Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed (2 page)

Miss Sandiford was the only child of Sir Jeffrey and Lady Sandiford. The lack of aristocratic station was not mistaken by the knowledgeable as a sign of lower status. The Sandifords were one of the oldest families in the land and one of the richest. In recent generations the family had been the epitome of starch-stiff rectitude, and despite their meticulous attention to charitable works, sober, dutiful living had led to even greater prosperity.

It was true that few people had met the young lady, for she had been educated at home and the Sandifords did not entertain. She had not yet made her debut even in nearby Cheltenham, which was unusual for a girl nearing twenty. Nonetheless, it was only the most daring and absurd scan dalmonger who suggested she might be deformed or mentally defective. Anyway, shrugged the practical, what would that matter when her portion was bound to be immense?

Thus the gossips were forced to abandon the topic for the moment to discuss, according to their tastes, the new use of stiffer fabrics in evening gowns or the preparations being made in Portugal by the Duke of Wellington to finally put paid to the upstart Corsican. Curiosity about Miss Sandiford would be satisfied in time. Lord Wraybourne was a leader of fashion and would surely bring his wife to Town in due course. Then, at first or second hand, all would be able to assess Lord Wraybourne’s betrothed, the new entrant to the ranks of the ton.

L
ADY SOPHIE KYLE looked across the breakfast table towards her brother, Lord Wraybourne, who was hidden behind his copy of the
Times.
Her delicate finger indicated an item in the
Morning Post.

“Well, David. I see your fate is sealed in print.” Though her tone was light, her pretty, heart-shaped face reflected distaste. “I still think it is a dreadfully dull way to choose a bride. Why, even Mama and I have not met the girl.”

“Her name is Jane,” commented her brother, looking up from the far more interesting news of the Spanish War.

“We have not met Jane,” Sophie persevered. “David, when are we to meet her?”

Lord Wraybourne laid down his paper with a sigh. “At the wedding, most probably.”

“Well, it’s to be hoped she’ll be
there
at least.”

Her brother grinned. “Minx! You know what I mean.”

She returned his grin, and her face lit up. He could see why she had already broken hearts when, at eighteen, she was only just preparing for her debut. She was not easily daunted by her brother’s manner, even though he was more than ten years her senior. Strangers might find his smiling reserve intimidating, but his family and friends knew better.

“It’s outrageous!” she continued. “First you announce you’re marrying this girl of whom no one has ever heard and, if you please, after meeting her once,
and
for the most cold-blooded reasons such as money and ancestry. Then you do not even introduce her to your family. Really, David!”

“All that without a breath,” he said dryly and quite unmoved. “Amazing.”

“Stop being so provoking. Why are we not invited to Carne at least?”

His lean features expressed satirical amazement. “I thought to spare you. Believe me, you, above all people, would not find it to your liking, Sophie. Prayers morning and evening, plain food and a lack of good fires.”

From long experience Sophie could tell he was beginning to lose his patience. After all, it was not the first time she had taken him to task about his betrothal.

“Well, I’m thinking of the poor girl herself,” she defended.

“Jane is a year older than you, Sophie. She has no complaints about the arrangements. Once we return from our marriage trip you will doubtless see all you wish of her.”

Sophie tossed her head, causing her mass of auburn curls to dance. It was a mannerism which proved effective with many an admirer but had no power over her brother.

“I can see you’re feeling stuffy,” she said saucily, “but I must tell you that I am disappointed. You could have married any one of a hundred eligible hopefuls.”

“A hundred?”

“At least,” Sophie insisted. “All my friends at school were smitten when you came to visit me and there were three great heiresses among them, you know.”

“I am sure all the other brothers had the same effect.”

Sophie let that pass, though she was amazed at how little he appreciated his attractions. The two of them were very alike. The blue eyes and auburn hair which made her a beauty turned his firmer, fine-boned masculine features handsome. Her daintiness was in him a lithe, athletic grace which could stir the most alarming sensations within a young maiden’s breast—or so her friends had said. Nor did his habit of treating people with exquisite and impersonal courtesy detract. Even his way of hiding stronger feelings behind heavy eyelids did not cool the ardour with which he was received. Letty Fenwick-Stacy, one of her particular friends, had declared in fact that it drove her wild.

