Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (14 page)

True Sin was toying with her, and he was enjoying himself, the bounder!

And he wasn't quite finished.

Chapter Nine

T
RUE

heard them before they were even announced.

Supper was nearly over when their too-loud voices echoed down the hall and through the open dining-room doors. They spoke with an imperiously slow cadence, but their unhurried voices did not match the rapidity of their footfalls as they entered the front hall, commenting on the fixtures and furnishings, their voices booming. As the supper guests traded expectant looks, obviously wondering who the newcomers were, True fixed his eyes on Mary.

She'd gone still as a standing stone. Her face was ashen. It was not the sort of reaction one would expect to see from a loving daughter upon hearing her parents' voices after more than a year's separation. There was nothing of joy in her expression. On the contrary, her mouth had straightened into a grim line, and she held herself tightly upright. To one unaccustomed to Mary, it might have appeared she was unconcerned, but True could feel panic rolling from her in waves.

He put down his napkin. "Ah, there are your parents, darling. Shall we go tell them our good news?" His words were tantamount to an announcement, and every face at the table registered surprise—including Mary's, though she recovered her wits quicker than most.

"As you wish," she murmured. She stood and hastened to precede him out of the room.

In her wake, True addressed the assemblage. "Lovers' quarrels are soon mended. Best not to mention the brook to her." He smiled broadly, and a round of false laughter heralded his departure. He knew the impending betrothal announcement would be discussed minutely while he and Marianna were absent from the table.

He closed the double dining-room doors behind him, preventing their guests from hearing any more from the Grantham’s, and then took his time following Mary to the entry hall. He thought it polite to give the Granthams a moment of privacy to embrace their daughter, but when he caught up with Marianna, he found her standing erect and still, waiting for the elder Granthams to notice her as they divested themselves of their outerwear twenty paces away. She did not call to them, wave, or approach.

Behind her, True raised an eyebrow. England was a nation of people known for their restraint, but this was taking things a bit too far. She had not seen her parents in over a year! Something was terribly amiss here, and he wouldn’t learn anything by barging into the scene. Instead, he stepped into a shallow alcove in the darkened hallway, the better to observe the trio.

The first thing he noted was the elder Grantham's clothing. It would have been difficult to Miss. Though the night was fine, the weather warm and dry, both of the elder Granthams wore heavy coats trimmed in ermine. And, though their garments were obviously made of the finest cloth and tailored to perfection, something in the way they carried themselves suggested they had once been used to wearing something far different. They fussed over the coats, admonishing True's footman to be careful with them as though he were a naughty child—and then they threatened the poor man with dismissal if the items were damaged in his care. True's eyes narrowed.

Mary
had never spoken to a servant in such a manner.

Finally, Mr. Grantham looked up and noticed Marianna standing there.

"Ah. Daughter," he said.

Mrs. Grantham turned suddenly and with raised eyebrows but said nothing.

"Papa, Mama ... welcome to England."

"Welcome back, more like," said Mrs. Grantham. She shoved her fur-lined scarf into the arms of the footman without a word and looked her daughter up and down. "You've grown thinner."

"It is the fashion."

"Is it? Well ... good then, I suppose, if that is the way
he
prefers you."

"Where is he?" her father asked.

True had seen enough. He stepped from the shadow and into the entry hall. "Excuse me. I was detained," he lied and executed a crisp bow. "Truesdale Sinclair, at your service."

"Ah. The butler," Mrs. Grantham said. She addressed True, "Does your man here know how to care for fur?" She motioned at the footman.

"Mama—" Marianna began.

But Mrs. Grantham paid no heed. "I hope for your sake that he does, Mr. Sinclair, for I daresay those coats cost more than a year’s worth of
your
salary."

It was a threat, and Truesdale felt his stomach turn.

"Mama,” Mary said, indicating True, "This man is not the butler. He is my-—”

"Husband," True supplied on impulse, unable to resist knocking the elder Granthams off balance. They deserved much more, the insufferable twits.

The three said all together, "Husband?"

True smiled fondly down at Mary, who gaped at him. "We eloped. Went to Gretna Green. I could not wait to be her husband." He nearly laughed. For the first time since they'd met, Mary was quite literally speechless. She stared at True as though he'd just turned into a flying octopus or some such, her lips slightly parted and her eyes big. He winked at her, and she blinked. Her lips worked, but she said nothing, silent as a fish—for now.

