To Wed an Heiress (2 page)

W
hen Haro stepped out to his club that afternoon, he discovered that rumors had already flown abroad about his father’s imprudence and his family’s misfortunes. Adopting a stern expression to deflect all questions, he retreated rapidly to the library, a room not much frequented by White’s members.

But even this sanctuary was bound to be violated by some well-meaning associates. Guy Pontipale, a foppish young man who had known Haro since Eton, spotted his friend through the open door and popped inside to give his condolences. “I say!” said Guy, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down vigorously. “Wretched luck, that!” He settled himself delicately into a chair, careful not to crumple the tails of his exquisitely tailored coat.

Haro, who had been staring morosely into the fireplace, looked up briefly to grunt his thanks.

“If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.” Guy paused and glanced around furtively. “Although, I’m awfully short of money myself right now, so I don’t think I can forward you any blunt.”

Haro smiled wryly. “I hardly think your quarterly allowance would do me any good at this point. What I need now is a miracle or a wealthy heiress, whichever is easier to obtain.”

“Should think it would be the heiress,” replied Guy, never one to put his trust in the supernatural. “I know several, and the ones whose fathers are in trade are angling like fishermen on the Thames to get a peer for a son-in-law.”

“Oh, really?” said Haro slowly, Torin’s mercenary advice beating a drum in the back of his mind. He could hardly believe what he was about to say next. “Do you think you could provide me with introductions to some of the more desperate candidates?”

“Don’t see why not. But say! Ain’t you already…?” Guy gurgled to a stop. It was common knowledge that the end of this season would see young Harold Emison leg-shackled to his cousin La Swanycke. Guy had just remembered that fact, and suddenly, the situation had become as awkward as meeting a parson in Covent Garden.

“Engaged?” asked Haro with a raised eyebrow. If he had been asked that question yesterday, he would have answered, “Any day now!” But after Eda’s strange eagerness to allow him to beg off, his wounded pride wanted to minimize whatever understanding there had once been between them. “No, no, that’s all finished,” he replied breezily. “A season’s flirtation that ended of its own accord, and no harm done to either party. I’m free as a swallow in flight, and I’d happily land my feet on some rich tradesman’s doorstep, if you can point out one who has a pretty daughter on parade.”

Guy scratched his head, trying to come up with the list of wealthy husband-and-title-seekers he had promised. But in the end, he could only think of one family that fit the description. “Have you met Miss Arabella Hastings?” he asked. “Brunette, tallish, just out this season.”

Haro racked his brain for any remembrance of the young lady in question. There was a time when he could recognize the name and face of every eligible young lady out in society, but ever since his infatuation with Eda, he had paid scant attention to the new arrivals in the marriage mart. “I don’t think I’ve met her—should I?”

“Certainly suggest so if you’re meaning to wed an heiress. Her father, William Hastings, made a fortune in the cotton industry—has mills all over the country, I daresay.”

“And now he wants to spin himself a spot in good society?” asked Haro, smiling at his own pun.

“Imagine so,” said Guy, who had no aptitude for or interest in wordplay. “He’s paid a pretty sum to launch his daughter into the ton this season, and even the grumpiest dowagers have been won over by his liberality. She’s enjoying a fair bit of popularity. Leading several suitors around by the nose already.”

“Is she up to snuff?” asked Haro with a tinge of concern. One could trust that a lady born to privilege would act the lady, but who knew what reprehensible manners might lurk in a family tainted by trade?

“Seems to be. Mother met her. Said she was unexceptionable and possessed pleasant conversation.”

“And why not,” said Haro, speaking almost more to reassure himself than to respond to Guy, “when she’s had the best governesses, and tutors, and drawing teachers, and dancing instructors that her father’s money can buy? When can you introduce me?”

Guy cocked his head. “Ball at the Duke of Doyle’s tonight. Girl’s bound to be there. If you’re coming, I could present you properly.”

Haro shuddered inwardly. Upon receiving the invitation to the Duke’s ball, Lady Anglesford had, of course, declined it since the Emison household was but newly in mourning. And now, with the news of their latest tragedy seeping through the streets like sewer water, Haro hardly wanted to show his face at such a large assembly.

But, on the other hand, if he wished to pursue this harebrained scheme of Torin’s, time was of the essence. If he wished to keep Woldwick off the auction block, it was imperative that he meet a rich tradesman’s daughter right away. His innate breeding hoped that the Duchess of Doyle would overlook the solecism of attending her gathering after the invitation had already been refused.

