A Deal with a
Cruel Earl
Preview
Chapter One
The Assembly Rooms Hall, Derby, the Last Ball of the Season
It wouldn’t be a ball, of course, without at least a bit of salacious gossip. And the final ball of the magnificent London Season simply had to go out with a bang.
A knot of young women had gathered in the corner of the ballroom, the ones not dancing for the current set, and leaned close together. Strawberry blonde curls mingled with thick dark locks, and a head of shining gold stood above it all.
“Have you heard,” Cynthia Roland of the strawberry blonde hair said, in a hushed whisper, “about Lady Penelope Black?”
“No, I haven’t,” responded a golden-haired young woman by the name of Blanche. “Do tell.”
“Well, we all know how Penelope has been the darling of the Season. The most beautiful woman in London, they said.” Cynthia gave a disdainful sniff. “Fair beauties are the fashion now, but if the gentlemen will dote over a black-haired chit like her, then…”
“Lady Penelope was very charming,” put in a third young woman, a round-faced, dark-haired girl by the name of Miss Prudence Copperwell. “I met her a few times, and she was very likeable.”
Cynthia scowled at her friend. “I daresay she knew how to appear charming. But you all just wait till I tell you what I have to say. She was caught running around in the woods, alone, with a gentleman. Shocking, is it not?”
“Oh, goodness,” Blanche breathed. “She’ll be ruined.”
“She is,” Cynthia said, with a hint of smugness. “I have it on good authority that she’s being sent to her aunt’s home in Bath, in deep disgrace. Such a shame – she was doing so well this Season. Although, of course, she hadn’t had many offers, so…”
Cynthia trailed off, and there was a moment of awkward silence between the three girls. None of them had received any offers of marriage which had been accepted, and none of any real note. Prudence – affectionately called Prudy by her friends and family – privately did not mind. The gentlemen she saw in London were always rather tiresome, and she was quite happy to let her older sister take the spotlight as she wished. Much easier. Besides, who would look at Prudy besides Catherine?
“It gets worse,” Cynthia continued, recovering herself. “She wouldn’t have been caught, you know, if she hadn’t come screaming out of the woods, shouting that there was a monster chasing her.”
Prudy spluttered, choking on her cup of punch. “A monster? Oh, that is ridiculous. How can one be so stupid?”
Cynthia scowled. “This was in Dalton Woods.”
“So?”
“So, everybody knows there is a monster in that part of the woods. It’s very near Rycroft Hall, and there is a monster there.”
“Are you sure it isn’t haunted?” Prudy taunted, lifting an eyebrow.
Her friend narrowed her eyes at her. “Everybody says so. There are dead animals found there, all over, as if they’d fallen from the sky… or dropped dead in shock and fear.”
“Perhaps somebody hunts there. A poacher, perhaps.” Prudy countered.
“And left their game? I don’t think so. I, for one, believe that there is a monster there, and that it’s hunting for sport.”
Blanche, always easily frightened, gave a shuddering squeal, pressing her hands to her face.
“Oh, she could have been torn limb from limb!”
“This isn’t a monster,” Prudy said firmly. “The stupid girl probably saw a shadow, and let her imagination run away with her.”
Blanche considered this, nibbling her full lower lip. It was a source of some annoyance between the three girls that Blanche was by far the most beautiful among them. She was, however, also the stupidest, and that had to count for something. All told, men did not want silly wives.
Or so Cynthia kept saying, whenever the two of them spent time together without the ever-perfect Blanche.
“But Lady Penelope must be in so much trouble,” Blanche said at last. “Her life is ruined, all for one silly mistake. I do feel sorry for her.”
“I don’t,” Cynthia said, snorting. “None of this would have happened if she had just obeyed her parents and followed the rules. Those rules are there for a reason. Ladies’ reputations are like glass – easily shattered, and not soon repaired.”
She punctuated this point with a nod and a noisy slurp of her tea.
Prudy shifted on her seat. The subject of Lady Penelope’s downfall and her imaginary monster – there was no doubt in her mind that it was imaginary – was ruining their evening. The Season was ending, and Prudy was determined to wring the last drops of enjoyment out of it, before the winter set in for good.
“Enough of this,” she said, setting aside her punch. “I can’t believe that neither of you have mentioned my gown. It’s the latest fashion in Paris, but I daresay we won’t see it until next Season now.”
The young ladies required no further persuasion and commenced to exclaim and admire the delicate, mint-hued lace and soft crimson of Prudy’s gown. It was brand new and horribly expensive, but her father had never balked at paying for expensive trinkets and fabrics to clothe his two children. Prudy was aware that a beautiful dress could not make her stand beside her sister, but it was something, wasn’t it? Besides, Catherine deserved her good looks, because she was pretty inside, too.
Cynthia might turn green with jealousy over Catherine’s glossy, chestnut-brown locks, perfect pale skin, impeccable figure and large, green-blue eyes, but Prudy was proud of her sister. Extremely proud.
“Catherine’s dress is even prettier!” Blanche exclaimed, straightening up and beaming. The other two glanced up to see a staggeringly beautiful young woman in a sleek, royal blue gown gliding towards them. Her gown was noticeably less frilly and ornamented than Prudy’s, and yet she could easily have been considered the prettiest woman in the world.
“Lord, that dance has fatigued me,” Catherine sighed, flopping down on a chair beside her sister. “Prudy, can I drink the rest of your punch?”
“Of course! Shall I fetch you some more?”