He knew she would deny his wild assertion as soon as she found her tongue. Would she chalk it up to some made-up bent True had for practical jokery? Or say True had taken a bump to the head and that his memory—or sanity—were playing tricks on him? "Did I surprise you, darling? I hope you did not mind my hastening to inform them. As you can see," he said, gesturing at her parents, "they do not object to the match." The statement was absurd enough to make the cat laugh, for the expression on her parents' faces said nothing of the kind. Her father's face was red with fury, while his wife's had gone white as an egg. They both still thought he was the butler.

True hooted with laughter.

Mr. Grantham sputtered. "But you—you're nothing but a ... a—"

"A viscount," True said.

"A
viscount
,”Mr. Grantham scoffed. “Rubbish! Since when do the nobs hire viscounts as servants? We've been in the West Indies a while, but things haven't changed that much since we left England, that's for certain. Where is your master, you fraud? I'll see you're sacked, that's what!"

Mrs. Grantham’s mind was clearly a bit faster than her husband’s, for she suddenly said, "Oh!" and laughed nervously. "Oh, of course!" She turned to her husband. "This isn’t the butler, Mr. Grantham. This is Marianna’s husband.
And he is a viscount!”

Beside True, Marianna made a strangled sound.

Mrs. Grantham turned back to True and smiled so sweetly that even bees would have been repelled. "You gave us your Christian name, my lord, leaving off your title, and naturally we thought— Oh,
do
forgive us!"

Her husband looked startled for a moment, but then a satisfied expression slid over his features. "A viscount, say you?"

The pair of them looked like cats left in the creamery. They quickly offered a graceless bow and curtsy before plying him with a cascade of simultaneous questions that took only seconds to disgorge. Was the estate his, and was it entailed? Had the title been long held by his family? Was Truesdale's father dead? How much land was there? Did True own other estates? What other important personages resided in the neighborhood? Did the Viscount travel to London soon? Was he able to acquire vouchers for Almack's?

The encroaching mushrooms! People like these were the reason the
ton
detested the
parvenu
—and the reason he'd had to work so hard to gain the trust and respect of his sailors and workmen. True nearly turned from them in disgust but mastered himself.

These two were delighted to discover they'd just added a title to their list of acquisitions. So intent was their interrogation of True, that they completely forgot about their daughter—until Mrs. Grantham had apparently recovered her wits sufficiently to take notice of Mary once more. And then she did not embrace her daughter, kiss her, or wish her happy. No, instead of behaving like any loving mother would, Mrs. Grantham only offered criticism.

"A Gretna wedding is not entirely
respectable
. Is it?" she said, sliding a nervous glance in True's direction.

"No," Mary blurted, finally finding her voice. "No ... no ... no!"

True grinned, anticipating her parents’ reaction at the rest of her denial.

"No?" her father echoed.

"Uh . . ." Marianna faltered, and True realized she hadn't a clue what to say next.

Her parents were looking at her expectantly. He watched as words formed on her lips even before she knew what she was going to say. "Uh ... Mama is correct. A ... a Gretna wedding is ... is not proper. No, not proper at all!"

True almost laughed as her vehement agreement clearly puzzled her parents, who stared at her in bemusement. Their scrutiny only made her appear more nervous, and she stammered out, "Yes ... in fact ... in fact, the ... the ceremony must be—"

"Kept secret!" her mother finished, clapping her hands together. "Quite so, daughter, you are right. That's just the thing. We will tell no one. No one at all."

"No one?" her husband asked. "Ever? Mrs. Grantham? Daughter? Whatever do you mean?”

"Yes, darling," True drawled, and smiled at Marianna. "Whatever do you mean?"

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She looked from him to her parents and back. "I ... I mean that ... that . . ."

"She means," cried her mother, "that a Gretna wedding is not at all
the thing
. She means to keep the marriage secret so we can hold a grand Society wedding. A capital idea!" She clapped her hands together again, clearly savoring thoughts of presiding over her daughter's wedding. "Just perfect. Shall you be married at Westminster?"

"Yes.” “No!" True and Mary issued a simultaneous affirmation and denial.

True laughed again. Mary's mouth was hanging open again, and she was shaking her head. This was clearly not the way she'd wanted the conversation to go, but the outcome suited True just fine. "You must forgive my wife," he said. "She is tired."

