The Luckiest Lady In London (2 page)

Her name was Louisa Cantwell, and she would be his undoing.

L
ord Wrenworth might not have heard of Louisa Cantwell until the spring of 1888, but ever since 1883, years before he’d declared his hand available, his name had sat atop her list of eligible young men.

But while Louisa maintained and frequently revised her list of the rich bachelors of the realm, she rarely thought of the almost mythical Lord Wrenworth. He was an abstract concept, too lofty and perfect to figure into the calculations of a pragmatic girl under no illusion that she was good enough for The Ideal Gentleman.

To begin with, the Cantwells were poor. Louisa, her four sisters, and her mother subsisted on an annuity that had been settled on Mrs. Cantwell long ago. Once Mrs. Cantwell drew her last breath, the Cantwell girls would have little more than the clothes on their backs.

In addition, the family was somewhat scandalous, due to the late Mr. Cantwell having once been a fortune hunter. He was not particularly evil: When he realized that his pretty
new wife was nowhere near as wealthy as he had thought, he shrugged and made peace with his failure. But Mrs. Cantwell was not received by her family and old friends as long as her husband lived. And while her daughters were respectable, their respectability was as threadbare as some of Louisa’s petticoats.

And even if a prospective bridegroom could overlook both Louisa’s empty purse and her dubious parentage, he must still deal with the fact that she was something of a bumpkin. She could not paint, play the pianoforte, or speak a foreign language. She had only the faintest grasp of art, history, and literature. And of her penmanship, the less said the better.

Her lack of fortune, pedigree, and accomplishments did not particularly bother Louisa. She was, however, greatly frustrated by the fact that for someone who needed to marry a great deal of money, she was not a singular beauty—as great a handicap as setting out on safari without a working firearm.

Her two elder sisters were both exquisite, but Frederica had not left her room since becoming mildly pockmarked after a bout of smallpox, and Cecilia was determined to kiss only her best friend, Miss Emily Milton.

Of her two younger sisters, Julia was of completely the wrong temperament for the wooing of gentlemen, and Matilda, dear, dear Matilda, was an epileptic and therefore out of the question.

All the other Cantwell sisters were able-bodied, capable of working as governesses or ladies’ companions to support themselves—even Frederica, Louisa was sure, would abandon her reclusive ways if she were actually starving. But Matilda must be looked after at all times. She needed a man of means. Since Matilda could not handle the rigors of a London Season herself, Louisa had to be the one to try.

On the day Louisa realized this, when she was sixteen, she walked three miles from her house so she could despair without
anyone seeing her. She gave herself one hour. Then she returned home, opened her notebook, and turned to the last page.

Everything I want
.

When it had seemed that both Frederica and Cecilia might make brilliant matches, Louisa had dreamed of being a happily independent spinster. But dreams were for girls who could afford them—and she was no longer one of them. She crossed out the list and started a new one.

Everything I need to win a man with five thousand pounds a year
.

L
ouisa would have liked to win that rich man when she was nineteen—Lady Balfour, Mrs. Cantwell’s cousin, had promised to sponsor one of Mrs. Cantwell’s daughters to a Season. But first Lady Balfour had to marry her own daughters; then she had to refrain from going out in public during her mourning period for Sir Augustus, her husband.

When Louisa finally arrived in London, in the spring of 1888, this was how the list looked.

Everything I need to win a man with
five
seven thousand pounds a year
.

(Being impecunious herself, Louisa had quite underestimated the kind of expenses a man with a large income would have, as well as the number of relations who depended on his largesse.)

B
y the time Louisa walked down the grand staircase at her first ball, she was twenty-four, well past the first bloom of youth. But all her extra years of practice—she didn’t simply make a list and consider her task done—had paid off and London was quite taken with her. Or rather, with the Miss Cantwell she presented to Society. She was warm but not overfamiliar, sweet but not cloying, and appreciative of her moment in the sun without the least whiff of graspingness or, worse, desperation.

Best of all, Miss Cantwell, it was generally agreed, was a beauty.

For a beauty, one hauled out a different set of adjectives. Her
neck was praised as sylphish or swanlike. Her eyes, hitherto simply blue, were now either azure or aquamarine, and sometimes nothing less than cerulean. And apparently no one in London had ever heard of that decent, hardworking word
brown
. Her admirers insisted her hair was mahogany, chestnut, or any other arboreal hues that struck their fancy. A few, bent on ever more poetic rubbish, called it Titian or coppery, preferring to give emphasis to the flecks of reddish gold embedded therein.

All this linguistic extravagance sometimes made Louisa laugh at night, under her blanket. And it sometimes made her quake—for surely the illusion couldn’t last the entire Season. Soon people would realize that her hair was glossy only because of all the mayonnaise she’d put in it over the years, that her trademark closemouthed smile was to hide several crooked teeth, and that, of course, the bodices of her dresses would look awfully concave if it weren’t for the artful and stalwart bust improvers in her wardrobe.

But all in all, things were going very well for this early in the Season.

Gentlemen flocked to her, as attentive and eligible a group as she had hoped for in her most ambitious dreams. Perhaps too much so: Among them were a number who paid court to popular girls by habit; a few were in her vicinity simply because it was where their friends gathered. This crowding of the field worried her, as the two gentlemen she most wished to encourage were not forward enough to compete with the more exuberant swains who did not interest her, and she dared not be any more obvious in her encouragement when surrounded thus.