“What of Mrs. Danvers?” Sophie queried with a fair assumption of innocence. “I quite thought you would offer for her, though I’m glad you didn’t, for she’s too sarcastic for me. However, I know Maria had great hopes her bosom-bow would become her cousin.”

She was amused to see her brother’s heavy lids drop over his blue eyes and his lips twitch slightly. Not for the first time Sophie wondered about his relationship with the ethereal widow. He was not about to enlighten her.

“I thought you were to ride out with Randal and his sisters? You’ll be late. If you have something you wish to say, do so and be on your way.”

Sophie stood abruptly. “It is only because I care for you, David. What of Love?”

“Been reading Minerva Novels again, poppet?”

“It is not only between the covers of a book that love exists. David, you will regret this cold-blooded choice.”

Lord Wraybourne flashed his sister a sweet smile. “I know you care, Sophie, and I thank you. But this heat is all misplaced. You’ll like Jane. She’s good-looking, well-bred, and intelligent. She’ll make me an excellent wife.”

“But you don’t love her and she doesn’t love you!” Sophie wailed.

“Love will grow,” said Lord Wraybourne firmly, then added with impatience, “Really, Sophie. Anyone would think you were in love yourself with this ardent advocacy of the state. I hope you haven’t been foolish, my dear.”

Sophie colored up. “Heavens, David, you know I’m determined to make a brilliant match. Where would I have met such in Bath? And why would I be hiding my conquest from you?”

“Precisely what I was wondering.”

Sophie flounced to the door. “I know well what you’re doing, brother mine. Attack is the best form of defense, but one day you’ll realize I was right.”

Lord Wraybourne was left to shake his head at the slammed door. It would be restful when Sophie moved into the house of their cousin Maria, Lady Harroving, who was bringing her out. But he wondered whether she had not become a little too lively in her manners in recent years. She had lived in Bath with his mother, who had removed there on the death of the ninth earl two years ago. But his mother, in her grief, had become a recluse. He feared she had not watched over her daughter as well as she might.

He compared Sophie with Jane Sandiford to the latter’s advantage. Jane was the most composed young woman he had ever met. She was never impetuous, her voice was always well-modulated, and her words considered. She exhibited no extreme emotions. She would be a restful and congenial companion.

He smiled slightly as he thought that Miss Sandiford might prove to be more. There were dozens of well-bred eligibles around but none had intrigued him like Jane, with her lush figure beneath schoolgirl gowns and the quickly veiled flashes of humor and passion which would light her serious eyes.

He put these tantalizing thoughts away and returned to the problem of his sister. Heaven help the man who married Sophie. But he did know that man would be socially acceptable, at least. Sophie had high standards. He had hopes his friend Lord Trenholme would come up to scratch and be accepted, for he would be able to control her and he was a kind, intelligent man. But there was nothing to be done until the Season started.

Thankful for tranquillity, Lord Wraybourne settled back to his newssheet. But he had merely glanced at the editorial when his peace was invaded again, this time by his uncle Henry. Mr. Moulton-Scrope was a dignified man with a tidy estate in Berkshire and a position in the Home Office. He also had his own fine home in London but no one would have suspected it from the way he commanded the butler, Harper, to bring him some ale and beef.

“Excuse me calling so informally, David. I need to speak to you and I’m tied up all day. Thought I’d breakfast here.” Mr. Moulton-Scrope flipped up the tails of his coat and settled his ample form into a chair as the butler laid a place.

“Should eat a good old-fashioned breakfast, David,” he announced, and launched into his favorite subject: how the ridiculous eating habits of the younger generation were going to ruin the country.

“How can we raise a nation of fighting men on little morsels of fancied-up food?” he demanded, cutting into the excellent rare beef which Harper had brought up from the kitchen especially, his lordship having no taste for it at breakfast. “Look at you. A strip of wind!”