“I’ll be there with my heart—and my title—in hand.” Haro stood up to leave, then remembered one thing Guy had mentioned that could turn out to be a fly in the ointment. “You said Miss Hastings already had a line of suitors on a string?”

“Yes,” replied Guy, crossing his legs with care. “But ain’t none of them above the rank of baronet.”

The new Earl of Anglesford smiled grimly. His father may have run through the betting money, but the high card was still his to play.

***

Back at the Emison townhouse, Lady Anglesford expressed some surprise when her oldest son told her that he meant to pull the black crepe out of his hat and spend the evening at the Duke’s festive assembly. “I should have thought the appalling news we received today—if not the recentness of your father’s departure—would give you a distaste for dancing and such conviviality.” She had wrapped herself in a warm shawl and, despite the bright blaze of the parlor fire, declared herself unable to shake off the frigid chill penetrating to her very bones.

Haro shrugged with unusual reticence. He knew his actions appeared crass and uncaring, but he did not want to explain himself. Indeed, if his mother knew the whole of his plan, she would think it reprehensible in the utmost. He swallowed. The plan
was
reprehensible. But…what else was he to do?

“I suppose Eda means to go as well?” Lady Anglesford cast a glance over to the other side of the room where her cousin’s daughter sat sketching in the window seat. A few tresses of her dark black hair hung down over her paper, and the flickering firelight did not allow anyone to see the object of her portrait.

“Oh no,” said Eda, setting down her pencil to reply. Her dark blue eyes flashed with intensity beneath her fringe of dark eyelashes. “I have no wish to be merry tonight, and I am sure that I should only get in Lord Anglesford’s way.” She spoke that last remark sweetly, but the words still cracked a little like the cut of a whip. Haro flinched as if he had been slapped, and Eda smiled as if she enjoyed inflicting that pain. Then, dropping her eyes to her paper, she pointedly proceeded to continue her sketch and ignore the rest of the conversation.

Haro’s teeth clenched. It was unfair of her to treat him thus. His father’s imprudence had brought him to Point Non Plus. The only path forward was a dismal one, but if he was to provide for his mother, his brother, and for Eda herself, he could not refuse to take it. He tried to catch her eye, but she did not—would not—return his gaze.

Lady Anglesford’s small face grew worried, and she shivered uncontrollably. She sensed that her son and his sweetheart had had a falling out. And this, on top of everything else she had to bear, was enough to overset her nerves.

The double doors opened. The absent member of the family circle entered the room rife with tension. “Ah, there you are, Torin.” Lady Anglesford beckoned to her second son. “Your brother means to desert us all tonight and go to the Duke of Doyle’s, but at least I have you to depend on to keep me company in this vale of tears.”

Torin walked forward like a good son and hugged his mother perfunctorily, but all his attention was taken up by what Haro planned to do. “So you’re off to the ball after all?” His thin black eyebrows arched with interest.

“Yes, in accordance with your suggestion,” said Haro, and the two brothers exchanged a cryptic look. Haro glanced over to the window seat and raised his voice to make sure he would be heard. “Although I’m beginning to think that it will be as much pleasure as duty.”

The only response that came was a ripping sound. Whatever—or whomever—Miss Swanycke had been sketching was now being torn in two. Haro left the room abruptly and went to his room to dress for the evening’s entertainment.

***

The new Earl of Anglesford arrived at the ball at a late hour, hoping to avoid too many questions from inquisitive acquaintances. A servant took his coat, and he stepped inside the room, feeling for one of the first times in his life a little lost amidst the swirling world of the ton.

But though his insides were shrinking with dismay, none of that showed to the rest of the guests. His flawless evening dress marked him as one of the most smartly dressed men in the room. His cuffs fell perfectly over his capable hands, and his cravat—the careful product of his valet Garth—cascaded over his shirt in crisp, clean folds.

If he had not been the eldest son of a titled family, he would have made an admirable officer. He was an excellent horseman, a commendable shot, and had shoulders broad enough to fill out a red coat to perfection. Perhaps he would have been too easygoing to command the instant obedience of the men, but he had a pleasant manner that made people like him wherever he went. With the family fortunes in tatters, perhaps he ought to consider the military in earnest—although if Godwin’s gloomy predictions proved correct, there would not even be enough money to purchase himself a commission.

The whispers that followed Haro around the room were politely fenced in by the fans of the lace-capped matriarchs, and Haro was able to navigate the assembly without too much embarrassment. He discovered that Guy Pontipale had already cornered the damsel in question and was leading her out for a quadrille. Ignoring all the sympathetic glances, Haro settled himself against a pillar and began to observe Miss Arabella Hastings.

