Gwen pulled her knees closer to her chest. She was buried beneath the covers, with a pillow atop her face, but it still wasn’t enough. What she needed was a shell. Then she could crawl into it and hide, no matter where she found herself. How lucky turtles were, in that regard. “Once again,” she mumbled, “I send my regrets.”
“Miss, she insists! There is company!”
It was only the Ramseys, who would forgive her. Nevertheless, the maid’s wheezing voice made her lift the pillow for a peek. An unhealthy flush blotched Hester’s cheeks. No wonder! Aunt Elma had sent her scrambling up the staircase five times in the last half hour.
Gwen threw off the pillow and sat up. “The next time my aunt sends for me, you’re to pay her no heed. Just wait a bit in the hall, then tell her I refused again.” When Hester looked hesitant, she rose to her feet for the added air of authority. “I assure you, that’s exactly what I’d do if you came anyway.”
The maid gave a little panting moan, then ducked a curtsy and withdrew. As the door closed, the room sank again into darkness.
Gwen swayed indecisively. There was no desire in her to do anything. Her whole body ached. But she did not think she would manage to go back to sleep now.
She crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains.
Surprise stopped her breath. Bits of mild blue sky showed through the green leaves that brushed the glass. Still daylight! How was that possible? It felt as though the day should have been over years ago.
She glanced disbelievingly to the clock on the mantel. Only a quarter after five! Why, people were strolling through the park still! They hadn’t taken their afternoon tea yet, while already she’d woken, breakfasted, nearly been married, cried herself to sleep, and been rousted five times by an aunt who wished her to go downstairs and contemplate, amongst company, her public humiliation.
Quite a lot to fit into a day, really.
Tears pricked her eyes. Not again! She dashed them away. Stop crying, she thought. You did not love him. She had liked him very much, and she had hoped and vowed to grow to love him, but these endless tears were not for the life they would have shared. They were for humiliation, she thought. And betrayal, and shock. And they had already given her an awful headache and she didn’t want it to worsen.
Her hand fell from the drapes. With a sigh, she turned away from the window. A piece of paper lay discarded on the carpet. After a startled moment, she recognized it: her anonymous admirer had sent another note today; it had been waiting on her return from the church. Had she read it earlier? It looked as if she had, but she couldn’t remember doing so.
She took it up and sat down in an easy chair. Yes, there was a tearstain near the top. She swallowed and decided to ignore that. The script was very elegant, wasn’t it? Oh, she would not fool herself. With her luck, the author probably had gout, six children, and no hair.
For fear of offending you I have hesitated to write another letter, but my ardent admiration overwhelms the bounds of propriety. Herein I intend to contemplate a question that has haunted me for some time: How could I not have fallen in love with you, Miss Maudsley?
Her admirer needed to have a chat with Thomas. Thomas could advise him on this question. For that matter, Lord Trent could as well.
What was wrong with her? Jilted twice!
She laid down the letter and stared blankly at the window. Some awful flaw lurked inside her. That was the obvious conclusion.
But the obvious conclusion made no sense! It was not immodest to acknowledge herself passably pretty, reasonably charming, and very well liked. Moreover, she had done everything right. Everything! Obeyed every rule. Smiled at insults. Charmed all the snobbish gorgons who’d caviled at her lowly background. Refused every second glass of wine! Forgone cycling because it required split skirts, refrained from singing in company, declined all wicked parlor games. Cheered up sourpusses and swallowed retorts, forgiven ill tempers, and never—not once!—taken the Lord’s name in vain. Embroidered thirty handkerchiefs in three weeks! Why, she’d been stitching in her sleep by the end of that!
And for what?
Not for this.
The lump was forming in her throat again. Very well, if she wanted to cry, she would cry for her parents. They had given up so much to ensure her prospects! They had given her up. After she’d gone to school, all she’d had of them were letters and the holidays—so brief, never enough. They’d claimed to want a different fate for her than their own. Having come into wealth as adults, her parents had lost their old friends—some of whom had no longer felt comfortable with them, others of whom had sought to take advantage. But new friends of equal fortune had not lasted, either. Their manners, customs, attitudes and interests had been too different to support true friendship.
