Bronwyn plucked at the silk of her white fan. “Maman, he was stiff as a stick.”
“La, child.” Lady Nora touched Bronwyn’s cheek with her finger and smiled. “He’s capable of much worse. I didn’t want to tell you, for fear it would worry you, but the man has a nasty temper, and has been known to give vent to it rather loudly in public. You can imagine my relief when he was gracious.”
Could Lady Nora be so obtuse? A hard look at that enchanting face convinced Bronwyn. Lady Nora could. A glorious butterfly who’d never had to look beyond the obvious, she took Adam’s artistically phrased insults as plaudits. Bronwyn ignored the stab of envy such oblivion caused her. “Why didn’t Da tell Lord Rawson that I don’t look like the rest of you?”
Lady Nora shrugged, her white shoulders rising and falling in a move she had practiced many times. “What difference will it make in the end? We needed the money, and his was the best offer we’d obtained for you.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he cried off,” Bronwyn said.
Laying the back of her hand across her forehead, Lady Nora cried, “Don’t be silly, child. You are betrothed to him. He can’t cry off. It would be an insult to you, and more serious, it would be an insult to our family. Your da would be justified in calling him out, should Lord Rawson do such a mad thing.” She shook her head. “No, he won’t cry off.”
He’s sorely disappointed.”
Something in Bronwyn’s face must have spoken to Lady Nora, for she said petulantly, “Oh, really, he’s going to be your husband. He’ll look for his pleasure elsewhere. Your function is to bear him two healthy heirs.”
“One for the heir, one for a spare,” Bronwyn intoned.
“Exactly. Then you’ll find your own lover. In the meantime, this future husband of yours positively glows with health. There is that distressing limp, of course, but his shoulders strain against his coat. And you know”—Lady Nora tittered behind her fan—“the dandies of London must envy him his thighs and calves. His stockings aren’t stuffed with cotton.”
“Maman, it sounds as if you’re selling me a horse. Have you checked his teeth?”
Lady Nora snapped her fan closed. “I want you to realize the advantages of this match.”
Prodded by the cold analysis of her bridegroom, Bronwyn asked the question she’d always wanted to. “Why don’t I look like the rest of you, Maman? Am I a product of a lover?”
“A lover?” Lady Nora stopped and stared at her daughter. “How can you ask that, when all of London buzzes with my devotion to your father?”
“Perhaps I’m the product of Da’s misalliance?”
Two bright red spots bled through Lady Nora’s rouge. “Not at all,” she said, but she didn’t deny Lord Gaynor’s wanderings. “You are the image of your da’s great-aunt. The wild hair, the height, the dreadfully tanned skin.”
“I don’t remember her,” Bronwyn said doubtfully.
“Of course not. She died before you were born. A wizened old maid who spoke her mind without respect to station or relationship.”
Bronwyn liked Da’s great-aunt already. “You met her?”
Touching a scented handkerchief to her nose, Lady Nora sniffed delicately. “Heavens, yes. Your da had a fondness for her. I remember those great eyes staring, and that frazzled white hair flying. She rattled on about the circle stones of Ireland, and how some magician had set them up.” She strolled down the hall, waving the handkerchief in front of her face.
Tagging along after her mother, Bronwyn said, “I wonder if she read the Gaelic manuscripts of the monasteries.”
“Probably.” Lady Nora sighed with indifference.
“She does sound like me.”
“Never say so.” The trembling of Lady Nora’s feathers betrayed agitation. “You’re not like that ridiculous spinster.”
“She doesn’t sound ridiculous to me. Just learned and eccentric.”
“Learned and eccentric! How much more ridiculous can a woman be?” Lady Nora’s expression was reflected in the endless mirrors as she passed. She seemed puzzled by the child fate had bestowed on her. “You’ve always been a trial to me. Asking odd questions. Reading books. Begging that dreadfully erudite governess to teach you Latin instead of French. French is a civilized language, and you refused to learn it. I never understood you. You aren’t like the other children, but I’ve done my best.”
In the face of her mother’s distress, Bronwyn conformed once again. “Yes, Maman. No one could ask for more.”
Lady Nora turned to Bronwyn and fussed with her gown. “I’ve dressed you in the best of clothing. It’s not my fault that your appearance doesn’t lend itself to the fashions of the day.”
