The Proud Viscount (8 page)

Mabel set the magazine aside and clasped her hands firmly in her lap. “I’ve noticed that you’re spending some time with my niece, and I appreciate it. She’s a delightful girl, isn’t she?”

Rossmere would not have called her a girl, and he thought it was unwise of Mabel to do so, since it drew attention to just what an ungirlish age her niece had attained. “She’s quite charming,” he agreed.

“I knew the two of you would get along. From the very first, when the idea came to me, I felt you were absolutely destined for each other."

“My dear Lady Mabel, I’m afraid you’re way ahead of us. Your niece and I have had several enjoyable exchanges, but we’re hardly beyond the stage of new acquaintances. And I very much fear that there is a temperamental difference between us that could not be bridged.”

“A temperamental difference?” Mabel was clearly disappointed. “What could that possibly be?”

Rossmere had no idea why he’d used that particular term. It had simply appeared on his tongue when the need for some excuse arose. There was no telling what harm could be done if Mabel were allowed to believe that things were progressing smoothly between him and Lady Jane. Faced with the necessity of explaining his words, he fell back on obscurity.

“Sometimes one is aware in getting to know another that there is a great difference between them. That is, one can have the highest regard for a person and yet feel the differences between them are too great to countenance any kind of ongoing alliance.”

“Nonsense! You and Jane are ideally suited. Obviously you haven’t gotten to know each other well enough yet to have discovered that.” Mabel leaned toward him and tapped a bony finger on the back of his hand. “I’m an old hand at matchmaking. I directed each of Jane’s brothers and sisters toward the right mate. Oh, there were plenty of possibilities of misalliances among them, but I persisted in urging them in the appropriate direction. And with Nancy...  that whole arrangement was mine from start to finish.”

Astonished, but curious, Rossmere asked, “How did that come about?”

Mabel was clearly torn between pride in her accomplishment and the desire to get back to the more-pressing subject of their interview. Rossmere managed to look especially intrigued by her revelation, and she settled back slightly in her chair. “I understood John Parnham had only recently come to live in this area,” he remarked by way of giving her a starting point.

“That’s very true. His own estate, in Yorkshire or Westmoreland or some godforsaken spot, had burned to the ground. Not enough left to make it economical to rebuild on the same site, unless one was drawn to the area, and Mr. Parnham was not.” She said this with some satisfaction. “So he scouted out the best possible location for his home and decided on our very neighborhood.”

“Had he no relations to object to such a move? Usually there are three or four cousins determined to instruct one in the necessity of following tradition.”

“If he has any relations, they are very distant ones. Mr. Parnham answers to no one save himself in such matters.”

“I see. How very convenient for him!”

“It is very much the same for you,” she reminded him severely. “Mr. Parnham bought an old manor house and furnished it in excellent taste. He made an effort to meet his neighbors and to support local businesses. Too often these old manor houses are bought by men who’ve grown rich in trade and haven’t the first idea of how to behave in a country community such as ours. Mr. Parnham was a stroke of luck for Lockley. His manners are impeccable, he talks sensibly, he has wit, his person is pleasing— altogether a very agreeable man.”

“And it was you who brought him to Lady Nancy’s notice?”

Mabel disliked being rushed when she had settled into a tale. “Early on when he moved into the house, he came by and left his card. Jane and her father were in Bath at the time, and Nancy and I were in London for the Season, but due to return. Nancy had been successful in town, you understand, but she was never comfortable with the idea of marrying a stranger and disappearing off to his estate at some great distance, as Margaret had done.”

“The youngest in a sizable family is often greatly attached to her home, I believe,” Rossmere said.

“Sometimes. But Nancy is a biddable girl and would have adjusted to a different life if it had been necessary. Fortunately, when we returned from London, we became acquainted with Mr. Parnham almost immediately. Nancy was not taken with him at first. I daresay he seemed rather ordinary after the fashionable extremes of London. Nancy was very young. I, however, could see the distinct possibilities of a match and gave the young people a chance to get to know each other. It didn’t take long for them to develop a
tendre
for each other then!”