Even as he spoke, Mr. Moulton-Scrope knew his description was unfair. It was true Lord Wraybourne was not of a large build but his was the slenderness and grace of muscles, not frailty. Mr. Moulton-Scrope had seen him fence, his favorite sport, and knew him to be a formidable opponent.

Lord Wraybourne was too wise to be drawn into an old debate. “What can I do for you, Uncle? I have my secretary and my estate manager from Stenby waiting.”

“I need your help with a little problem, David.”

Lord Wraybourne was surprised. In the tight circle of Society he and his uncle encountered one another frequently but they could not be called close. Mr. Moulton-Scrope was deeply involved with the political machinations of the day and took his post at the Home Office with great seriousness. Neither David’s duties as a landowner nor his social life meshed with his uncle’s tastes at all.

“If I can help you, Uncle, I am yours to command.”

“Excellent,” replied the older man with disquieting satisfaction. Lord Wraybourne wondered if he would have been wiser to have been noncommittal.

But Mr. Moulton-Scrope pressed on. “There’s someone loose on the town attacking young women. Young ladies I should say, I suppose. Overwhelms ’em, takes ’em somewhere, has his way, and dumps ’em. Nasty business.”

“Very! How is it I have heard nothing of it?”

“Well, it isn’t a matter the families would want in the broadsheets. In fact, I suspect there may be more victims than the three we know of. It’s only because of contacts with the families and rumors that those are known. And all in confidence.”

“Are you saying these are women of our class?” Lord Wraybourne was astonished.

Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “No, no. Our young gels don’t go about unescorted. No, these are more of the middling class. They do an occasional errand alone. In fact, one victim is a music teacher and goes about her appointments every day. But still ladies. They do not deserve to be so attacked.”

“I doubt any woman does, not even those who offer themselves for money. But forgive me, Uncle. I do not see how this can affect me.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope watched his nephew withdraw himself while remaining quite pleasant on the surface. It was a nasty habit. It must be the way his lids shielded those deceptively lazy eyes. It was because he knew Lord Wraybourne was never lazy and had a powerful and perceptive brain that he was seeking his aid.

“You did say you would help,” he reminded.

His nephew sighed. “I knew I would regret that.”

“The two previous victims of which we have knowledge were attacked before Christmas. We thought we’d seen the last of it but now there’s another. And the devil of it is, the latest victim is the daughter of one of Prinny’s favorite musicians. Believe me, royalty do not like to think of violent assault in any way connected to them. Orders have come down that the miscreant must be found.”

“What of Fielding’s Runners? Is this not their kind of work?”

“Hah. They are thief catchers! This is too delicate a business. For the sake of the young ladies there must be no talk.”

“Then what will be done if the man
is
caught? A trial will reveal all.”

A disconcerting hardness was seen in the older man’s eyes. “The letter of the law is not always the way to spell justice.”

“You alarm me, Uncle.”

“Nothing ever alarms you. You’re a damned cool fish, David, but you’re one of the cleverest men I know. You also like to mix with the artist set. Your mother is always complaining you’d rather spend time with a bunch of philosophers than searching for a bride.”

“Quite true.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope was distracted for a moment. “Should apply yourself, my boy. Past thirty. Need to set up your nursery. Besides, it might get Selina from drooping around Bath mourning your father. It’s been two years.”

Lord Wraybourne took up Sophie’s paper and pointed to the social notices with one long, perfectly manicured finger.

His uncle choked. “The Sandiford heiress. Well done, my boy. Well done indeed! I didn’t know she was on the Town.”

“She’s not. I met her in Gloucestershire.”

“Do the Sandifords entertain then? I thought it was against their principles or something. I met them once at a devilish dull do. Something to do with succoring ex-slaves. Couldn’t help feeling that if I was a blackie I’d think twice before accepting succor from such as they.”

“Lady Sandiford has a
stern
view of life,” agreed Lord Wraybourne with a slight smile.

“What about the daughter? You know what they say about daughters ending up like their mothers.”