“No, Maman.”
“Stop ripping at your fan. You shred all your fans with that distressing habit of yours.”
Stilling the nervous movement of her fingers, Bronwyn agreed, “Yes, Maman.”
Lady Nora’s glorious violet eyes met Bronwyn’s for the first time. “I always loved you. Never doubt that.”
How could Bronwyn question her mother’s fervency? “I know you love me, Maman.”
Lady Nora placed her cheek against Bronwyn’s in a brief gesture of affection. “There! That’s taken care of.” She drew back and adjusted Bronwyn’s wig with an expert hand. “I don’t want you to get hurt. This is marriage. Lord Rawson gets his entrée into respectable society again, you get the husband you so badly need, and your father and I get money.” Lady Nora took Bronwyn’s arm with more force than was necessary and shook her sharply. “Don’t ask for more.”
“No, Maman.”
With a smile and a trill, Lady Nora swept into the drawing room. “Here we are. Have we kept you waiting?”
Lord Gaynor, Adam, and Adam’s friend abruptly ended their discussion; Olivia stood up from her chair beside the window.
Adam bowed, his gaze on Bronwyn. “To feast my eyes on such beauty, I’d easily wait twice as long.”
Her mother’s sharp elbow in her ribs prompted Bronwyn to simper and hide her face behind her fan. A few loose threads waved before her nose. “You flatter me, Lord Rawson.”
He didn’t deny it. She stuck out her tongue before she lowered the concealing silk. Batting her lashes at Adam, she asked, “Who is this gentleman?”
He blinked as if her flutter bothered him but introduced her to Robert Walpole. “A member of the House of Commons,” Adam concluded as the gentleman, stout and on the better side of forty, looked her over frankly.
Bronwyn had been made to feel like a commodity too many times that day. Gritting her teeth, she asked, “Is that a great thing?”
Walpole’s gaze snapped from her bosom to her face. Too offended to cover her resentment, she stared back at him until he roared with laughter.
“Not at all, my dear. It’s nothing when placed beside the conversation of a scintillating lady.” Offering his arm, he said, “I’ll take you in to dinner.”
Adam intervented when she would have accepted. “She’s my fiancée, Robert. I take her in to dinner.” Realizing, perhaps, he’d sounded less than gracious, he added lightly, “It is, after all, my privilege.”
So, Bronwyn diagnosed, he didn’t want his friend Robert to discover he was disappointed with his betrothed. Her mouth curved. How interesting. Her brief euphoria faded when he continued, “Lady Bronwyn hasn’t met my mother, yet.”
Her gaze brushed Robert Walpole’s, and his expression revealed a comical horror. He dropped his offered arm, backed away as if she’d been contaminated. “Well, yes, of course. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of the, er, dear lady since I arrived. Go on, go on.” He made shooing gestures. “Meeting Adam’s mother is an experience you should, er, experience.”
What fear made the statesman blench and retreat? Was Adam’s mother as dreadful as that? Bronwyn wanted to plead for clemency, but there was none. With his walking stick held at a jaunty angle, Adam waited for her to proceed him. Clenching her fan, she did. In an awesome silence, they traversed t
he mirrored hall to a small door set in the wall.
The parlor beyond was decorated in crimson and furnished with delicate-looking furniture. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and candles lit the room. Their dancing light found the face of the woman seated on a settee—an immense woman, dressed in a loose, flowing robe. Her chins stair-stepped from her chest to her face with nary a glimpse of her neck. Her tiny, red rosebud mouth stretched in a smile. Her cheeks flowed on for acres. Her nose was an indeterminate blob, but her eyes—
Enigmatic, Bronwyn thought, her startled gaze fixed on the immobile lady. When their eyes locked, she realized, And so sad.
Adam advanced on the woman and kissed her cheek. “Mab, this is the lady who has consented to be my bride. This is Bronwyn.”
One pudgy hand was extended. Bronwyn took it warily.
“I’m pleased to meet you, child. I am Lady Mab, as my disgraceful son failed to tell you.”
“Lady Mab, dowager viscountess of Rawson,” Adam insisted.