“Lord Everton seems very taken with you,” Cynthia said smoothly. “Isn’t that the second dance he’s asked for?”
“Only the first,” Catherine responded, smiling coolly back. “He asked for a second dance, but I have complained of fatigue. I’m finished dancing tonight.”
Cynthia pouted, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms.
“We were talking of Lady Penelope Black,” Prudy explained. “Isn’t it the most deliciously shocking thing? Like something you’d read in a novel.”
“The only shocking thing here is the girl’s lack of propriety,” Cynthia muttered, and Blanche tittered obediently.
Catherine did not smile, picking at the cuffs of her dress.
“You shouldn’t gossip about that,” she said quietly. “Lady Penelope is ruined. It’s hardly something to giggle over, and nothing we should be discussing at all. I pity her, and so should you.”
Prudy felt a niggling knot of guilt in her chest, the way she always did when Catherine disapproved of something she said or did. It passed quickly, of course.
“She said something about a monster in Dalton Woods,” Prudy continued eagerly, swallowing down her discomfort. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It’s said that Rycroft Hall is haunted,” Cynthia insisted.
Catherine shook her head. “It’s a forbidding place, to be sure. An old building, the sort of place the Gothic castles in those novels you all love to read are modelled on. But there’s nothing wrong with the place, it’s just a little gloomy.”
“So, no monsters?”
“No, Prudy. No monsters.”
Prudy shot Cynthia a triumphant glance and received a glare in return. Then Cynthia’s gaze slid over her head, and she stiffened.
“Oh. Mr Bates is coming over.”
“To speak with Prudy, no doubt,” Blanche added, and the two girls shared a quick, malicious glance. It made Prudy feel uncomfortable and left out, for some reason. She glanced at her sister for reassurance, but Catherine was staring into space, a light frown line between her brows, so there was no comfort to be had there.
Then Mr Isaac Bates was upon them.
“Miss Prudence, you are looking lovely tonight,” he said breathlessly, smoothing one hand down a shockingly expensive-looking waistcoat.
Isaac Bates, at the age of twenty-eight, was an orphan, heir to a shockingly huge fortune, part of an ancient and well-respected family. This, of course, made him a target for every unscrupulous fortune-hunting female in the country. He neatly avoided them all, with surprising grace for such an awkward, stocky young man.
He was of middling height, strongly built, like a farmer instead of a dandy, and wore his fine silks and satins with a hint of discomfort. He was known to be of moderate habits, never in his cups, never passing out in his clubs, and not a flirt. Frankly, Prudy wasn’t entirely sure why some other beauty hadn’t snapped him up before. He was not handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was he repulsively ugly. His manners, too, were perfectly fine, if not fascinating.
Nor, for that matter, could she understand why he’d chosen to fix his attentions on her. Apparently, Cynthia and Blanche thought exactly the same.
“Thank you, Mr Bates,” Prudy said, trying for a coy smile. She had to be careful with coy looks and glances. She was pretty enough, but not ravishingly beautiful like Catherine. Besides her sister, she tended to look plain, but there wasn’t a great deal she could do about that.
Prudy had plenty of good features – that was what people said when you weren’t particularly pretty – but none of them were outstanding. She had nice hair, dark brown, shot through with lights of gold, red, and chestnut, just like Catherine’s hair. She had a round face and full lips, which would cover her ever-so-slightly protruding front teeth if she was careful. Catherine had said once that Prudy looked like a sweet little rabbit.
Prudy wasn’t sure she could consider that a compliment.
Aside from that, she had entirely dull sand-coloured eyes, nothing like Catherine’s mysterious blue-green ones.
Still, it could not be helped, and Prudy was contented enough with her own face.
“Would you like to dance, Miss Prudence?” Isaac managed at last, as Prudy knew he would.
“I should love that, Mr Bates,” she responded, getting up at once, ignoring Cynthia’s sniggers. They could laugh all they wanted. Mr Bates had asked her to dance, not them.
Isaac took her hand in one of his, large and too well-calloused for a proper gentleman’s hand, and led her onto the dance floor for the next set.
Frankly, Prudy was relieved. The night had gone by quickly, and she hadn’t danced more than a handful of dances. Her father was sure to ask, and he was never pleased to think that his girls had sat in the corner all evening – like a poor little wallflower of a church mouse, he was fond of saying – and there would be lectures.
Besides, Prudy wanted to dance. Her feet had been twitching to the music for the past hour or so.
The music began, the dancers bowed to each other, and they started to dance.
For a minute or two, Prudy and Isaac skipped and jogged around in each other in silence, but soon enough the dance slowed down a little. She could almost see Isaac’s thoughts whirring, trying to think of something interesting to say, something to hold her attention.
“Miss Copperwell’s dress is exceptionally beautiful,” he said, then his eyes widened. “Not… not that yours is not, Miss Prudence, I only meant…”
“Please, you won’t offend me by complimenting my older sister,” Prudy laughed. “She’s remarkably beautiful, is she not? I’m tremendously proud of her. I can say with truth that she’s my closest friend.”
Isaac relaxed a little. “This is one thing I like very much about you, Miss Prudence. Nothing seems to concern you at all. You are always light and happy, always entertaining.”
“Well, one does one’s best.”
The dance continued for a few more minutes.
Prudy had, of course, considered marrying Isaac Bates. Any woman pursued by a man of such good fortune would think about trying to catch him, and it would make her father very proud. It would be good for Catherine, too. If Prudy made a good marriage, then perhaps Catherine would… well, enough said on that matter.
