“Worse; she’s intelligent. She knows as much about antiquities as I. For that reason, she and I tend to end up on the opposite ends of the auction table, usually bidding against one another.”
Anthony pursed his lips, his eyes alight with amusement. “Chase, this innkeeper…did he mention if Miss Baker-Sneed was a handsome woman?”
Chase blinked. “Actually, yes. He mentioned twice that she was deuced attractive. And he asked me if I thought she might be coming back.”
Anthony nodded, amusement and satisfaction resting on his face. “I begin to see fate’s hand at work. Or at least that of the ring. Be cautious, Marcus. It seems to me that Miss Baker-Sneed might well be your intended bride.”
“Not while I’m alive,” Marcus said, growing suddenly irritated with the whole lot of them. “And even if I were dead, not with that woman.” With that final pronouncement, he stood and regarded his brothers with a dismissive stare. “Do you have any more information to impart?”
Looking annoyingly relieved, Brandon practically leapt to his feet. “Not that I can think of. Come, let us go and leave poor Marcus to his work.”
“Wait.” Devon sent a slanting glance at Chase. “Don’t you have something to ask Marcus?”
Chase blinked. “Me? What could I possibly have to ask M—” Realization dawned, followed quickly by a shake of his head. “Oh no you don’t! I have nothing to ask Marcus. Nothing at all.”
Marcus lifted his brows. “No?”
Chase’s face heated and he glared at Devon before turning to his oldest brother. “It was nothing, really. Just…Harriet and I had thought to invite you to stay with us for Christmas, but since she’s in the family way, I thought you might not wish to—”
“That is quite kind of you,” Marcus said shortly. “But as you rightly noted, I have work to do.”
“At Christmas?” Devon asked, pausing by the door. “Surely you will cease working for a few days and—”
“Unlike you, I have no desire to waste my time with frivolities. Chase, I thank you for the invitation, but no thank you.”
Brandon brightened. “Well! I suppose that’s all there is to be said about that. Verena also wished you to visit—but as you say, you have no time.” He looked at his brothers. “I believe I shall repair to White’s. Anyone wish to join me?”
Devon nodded briefly. “I’ll accompany you.” He looked at his oldest brother and hesitated. “Marcus, surely you have plans of some sort for the holidays. I mean, you won’t be alone, will you?”
Marcus pulled the ink well closer and dipped his pen into the ink, faintly amused at the concern he saw mirrored in his brothers’ faces. “I’m in the midst of acquiring a new estate and I must retrieve the blasted talisman ring. I will be well occupied.”
Brandon frowned. “That doesn’t sound very much in the holiday way. Will…will you let us know if you need assistance?”
“If the ring is indeed in Miss Baker-Sneed’s possession, you may rest assured it will be in mine by the end of the week.” He drew his papers forward and began perusing the day’s correspondence. “Thank you all for attending me. Enjoy White’s.”
There was a moment more of silence, and then one by one his brothers bade him a brief good-bye and left. All except Anthony.
He waited until all of them were gone before he stood and gave a leisurely stretch. “You are turning into a complete curmudgeon. A woman would soften that hard shell you’re building.”
“I don’t need my shell softened, thank you. And I have a woman.”
“A mistress who coos every time you sneeze does not count.”
A flicker of irritation tightened Marcus’s shoulders. “Lady Percival does not coo. She is discreet. Pleasant. And not given to giggles or chatter.”
“She is also hinting that you will soon come to point. In fact, she seems quite confident that it is only a matter of time.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“At breakfast this morning, at the meeting of the Four Horse Club. She apparently took Lord Chudrowe into her confidence. They used to be quite close before you arrived, you know.”
A wave of irritation washed over Marcus. “I have never given Lady Percival any reason to hope our liaison is more than what it is—a flirtation.”
“Perhaps she thinks it only natural. You have been seeing her for quite a while.”
“A year, if that.” Marcus lifted a letter from the stack on his desk and glanced through it. A sophisticated widow, he’d thought her a safe mistress…until now. “There are a dozen Lady Percivals; which is fortunate since I shall have to find a new one now.”