In these tribulations, her parents had seen a lesson for her. A girl dowered so richly would have to associate with her peers—the best and wealthiest members of society. But in such circles, a girl raised in Leeds, with a northern accent and rustic ways, would never flourish. Thus they had sent her to school, and after their deaths, according to their wishes, Richard had found a well-born family to raise her during holidays and guide her successfully through her debut.
And she had succeeded. She had! For her parents’ sake as much as her own, she had tried her best and triumphed in every way.
Every way but one.
A choked laugh escaped her. Only one matter remained outside of her control. And Thomas had seemed such a safe choice for it! So gentlemanly, so reliable, so . . . desperate. Oh, the monster! The sight of him bounding away from the altar was stuck in her head; in her half-sleep, it had unfolded over and over, as taunting as a snippet from some irksome song. He loved her, did he? She’d prayed it to be true, but had feared that he loved her fortune better. And in the end—how odd!—neither idea had proved right.
Three million pounds he had left at that altar! It was beyond a fortune. And he was dead broke! What else could he want from a woman?
It was very difficult not to believe that something was wrong with her.
Some flicker of movement caught her attention. She realized it had been her own reflection in the looking glass, as she’d shoved her fist against her mouth. Why, she looked like a madwoman—chignon collapsing, eyes wide and crazed, her simple green morning dress rumpled beyond repair.
She lowered her fist, exhaled, and forced her attention back to the letter.
Of course, I do not need to mention your kindness. Your benevolence to the orphanages is legendary; you are a bosom friend to all who have the good fortune to know you. The entire town praises your chaste, moral rectitude and your unshakable good temper. Even the wicked columnists in the newspapers can find no wrong in you.
A wild feeling tightened her throat. Yes, any number of anonymous journalists had testified in print that she was a paragon. How would they describe her now? Not only “dreadfully disappointed by the treacherous Lord T——,” but also “abominably abused by the perfidious Lord P——.” They would run out of ink for her, maybe. Or adjectives.
But no, of course they wouldn’t. Pitiable: that was the word they would use. It was the next step up from beleaguered; it conjured a more permanent condition. One broken engagement was shocking. Two spelled damaged goods.
She pushed the letter to the floor. Anonymously penned—what did it signify? It was only another piece of cowardice from another penniless blackguard.
Men! All of them, spineless.
Springing to her feet, she began to pace. Well, she had no use for spineless curs. In fact, she pitied the poor girl who purchased Thomas. That girl would not get value for her money! When Gwen thought of all the objections she had swallowed during their courtship—his habit of leering at ladies’ bosoms, which Elma had persuaded her was natural for a man; his execrable fondness for bad puns, which she’d told herself she found charming; his taste for gambling, although the roof on his country estate had fallen in for lack of funds to repair it; his snobbery toward the lower classes, as if her parents hadn’t once belonged to them—why, she felt quite lucky that he’d jilted her!
She came to a stop. How astonished he would be to learn that. He probably imagined her prostrate with grief, wailing and rending her hair. As if he were such a prize to lose! A man who bolted from church like a rat from the light!
Perhaps she should inform him of this. Yes, what a brilliant idea! She could write him this very instant, chronicling the many reasons she was so glad not to be wed to him.
She threw herself down at the writing table.
You fancied yourself a fine dancer, but you stepped on my feet at every turn.
The scratch of pen across the paper sounded pleasingly violent.
Your breath so often reeked of onions that I wondered if you ate aught else.
She did not think her handwriting had ever slanted so boldly!
I nearly gagged every time you kissed me. In fact, I think you the worst kisser I have ever encountered.
That was saying something, for although she only had one other kisser to go by, Lord Trent’s performance had not recommended itself either. Very . . . slobbery, had been Lord Trent. Paired with all the nipping, he had put her in mind of a terrier.
