Barbara Metzger Read online

  Then an orange-girl slapped Lawrence Canover and they all laughed, but Rockford looked her way first, to make sure she saw the humor. She had missed that, too, the joy of having someone to laugh with.

  They could have a marriage, she swore, a real marriage, with sharing and caring and laughter and, yes, love. She knew it would be all too easy to give her heart to this man who carried her son so gently, who warmed her blood with a smile.

  They could have a marriage. Starting tonight.

  *

  Billy’s stomach was understandably upset and he had to be comforted. Neither the footman nor the nursery maid nor Mr. Lucius Canover would do, only Alissa. She sat by his bed until he fell asleep.

  Hugo and Kendall had to be dissuaded from gathering dishes from the kitchen to see if they could juggle them. The puppies were exuberant after being penned in all night, and so was Willy, wide-awake after his nap in Rockford’s arms. He had to hear about all he’d missed, especially the grand finale, and begged Alissa to take him back tomorrow, to see it for himself. Someday, she promised, hopeful that the future could only get better.

  Although she had refused to go with them, Lady Eleanor insisted that Alissa tell her about the evening over a cup of tea. Alissa agreed, feeling sympathy with her bored, lonely sister-in-law. None of her London acquaintances had responded to Eleanor’s notes, and no invitations had been delivered. She had to be dissuaded from returning to Rock Hill in the morning.

  “Stay a few more days,” Alissa urged. “I know we did not fare well with the duke”—which was an understatement of epic proportions—“but I have not given up on our chances of being accepted. Not by the highest sticklers, but your brother did offer to introduce me to the regent, and who knows what could happen then.”

  “The fat old lecher could make you an indecent proposal, Rockford would call him out, and we would all have to flee to the country. I merely wish to move the inevitable outcome forward.”

  “Don’t be a goose. The prince is married.”

  “Now who is being a goose?” Lady Eleanor countered, but she did agree to stay on in town for the rest of the week, at least.

  Finally Alissa’s time was her own, but she needed a bath.

  By the time she was ready for bed—and ready for her husband in a new nightgown that was not nearly warm enough for an October night unless a body lay next to her—she had talked herself out of it. Her cold feet had nothing to do with the flimsy, feathered slippers she wore.

  Rockford had not said anything about the Austrian princess. He had looked at Alissa with lust and a little affection this night, she thought, but what if, tomorrow, he went back to being a married bachelor? What if, tomorrow, he remembered that he’d only wed to provide his sons a mother? She paced her room. She moved a figurine on the mantel. She chewed her lip almost bloody.

  Then she unlocked the connecting door. Her husband was too proud to ask again, she’d wager, so the stalemate could last forever unless she made the first concession. The click of the key sounded loud to her ears, but he did not come dashing through the opening as she’d hoped. She stepped in. He did not greet her with one eyebrow raised, as she’d feared.

  No, he was sprawled across his bed, half-undressed, fast asleep. One night of being a father had exhausted him. She found a blanket to cover him, brushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes the same as she had done for Billy, and went back to her own room, smiling. The arrogant earl was human after all.

  He snored.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning Alissa found herself alone in the house except for the servants. Mr. Canover had taken Hugo to Hatchard’s to purchase more books for his studies, and Aminta, Lady Eleanor, and a maid had gone along to find the latest novels. The other boys had left earlier with Jake and the ponies for riding lessons at the indoor ring. Alissa had no idea where her husband was, to her disappointment, disapproval, and dismay when Claymore handed her a visitor’s card.

  She did not know any Lady Winchwood and did not know if she should be received and, if so, in the small morning room where Alissa sat or the formal parlor. The problem was resolved by the lady herself, trotting along in Claymore’s wake before Alissa could ask his advice.

  With rouged cheeks, red hair that rivaled a summer sunset, and a gown much too daring for one of her advanced years and too tight for one of her poundage, Lady Winchwood was definitely not someone Alissa should entertain, she decided, not unless she wished her reputation tarnished more.

  Then Claymore announced, “Baroness Winchwood, my lady, formerly Mrs. Battersby, formerly Lady Jasper Nunn, formerly Lady Regina Rothmore, his lordship’s aunt from Wales.”