Anthony sighed. “Marcus, I hope you will take a word of advice from a brother with your best interests at heart. Do not belittle the talisman ring. Fate does not spare those who mock her.”
Marcus opened a letter from his Yorkshire solicitor. “I don’t believe in fate.”
“You will. And it just may be this mysterious Honoria Baker-Sneed who will prove it to you.”
“Balderdash.”
“Wait and see, Marcus. Just wait and see.” With a quiet laugh, Anthony turned on his heel and quit the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Marcus threw the letter back onto the desk. Anthony’s levity was outside of enough. Had the man any knowledge of Honoria Baker-Sneed or her sharp tongue, he’d know that it would take a far more tolerant man than himself to bear such a harpy company. But that was Anthony of late; he suffered from the same illness as his other brothers. Since the lot of them had married, they were continually plaguing him with their high spirits. Plaguing him and probably everyone else they knew.
Marriage had changed every one of them, in various ways. Chase was more energetic and laughed aloud all the time. Devon, who had never suffered from ill spirits, was surrounded by smiling peacefulness. And Brandon was more focused, more ambitious. But the biggest change was in Anthony. Anthony was gentler and far more willing to laugh at his fellow man.
Marcus wondered if perhaps his own spirits would rise if he were to find a woman who—“Bloody hell, what am I thinking?” he muttered. He flicked through the rest of the day’s correspondence. He had far more important things to do than think of impossibilities. As soon as he met with his solicitor about the upcoming settlement on the Melton estate, he would schedule a very brief visit with Miss Baker-Sneed and retrieve the ring once and for all. Everyone knew the Baker-Sneeds were in desperate need of funds. All it would take was a little finesse and a strong dose of patience.
Despite Anthony’s dire prediction, that would be that. Marcus was sure of it; there were few problems that money could not solve. Once he had the ring back in the hands of the family, he’d lock it away and spend his time doing more important things, like growing the family fortune.
Truly, it was a pity his brothers had allowed themselves to get so involved in the chaos of their own lives that they had forgotten the peace that came from a more orderly existence. But that was to be expected, Marcus supposed. It certainly seemed that the cost of marriage was high indeed. One not only gave up one’s peace, but one’s faculties of reason as well.
Added to that—and in Marcus’s estimation, this was the worse part—one was forced to accept another person’s life and their relatives, mad or foolish or crazed as they might be. Why, just look at Brandon, who was now related to a family of complete shysters because of Verena. The last Marcus had heard, Verena’s father was passing himself off as a Russian count and causing untold problems in Italy.
Devon, meanwhile, had just married Katherine Macdonald and had been forced to build a workshop for his lady in the back of his estate outside of London just for the seven huge, hulking Scotsmen who helped her do her glasswork. While Marcus admitted that Kat’s talents were above the ordinary, he could not imagine the madness that was now Devon’s life.
Then there was Chase, with his wife’s herd of brothers and sisters; and Anthony, who had opened his home to a flock of noisome children as well as Anna??
?s meddling grandfather…Bloody hell if Marcus would marry, ever! Not unless he could find a nice, quiet woman who could not speak and was orphaned in the bargain. Perhaps then he’d consider it.
And perhaps not. What would be the point, anyway? Marcus liked his life just the way it was. Or he had, until the ring went missing and he discovered that his discreet liaison wasn’t quite so discreet any more.
Marcus sighed, drew forth a fresh paper and threw himself into his work. His pen flashed across the paper, and all thoughts of women and their disagreeable tendencies to change a man and make his life unpleasant faded away.
Chapter 2
Mr. Baker-Sneed possesses the purest blood in England, but he is more well known for running off with Baron Winchefield’s youngest daughter, Mary. Winchefield was furious and the old fool blabbed to one and all that young Baker-Sneed had heartlessly seduced his “innocent” daughter, which is complete foolery. Anyone who’d ever met Mary must know that poor Baker-Sneed had no say in the matter—she saw him, she wanted him, and b’God, she got him. And so it is with the females who bear the hot, impetuous blood of the Winchefields; they are queens, not consorts.