She had, however, rejected the idea. Isaac Bates was pleasant enough, but Prudy felt no more drawn to him than… well, than she felt drawn to her father. She felt, in a strange, visceral sort of way, that she could not fall in love with him, no matter how much she tried. Really, then, it wasn’t fair on either of them.
“You have so many friends, too, Miss Prudence,” Isaac continued. “You are remarkably popular.”
“Well, I suppose so. I never really thought of it. I do have many acquaintances, it’s true.”
“I am not a man who makes friends easily, myself. I admire it in others.”
Prudy mentally reviewed her friends and acquaintances, thinking of something to say about one of them. Nothing particular sprang to mind, so she decided to concentrate instead on the dance, and let silence fall again.
Then she spotted her father on the edge of the crowd, and her steps faltered.
He was standing in a secluded corner by the mantelpiece, speaking to a man wearing the finest, most expensive-looking coat Prudy had ever seen, all gold trimming and red velvet, covering his wide back neatly.
However, it was her father’s expression which made her nearly miss a beat.
Mr Jasper Copperwell never smiled much at the best of times, but now his expression was… well, one might call it grim. Worried, even.
A kernel of worry unfurled itself in Prudy’s chest. Isaac took her hand for the promenading, and she was obliged to turn away from her father and concentrate on dancing.
The final few minutes dragged, but at long last the dance ended with a triumphant flourish, and the dancers laughed and clapped, bowing to each other.
“Miss Prudence, I wonder if I could bother you for another…” Isaac began, but Prudy cut him off, a little too rudely for dealing with such a gentleman.
“Do excuse me, Mr Bates, I must see to my father,” she said in a rush, not stopping to hear Isaac mumble an agreement before she hurried off into the crowd.
Jasper Copperwell was alone by the time Prudy reached him, leaning against the mantelpiece, swilling amber liquid about in a brandy glass. The man was tall, rake-thin, and stood ramrod straight from the posture lessons he’d received as a child, which judging from the stories he told had almost broken his spine. He was pale, with a long nose, and the same sand-coloured eyes he’d bequeathed to his younger daughter. He was around forty years of age but could be taken for older.
He was, of course, frowning. He glanced down at Prudy, pushing breathlessly towards him, and his frown deepened.
“What do you want, Prudence? I saw you dancing with Isaac Bates. Why not go back and talk to him?”
“Where’s that man you were talking to?”
Jasper blinked. “What man?”
“The man in the red velvet and gold coat.”
Jasper scowled. “Oh. Him.”
“Who was he?”
“The Marquess.”
“Who?”
“It’s none of your business, girl. Haven’t you people to talk to?”
Prudy flinched, fighting to hold her composure. Tears stung at her eyes, and she hated that. It was humiliating how easily her father’s sharp words could make her want to cry. Really, she ought to be used to it by now.
“I just wondered,” she mumbled.
“Hmph. A little less curiosity and a little more initiative is in order, I think. For now, go fetch your sister and mother. We’re leaving soon.”
He drained his brandy glass, set it down with a clack, and then walked over without another word or a backwards glance.
Sighing, Prudy turned around to look for her family. Catherine was where she had left her. Mrs Lydia Copperwell was in the same place she’d sat all evening – the matrons’ chairs along the wall, sitting stooped-over, faded, and thoroughly bored. It would be no hard thing to round her up. She’d been beautiful once, like Catherine, but years of boredom and lack of attention had turned her into a drooping, faded old flower, with not much to say and only the memories of her beauty to sustain her.
Prudy pointedly turned away from her mother. She would go and find Catherine first.
***
“I thought Papa said he was leaving?” Catherine remarked, pulling her shawl tighter around herself.
The night was well along. In fact, it was close to one in the morning by now. The two Copperwell girls were waiting in the carriage, their breaths frosting in clouds in front of them, waiting for their parents to join them so they could all leave.
Isaac Bates had tried several times to get close to Prudy, apparently to say goodbye, but really, she couldn’t be bothered. She’d see him again, no doubt. It was called the last ball of the Season, but there would always be more social events.
“What is taking them so long?” Prudy muttered, leaning forward. “I want to go to bed. It’s freezing out here. These gowns aren’t built for being outside in the winter, and the shawls are next to useless.”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow,” Catherine said, in a rush.
There was a brief silence between them.
“Seeing who?” Prudy hazarded, and her sister rolled her eyes.
“Who do you think? Simon.”
Prudy bit her lower lip hard. “I wish you’d be careful, Catherine.”
“Of course I’m careful. Why, don’t you like Simon?”
Prudy sighed. Simon Gardener was, ironically, a tailor.
No, not even a tailor. A tailor’s apprentice. They’d met him at a modiste’s, run by one of the fashionable faux-French women who operated in Derby, and Simon had stood out a mile.
For one thing, he was remarkably handsome. He had sandy-blond hair, thick and curling, brushed neatly back from a square, well-shaped faced, saved from the blunt lines of ugly masculinity by a beautiful smile, a swooping nose, and a pair of large, chocolate-brown eyes framed by long, black lashes that most of the ladies in London would kill for.
He had helped adjust one of Prudy’s gowns, and she’d found him pleasant, likeable, and hard-working.
Catherine, however, had been blown away. Prudy had seen it the second they looked at each other. For his part, Simon had almost staggered, looking ready to faint.