“I see.” Rossmere shifted slightly in his chair, asking casually, “And you consider it a good marriage? They’re well-suited?”

“Decidedly. It couldn’t possibly be better.”

“And do you think,” Rossmere hazarded the guess, “that if Lady Jane and I spend time together, we will decide to marry?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Rossmere shook his head. “I can only say that I think it unlikely, on either of our parts. We are, after all, considerably older and more experienced than Mr. Parnham and Lady Nancy.”

Mabel scoffed at this suggestion. “Age has nothing to do with it. Adjusting to the advisability of such a match is even simpler than falling in love, my dear Rossmere.”

It was an awkward time to bring up the matter of a loan, but Rossmere felt suddenly impatient with her schemes. He wished to settle the matter of his finances without all this extraneous tomfoolery. He was willing to remain at Willow End for the month he’d promised, but not in order to win Mabel’s support.

“I’ve had a letter from my temporary manager,” he said. “He’s had to make some unexpected purchases for the estate. I wonder if I might impose on you to lend me the necessary sum. Which would include the quarter’s mortgage payment as well, of course. I can’t depend on receiving payment for the harvest before that’s due.”

Mabel’s lips had set stiffly during his speech. Now she lifted a hand in an apologetic gesture and let it drop back to her lap. “You see what happens, Rossmere? These little emergencies are forever arising. You don’t need a temporary solution, you need a permanent one. I don’t know that I can see my way clear to lending you sums year after year when you make no effort to restore your fortunes by the only means at hand.”

“Marrying a rich woman.”

“Marrying my niece, who is a perfectly delightful girl and would bring you a dowry that would solve your difficulties forever.”

Rossmere nodded and rose from his chair. “I understand your position, Lady Mabel. You’ve been very generous and I assure you every shilling of the money you’ve loaned me will be repaid on our agreed terms. I won’t look to you for any further assistance. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Mabel looked stricken. “Rossmere,” she called after him, “it’s for your own good.”

“Doubtless,” he murmured as he let himself out the door.

Chapter 7

Jane was disturbed by Rossmere’s cool behavior during dinner. Each time she made some effort to engage him in conversation, he offered only a simple answer, giving no indication of any interest whatever in the subject. His bearing was rigid, his mind obviously preoccupied, his face stiffly forbidding.

At first she thought she must have done something to offend him. Then it occurred to her that he had had further speech with her Aunt Mabel on the subject of marriage. Mabel cast little glances in his direction, the way she used to do when she’d punished one of the children when they were young and she wanted to know if she’d yet been forgiven. Either Rossmere did not notice her glances, or he chose to ignore them. The only one he listened to with any sign of tolerance was Lord Barlow, who had started reading the book John Parnham brought him and wished to try out its arguments on his captive audience.

Jane was impatient with the lot of them. Dinner had been a lively affair when the Reedness children were growing up. Each of them would introduce an interesting topic by stating something outrageously provocative. The others would take up cudgels on one side or another of the issue, and soon a heated discussion was raging. Jane sighed. They had been wonderful times.

And then there was Richard to fascinate and challenge her. They had often read out loud to each other, stopping to debate a point or remark on the excitement of the author’s ideas. In those days antiquities had been only one of the dozens of subjects that interested her and that she was able to talk about. Now she could discuss menus with Aunt Mabel and Roman and Greek statuary with her father... and little else.

When it was time to withdraw for the gentlemen to have their port, Jane said, “I hope you will excuse me. My head is aching and I think I’d best lie down in my room.”

“But, of course, my dear,” her aunt exclaimed. “I could bring you a damp cloth. How very strange for you to feel unwell.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account. I’ll be quite all right,” Jane assured her.

With a brief nod to her father and Rossmere, she hurried from the room and up the stairs to her chamber. She kicked off her white kid shoes and pulled the combs from her hair. Though she had exaggerated about having the headache, her head was racked with disappointments and worries. In her stocking feet she paced restlessly about her sitting room, pausing at the open window to draw a breath of fresh air.