The Countess of Firth to Lady Jane Frotherton, while strolling the grassy banks of the Thames awaiting the Regent’s royal barge
“I hereby call this meeting of the Society for the Betterment of the Baker-Sneeds to order.”
The whispers and giggles that had punctuated the small sitting room immediately silenced and all attention focused on the tall figure standing beside the pianoforte. Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed rapped her bare knuckles on the cherrywood surface and smiled upon her sisters and youngest brother. “Please, everyone take a seat. We have much to do.”
This request was met by a rustling of silk and muslin, and an occasional complaint as to who got the settee closest to the fire, as Honoria’s siblings found their favorite seats amongst the scattered chairs and mismatched sofas that punctuated the faded red carpet of the sitting room.
As soon as everyone was seated, Honoria nodded to Olivia. “The treasurer’s report, if you please.”
Olivia flushed, pink with pleasure at being finally given a duty as worthwhile as the budget, her new job since Ned had left to join Father. Prior to this, Olivia’s most important duty had been to assist in the planning of holiday celebrations, and while it was fun to string cranberries and place ivy about the house or prepare cake and surprises for each birthday, she was quite ready for something more substantial. After all, she was almost fifteen and nearly a woman grown.
Beaming, she made her way to the pianoforte to stand beside Honoria. Shorter than Honoria by several inches and not nearly as pretty as Cassandra or Juliet, Olivia tried to make up for her lack of presence with a convincing determination to eschew feminine frivolity. She instead aspired to a more exciting lifestyle, like the one their oldest brother possessed.
Olivia lifted an ink-stained scrap of paper and frowned at it with an important air, her dark head bent over the figures. “I’ve worked out our weekly expenses and figured in our income from both Father’s jointure and the monies he and Ned have sent. Then I compiled a list of all of our expenses and—”
“Oh pother!” Portia flounced in her seat, her hazel eyes flashing annoyance. “We don’t need to hear how you established our accounts. We just want to know how they stand.”
Olivia frowned at this interruption. “And I plan on telling you as soon as I explain how I came about getting the figures.”
“Portia, please allow Olivia do this her own way,” Honoria said. “She has spent hours getting things organized.”
Honoria nodded for Olivia to continue and hoped Portia’s interruption didn’t add too much to what was sure to be a long-winded report. Every time Ned wrote from India, where he was currently residing with Father in search of a way to recoup their recent losses, Olivia would soak in the letter, poring over each and every detail Ned let fall. Then she’d spend the next two weeks moping about because her life wasn’t nearly as exciting as his.
Olivia would have given her eye teeth to be able to travel about the world, indulging in the adventures Ned portrayed in his infrequent letters. Honoria rather suspected that her brother, like Father, skimmed over the more unsavory details of their travels…like the sanitary aspects of some of the places they stayed and the indigestible food they were sometimes forced to eat. Neither were things that held any appeal to Honoria; she liked her clean sheets and well-roasted meat, thank-you-very-much. And she definitely didn’t look forward to facing the great unknown. There was a good deal to be said about the comforts of a well-run home and surrounding yourself with the people you loved.
Portia settled back in her chair. “Yes, well, I liked it better when Ned was here to do the treasurer’s report. He always went straight to the point.”
Juliet looked up from her needlework, the light from the small fire dancing across her ripe golden curls. At sixteen, she was bidding fair to rival Cassandra in beauty, though Juliet possessed none of her elder sister’s placid disposition. “Ned never went straight to the point. And he was forever salting his report with sea phrases, half of which I didn’t understand.”
Ned, who was the closest in age to Honoria, had at the tender age of sixteen served on a sailing vessel for two years under the auspices of their uncle, Captain Porterfield Baker-Sneed. Uncle Porterfield sailed under the flag of the Royal Navy and was a crusty, rough-spoken sailor who was supremely confident at sea and filled with lusty excitement at the thought of a battle, but was reduced to a mass of quivering bread pudding at the mere thought of spending a week on shore wearing a cravat and making polite talk to his nieces.