"Oh, but we've so much to discuss," her mother said. "We must begin our wedding preparations immediately. I have nothing suitable to wear, and Mr. Grantham and I shall have to buy a fashionable house in Town ... "

True turned away. He would waste no more time on these vain and selfish people. "Barrett," he told the footman, "pray see to bringing in Mr. and Mrs. Grantham's belongings. I shall escort them to their chambers myself." The footman departed, and True turned to the Granthams. "You are tired and in need of rest. Supper is over," he lied. "I shall have a tray sent up."

"Indeed!" Mrs. Grantham said. "I am eager to see our lodgings. Are they quite fine?"

True turned on his heel without responding to her. He did not think he could say anything to her without slicing her to shreds.

Poor Mary!
Growing up with parents such as these! Now he understood why she was the way she was. Why she was so proper, so concerned with what others thought. He could almost forgive her desire to become a member of the ton. He felt almost contrite for deliberately leading everyone at supper to think he and Marianna might have been paddling naked in the brook together.

Almost.

But he hadn’t forgotten the imperious edict she’d handed out last night. The way she’d ordered him to act the part of gentleman for their guests, that he behave in a refined and dignified manner. Didn’t she understand that the ton was the least refined segment of society? That it had the least claim to dignity? Hell and blast, even after having lived in London as a semi-servant, she still thought the only people worth living among were the
beau monde
. She viewed them as the ideal of societal perfection, and she strove to match it.

She'd never marry him now that she knew he was not a pattern card of propriety. No, the proper Miss Grantham would take the hand of someone like Lindenshire. He'd seen them from his window, roaming the grounds together, and at supper tonight, the cub had been hanging upon her every word. Looking in his crystal ball, True could see the two of them standing in Westminster Abbey speaking vows of eternal devotion even now.
Hell and blast
, they were practically on the steps already!

He had to stop them, and he rather thought he had a good start.

The idea had come to him this morning as he lay in bed. Perhaps Marianna would be more forgiving of his past scandals if she were forced to live down a few of her own. Perhaps all he needed to do was give Marianna's shiny surface of perfection a few glaring scuffs. The Gretna lie he'd just told was a bit too easy for her to buff out. He knew Marianna would devise a clever way to explain it away within minutes, probably before they made the top of the stairs. The damage he'd done in the dining room was more lasting, he thought with satisfaction—though even that was not permanent. As soon as their guests had a chance to observe her for a week, they would know a starched-up woman like Marianna Grantham would never do such a thing.

He knew he had to do better, and he was going to enjoy it, by Jove!

He led the way up the stairs, wondering how Marianna was going to extricate herself from the Gretna bumblebroth. He could hear her light footfalls behind him as she followed her parents docilely up the stairs.

Docile
. He frowned. That was one quality True hadn't thought Mary had in her. He rolled the word around in his mind and found it vaguely ... disappointing.

SHE’D PANICKED. MARIANNA berated herself for twelve kinds of fool. She'd said the wrong things.
No
, she corrected herself, she'd said nothing at all. It was her mother who'd said the wrong things—her mother and True Sin. Marianna had done nothing but stand witlessly by, stammering. She cursed silently as the four of them made their way to her parents' bedchamber. She was so angry with the Viscount, she could not speak. First the brook accusation and now this! And the blackguard was enjoying every second of it. She slanted a glance up at his handsome face. The dim sconce-light accentuated its fine planes and angles. Dressed as he was, he cut a fine figure indeed. Her mother must be prodigiously happy. Her father, too. When they found out she was not yet married to the Viscount Trowbridge after all, they would be so disappointed.

Marianna dreaded telling them, but first she had to get rid of True Sin.

She would accompany her parents into their chamber and explain everything.
Well
... she’d lie, actually. She’d say that Truesdale was a great practical humster, that humor was his way of bringing them into his inner circle and making them feel at home. The poor dears would be bitterly disappointed, but once she told them that she really was engaged to Truesdale—once she lied about being engaged to him, she amended with regret—they would forgive her and be happy. Her mother would throw herself into planning a wedding, her father would throw himself into enjoying the dining room and the card tables, and she would—she would return to the task of choosing which of the bachelors present at Trowbridge would be her husband. After she had delivered a proper, blistering set-down to Trowbridge.
Again
. She grimaced, remembering the reason she had been so angry with Trowbridge the day before.