Oh, surely she could . . . extrapolate a little?
In fact, with all your slobbering, you put me in mind of a terrier.
There. That would make him wonder!
Also, you talked of all the things you would do for us, as if “doing” were tantamount to “purchasing.” You never acknowledged that it was my money you spent so freely in your imagination—and your own desires, not mine, that you intended to gratify. Why should I desire the addition of a smoking room to your country house? Moreover, why would you not wish first for a roof?
Some delicious feeling was sparkling to life inside her. It made her breath come quicker and the fog clear from her brain. Her heart was pounding and her skin tingling in the very same manner as when she’d taken that balloon ride across Devonshire last summer.
As for me, do not think I am crying into my pillow for what happened today. As you wanted my money, so I wanted your name. It was a fair trade, I thought, to achieve my parents’ dream for me.
Good luck with the roof at Pennington Grange, by the way. I will hope it does not rain too much this season.
No, no. That sounded too bitter. Also, she had no interest in defending herself through reference to her parents’ hopes. She did not need to excuse herself to him.
In fact, I will admit that I very much liked the idea of being a viscountess. It seems I am as shallow and vain as you. But at least I can acknowledge it! Besides, I have an excuse: I had no true understanding of how empty and insignificant a title might be, until its worthlessness was demonstrated by your unmanly cowardice.
Nevertheless, you may persist in thinking me grasping: I simply don’t care.
“I don’t care,” she whispered. What an astonishing statement. She laid down the pen. Was it true? “I don’t care.” Had she ever said those words before?
She hoped they were true, for she knew what would come next. All the pity in the world would be directed toward her. After all, she was so very, very nice.
How undignified. How unbearable! She could not tolerate it again. And it would be worse this time, for she was clearly the victim now.
Perhaps she should take out an advertisement in the paper: Do not waste your sympathy on me. I don’t require it. I am glad to be rid of the swine. Why not? Surely there was more dignity in being thought rude than wretched. She had spent a great deal of time at Lady Milton’s orphanage; she had seen how the wretched lived, and she had seen with what distaste the other ladies ministered to those children. There was nothing worse than being thought wretched. And she was not wretched! The roof over her head wasn’t collapsing.
She reached again for the pen, and the shine of the gold band at its base struck some chord in her. She frowned at it, trying to think—
She sat bolt upright in the chair. He had Richard’s ring! Her father’s ring!
She cupped a hand over her mouth. Horror prickled over her, hot and mortifying. What had she been thinking? She had agreed to marry him with no love in her heart, but she’d given him her most precious relic! Even with Trent she’d shown more caution.
It was unforgivable. Oh, she was low and rotten. And he had worn it at the altar! Bile rose into her throat. He had bounded out of the church wearing her ring!
She would demand it back instantly. If he dared to give it away or pawn it, she would—why, she would set the police on him!
The thought astonished her. Police chasing a viscount. A laugh bubbled in her throat. Why, she was not so nice, after all.
She looked down at the words, scrawled so fiercely that one might think a man had penned them. A terrier! It made her laugh again. Maybe wickedness was more her native talent. After all, where had niceness gotten her? From beleaguered to pitiable, that was where! Slobbered on and nipped by beastly men!
The deuces with being nice, then! It profited her nothing. It was exhausting! And here was proof: only five minutes ago she’d been exhausted, while now she felt like skipping into the hallway and—yelling! No, yelling wasn’t enough. She felt like smashing something!
She made a fist and smacked it experimentally against the desktop. Yes, she could smash something. She looked around. The clock? No, no, Aunt Elma admired that clock.
The mirror? It seemed a bit gothic. Madwomen too often smashed mirrors. She wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.
The flower vase? Yes! Yes, she could smash that!
Over his head!
Just imagining it made her queer exhilaration redouble. It swelled up so fast and fiercely that she had to swallow to keep herself from—screaming something, maybe. It felt just like that balloon ride, exactly like it: all the strings falling away, and then the sudden giddy lift into the ether.