Juliet smiled her encouragement to Olivia. “I daresay you will be a better treasurer than Ned. He was forever making errors in his figures, and twice we overspent merely because he said there was extra in the accounts and there were not.”
Olivia beamed. “I made no mistakes. Indeed, I checked the figures twice and even cross-referenced the—”
“Yes, I am sure you did,” Honoria said smoothly. “And how are we doing this month?”
Olivia cleared her throat impressively. “As Ned would say, we’re seaworthy, but taking on water fast.”
Portia smacked her forehead, sending a wave of bounce through her dark brown hair. “Oh for the love of—”
“Portia, please!” Cassandra placed her embroidery hoop on her knees. As gentle as she was beautiful, she was forever attempting to keep the peace among her more active brothers and sisters. “Olivia, we understand that things are ill, but how ill?”
Olivia sighed heavily, and then said in a voice of long suffering, “We’re floundering and will end in the deep blue if the wind doesn’t change.”
Seven-year-old George looked up from where he was trying to put his frog into the Dresden soup tureen that rested on the sideboard. “Damnation, Olivia! Can’t you speak English?”
“Georgie!” Cassandra protested, her violet eyes wide. “Where did you hear that word?”
George looked at Honoria.
Honoria’s cheeks heated. “What? I did no such thing!”
“Honoria,” Cassandra said in a disappointed voice.
Olivia grinned. “And to think you banned poor Ned from saying ‘bloody’ when he was here.”
Honoria ignored her. “George, when did I ever say such a horrid word?”
“Last week. When you hit your thumb with the hammer while hanging the picture in the front room. You said ‘Damnation’ and then you said—”
“I remember,” she said hastily, catching the censure in Cassandra’s gentle gaze. “George, do not say that word—either of them—again.” Honoria quickly turned her attention back to Olivia. “Are you saying we have no money?”
“Exactly.”
“But I thought that so long as we stayed in budget—”
“Which no one did. Our expenses this week included seven pounds over our expected expenses.”
“Seven?” Honoria??
?s chest ached, and for a moment she wished Ned hadn’t had to join Father. It would be nice to have him here now, smiling reassuringly at her across the room. “But how did that happen? We figured every expense.”
“No, we didn’t,” Olivia said bluntly. “For example, the price of coal rose and cost us two pounds six shillings more this month than last. Then George had a cold and we kept the sitting room a bit warmer for him.”
Oh yes. George, for all his robust appearance, was prone to catching every case of ague that went about, some of which went into his ears and produced the most wretched pain and frightfully high fevers. What was worse, though, was that George never complained about the pain, even when it was at its worse. They had Ned to thank for that; unbeknownst to Honoria, before his departure Ned had taken George aside and gravely informed him that he was now the man of the house. Honoria was certain Ned only thought to get George to behave, but instead it had given the poor child an overburdened sense of responsibility, a weighty thing for a not-quite-eight-year-old.
Honoria sighed. “I had forgotten about George’s ague.”
“I’m not sick now,” George said, his face fierce.
“Of course not,” Honoria said. “You’re healthy as a horse.”
“And Honoria doesn’t even like horses,” Portia chimed in.
Which was sadly true. And all because Father’s old mare had loved nothing more than to snap at anyone who wandered within sight. Honoria rubbed her arm where a scar lingered still. “That’s neither here nor there. What other expenses were there?”
“The wheel on the carriage broke. That cost an additional pound and four shillings.” Olivia consulted her paper. “Then Juliet took nine shillings on account.”
Honoria tried to swallow her sigh.
Face slightly pink, Juliet shook out her sewing, and Honoria could see that the design was of a black stallion atop a hill, his mane blowing in the wind. Beneath it was transcribed the words Run free and fast. Juliet caught Honoria’s glance and said in a defensive tone, “The money wasn’t for me. It was for Hercules.”