Priceless, Page 3

  “Were that that was only true,” Bronwyn said.

  Lord Gaynor put his hands on his hips. “Not two months ago, lass, I invested in a concern that will be the making of us.”

  “The moneylenders loaned you enough to invest?”

  “The moneylenders loaned us enough to keep us until the coin overflows my copious pockets.” Faced with Bronwyn’s skepticism, Lord Gaynor remembered he never discussed finances with his womenfolk but he couldn’t resist bragging, “Keep yer eye on me, lass.” To Lady Nora he said, “We’ll be on our way to Lord Keanes’s immediately. Are you finished with Bronwyn’s wig, m’dear?”

  Like a ship in full sail, Lady Nora stepped around Bronwyn to join him. “I am.” Studying Bronwyn critically, she said, “I’ve done the best I can. Little Bronwyn must do the rest. Girls, ready yourselves and meet us downstairs.”

  As the door closed behind them, Bronwyn complained, “I wish Maman wouldn’t call me, ‘little Bronwyn.’”

  “I suppose they got the money.”

  “Of course they did.” Bronwyn rubbed her rumbling stomach. “What moneylender would refuse Da now, with the prospect of Lord Rawson for a son-in-law?”

  “I’m hungry,” Olivia complained.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  Olivia’s eyes flashed. “You are too.”

  “You always get peevish when you’re hungry,” Bronwyn said. Before Olivia could retort she added, “Will Lord Rawson have a very large supper, I wonder?”

  Diverted, Olivia suggested, “Breads and jellies, and those little apples draped in cinnamon pastry?”

  The sisters stared at each other.

  “You wash first,” Bronwyn commanded. “And hurry.”

  As they left the room, the landlord’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Yer Ludship, they tol’ me they was goin’ out with their grandmother. I can’t ’elp it if their idea of ’onesty don’t square with mine.”

  “Be careful what you say, my man,” their father said, hostile with the insult to his daughters’ integrity.

  Bronwyn and Olivia exchanged glances and descended in a silken rush. The landlord, red-faced and indignant, was saying, “They even tol’ me footman they was goin’ about with their mother, but the lady they brought down was old. Couldn’t hardly walk.”

  As Lord Gaynor’s eyebrows climbed, Olivia slipped her hand under his arm. Bronwyn took the other. Together they wheedled, “Da, we need to go.”

  He tried to shake them off. “This lowlife of an innkeeper—”

  “We won’t get to Boudasea Manor until after dark if we don’t hurry,” Olivia insisted.

  “I need to hear—”

  “It’s only in Kensington, Da, but we’ll not be safe from highwaymen if we don’t leave soon.”

  Lord Gaynor glared. “Anxious to go, aren’t you, dearies?”

  Olivia tugged his elbow. “The horses are in the street, Da, and I’ll wager Maman’s inside the carriage.”

  Weakening, he took a step toward the door. “I’ll get the truth of this soon, me dear little colleens.”

  The sisters herded him outside before he could argue further. “Da, we told you the truth,” Bronwyn insisted.

  He snorted but asked only, “Will you ride in the carriage, Bronwyn?”

  “We’d rather ride our horses, Da, like you. Can we?” Olivia hung adoringly on his arm.

  “You know I can never deny you two minxes anything.”

  The voices faded as the equipage rattled away, and the footman came in, pocketing the large vail he’d received from Lord Gaynor. “A generous man,” he informed the landlord, “but a fool fer ’is daughters.”

  “I could not help but watch that scene with great interest.” A gentleman’s gentleman stepped forward. His wig was pulled back in a ribbon and well dusted with gray powder; his large brown eyes rested deep in his sallow skin. His musical voice rang with the accent of Italy. “The girls have got Lord Gaynor wrapped in pink embroidery thread.”

  Not pleased to be providing shelter for the foreign-looking servant, yet unable to express himself with the vehemence he longed for, the innkeeper contented himself with a sniff. Grudgingly he agreed, “That they do, Genie.”

  “Gianni,” the valet corrected.

  “What?”

  “Gianni.” The valet smiled reproachfully. “My name is Gianni.”