Why, she would not knit those sweaters! Lady Anne had made the promise. Let her knit them! Gwen would even supply her with the yarn. Fifty skeins of quality merino currently sat in her dressing room, simply longing for the tender touch of an earl’s daughter.
What else wouldn’t she do? Heavens above, the possibilities seemed dazzling. All the nasty small thoughts that she hid away—why not share them?
No more purchasing gowns she disliked simply to placate sad-eyed shopkeepers.
No more patronage of charity events when she suspected the profits were going straight into the host’s pocket.
And no more ignoring the sly allusions to her background! Ten years, now—she was done with it! Why, Lady Featherstonehaugh, do you mean to remind these ladies that my father was once a chemist, a shopkeeper of the most common order? How kind. Let me return the favor. May I remind them of how your husband halved your allowance when he found you in bed with Mr. Bessemer?
No more feigned obliviousness when a gentleman rubbed his hand over her breast during a dance. Did you misplace your fingers? I will misplace mine into your eye.
No more levees at court! She always came home sore from wrists to shoulders, thanks to the nasty women who stuck pins into people’s arms to force them out of the way on the stairs. The Queen’s concerts were dead boring anyway.
And no more kissing any man who slobbered. Really, there had to be something more to kissing, or else why would ladies giggle over it? Well, bother it, she supposed she would simply have to find out! If she wasn’t going to be nice anymore, why not be fast?
In fact, now that being nice didn’t matter, perhaps she should also make a list of things she would do.
But first, she must finish the task at hand. Retrieving the pen, she wrote in that deliciously aggressive and unfamiliar hand, You will return my brother’s ring immediately.
Despite the underlining, it did not look quite complete to her.
Ah! In giant block-print, she added:
OR ELSE.
Alex was beginning to wish he’d brought his own bottle of liquor. Alcohol—so said the doctor he’d consulted in Buenos Aires—interfered with natural sleep. But an hour now he’d sat listening to this nonsense, and it was beginning to wear on his patience. Meanwhile, Henry Beecham, who was Gwen’s de facto guardian and should have been out for blood, instead grew ever more cheerful. He reclined in the easy chair by the fireplace, flicking drops of his fourth or fifth whisky into the flames. With every sizzling pop, he smirked into his sleeve like a boy with a secret.
“But Fulton Hall won’t do,” said Belinda. She sat in a nearby chair, outwardly composed; heavy lids lent her blue eyes a deceptive air of placidity, and her chestnut hair had been trammeled into a viciously tight chignon. But Alex knew her nature, so he knew where to look. Her right hand had broken free of her left, which still sat demurely in her lap; the rogue digits were squeezing the armrest in a fierce and regular rhythm. She was imagining herself in possession of Pennington’s throat. Alex would wager money on it. Already she had told him to wring Gerard’s throat for the sin of selling a musty house she’d never bothered to visit.
Had a good deal of snap, did Belinda. Put her down in Manhattan’s Five Points, and by nightfall, half the citizens would be pouring into church to repent their evil ways.
“But Fulton Hall is lovely,” said Elma Beecham. She cast a hopeful look toward the settee, where Caroline was languishing.
As suited the twins’ respective roles, Belinda had shrieked in the church, while Caro had wept. Now Caro offered a regretful smile, along with a shake of the head.
Elma sighed. “No, I suppose not, then. It’s too near to Pennington’s estate.”
“Then keep her in London,” Alex said flatly. He rubbed his eyes. “I told you the viscount is bound for the Continent.” Henry Beecham might have come home directly from the church, but Alex had not. He’d found Pennington’s town house in a state of disarray. The master had fled to the railway station, intent on the Dover-bound train.
Elma gaped at him. “But she’s not invited to anything, Mr. Ramsey. Everybody thought she would be on her honeymoon.”
“Besides,” said Belinda, “it doesn’t matter. His mother is still in town.”
Caroline gave a visible shudder. “She’s even worse.”