Guy had done her no injustice when he described her as brunette and tallish, but he had left out the finer details that would recommend the lady to a more discerning eye. She had regular features, a slim but attractive figure, glossy curls, and an air of elegance that can only be hereditary or purchased at a very high price.

Haro noted that she kept time in the dance very well and conversed with her neighbors effortlessly. He watched Guy lean in on one of the turns to utter some trite compliment. Miss Hastings responded very aptly with a smile and nod of acknowledgement. All in all, she was prettily adorned and perfectly mannered.

Haro felt a flutter of anticipation as the string players brought the dance to its final cadence. Soon, very soon, Guy would lead her to the side of the room and perform the necessary introductions.

But while he quizzed Guy’s partner, Haro did not fail to notice another man, standing directly across the room, who was also keeping a close eye on Miss Hastings. He had gray hair, a portly figure, expensive but gaudy clothing—and the way that he was sizing up Guy Pontipale, like a butcher weighing out meat, convinced Haro that he had sighted none other than William Hastings, the tradesman on the hunt for a title.

***

Catching Haro’s eye as the dance finished, Guy Pontipale led his fair partner off the ballroom floor and in the earl’s direction. When they were nearly close enough to shake hands, Guy uttered a wooden exclamation of surprise. “Egads! It’s my old friend Haro. Haven’t seen you in ages!” His left eyelid dropped slyly in a far too obvious wink. “Have you met Miss Hastings?”

“I have not had that pleasure.” Haro did his best to exude charm. He was a little out of practice in that regard, he reflected ruefully, especially since his comfortable and familial relationship with Eda had required little effort to maintain.

“This is Harold Emison, the Earl of Anglesford,” said Guy, laying particular emphasis on the exalted title. “We were at Eton together. Wonderful chap, simply wonderful.” Guy’s dogged determination to do his duty by his friend was a little too conspicuous for Haro’s comfort.

“Enchanted to make your acquaintance,” said Haro, and when Arabella offered him her hand, he pressed it gently to his lips and held onto it for half a second longer than necessary. “You must be thirsty after all those turns around the floor. May I procure you some punch?”

“Oh, allow me!” interrupted Guy, eager to disembarrass them of his company. He left his erstwhile partner at the side of the young earl and took himself off to the punch table where a long line had already formed.

“Are you well acquainted with Mr. Pontipale?” asked Haro politely.

“I’ve met him in company two or three times,” replied Arabella. She met his eyes frankly. “He’s a bit of a rattle, I fear.”

“More than a bit!” rejoined Haro with a laugh that was not entirely natural. He steeled himself inwardly to continue this bout of repartee. “How is it that
I
have not had the privilege of meeting you in company this season?”

“I cannot say, my lord, although I’m sure the fault is none of my making. I’ve been everywhere anyone fashionable goes. We’ve taken a box at the opera and made calls all over Grosvenor Square.” She pressed her painted fan to the lower half of her face to make her eyes stand out to greater effect. “I’m afraid that you must have been playing the hermit this season, my lord, or else avoiding me on purpose.”

“Avoiding you? How foolish of me!” exclaimed Haro, leaning in a little closer to the lady’s fine eyes. He suspected that Miss Hastings had taken lessons on how to flirt, but even with that suspicion in the back of his mind, he was still susceptible to her lures.

“And if I wished to continue avoiding you tomorrow, what part of town should I keep clear of?”

“I should most definitely stay away from the Vauxhall Gardens,” replied the girl without even a trace of a blush, “for I mean to be there all afternoon.”

“Ah!” said Haro, attempting to inflect his voice with an air of mystery. Before he had exhausted his own stock of flirtation, a few bars of music wafted their way, the orchestra’s signal that the dancing was about to resume. Guy had still failed to return with the promised cup of punch, and Haro assumed that his friend had probably slipped away to leave him to his own devices.

“Are you engaged for the next dance?”

“Only if
you
ask me to dance it.”

Haro extended his arm with a courtly gesture. “It would be my delight, Miss Hastings.” They stepped out onto the floor to perform the quick steps and the lively turns of a pair of country dances. The figures of the dance gave them little opportunity to talk, but as Haro had already observed, Miss Hastings was quite eloquent with both her smile and her eyes. By the end of the first dance, he began to feel as if he had drunk several tumblers of punch, and not the sweet lemonade reserved for women and children. He was not so intoxicated, however, that he failed to feel the dark eyes observing him from the pillar across the room where William Hastings smirked visibly at the sight of his daughter’s latest conquest.