She’d thought no more of it until, a month or so later, Catherine confessed to meeting Simon in secret, walking out together in places where they would not be spotted.
This was, naturally, a problem.
“I like Simon very much,” Prudy admitted. “He loves you deeply, that’s very clear. But think of the practicalities. For one thing, he doesn’t have any money, and neither do you.”
“I have money.”
“You have the money Papa will settle on you when you marry,” Prudy countered. “I don’t think he’ll let you have it if you marry a tailor.”
Catherine sighed. “Please, Prudy, don’t you turn against me. With Simon around, I… I feel like I’m living for the first time in my life. Like I’ve been holding my breath forever, and now I can breathe.”
Prudy leaned forward, taking her sister’s hand. “I’m not turning against you, truly I’m not. I just… I just don’t want you to end up packed off to Bath, like poor Lady Penelope. Or chased by a monster, for that matter.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in monsters.”
“I don’t. But I believe in what Society does to ladies who don’t toe the line. Catherine, you must be so, so careful.”
“I know what I’m doing, Prudy,” Catherine said, giving her sister’s hand a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I can’t help it,” Prudy sighed. She could see their parents approaching now. Jasper strode ahead, unsmiling, head down. Lydia scuttled behind him, trying and failing to keep up with her husband’s long strides. As for Jasper, he probably would not have noticed if he had left his wife back in the ballroom.
“They’re coming,” Prudy added, as a hint for Catherine to stop talking about Simon.
Their parents did not, needless to say, know that Catherine was in love with a tailor’s apprentice.
“It’s so wonderful,” Catherine murmured. “Being in love, I mean. I had an idea that it was all pain and suffering, but really, it isn’t.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Catherine threw a quick smile at her, teeth glittering in the moonlight. “Oh, just wait till you fall in love, Prudy. You’ll go head over heels, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Prudy snorted, picking non-existent bits of fluff off her skirts. Love was that elusive, intoxicating things that young women whispered about in corners, searching the pages of novels and poetry books for clues as to where to find it. In Prudy’s opinion, the whole business was a ploy to trick women into marriage.
It was infuriating, therefore, that she still longed for it with every fibre of her being.
“Oh, I think not, Catherine,” she answered smoothly. “I think not.”
Chapter Two
Home at last. My feet are so sore I think they might fall off.
Prudy toed off her dancing slippers with a sigh of relief. Her sore toes were mostly due to the pinching, unforgiving shoes than from too much dancing. Some famous beauties were said to have danced through a pair of slippers every night at a ball, but Prudy had never had that problem. She wasn’t asked to dance enough, and of course a lady couldn’t dance with a gentleman more than once, not if you didn’t want people to talk.
It was infuriating, really. Prudy had made a friend earlier in the Season, a lisping young dandy of twenty who seemed far more interested in the company of gentlemen than he did of ladies, and Prudy had known right away that he wasn’t going to propose to her, which was something of a relief. They’d danced together and spent time together at each ball, and he was enormously entertaining.
She’d enjoyed his company and had often thought it a pity that they couldn’t dance together often, because Marcus really was an excellent dancer.
The friendship had come to a halt after some whispers had reached Jasper’s ears, and he’d bluntly informed his daughter that the match would not meet with his approval, and she’d better leave the man alone. Shortly after, Marcus had dropped out of Society after some scandal or another, and Prudy was left friendless again.
Or rather, not friendless, not with Cynthia and Blanche and their pooled acquaintances. If you counted that sort of thing.
The shoes were gone now, kicked into the corner of the room, and Prudy peeled off her gown and let it crumple on the floor. She always told the maids to take themselves to bed on late nights like this – most of them were up at six every morning, and the clock was now inching towards half past one – and left the mess for them to tidy up later. Prudy was just beginning the laborious task of unpinning her hair when she heard voices.
Raised voices.
Who’s shouting at this time of the night? She thought, perplexed. Easing open the door, Prudy strained her ears.
Jasper was the one shouting, naturally. She could hear him all the way downstairs. A muffled sob came after, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Tucking her robe around her, and entirely forgetting about her half-undone hair, Prudy crept to the top of the staircase.
Jasper’s study was near the entrance of the hall and was of course off-limits to everybody except a few select servants, who were allowed in to clean. At the moment, to her surprise, the door stood ajar. A night footman was on duty, standing nervously by the door. He could clearly hear every word. Their eyes met as Prudy began to tiptoe down the stairs, and she lifted one finger to her lips.
“Jasper, please…” Lydia’s voice came from the open door, weak and unheeded and immediately spoken over.
“I break my back to get a good match for you, Catherine, and this is the thanks I get?” Jasper thundered, drowning out his wife’s fragile voice.
Prudy pressed a hand over her mouth.
Catherine. No.
“I am obliged to you for your care, Papa,” Catherine spoke up, her voice broken and choked with tears, “but I can’t marry him.”
“You don’t even know the man!”
“And that is why I cannot…”
“Have you any other matches? No, you do not. Every respectable offer you have received this Season, you have turned down. You won’t even entertain any suitable gentlemen. What do you expect me to do? You won’t stay pretty forever. Look at your mother!”
Prudy winced, eyes immediately flying to the footman. The man kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending he couldn’t hear. It wasn’t the first time Prudy wanted to sink with shame over her father’s behaviour, and of course it wouldn’t be the last.
