, Miss Pritchit!”
she called cheerfully. Alex slid his gaze to Lady Pritchit, who, in her near gallop to reach them, was dragging her meek daughter behind her.

“Lady Paddington, how do you do?” the mother asked breathlessly, her eyes slanting conspicuously toward Alex. He graciously inclined his head, noting that the plain young woman kept her eyes on her shoes as she curtsied. “And good day to you, your grace. I had not heard you were in town,” Lady Pritchit said as she coyly smoothed her elaborate lace collar.

“Really? So
The Times
has not yet posted my every move?” he asked with not a little sarcasm.

Lady Pritchit’s lips curled away from her teeth in a laugh that sounded something like a horse. “Indeed, it has not! Will you be in town for the Season, then?” she asked bluntly.

“I have not as yet firmed my plans, Lady Pritchit.”

“But surely you will attend the Harris ball? It is to be the event of the Season! My Charlotte was just introduced at court, and is quite looking forward to the affair,” she said eagerly, and none too subtly elbowed her daughter in the ribs. Miss Pritchit grimaced slightly, but did not look up.

“His grace has
many
engagements, Lady Pritchit,” Paddy answered haughtily before Alex could open his mouth. “I am
quite
sure he has not determined which he will attend as yet!”

Lady Pritchit’s lips formed a silent
O.
An awkward moment passed before she realized she had nothing else to say. “Well. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the Harris ball, your grace. Good day, Lady Paddington.” She reluctantly curtsied and grabbed her daughter’s arm, who had yet to look up from study of the tips of her slippers, and beat a hasty retreat.