“A title to impress the insolent.” Without moving her head, Mab transferred her attention back to Bronwyn. “Are you insolent?”
Bronwyn was stricken dumb. With a privileged few she was dreadfully insolent, yet she couldn’t admit that.
Tiring of waiting for her answer, Mab said, “I believe you’ve found the girl you desired, Adam.”
“Yes, Mab.”
Unspoken messages lurked beneath the surface, but Bronwyn was too befuddled to decipher them.
Adam asked, “Mab, will you come to dinner?”
“I wouldn’t miss the first meal with my future daughter-in-law.” Mab hoisted herself to her feet.
“I warn you, Robert Walpole is here,” Adam said.
An anticipatory smile spread across Mab’s face. “Perhaps you should warn him, not me.”
Chapter 3
“Bronwyn’s my girl, she is.” Lord Gaynor leaned back in his chair, his supper pushed away and his wineglass tilted. “She’s got all the Edana daring and intelligence. The other girls took after m’wife”—he lifted his goblet in salute—“but Bronwyn’s all mine.”
Lady Nora’s smile strained to remain pleasant. “Dear, surely you jest! You’re not trying to say Bronwyn is intelligent. Why, she’s just a girl who enjoys nothing more than a fancy needlework and a canter on a gentle horse.” She patted Bronwyn’s hand. “Isn’t that the truth, dear?”
Lord Gaynor snorted, ready to disagree. Intercepting a poisonous stare from his wife, he subsided with a cough. “Good dinner, Rawson.”
“My thanks.” Adam wondered if the interminable supper would ever end. He’d had enough of Lord Gaynor, singing his plain daughter’s praises, and enough of Mab’s sorrowing glances. He wanted to get down to the business of the evening, and that he couldn’t do while the ladies remained. His mother, the official hostess, refused to lead the exodus from the table so the men could drink their brandy and smoke their cigars. Stricken with an inspiration, he said, “Since my future wife is seated at the table with us, perhaps she could take the ladies into the parlor for conversation.” His eyes flashed triumph at Mab. “Would you do that, Bridget?”
The insipid girl he’d contracted to never blinked an eye. She rose with a gracious smile. “Shall we depart, ladies? The gentlemen wish to discuss important matters unsuitable for feminine ears. Will we see you later, Abel?”
He almost missed it, she slipped it in so easily, and when he did react he saw only the backs of three skirts as the women abandoned the dining room. Dismissing her dig as a slip of the tongue, he glared at his mother and prepared for verbal battle. To his surprise, she stood.
“As my daughter-in-law wishes, I’ll leave you gentlemen.” Before she exited, she turned back. “So good to see you again, Robert. Do return soon.”
As the footman shut the door behind her, Robert Walpole was pulling at the scarf that bound his neck. “I tell you truly, Adam, your mother terrifies me.”
“She knows it, too,” Adam confirmed.
“She’s so big and”—Walpole gestured with his hands—“big.”
Adam smiled fondly. “Most people find my mother a gentle soul, kind to a fault.”
“She’s nice to everyone but me.”
“I think, Robert, you disgust her with your boasting and your licentiousness.”
“Who could be offended by me?” Walpole adjusted his wig. “Besides, women should be womanly. Silly, vain, seeking a man’s attention. Not watching a man with wise gray eyes until he squirms, nor pricking his little fantasies with the sharp end of her tongue.”
“She does do that, doesn’t she?” Adam smiled with wicked pleasure at his friend. “Why do you think she enjoys having you for supper?”
“Cannibalism?” Walpole quipped.
Adam relaxed. “Have you lost your pound of flesh?”
Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Walpole rubbed the expanse of belly beneath the linen shirt. “I’ll have my mistress check later.”
“Not your wife?” Lord Gaynor asked with interest.
“Not tonight. My wife’s not scheduled for tonight.” A leer spread across Walpole’s broad face. “Nor for tomorrow night, either.”
“You didn’t get those five children with Catherine by ignoring her,” Adam interposed.
“There’s enough between my legs to satisfy all the ladies,” Walpole boasted, “and keep the prostitutes of all London in business, too.”
Adam reached for the brandy decanter. “I’ll need a drink to wash that down.”
Walpole’s hearty laugh rang out. “Never had the stomach for whoring, did you, Adam?”