“I won’t marry him, Papa. If the match was only done tonight, then I’m sure it can be undone at once. If you would just…” Catherine broke off with a cry, as if she’d been struck or grabbed, and Prudy flinched, ready to dash across the foyer and into the study. What she would do, exactly, once she got there was anyone’s guess.
“The Marquess is not a patient man,” Jasper said, teeth gritted. “This match is happening. You haven’t a penny of your own, my girl, and may I remind you that you are not yet one and twenty. You’ll do as I say.”
There was a commotion after that, and Catherine came shooting out of the study, hair a mess, still wearing her royal-blue gown from the party. Prudy flinched, pressing herself against the banister as if that would help her go unnoticed. Catherine’s eyes were swollen and puffy, cheeks tear-stained, and she rushed past her sister without a second glance.
Catherine hurtled upstairs, and Prudy heard her stamp across the landing and slam her door. Nobody came after her, and Prudy hastily followed, in case one of her parents should come out and catch her eavesdropping.
Casting an apologetic look at the footman – who looked just as miserable as Prudy felt – she hurried back upstairs, heading straight to the lavender-painted door to Catherine’s room.
Prudy tapped twice, keeping her voice low. Their parents slept in the opposite wing of the house, so she had no worry of being overheard.
“Catherine? Catherine, let me in.”
“The door’s not locked,” came the weak reply.
Prudy turned the handle and slipped inside.
Catherine’s room was the opposite to Prudy’s. It was neat, impeccably so, with sober and tasteful decorations. No lamps or candles were lit, and it took her a few moments to adjust her eyes to the darkness.
Catherine was lying on her side on the bed, curled into a ball, facing away from the door. She was sobbing quietly, shoulders heaving.
Prudy wavered in the door for a moment. Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to bed? She was so tired, and perhaps Catherine would have recovered by the morning. Surely their father would reconsider. He wouldn’t really force her to get married. That sort of thing only happened in novels.
Surely.
Prudy shuffled forward, feeling her way across the dark room, and crawled onto the bed beside her sister.
“You heard, I suppose?” Catherine said, voice choked. “The Marquess of Derby wants a wife for his nephew. The man seldom goes into Society, so it’s all going to be arranged quietly. He saw me, and asked Papa for his permission. Papa gave it. The wedding is going ahead.”
There was a taut silence. Prudy knew the Marquess of Derby by reputation, at least. A man as powerful as him wouldn’t bother himself with the acquaintance of some unmarried little Miss.
“But… but what about Simon? Surely Papa won’t make you…” Prudy began weakly, but was interrupted by Catherine sitting bolt upright and spinning around to face her, eyes glittering.
“Oh, stop it, Prudence! You don’t understand a thing, do you? Haven’t you been saying right from the start that Simon and I could never be together? How did you think this was going to end?”
Prudy recoiled from her sister’s livid, tear-stained expression.
“I… I suppose I thought it would just… just stop.”
“I’m in love with him, Prudence! It never just stops. I can’t live without him. I don’t care about Papa’s money, I never have. It hasn’t made Mama happy, has it? We were waiting for Simon to save up enough money, and then maybe…” she trailed off, squeezing her eyes closed. More tears came leaking out, dripping from the edge of her chin. “It’s too late now,” she murmured, voice ragged.
Catherine flopped down onto the pillows, muffling her sobs. Prudy sat where she was, rigid with shock. She felt sick and shaky, and part of her was terrified that one of their parents would burst in at any moment, raging and shouting and demanding an explanation.
“Are… are you going to run away with him?” Prudy asked, voice shaking.
Catherine shook her head. “I thought about it. It would never work. I don’t have a penny, as Papa so kindly said, and Simon has hardly any savings. He would need to leave his work behind, and I daresay Papa would make sure he never got work in Derby again. I’m not qualified for any work at all, besides painting a few slapdash watercolours and a few dull embroidery projects, and without a note of refence, I don’t know if Simon could get work, either. There are lots of tailors’ apprentices around, ones that haven’t ruined their reputations.” She sniffed loudly. “I’d ruin him, Prudy. If word got out – and it would get out – nobody would buy so much as a yard of ribbon from him. We’d have nothing. He loves his work, and I can’t… I can’t take it from him.”
“But if he loves you…” Prudy tried, but Catherine rounded on her again.
“Don’t be such a child, Prudy! You can’t eat love, can you? Love won’t put a roof over anyone’s head!”
“But… but you said…”
“Forget about what I said,” Catherine said dully. Hauling herself into a sitting position, she reached over and lit a candle. “I was stupid.”
“You aren’t stupid, Catherine.”
“Oh, no? Would a clever girl fall in love with a tailor? I’m not rich enough for such nonsense. I’m not rich at all.”
The candle gave off a flickering, buttery glow, playing over Catherine’s tangled hair and tear-stained face. In that rare moment, Catherine in her misery looked ugly. Her face was red and swollen, blotchy with tears, and her lips dry and bitten. Her gown was rumpled, the expensive lace around the cuffs torn.
Prudy fisted her hands into the sheets.
“We won’t let this happen,” she said firmly. “Look at me, Catherine. I… I can’t say that I approve of Simon and you, for obvious reasons, but I won’t stand by and watch you be forced to leave the man you love behind. The business with the Marquess’ nephew can be gotten over, I’m sure of it. If you just stand firm…”
“Papa can force me to marry,” Catherine said listlessly. “Until I’m twenty-one, I have to abide by his rules. Perhaps he can’t literally drag me down the aisle, but by law, I have to obey him. And don’t try and say that he would never do something like that, because we both know that he would. He will. He’s going to, if I resist. This match with the Marquess’ nephew is a good one, and Papa already has his mind set on it. I think he already imagines me married to the man. It’ll be a match for everybody in town to talk about, and the wedding will be quiet and inexpensive. The man doesn’t like drawing attention, I’ve been told.”