Viscount Firth and Mr. William Pitt, the latter heir to Baron Sunderley, were her choices. Both were prosperous, kind, solid country gentlemen. Both were earnestly looking to settle down. Lord Firth was in his mid-thirties, more rugged than handsome, but not displeasing to view. He was, by all accounts, an excellent fellow, if rather straitlaced in his
views. But he seemed to be of the nature to be open to a woman’s persuasion, provided he believed that the woman essentially agreed with him.

Mr. Pitt, bespectacled and a bit rotund, was an even greater favorite with Louisa. In him she sensed a much more malleable nature. His income would be less than Lord Firth’s. But in the end, what mattered most was not the gross amount, but the percentage she could command.

Mr. Pitt would make a supremely acceptable spouse, Louisa was certain. Unfortunately, he happened to be a most awkward suitor. He didn’t dance, lacked a commanding presence, and was minimally accomplished at the art of small talk, which relegated him to the periphery of her circle, a place he uncomfortably yet obdurately occupied.

Her heart rather went out to him. There was much she could do to help him better negotiate a crowd, if she were his wife. Or, once they married, they could settle in the country and he wouldn’t have to socialize at all, if he didn’t wish to. But before any of those ameliorations could take place, she must
become
his wife.

So toward that noble goal, she redoubled her effort on the night of Lady Savarin’s ball. “Will we have a wet summer? What do you think, gentlemen?” she asked as thunder boomed audibly in the distance.

“That won’t be fair,” a young fop protested. “Rain, if it must come, might as well come in winter, when it’s miserable anyway. The English summer is short enough as it is.”

“Right-ho,” his friend seconded. “A crying shame.”

“What do you think, Mr. Pitt?” Louisa reached out to her quarry. “I understand that you take a keen interest in meteorology. Have you observed any signs of soggy months to come?”

Mr. Pitt cleared his throat with flustered happiness. “As a matter of fact, I have. I have been going over some records.
The current atmospheric conditions, I believe, combined with . . .”

“What is this? A session at the Royal Society? Did I stumble upon the wrong gathering? But lo and behold, Miss Cantwell, it is you. Why do you let fellows bore you with such trivia? Who gives a tuppence for atmospheric conditions?”

Mr. Pitt shrank promptly before this onslaught of delighted ignorance. Louisa groaned inwardly. But it wouldn’t do to openly offend Mr. Drummond. He was, incomprehensibly enough, one of the so-called “arbiters” of Society, presumably because everyone cringed to be on the receiving end of his ostentatious rudeness.

“Mr. Drummond,” she acknowledged him with unexceptional cordiality. “We are having a discussion on the weather and Mr. Pitt was just about to give us some very informative—”

If she had hoped to subtly chastise him, she failed utterly, for he interrupted her, too. “I say why talk if you can’t do anything about it.”

Poor Mr. Pitt was now flame red. Louisa gritted her teeth. Mr. Drummond didn’t so much court her as he displayed before her his skills at the game of courtship. And to everyone’s detriment, he was of the belief that to make himself appear superior, others must suffer in comparison.

“Well, I for one do believe there is intrinsic value to the study of meteorology,” said an unfamiliar voice somewhere to Louisa’s right.

Interestingly, Mr. Drummond, instead of dispensing with yet another one of his acerbic remarks, accepted this rebuff without any protestation. “Oh, if you say so, Wren.”

Wren? Could it be . . .

Mr. Pitt exhaled with relief. “Thank you, my lord Wrenworth.”

The Ideal Gentleman, in the flesh. To say that he would
make an excellent husband for Louisa was analogous to declaring that a Thoroughbred stallion qualified as a four-legged beast of burden. His income was in excess of two hundred thousand pounds a year. In addition to that staggering wealth, he possessed good looks, charisma, athleticism, and tact. Not to mention that his character was so far above reproach that reproach would need a telescope to observe his universally lauded conduct.

Prince Charming, absolutely. The Holy Grail, almost.

Louisa had not been in a particular hurry to meet the marquess—a sensible woman who could afford only a gig did not spend her days dreaming of barouches. But now that Lord Wrenworth was in her vicinity, she was not going to pass on a detailed survey of this paragon of masculine virtues.

She would, however, be discreet about it. Lowering her eyes, she started from his shoes.

They had seen at least two Seasons, possibly three. Yet they did not appear worn, only comfortable. The leather, shined and buffed to a high sheen, was as supple and luxurious as a courtesan’s caress.

In contrast, Mr. Pitt’s spanking-new evening pumps looked as if they pinched his toes
and
chafed the backs of his ankles.

Her gaze traveled up Lord Wrenworth’s expertly pressed trousers to the flute of champagne at his side, dangling from his fingers. Many of the guests at the ball had such crystalware in their hands—Lady Tenwhestle, for one, held hers decorously before her person; Mr. Drummond, for another, idly turned his round and round. Lord Wrenworth’s champagne glass, however, gave the impression that it had leaped off a table of its own will into his hand, because it would never fit better elsewhere, or emanate a quarter so much ease and aplomb.

On that same hand he wore a signet ring, a coat of arms engraved upon a crest of deep, rich carnelian. The white cuff of his shirt extended a perfect quarter inch beyond the dark
sleeve of his evening jacket. The cuff links were simple gold studs—or perhaps not so simple studs, for she could see lines and patterns, too fine for her to make out the design from where she stood.

She was stalling, she realized, lingering in the same spot because she was . . . not afraid, exactly, but rather apprehensive about looking higher. But really, what could he possibly do to a woman as practical as herself? Her soul was devoid of romantic yearnings; if she didn’t need a husband she would have happily embraced spinsterhood.