  “Whatever.” The landlord raised his voice to speak to the whole taproom. “If they was mine, they’d be nursin’ their backsides, not ridin’ merrily away t’ some fancy estate.”

  Gianni ignored the landlord’s words. “They were in the room next to my master’s, were they not?”

  “Yes, an’ a whinin’ couple of females they was. Complainin’ about yer master’s, er, lady…” The landlord trailed off under the valet’s liquid eye.

  Jumping in with a youth’s eagerness, the footman said, “First they say that veiled woman is their mother, then they say she’s their grandmother. Ye know what I think? I think she weren’t even related t’ them. Their father certain didn’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “Ye don’t suppose…?” The landlord gaped at Gianni in dismay, but he only nodded regally.

  “I must ready my master. We’ll be leaving immediately.” He ascended the stairs with stiff-necked dignity, rapping at the door at the end of the hall.

  Letting himself in with a key, the valet eagerly reported, “Just as you suspected, my master, the girls in the room next door helped Henriette escape while we were out.”

  “Damn.” The man called Judson sat before the mirror, studying his pockmarked face with little pleasure. “I’m ready for my wig.”

  Gianni hurried to his master. After arranging a cloth across Judson’s shoulders, he lifted the large, full-bottomed wig from its stand. He settled it on his master’s hairless head and shook powder over it.

  “Who are they?” Judson inquired.

  “Two young ladies of quality, although I caught only the name of the elder.”

  Judson lifted his handkerchief and dusted the excess powder from his face. “Yes?”

  “Bronwyn Edana.”

  Turning on Gianni like a tiger on his prey, Judson whispered, “Of the famous Edana sisters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s bad.” Holding a soft brush dipped in color, Judson leaned close to the mirror and painted eyebrows where there had been none. “Those Edanas are integrated into society, and not easily eliminated. I suppose she looks just like the rest of her sisters?”

  “Not at all. Most unattractive.”

  “Ah.” Judson studied his results. The wig covered his baldness, the paint gave him brows. Yet nothing could replace his eyelashes, nor give him back all he’d lost to the smallpox. “Do you think anyone notices I have no hair on my body?” he fretted.

  With a well-rehearsed sound of disbelief, Gianni denied it. “Women don’t like men who are covered with fur, like an animal. You know how the ladies fawn on you. Asking your advice about their cosmetics and their wigs, praising your sense of color…”

  His vanity appeased, Judson asked, “Where was this creature going?”

  “To Boudasea Manor.”

  “That’s the new home of Lord Rawson.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  At the valet’s obvious relish, a half smile cocked Judson’s mouth. “Tell me, Gianni. What do you know?”

  A half smile answered his. “You know how I hate to repeat rumors—”

  “Of course.”

  “But word is that the girl is to wed the noble Adam Keane.”

  Throwing back his head, Judson burst into laughter. “Adam Keane?” He laughed again. “The viscount of Rawson? That sour seaman? Oh, that’s too good.”

  Pleased with his master’s merriment, Gianni laughed, too. “Yes, my master.”

  “I was raised with him, you know, and I hated him even then.” Judson stared in the mirror, but he saw into the past. “Wretched man. So self-confident. So handsome.”

  “Not mor
e than you, my master,” Gianni assured him.

  “Oh, yes,” Judson hissed with malevolent envy. “Even before the smallpox, he turned heads where I did not.”

  Gianni wrung his hands at his master’s unhappiness.

  “But how delicious. An ugly bride. What distress that will cause him.” Carroll Judson dusted his fingers. “I’ll not have to worry about her, then. He’ll never let her off his estate, never speak to her, do no more than give her children. Let’s leave this place.” Having lifted the leather pouch that hung around his waist, he opened it with care. Gianni turned his back as his master fumbled with the coins, waiting as he always did for the largesse Judson dispensed. “Here.” Judson thrust the money at Gianni and glanced disdainfully at the bloody bed. “Give this to the landlord and tell him he needs to clean.”

  “She’s just as beautiful as rumor said.” Adam Keane kept his horse under restraint with a strong hand on the bridle.

  Northrup swallowed. “Sir?”