Catherine sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and smiled weakly.
“The betrothal notice is going in the Gazette as soon as possible. It’s happening, Prudy. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I don’t believe that,” Prudy responded. To her surprise, anger was welling up inside her.
Anger was not, of course, an appropriate emotion for a lady to feel, under any circumstances. Prudy’s finishing school had been very harsh on this point, reminding the girls that they would never wish to be considered a shrew. Oh, certainly not.
By her estimation, a lady should go through life – the disappointments of love, the harshness and possible cruelties of a husband, the pains of childbirth, and the slow, inevitable decline into irrelevance and invisibility – without experiencing anything stronger than perhaps a mild sensation of discontent.
So long as they did not pout or sulk, naturally.
There’d been no discussion on what to do about rage, when it boiled up inside one and threatened to choke a lady, like Prudy was feeling right now.
She reached out for her sister’s hand, holding it tight.
“We aren’t going to let this happen,” she said, voice low and furious. “If you love Simon, if you truly love him, then we shall move heaven and earth to let you be with him. I promise you that, Catherine. I will save you from this.”
Catherine eyed her sister for a long moment. Then she began to laugh. It was a dry, mirthless laugh, very unpleasant.
“Oh, Prudy,” she murmured, cupping her little sister’s cheek with one cold hand. “You’re so kind. So sweet. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you. I’m sorry that I was so snappish with you – you didn’t deserve that. But there’s nothing we can do.”
“Of course there is! We could… we could…” Prudy stammered, waiting for some miraculous idea to come popping into her brain, one that would allow everything to go back to the way it was, with the fat Marquess and his awful nephew melting away as if they’d never existed.
Catherine only smiled tiredly, waiting patiently for Prudy to begin to realize that no such idea was coming.
“There you are, you see?” she said, sounding regretful. “I’ve thought and thought, too, but there’s nothing we can do. Unless I’m willing to make myself and the man I love destitute – which I’m not – my only choice is to marry the Marquess’ nephew. It’s… it’s awful, I know, but there are women in worse situations than me. I’ll never forget Simon, or how much I loved him, and I hope that with time he’ll forget me. Make your peace with this, Prudy, and I’ll try to do the same.”
She rolled over, turning her back to her sister.
“I can’t believe that,” Prudy insisted. “There must be something…”
“The wedding will take place in two weeks,” Catherine interrupted. “That’s plenty of time for us to get used to the idea.”
“But…”
“I’m very tired, Prudy. I’d like to go to sleep. Goodnight.”
Faced with this dismissal, Prudy had no choice but to creep out of her sister’s room and back into her own, into her cold bed.
She didn’t sleep much that night.
There must be something, Prudy thought, again and again, like a chant in her mind.
I must be able to do something about this. But what?
Chapter Three
Rycroft Hall
Bartholomew Harrington, Marquess of Derby, sat serenely in a wide armchair and waited for his nephew’s rage to burn itself out.
Bartholomew had always been a rather portly man, despite a few years of desperate dieting and corset-wearing in his youth, and his width had grown steadily until now, when at the age of forty-five, he struggled to fit in most chairs.
He didn’t particularly care anymore. He’d never been a marrying kind of man, and since the good Lord had seen fit to make him plump all his life, there seemed no sense in stopping now.
A lamp which had been considered rather valuable came hurtling past Bartholomew’s head, smashing against the wall. He contemplated helping himself to another cup of tea.
“Are you quite finished, Gideon?” he asked.
The other figure in the room had his back turned, shoulders heaving, leaning heavily on his cane. Bartholomew was conscious of a pang of worry – Gideon ought not to exert himself so intensely. Of course, such worrying would only incense his nephew further, so Bartholomew decided not to mention it.
“I don’t wish to be married, Uncle,” Gideon said, back still turned. “You know that, and you know why.”
“I do know it. I didn’t take this step lightly, my boy. You’re, what? Seven and twenty?”
“Eight and twenty, as well you know.”
“Humph. Well, that’s youth, you know. You’ll be Marquess of Derby one day, and it stands to reason that you should marry and procure a few heirs.”
Gideon turned, shooting a scornful look over his shoulder. His expression was veiled in the gloom, the thick velvet curtains shutting out most of the light.
“Like you did, Uncle? From what I remember, you preferred the company of your friends all your life, and were happy enough with that.”
“So I did, so I did,” Bartholomew said comfortably. “And perhaps if you had a gaggle of friends, I’d be less worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
Well, that was obviously a lie, but Bartholomew had long since learned not to say as much. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could see the bright-faced twenty-one-year-old his nephew had once been, possessed of smooth, pale good looks, pale eyes coupled with black hair and an ethereal way about him that would make any Gothic author swoon.
The boy is gone. Stop it, Bartholomew. Focus on the here and now.
“Miss Catherine Copperwell is an excellent young woman,” Bartholomew said firmly. “Do you think I just had the ladies of Derby queued up in a line, and then chose one for you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Gideon retorted. “You’ve never had any time for women, have you, Uncle? It was remarked on often, when you were younger.”