How very dull her life had become! And she’d barely noticed it. Since Richard’s death she’d lived a very retired and a very inactive existence. She’d scarcely been on the new mare her father had bought to distract her from the loss of her love. Suddenly she felt she must get outdoors. Inside, with all these stiff and single-minded people, she was close to suffocation.

Since she didn’t wish the household to know she was going out, she managed to undress herself, though the sarcenet slip was a chore to release without her maid’s help. Getting into her riding habit was scarcely easier. The slate-colored cloth was moderately full and finished up the front with braiding and a ruff at the neck. She pulled on leather boots to match and carried Limeric gloves and a small round hat to cover her loose hair. To avoid running into anyone at the front of the house, she went down the servants’ stairs at the rear and slipped out unnoticed.

Her horse had been named Gingerbread by her previous owner. The mare was the color of gingerbread, but Jane imagined the name also referred to Gingerbread’s rather spicy disposition. She was a bit ashamed that she’d spent so little time on the obviously eager young horse. When she was handed up into the saddle by the groom, she patted Gingerbread’s neck and whispered a promise to do better.

Because they kept country hours at Willow End, it was still early in the evening and still light. Jane guided the mare along her favorite route past the springs and the quarry and the tumuli that had first interested her in antiquities. The footpath she sometimes took to church crossed the trail a little farther on, and she noted that the stile was in need of repair. Beyond the coppice she gave Gingerbread her head and delighted in the smooth strength of the mare’s stride.

The tensions that had been accumulating in Jane eased away as she rode. Riding was the one activity where she could clear her mind of the miscellaneous annoyances of her days. How strange that she had recently allowed herself this pleasure so seldom! In future she wouldn’t be so stingy.

Gingerbread’s endurance was wonderful to behold. She galloped for more than half an hour and showed no signs of fatigue. Finally Jane slowed her to a trot simply because they had come around to the village on the long swing of their ride. The shops in Lockley were closed for the day, but some quirk of curiosity prompted Jane to ride down the High Street instead of taking the trail that skirted the village.

Jane was determined to ride past the Bentwick cottage to see if there was any sign of Mrs. Fulton. If Mrs. Fulton was indeed someone not quite proper to know, would there be a suspicious caller there? Long before Jane reached the cottage, it was quite obvious that there was a caller, and Jane knew precisely who that caller was.

Ascot was tied to the iron ring beside the gate.

A multitude of sensations assaulted Jane. She felt surprise and disappointment, and even some irritation. There were other elements as well, which she could not as easily identify. She was about to urge Gingerbread into a canter when Mrs. Fulton and Lord Rossmere came around the house. The viscount was carrying a basket into which his companion was placing roses that she’d cut with her shears. She was laughing up at him and Jane saw him shake his head with a rueful smile.

Her horse’s hoofbeats attracted the couple’s attention and they looked up as she rode past. Jane lowered her head in a grave nod before returning her gaze to the road ahead. Mrs. Fulton smiled at her and waved one hand merrily, while Rossmere stared at her looking vexed. Well he might, Jane thought indignantly. The least he could do was to be more circumspect about his dalliance.

She was tempted to kick Gingerbread to a gallop again, but feared Rossmere would think she was trying to hurry away from them. At no point did she look back to see what transpired after she passed, so it was with some surprise that she heard hoofbeats behind her. The closer the horse came, the more skittish Gingerbread became. Jane had her hands full trying to calm the mare and keep her from sidling clear off the road.

When Rossmere drew abreast of her, she snapped, “I told you my mare would dislike being near Ascot. Pray ride on with him.”

“She’ll settle down in a moment. After all, she’s been in the same stable with him for nearly a week.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Something about this struck him as very amusing, for his lips twitched and his eyes sparkled as he watched her try to control the restive horse. “Are you afraid his wildness will infect her?”

“I’m afraid she’ll throw me in her agitation,” Jane retorted. “I wish you would just ride on.”