  The setting sun shone toward the riders, and Adam stared through his spyglass across the green sweep of his lawn. “Look at that black hair, that fair skin. See how gracefully she sits her mount. No doubt she’ll be just like the other Sirens of Ireland—none too bright, a good breeder, a good manager. That woman is worthy to be the mother of my children.”

  Tugging at his cravat, Northrup said, “Sir, I believe there’s some mistake.”

  “True, she looks younger than her twenty-two years.” Adam scraped his thumb across his chin, already darkening with the shadow of his beard. “If the marriage contract hadn’t assured me she was of a suitable age, I would have never thought it. The Edanas wouldn’t be fools enough to try and cheat me?”

  “No, no,” Northrup burst out, horrified. “I met Lady Bronwyn during my days at court, and assure you her family isn’t trying to cheat you.”

  “Good man. I knew I could depend on you.” Adam nodded briefly. “For all that she’s an Irishwoman, I’ll have no trouble bedding her.”

  “Sir, I believe you’re looking at Lady Bronwyn’s sister.” Once he’d spit out his message, Northrup sighed with relief. When Adam folded the spyglass together and turned his gaze on him, the secretary gasped at the dash of cold. He’d forgotten how frigid those gray eyes could be.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Adam’s grammar was as fine as Northrup’s, but in his speech Northrup could hear the distinctive meter of a seaman. That betrayed Adam’s perturbation more than the tightening around his mouth. A high note colored Northrup’s reply. “I said, my lord, that you’re looking at Lady Bronwyn’s sister.”

  “I heard you.”

  Northrup cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Yes, sir. Lady Bronwyn is the woman next to the…girl you described.”

  Adam glared at the wedding party as it rode closer. “That’s the maid.”

  “No, sir. That’s Lady Bronwyn. If you will recall, I told you of her distinctive features when I returned from my trip to Amsterdam.”

  Adam’s grip tightened on the reins, and beneath him his horse stirred. “Now I remember. From now on, I’ll have to listen more closely to my esteemed secretary, shan’t I?”

  His smile froze Northrup’s bones. Lord Rawson seldom took advantage of his position as master, Northrup mused, but when he did, it always made Northrup unhappily aware of his own privileged upbringing.

  “She looks like a King Charles spaniel, beribboned and curled.” Adam tucked his spyglass into its leather case. Guiding his horse down to the curved gravel drive, he suggested, “Shall we go greet my bride?”

  What sort of symbolism prompted the two gentlemen to watch their guests’ arrival from the top of the rise? Silhouetted against the setting sun, the horsemen and the partially finished chapel offered a sight that chilled Bronwyn. One of those men was her fiancé. One of them would have the right to control her behavior, her dress, her body.

  Olivia divined Bronwyn’s chaotic emotions and offered compassion without succor. “It won’t be so bad. Many men are affectionate with their wives. Look at Da. He dotes on Maman.”

  “Yes, and look at our King George,” Bronwyn snapped. “They say he divorced his wife, locked her up in a German castle, ignored her pleas for clemency. She hasn’t seen her children in twenty years.”

  “He divorced her for infidelity.”

  “His crime was the greater. He lifts every skirt he can, they say, and he had his wife’s lover assassinated.” Grimly Bronwyn contemplated her fate. “I tell you, sister, I wish Da hadn’t insisted we be married from oldest to youngest. Lord Rawson would much rather have you, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t say that!” Olivia cried. “I don’t want him.”

  Startled, Bronwyn faced her sister. “Have you heard something I haven’t?”

  “No!” Olivia placed her hand on her breast and took a calming breath. “No. I just…I don’t want to marry yet.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” Bronwyn assured her. “The marriage settlement Lord Rawson offered should keep Da and Maman in silks for another few years. Who knows, perhaps Da will invest in something useful this time and make his fortune.”

  “Perhaps.” Olivia’s hopeless tone clearly told her opinion of that. “Here they come. Which one is he, do you suppose?”

  With one glance, Bronwyn knew. He was the gorgeous one. He was the one whose sculptured face was the epitome of male beauty. He was the one with the fashionable sneer. One glance, and she looked at him no more. As her father, with his good-fellow-well-met voice, greeted Adam, she kept her eyes trained below his collar.