There was a heartbeat of silence.
“That,” Bartholomew said quietly, “was not a kind thing to say.”
Gideon’s narrow shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I never meant…”
“It’s quite alright, my boy. I’m not upset. This news is a shock, I understand. Now, you can make amends by sitting down and pouring us both a cup of tea.”
Gideon obeyed, clumping silently across the room. He sat down into the chair opposite, leaning his silver-tipped cane against the arm of the chair. For a moment or two, there was silence, broken only by the gentle trickle of tea landing in teacups, the slop of milk, and the regular splash of Bartholomew’s usual four sugars being added to his own cup.
“As I said, I chose Miss Copperwell very carefully,” Bartholomew continued. Most of Gideon’s rage – which was mostly made up of panic and frustration, of course – had melted away, leaving him exhausted. “She’s a very suitable young woman, a very nice girl, and I think you will like her.”
“Do you think she’ll like me?”
“She is a nice girl,” Bartholomew repeated. “Her father assured me that her affections are not engaged elsewhere, and since the Season is ending, it’s fair to assume that she would have remained unmarried for another half-year at least.”
He had spent a few weeks in Society observing the eligible young ladies in town. Most of them were pretty, and were considered accomplished, but that hardly meant anything. He wanted a pretty girl, for Gideon’s sake, but naturally she would have to be much more than that. Money was irrelevant, and indeed Miss Copperwell’s dowry was nothing compared to the money Bartholomew had, and the money Gideon would one day inherit.
Miss Copperwell was strikingly pretty, easily the most beautiful girl in town, but Bartholomew had noticed other qualities in her, too. She was exceptionally kind, very charming without being false, and was well-spoken of by all but the most jealous of her peers. Miss Copperwell was not a flirt, was not a gossip, and seemed to be remarkably confident in herself and her beliefs.
Another thing he had noticed was Miss Copperwell’s relationship with her sister. Miss Prudence, the younger Copperwell girl, was a good-natured creature, rather a sharp gossip but not exactly unkind, and unfortunately plain beside her beautiful sister. However, the two girls obviously adored each other, and Miss Prudence had never shown anything but adoration towards Miss Copperwell.
That was good. Bartholomew had often noticed that sibling relationships could tell a great deal about a person. If Miss Copperwell’s sister adored her, he could be sure that she would not end up a cruel, overbearing fool like her father, or a husk like her mother. He had been taken by Miss Copperwell and her qualities almost at once, and the new few weeks had only strengthened his beliefs that the girl was perfect to become Lady Rycroft, his nephew’s wife.
“You’ll like her,” Bartholomew assured him, taking a sip of his tea. “Why don’t you open those wretched curtains, Gideon? This study is a nice-looking room, but one can never see it because it’s so dark in here.”
“Perhaps I like the dark, Uncle. It suits me. Besides, that waistcoat you’re wearing is already giving me a headache. If the sun shone in and hit those gilt buttons, it would blind us both.”
“Humph. If you’re trying to hide the fact that Agatha hasn’t dusted in here in goodness only knows how long, it’s not working. I can smell the dust.”
Gideon bridled at that. “Agatha is not getting any younger, and she works hard enough. And don’t change the subject, please. You know quite well that I don’t wish to be married, so why are you insisting on it?”
“You know why. I’ve said it a thousand times. You’ll inherit my position and my estate, and what then? If you insist on your life of seclusion, there’s nothing I can do about that, but I will not see my estate rot away after your death because you never bothered to have an heir. I won’t see it entailed to some distant fool who doesn’t know how to be a gentleman.”
“Well, considering that I won’t inherit the place at all till after your death, I think it’s fair to say that you won’t see any of that.” Gideon pointed out.
Bartholomew snorted. “Oh, very funny, I’m sure.”
It was hard to tell in the dark, but he was sure that his nephew smiled, even just a little. Progress, then.
“I don’t wish to share my life with anyone, Uncle.”
Perhaps not.
Bartholomew sighed, heaving his bulk forward to place his cup back on the table.
“You don’t need to share your life with the girl. Marriage is a business affair, at the end of the day. This is a large house, and you don’t need to see her. She might even want to go to London, or back to Derby, and live an entirely separate life.”
“While you are painting a truly lovely portrait of marriage, Uncle, I’d like to point out that you wanted me to get heirs.”
“Well, yes. You will need to produce at least one heir. A boy, preferably. But that will require very little effort on your part, you know.”
Gideon leaned forward, smiling mirthlessly. “And what about my wife, Uncle? What about on our wedding night, when she realizes that her husband is a scarred ghost, rotting from the outside in? I’m not entirely sure there’s anything left of me at all, beneath the skin.”
“Nonsense,” Bartholomew said, sharper than he intended. “She’s a proper, chaste little thing, and won’t have a clue. You can always blow out the candles.”
“Oh, very nice, Uncle, very nice indeed. You know that she’ll have to see me before we marry, at least for a minute or two? Or would you rather I wear a heavy black veil when we say our vows?”
He sniffed. “You’ve been reading too many novels. It isn’t… isn’t that bad, you know.”
It was a hollow lie, and they both knew it. Gideon looked away, and Bartholomew picked at his gold cufflinks, wishing he could have sounded more convincing.
“This is a mistake,” Gideon said at last. “I know you mean well, Uncle, and I know you care about me. But I can’t agree to this. I am sorry. I hope Miss Copperwell is not disappointed, although I think that if she could see me in person, she’d consider herself lucky to have escaped.”
