The Country House Courtship (40 page)

He leaned in toward his guest. “I daresay you are aflutter with curiosity as to why I've summoned you.”

Horatio tried not to swallow, but felt himself on edge. “Indeed, sir.” He forced a smile.

“Here it 'tis,” he said. “I must ask a favour of you. I have sent some young ninny as my ambassador to Phillip Mornay, and all to no purpose. He sends me a letter about ‘hopes.'” He paused and looked at Lord Horatio as if that young man should certainly comprehend the meaninglessness of mere hopes. “I wish to present Mornay with a viscountcy; I want him in the House before the next vote on my income, if you must know.”

Horatio nodded, a quick relief flooding his veins that the topic was nothing to do with him or Anne Barton. “Still putting you off, is he?”

“I do not know if he is putting me off; I don't know what he's up to, dash it! I haven't had a word from him these past six months! My ministers have all the paperwork ready and I need only for him to come and accept the title. Won't take long to decide on the actual title, much less his coat of arms. Deuced unfriendly of him to keep me waiting, to say the least! Does not the man recognize an honour when it is presented to him?”

“I suspect, sir, that Mr. Mornay is occupied in his domestic responsibilities.”

“If he is, then he is far too occupied at them! No man should be a slave to his own house! Least of all the Paragon!” He paused, allowing Lord Horatio to nod sympathetically.

A manservant entered and placed a tray of some cordial beside the Regent. There were two glasses, which he proceeded to pour. The prince took his impatiently, while the servant held one out to Horatio, who gladly received it as his throat was dry from nerves. The Regent put back his head and emptied his glass, smacking his lips afterward. Horatio took a good sip, thinking of emptying the glass as his host had done, but the prince said, “Here's the thing: The man I sent is—a Mr. Tristan Barton.”

Lord Horatio, still holding up the glass, opened his eyes in shock, and practically choked on his drink. He began to spit and cough in response, while the prince, looking on sharply, asked, “Do you know him?”

Horatio, recovering, put down his glass and said, “Er, Mr. Tristan Barton? Not friendly with him, but I know who he is.” Did he know him, indeed! Anne's brother!

“Well, I sent him above a month ago, and he sends me ‘every hope' that Mornay will oblige me in this, but—” here he turned and studied Horatio as before—“I smell a rat in it. I have had no correspondence from Mornay, the Lord Chancellor waits upon his reply—and I want the thing done. I want you, sir, to call upon your old friend and see what's what. I should have used you to begin with for this, now I think on it.” He looked squarely at the young lord. “What say you?”

Horatio was meanwhile trying to suppress his surprise and amazement at such a request. Here he had been planning to throw his luck to the wind, buck his father's wishes, and go to Middlesex and marry his bride. He had intended on seeing Phillip anyway! He, too, needed the man's help. Now he would be on a royal mission, and have his father's approval for the trip! It was propitious.

He controlled every urge to show his true feelings, and asked, “Why'd you send such an innocuous puppy as Barton? He'd never carry the day.”

“I sent him for lack of a better man who would agree to hide in the country for me and groom Mornay to his duty—Barton was eager to please; even let a house there; I'd no doubt of his willingness to do his best.” The prince sounded a bit dubious, however.

“Ah, so that's how it is. I'll find my way to Aspindon directly, Your Royal Highness. I'm sure I can sound the depths of our friend's thoughts upon this subject, and to your satisfaction. I daresay I can possibly convince him to return with me to London. He is overdue for a stop here, in any case. I can't remember the last time I was at Grosvenor Square!”

“Exactly!” agreed the prince. “I knew you should help me! You have my sincerest thanks, Horatio,” and his eyes were fixed steadily upon the young man in a look that said he would remember the favour. “If you succeed in this, I will consider myself indebted to you, sir.” This statement was paramount to saying that he would have the right to ask a favour of the prince at some future time. But Horatio realized there would never be a more needful time for him than right now. He hadn't done his part to help the prince, yet, but he
would
do it. Did he have the courage to ask the ruling prince for help in his cause, today?

He stared at the royal figure sitting across from him, a man who had certainly had his share of petticoat problems, and thought that he could. He must try, at least. He cleared his throat and gathered his wits about him. “Your Royal Highness,” he began. “There is a young woman, who happens to be the sister of this Mr. Barton…”

The Regent's eyes filled with surprise—and understanding. “Indeed?” and he slowly smiled. “Pretty, is she?”

Lord Horatio's face became pensive. “She's lovely, sir.”

The Regent was silent a moment.

“Now I understand why you almost had an apoplexy!” He eyed the younger man affectionately. “Your father won't appreciate my interfering in his family,” he said, catching on at once that if a second son was asking for his help, how things stood. “And little good it would do me, if I gain Mornay's vote only to lose the marquess's.” His expression was not promising. “I'm not sure there is anything I can do for you in this.”