  The talk washed over her, but she could no longer ignore him when he took her hand. “Lady Bronwyn. You’re a breath of fresh air in my unexceptional life.”

  Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t a compliment, for all he made it sound as smooth and charming as a sonnet. She looked at him then, and his remote disapproval stole her breath. His glacial eyes rested on her regally. His lips pinched into a tight line, and his nostrils quivered with disdain.

  Chiming like a bell, her mother said, “Thank His Lordship, Bronwyn. Greet His Lordship! After all, you’ll have years of marital bliss ahead. You must begin correctly.”

  “Lord Rawson, I’m well aware of the honor you confer on me with your”—the words stuck in her throat—“your offer. I’m sure I’ll never forget it.”

  The last sentence sounded a little sarcastic. She smoothed her expression into that of a placid sheep—no small achievement, for he still held her hand. She wanted to adjust her wig, to press her velvet beauty patch more firmly on her cheek. She settled for licking her lips. He watched her, close and attentive as a prospective bridegroom. Which he was, she reminded herself.

  He gave her a chilly smile. “All is in anticipation of your coming. The manor gleams from top to bottom. The housekeeping staff is assembled by the door, waiting to meet you.”

  She stared at him, jolted with the reminder that the worst of her ordeal remained. With a twist of her wrist, she tried to retrieve her hand, but he refused to allow her even so small a retreat.

  He said, “My mother can barely restrain her impatience.”

  Her palm began to sweat.

  “She’s a most opinionated lady, used to having her own way. I’ll be anxious to hear her verdict on the bride I bring her.” He lifted her hand, kissed the back, turned it over, examined it. The gleam of his eyes reveled in his victory, and he released her. “Come and see the house.”

  Set among towering trees that seasoned it, Boudasea Manor sparkled with marble and soared with columns. The butler pointed out its contemporary improvements, as did the housekeeper and various retainers. With running water in the kitchen and a private sewer to the river, the manor was a miracle of the modern age. The room Bronwyn shared with Olivia held everything a young woman would want. The room adjoining Adam’s, into which she would move only too soon, combined taste with comfort. Quality was stamped on every item; quality, Adam said, was his overriding concern.

&nb
sp; He meant, she knew, that she hadn’t come up to his definition of quality.

  Going now to dinner, she wished she could sink through the floor and drown in one of those conduits of running water. She’d imagined horrors, but this evening had put her nightmares to shame—and the worst was yet to come. Adam had a guest. In for a cozy dinner, he’d said, but she knew why this “guest” visited now. He was a friend, come to inspect the recently purchased goods.

  Like a buzzing in her ear, she could hear her mother giving advice as they strolled the mirrored hallways to her doom.

  “Don’t gawk about you. Keep your head lowered and a modest demeanor. Don’t interrupt the men’s conversation, especially if you’re sure they’re wrong.”

  Bronwyn shot a look at her mother, but Lady Nora never noticed. “Remember what I’ve taught you. Men prefer women who are useless and decorative.” She arranged the silk of her skirt with a series of little jerks. Her blossoming panniers held the glowing scarlet of her underdress out to the sides. The costume enhanced her coiffure, an artful arrangement of her own black curls, and the cream of her skin. Retrieving her patch box from her voluminous pocket, she placed a heart-shaped bit of black velvet above her upper lip and perfected her seductive smile.

  It would hardly do to compare herself with her mother, Bronwyn thought, but with so many mirrors around them…Overwhelmed by a profusion of laces and ribbons, the formal white dress did nothing to enhance her tanned skin. The fashionable décolletage should reveal the curve of her bosom, yet she had little to reveal, and that was bolstered by a stuffing of linen beneath. Her brown wig towered above the top of her head, and a ringlet trailed over her shoulder. On a woman as petite as she was, it had a crushing effect, and the high heels she wore didn’t help.

  How women ever learned to walk in them, she didn’t know. She stopped and shook her foot, but nothing could ease the cramp. She sighed, and Lady Nora jerked her attention from her own fascinating reflection and back to her daughter.

  Putting her patch box away, she said, “Lord Rawson seemed most impressed with you.”