Bartholomew drew in a ragged sigh. He was exhausted and getting far too old for this nonsense.
I wish it hadn’t come to this.
“I command you to marry her, Gideon.”
As expected, his nephew only raised thin black brows at him.
“I beg your pardon? I’m not a dog, Uncle. I don’t sit and stay on command.”
“No need to tell me twice. If you marry her, I’ll double your allowance. If you produce a child, I’ll triple it.”
Gideon actually gave a low chuckle at that. “You should know me better than that. I don’t care for money. What I have is sufficient.”
Bartholomew shifted in his seat, working himself up for the next thing he had to say.
“Very well. If you do not oblige me in this, I’ll cut you off entirely.”
The smile disappeared from Gideon’s face.
“Fine. Cut me off, then. I don’t care. I don’t have a great deal of expenses, you know.”
“Perhaps not,” Bartholomew acknowledged. “But you won’t be able to pay Joseph and Agatha’s wages.”
That was a low blow. Gideon flinched as if he’d been slapped.
“That’s not fair.”
No, Bartholomew thought unhappily. It’s not.
He pressed on, nevertheless, because he’d had a great deal of time to think about how to manage Gideon, about this last-ditch attempt to bring back the cheerful, happy young nephew he’d once had.
“It would be a pity,” he said, inspecting his nails. “As you said earlier, neither of them is getting any younger. In their youth, I believe both of them had opportunities to take on well-paying jobs elsewhere. Of course, they chose to stay here. With you. But if I were to cut you off, you would not be able to pay them. I daresay they’d try to stay as long as they could, running through their savings, but soon enough they would have no choice but to leave. Goodness only knows what would await them if they ventured out into the world. I would remind you too that their pensions are my expense, held at my discretion. The world is not kind to people of their age, and…”
“Enough,” Gideon interrupted crisply. He hauled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and made his way over to the large desk in the corner of the room, piled with books and papers. For a moment, Bartholomew half expected to have something else thrown at him. He would have deserved it, really.
Guilt bubbling in his chest, Bartholomew conjured up an image of Agatha Moss and Joseph Smith, both well into their fifties, constantly bickering, always cheerful, always able to wring a half smile at the very least out of Gideon. It was wrong of him to threaten them, but if Gideon would not listen…
“If you like this Miss Copperwell so much,” Gideon stated at last, “I’m surprised you want to condemn her to a life with me.”
“Oh, Gideon, please do stop this. I’ve tried my best to… to bring you back, but nothing works. This is the last thing I can think of.”
“What, forcing me into a marriage? I think you should go.”
“Not before you give me your word that you’ll go along with this. The war has been over for seven years, Gideon.”
In the poor light, Bartholomew saw Gideon squeeze his eyes closed, swaying ever so slightly where he stood.
“It’ll never be over for me, though,” he murmured, so quietly that Bartholomew wasn’t sure whether he meant to be heard.
He waited, though, not moving from the armchair. Gideon heaved a sigh, passing a hand over his face.
“I have no choice to agree, then,” he said flatly, not meeting his uncle’s eye. “I condemn Miss Copperwell and myself to a life of misery. A life for a life, I suppose. Ours for Agatha and Joseph’s.”
Bartholomew smothered a sigh of relief. He had no idea what he would have done had his nephew called his bluff.
No need to worry about it, now.
“I’m glad you’ve made this decision, my boy,” Bartholomew said, heaving himself to his feet.
Gideon gave a short laugh. “Not much of a decision, was it? Not much of a choice.”
“Don’t be like that. I have it on good authority that marriage makes men very happy.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that to Miss Copperwell, when she’s blubbering her way through her vows.”
“That’s the spirit. Now, you and I will go to the Copperwells’ home in two weeks’ time, to meet the young lady and iron out any details regarding the wedding.”
He saw the colour drain out of Gideon’s face, if indeed there was any colour already in his face to drain away. Indeed, that man needed to see the sun every once in a while.
“Oh, nice,” Gideon snapped. “A wedding. How fun. You know how I’ve always dreamed of one.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Gideon. The wedding will be a quiet affair – Mr Copperwell was more than happy to choose a cheap ceremony – and you can forgo the wedding breakfast if you prefer, and simply have your bride join you at home.”
That seemed to ease Gideon’s worries, at least a little. The young man nibbled his lower lip, eyes crinkling with dread, the sort of dread a man of eight-and-twenty shouldn’t be feeling.
Bartholomew reminded himself that Gideon was no ordinary young man. Not after what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he’d experienced.
“I will leave you now,” Bartholomew said heavily, glancing at the congealing cake set out on the tea-tray. Neither of them had touched it. For one of them, this was very much out of character.
Gideon nodded wordlessly. He didn’t bother to try and escort his uncle out, and Bartholomew didn’t ask for it.
Outside, ready to climb into his carriage – Bartholomew paused to glance up at the crumbling old manor, coated with moss and worn down by time. As he’d expected, Gideon was standing at the window of his study, watching him. He lifted a pallid hand in farewell, and Bartholomew waved back.
I’m sorry, my boy, he thought miserably. It was for the best. Please, please believe me.
Then he climbed heavily into his carriage and drove away.
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“A Deal with a Cruel Earl” It will be live on Amazon soon…
This Post Has 2 Comments
I love what I have read so far and I am looking forward to reading the completed book
This such a good story! I can’t wait to find out what happens next!!