“A seaman gets enough of whoring when he puts into port.” Adam passed a glass to Walpole.
“Admit it, it was a liberal education,” Walpole teased.
“Education? Well, perhaps. I learned how to make love in four languages.” Adam poured for Lord Gaynor and himself, then set his glass on the table and stared through the amber liquor.
Lord Gaynor, too, lifted his glass and stared through it. “Looks almost like my Bronwyn’s eyes.”
“Mm, no,” Adam said absently. “Her eyes have a tinge of auburn to them. More like sherry.”
“So I’ve always said.” Lord Gaynor downed his drink in validation.
Walpole pushed back his chair. “How are your stock investments proceeding, Adam?”
“As usual.”
“Making a fortune, are you?” Walpole shoved his feet on the table with a sigh.
“I’ve managed to escape the buying frenzy that’s attacked the rest of the London populace.”
“Bless the fools, they’ll fling their money after any ludicrous venture,” Walpole agreed.
“Did you hear the latest?” Adam sipped his brandy. “Some man sold stock in a company to create perpetual motion.”
Lord Gaynor looked from one to the other with wide eyes.
Walpole nudged the plates before him with the toe of his boot. “I’ll go one better. A fellow sold stock in a company to import jackasses from Spain.”
“As if there weren’t enough of them on Change Alley already.” Adam signaled to the footman, and the footman rushed to remove the offending china.
Lord Gaynor chuckled nervously.
“And there was the scheme for extracting oil from radishes.”
“Why?” Adam loosened the ribbon tied at the back of his neck and shook his dark hair to free it.
“Lamp oil?” Lord Gaynor suggested, and Walpole laughed at the wit.
“A good joke. The amazing thing is, there are jackasses”—he lifted his glass to Adam—“who bought stock in these companies.”
“My favorite,” Adam said, “is the promoter who announced he was selling stock in a company for carrying on the undertaking of great advantage, but nobody is to know what it is.”
“And?” Walpole asked with interest.
“And he received a thousand subscriptions of two pounds by midday.”
“And?” Walpole insisted again.
“He
disappeared in the afternoon,” Adam reported, his eyes alight with amusement.
Contagious amusement, for Walpole chortled and Lord Gaynor smirked.
Walpole grimaced in disgust. “I tried to tell them. Didn’t I try to tell them?”
“You tried to tell them, Robert. You gave an elegant speech in the House of Commons about the fallacy of assuming the South Sea Company would pay off the national debt.” Adam grinned with false sympathy. “Too bad all the Members of Parliament left while you were giving it.”
“Damned MP’s. Think I’m a common squire, too stupid to see what’s as plain as the nose on my face.” Walpole touched the bulbous growth with his finger.
Adam shoved aside his glass. “How could you fight those bribes? The directors of the South Sea Company spread money so thick, every politician stubbed his toes on the coinage.”
“The South Sea Company?” Lord Gaynor asked with interest. “But aren’t they a legitimate company, authorized by Parliament and the king?”
“That they are. But with so many small companies mucking about, siphoning the investments from the South Sea Company, George Hanover is getting alarmed.” Walpole’s familiarity mixed with contempt for the German ruler who’d accepted the English throne.
Lord Gaynor looked puzzled. “The king? Why should the king care about the South Sea Company?”
“Investments, my dear man. Investments.” Adam stretched out his leg, rubbing his thigh. “How do you think the South Sea Company received permission to push itself on the gullible public with such abandon? John Blunt, the director of the whole nefarious scheme, presented the king with a massive portfolio of stock. As of June eleventh, Parliament will outlaw stock issued by any but companies licensed by…Parliament. The king threw his considerable weight behind that proclamation, you may be sure.”
Lord Gaynor slapped his glass on the table, slopping wine on the polished surface, objecting, “Fortunes have been made with the South Sea scheme.”
“Of course. I’ve made a fortune with the South Sea scheme.” Adam propped his leg on the ottoman his footman brought him. “The directors of the company have shown a remarkable talent in manipulating the market. But mark my words, Lord Gaynor, this is a short-term investment. There’s no profit within the company to back such wild speculation. The project will burst in a while and drag down every poor sop who’s invested with it.”