  “He really has an aunt from Wales? That is, welcome to Rothmore House, ah, Lady Winchwood. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’ll wager it is,” the old lady replied, after telling Claymore to bring the claret. “The good stuff, mind, that my father put down.” She dropped herself onto a high-backed chair and kicked her slippers off. “What, did you think you spun me up out of moonbeams, just to save Eleanor’s name?”

  “I…I was not certain.”

  “Well, I do exist, and you can thank your stars that there is still life in these old bones. I have come to pull your chestnuts out of the fire.”

  Heavens, with this painted old tart on their side, they were embers. “Ah, how did you know we were in trouble?” Alissa asked, positive that Eleanor had said the old aunt never left Wales, never corresponded with anyone in London.

  “Claymore wrote me, of course. Good man, Claymore. I have tried to get him to go off to Wales with me any number of times.”

  “As your…butler?”

  “Do not be impertinent, girl. You need me.”

  At Alissa’s doubting look, Lady Winchwood went “humph” and said, “I might not look it, but I do know my way around the ton. I gave up on the whole lot of them ages ago. Nothing but a flock of sheep, with a few old goats thrown in. Still, I won’t sit back and see my family disgraced.”

  Alissa sat up straighter, ready to defend her birth and breeding, and the hurried wedding. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Pull in your claws, missy. I ain’t speaking of you. It’s Eleanor. Always did have an odd kick to her gallop, my niece, but this time she’s gone too far.”

  “She did come back, however. With the Rembrandt,” Alissa added out of loyalty to her sister-in-law.

  “Landed on her feet, thanks to you, Claymore says, but not entirely. My coming to check on the poor girl’s health will make your tale of the influenza and her recuperation at my house more believable. Who is going to challenge my word to my face?”

  Since her face sported the same nose as Lady Eleanor, no one. “That might do, Lady Winchwood. Thank you.”

  “Oh, call me Aunt Reggie. Everyone does. You’re part of the family now, and one of the best parts, according to Claymore.”

  Alissa felt herself blush. “I never—”

  “Of course you did. Taking in Eleanor after she blotted her copybook so badly decent folks would have cut her dead, and taking charge of my grand-nephews. Claymore says you brought the pair of them to London with you.”

  “Yes, along with my two sons. They get along well. Do you not approve? Hugo does not seem to have taken any ill effects from the journey or the air.”

  “I think it’s an excellent idea. Can’t abide those women who leave their babies in the country for some other female to raise. Unnatural, it is.”

  “Do you have children of your own, then?” Alissa asked.

  “No, to my regrets. My first husband died too soon, my second was too incompetent, and Winchwood was too old. Then I was.”

  “I am sorry.” Alissa felt that covered everything, the lack of children, the demise of so many husbands, the need for hair dye and face paint.

  Lady Winchwood shrugged, jiggling a formidable chest. “I haven’t found another man I liked half so well since Winchwood or I’d be married again. Not that I didn’t try o
ut a few, or have other offers, mind, but I have money and the dower house and friends aplenty. Who needs another husband when a female of my age can do whatever she wants anyway, with anyone she chooses? I would have loved a lapful of babes, but had to settle for being an aunt instead. Luckily all my husbands came from big, fertile families. The little boys are best. You can send them to the kitchens to snabble snacks, and they always know the best gossip and where the key to the liquor cabinet hangs.”

  Oh, dear. Rockford was going to have to lay down some rules for his relative, if the outrageous widow was going to reside with them.

  She was going on: “And they don’t set up a caterwaul afterward, when you win their pennies at cards. Eleanor once kicked up such a fuss over a hand that she accused me of cheating.”

  Alissa would not put anything past Rockford’s aunt Reggie. “Had you? Cheated, that is?”

  “How else are they going to learn not to trust the dealer?”

  “What about Rockford?”

  Lady Winchwood swallowed half the glass of wine Claymore brought, then held her glass out for more. When the butler left, she said, “Oh, that one never did trust a soul. Rock had to play by his rules or not at all. Not that he was not a good boy, just that he knew who he was and what was expected of his name from the day he was born. The boy takes himself too seriously, I always said. You’ll bring him around, though.”