Horatio's face fell. “I see your difficulty, sir.” He fell into silent contemplation of the matter for a moment. There had to be a way…“Your Royal Highness!” He had a sudden idea. “If one of Lady Hertford's most respectable friends were to put Miss Barton forth as a prize, at some event with my mother the Countess in attendance, it would certainly lessen the blow to the marquess when I marry her.”

“So you're determined upon it, are you?”

“I am. Her family is respectable, just not ancient or rich enough to suit the marquess. The right word from the right hostess would smooth things over for us, sir.”

The Prince rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one hand. “You mean, to pretend that your Miss Barton has a fortune or some such thing? And we need not supply that fortune, only allude to it.”

“Even if she was spoken of as being
good ton
, sir! It would do the trick, I think!”

The Regent made his decision. “Done! Now be off with you to Middlesex, and get me Mornay! He must learn the ropes of the House before anything important to
me
arises.”

“Yes, thank you, Your Royal Highness!”

When Fotch entered the stables, he found the groom brushing down the master's favourite horse, Tornado. Mr. Mornay broke the black stallion himself, two years earlier, and thus it obeyed him beautifully, but he was testy for anyone else. He neighed at the intruder, and lifted his front legs about a foot off the floor, in protest.

“There now, easy boy,” said the groom, looking at Fotch in surprise.

The mission was explained, with all due sorrow and exclamations of concern over the mistress being said by both men; but Fotch made it clear that the news had to be delivered speedily, on the double. After he left, the groom, a man by name of Rudson, was preparing to close the stall door on Tornado when it occurred to him that there was no faster horse in the master's stable than this one. Why not take him? He'd always wanted to ride the animal; and Tornado knew him. He'd been the groom at Aspindon and at Grosvenor Square for years. And what better reason for him to presume upon riding the master's horse than to alert others regarding the condition of the mistress? This was important. Finally, and this was the strongest reason yet for him to use the master's mount:
Mr. Mornay would never know
. He wasn't about to leave his wife's side—not at a dire moment like this.

Indeed, at any other time, there would have been a number of stable hands about, but Mr. Rudson was the only one left. Most of the young men had fled to their homes as soon as the first exodus of guests had occurred. So only Mr. Rudson, the head groom, remained.

That settled it. In a moment the man was saddling up the horse, taking special care to talk soothingly to the creature. Tornado grew restless; he was eager to start. With a momentary plea to heaven, Mr. Rudson got himself up in the saddle, and lightly kicked the horse's side. He rode him right out of the stall.

Perhaps that was why Tornado was immediately on to the fact that he had a new rider. Or maybe it was simply that the animal knew his master too well; knew that this rider was not the man he was accustomed to; and as soon as they cleared the stables and were heading down the drive, Tornado snorted and rose up on his rear legs. Mr. Rudson yelled out at the horse in alarm, and pulled firmly upon the reins. Tornado returned to all fours and went into a trot. All seemed well, but then he hastened into a gallop, and Mr. Rudson could only hold on for dear life. He huddled down like a jockey at Newmarket and just clung to the animal with all his strength. Tornado went on a circuit, turning from the drive and heading out toward the fields, beyond which lay the first row of cottages.

“Lord, have mercy!” yelped Mr. Rudson, peeking up at their progress. He only hoped he would live to get the animal back in its stall and then complete his mission to the vicarage, before the master found out what was up. If he did find out, it would cost him his situation. Right now he felt he could live without his job. He just prayed the episode wouldn't cost him his life.

The drawing room of the vicarage was growing noisier and more bustling by the minute. Mrs. Perler had brought the children downstairs, as both Mrs. Royleforst and Mrs. Forsythe had instructed her to do, every day, for an hour or more. Beatrice had immediately begged to be excused from the game of cards she had been engaged in with Mr. Barton and Mr. O'Brien, as did the other ladies, except Miss Bluford. Nigel was a bundle of energy and did not know whom to give his attention to first. Mrs. Royleforst held out a biscuit and called him, so he veered in her direction. Mrs. Forsythe received the baby into her arms, smiling, while Miss Barton sat beside her. Miss Barton seemed as though she could never have too much of admiring the child.

Mr. O'Brien put the cards away, looking on and enjoying the picture of domesticity in his house.
His house!
It was still too fresh and new a thought for him to be oblivious to it. He watched while Miss Forsythe chose a toy from Mrs. Perler's little basket of toys, and then attempted to get Nigel to play with her.
Someday
, he was thinking,
it will be my children in this room.
As he watched Miss Forsythe he suddenly felt a pang that it would not be she who was their mother. How could she be? She was “Miss Forsythe,” the sister of Mrs. Mornay, and out of his league.

He could just imagine the reception he would get were he to express an interest in Beatrice. Mr. Mornay would no doubt cast a withering glare at him, and vow to have him removed from the living at Warwickdon. Not that he had the means to do it, but one never knew what means he had, or could acquire. And, if Mr. Mornay were to become his enemy, his life would be more difficult in countless small ways. He had no wish for that to occur.