  “Robert is a man now, not a boy.”

  “Robert, is it? Humph. Ain’t been married long, have you? They are all boys at heart. They want what they want, on the instant, and they’ll do anything to get it. They’ll do more to keep it, especially if another boy has his eye on it, and that goes for horses and women as well as toy soldiers and make-believe mountains. Little boys, every one of them, which ain’t to say they can’t be taught. You’ll see.”

  Maybe Lady Winchwood was wiser than she looked, or maybe Alissa just hoped she was right.

  She was right about helping. Aunt Reggie made Alissa write out a hundred notes, it seemed, then send out a squad of footmen to deliver them. In no time at all, responses were flying back like birds to the roost. Invitations, welcome messages, a few matrons in person arrived at Rothmore House. As soon as Amy and Eleanor returned, Aunt Reggie enlisted them in the cause too, dragging all three of the younger women off to pay calls on everyone who had answered her notes, and a few who had not.

  Lady Eleanor was on her best behavior, under threat of having to go live with Aunt Reggie otherwise. She even managed to cough a few times, to corroborate the story of her illness. There were a few flared nostrils, but no one turned their backs on her. After all, she was no young miss whose indiscretions made her unsuitable for marriage to their sons. A woman so firmly on the shelf could be forgiven a slight sidestep from the moral path.

  Aminta was so quiet and demure, the dowagers all labeled her a prettily behaved girl. That she was actually petrified into silence was of little account. After all, she was a young miss. Her birth was not what they might want for their own sons, but the dowry Aunt Reggie whispered in their ears would be ideal for a nephew or younger grandson.

  Alissa was the one truly on trial, though, and she knew it. Over her hundredth cup of tea, it seemed, she smiled and quietly diverted talk from her marriage onto her children. Instead of speaking of Rockford, she spoke of his sons. When quizzed, she admitted to having given painting lessons, and opened her locket to reveal a miniature of her boys. Aunt Reggie’s friends all wanted portraits done, some of husbands, some of children, one of her lover. Alissa also confessed to entertaining the entire Ziftsweig delegation, without knowing a word of German. She smiled, the matrons smiled, Aunt Reggie grinned. Alissa passed the test.

  Invitations started to arrive at Rothmore House that very afternoon, for all the ladies. There were balls and breakfasts, dance parties for young ladies, card parties for the older ones. Rides to Kensington, drives to Richmond. One dowager was having an opera singer at her house; another was having a cellist. Everyone wanted to entertain the new countess before the Christmas holidays when most of the polite world left town, not to return until springtime. Some of the invitations were to house parties and hunt balls. A few ladies who were staying in London planned elaborate dinners, festive routs with fireworks to celebrate the new year. Alissa could not accept, not knowing Rockford’s plans.

  Aunt Reggie did insist she accept the invitations to Almack’s, the exclusive assembly rooms. “It took a lot of tea drinking to get those vouchers,” she claimed. “And without them you are still Alissa Henning, bailiff’s daughter, poor widow. Nobody. Once you are accepted by the jackaninnies who run Almack’s, though, you are one of them. Countess of Rockford, a lady with a capital L. Your sister and my niece get in on your coattails. No doors will be shut, no ugly rumors will take root and grow. You will accept those vouchers, by George, or I will wash my hands of the whole pack of you.”

  Lady Eleanor refused. Almack’s was nothing but a marriage mart, she claimed, and she was resigned—no, determined—to staying unwed.

  “Well, I ain’t,” Aunt Reggie declared. “I intend to look over the crop of widowers and old bachelors, and I suggest you do the same. You can’t be hanging on your brother’s arm the rest of your life, nor cluttering up Alissa’s house.”

  Alissa protested. Her sister-in-law would always have a home with them, for as long as she wished.

  “That’s all right and tight, missy, but look ahead. Is Hugo going to want to clothe, house, and feed an old auntie? Does Eleanor have an independent income? No, she counts on Rock to pay her bills. Hah. Besides, even if Eleanor ain’t husband hunting, she needs to show her pretty face”—bless an aunt’s prejudiced view—“to put an end to the gossip once and for all.”

  Aminta had to go too.

  Aunt Reggie was adamant. “What, hide away in the nursery? Here is the opportunity of a lifetime, girl, and you will go, no matter how your knees knock together. Asides, you’re not looking to snare a title. No use having lofty ambitions; the dowry ain’t all that rich. Why do you think your sister swallowed all that tea? So you could have choices, that’s what. You’ll go, and you’ll smile. That’s enough. Oh, and you’ll have to wear white, of course. Eleanor, I think yellow or red, something bright so they know you ain’t trying to fade into the woodwork. As for you, Countess, make sure you wear the Rothmore rubies. Anyone who doesn’t know who you are today, will after Wednesday.”

  Lady Winchwood, in fact, had them go to a dressmaker that very afternoon, before dinner at one of her friends’ houses, then a piano recital, a card party, and a poetry reading that evening. “Rockford can pay the extra charge so new gowns can be ready on time,” she said. “What else is his money good for?”

  * * *

  Rockford was managing to spend his money with no help from his aunt. He had decided early that morning to go with the boys to their riding lesson at the indoor ring. The ponies he had selected were well schooled, but they were not used to London traffic, all the noises and commotion, and Jake and the grooms might not be vigilant enough on the way to the livery stable. Besides, all the boys had talked about on the way home last night was how they were going to stand on their ponies’ backs, how they were going to practice leaping on and off.

  Lud, dissuading them from trying to break their necks was the very devil. Rockford had to promise them wooden boats to sail on the Serpentine if they listened to Jake’s instructions.

  He didn’t like Jake’s tutelage. No, William’s feet were too far forward. Will’s back was not straight enough. Kendall was clutching the reins in a death grip. The tutor’s brother, on one of the livery stable’s horses, rode too fast, as if he were joining the cavalry eventually instead of a rifle unit.

  Jake threw up his hands. “My schooling was good enough for you, b’gad. If you don’t like it now, you can take over teachin’ the sprouts. I’ve enough to do without arguin’ over every step and every turn. The lads will never be ready for the jumps if you have your way.”

/>   Jumps? The infant who slept in his arms last night was going to go over jumps? Not on his life.

  After the lesson, they stopped in at Tattersall’s. If the tutor’s brother was going to help bear-lead the younger boys, he needed a better horse. By this time they were all thirsty, so Rockford took them to Gunter’s for ices and pastries. The sweets completely ruined their appetite for lunch, of course, so they went shopping for the boats instead of returning to Rothmore House. Wooden puzzles would be fine for a rainy day, the skittles at Rothmore House were ancient, and none of them had ever seen such finely painted metal crusaders. Rockford bought them all, and an extra boat for Hugo, too. They naturally had to try them out in Hyde Park, and William fell into the Serpentine only once.

  If they went home to change his clothes—and Rockford’s, ruined fishing Will out of the water—questions would be asked. Like what kind of father was he, anyway, letting his son get wet on a cold autumn day? It seemed easier to purchase the boy new, ready-made clothes. The children’s haberdasher had a dandy stock of boys’ hats, just like Rockford’s beaver, only smaller, so he bought a beaver dam-ful, it seemed.

  They looked so fine, matching Rothmores and Hennings and one Canover on the strut, that old ladies smiled and older gentlemen nodded approvingly. Young ladies sighed: They wanted a father just like that for their future sons. Younger gentlemen rushed to White’s Club to lay down bets on Rockford’s transformation and how long it would last, and on how many of the lads were his bastards.

  Since the only thing waiting at home was lessons for the boys and secretaries to interview for the earl, they decided on extending their excursion, once they had eaten meat pies and chestnuts from street vendors, and hot buns and raspberry tarts from the bakery they passed.

  They had to save the Tower Menagerie for when Hugo was along, the younger boys insisted, and the new steam-engine exhibit for when the elder Mr. Canover could explain the workings in detail, his brother suggested, not trusting Lord Rockford’s scientific erudition. The art museum was deemed too dull, the cathedrals were voted too much like history lessons, but the waxwork gallery was the unanimous choice. Dead people, gory scenes, mayhem recreated—what more could a boy ask?