“Right,” he said. “The dragon might slay her with an unkind look, I suppose. Who bloody cares?”
Elma gasped.
Most of the world could not tell his sisters apart. He’d no trouble on that account, but it never failed to amaze him how identically they delivered a glare.
“Watch your language,” Belinda bit out. “And please, do not illuminate us with one of your trenchant social commentaries.”
All right, he was usually a bit subtler in his approach, but this conversation was going in circles. “I illuminate, do I? And here I thought I idled, ignored, and absconded.” Absconded. Almost, he sighed with longing. It sounded like an excellent idea.
Belinda launched into a lecture to which he did not bother to listen. His attention wandered to the empty sofa across the room, an overstuffed piece of maroon brocade. Hideous. Unusually long, too. Almost as long as a bed.
It looked quite comfortable.
Sleep. The doctor in Buenos Aires had warned him against napping. That was very easy advice to give, no doubt.
Belinda grew louder. He nodded agreeably, and she rewarded him by modulating her voice to a less strident pitch. “. . . you may find civility tedious, Alex, but Gwen cares about her place in society.”
“Certainly,” he said. “But if actions bespeak character, as you have so often told me”—he gave her a flattering smile—“then I consider this morning a lucky escape for her. Don’t you?”
Belinda sighed. “Well, I am tempted to agree.” She wrinkled her nose. “What a toad the viscount is!”
“I just can’t understand it,” Elma murmured. As she took a deep breath and launched back into her pacing, Caroline sat up and sent him a mischievous look.
He lifted a brow in acknowledgment. Since vanity did not permit Elma to wear spectacles, her progress across the carpet was proving dramatic. Three times already she’d collided with the centre table, and now she looked bound for a fourth.
“I still don’t see why Trumbly Grange won’t do,” Elma grumbled. “The peace and quiet would do her good.”
Bel and Caro gave speaking snorts. Unaccustomed to their synchronized contempt, Elma halted. The centre table held its ground, four inches away. Alex shook his head at Caro, who grimaced apologetically.
“It’s a sad little house located on the edge of the moors, isn’t it?” Belinda was never one to mince words, even when the property she maligned was her host’s. “There’s not a neighbor in miles. Would you like to stay at Trumbly Grange?” When Elma looked at her blankly, Belinda added, “You’ll be accompanying her, of course. She can’t travel alone!”
“Oh!” Clearly it had not occurred to Elma that the itinerary she proposed would be her own. “Yes, of course I’ll accompany her. Trumbly Grange . . .” She turned to consult with her husband. “Hal, hadn’t you planned to go north and have a look at that filly for the Yorkshire Oaks?” When no reply came from the fireplace, she put her hands on her hips and lifted her voice. “Mr. Beecham. I am addressing you!”
“What’s that?” Snuffling, Beecham wiped his nose and set down his drink. “North? No, no, changed my plans. Bad strain of the back sinew. She’s done for.”
“Ah!” Elma turned back to the twins. “Well, I suppose the north will serve, then. Indeed, why not? Have you noticed how young everyone looks there? It’s for want of sun, I expect.” She sounded positively warm now. “Yes, what a good idea. The north will do nicely!”
Alex swallowed a laugh. Elma had a remarkable ability to judge anything by its possible effect on her looks. Moreover, since her faith in her beauty still thrived at age fifty, this worked to create an attitude in her of unshakable optimism. The gray in her blond hair only made it look blonder. The wretched failures of her cook benefited her bone structure by melting away “that puppy fat about my jaw.” Three summers ago, when taken with fever during a weekend at Caro’s country house, she had observed to Alex, in a tone too syrupy for his comfort, that the flush on her face made her hazel eyes look radiantly green. Didn’t he agree?
He’d agreed, but he’d also taken care not to find himself alone with her again. She had the alarming habit of speaking to him as though she were twenty, and raised in a bordello. Worse yet, on the rare occasions when her husband was present for it, he tended to stand behind her and nod vehemently, as if to say, Give it a go, then. I don’t mind.
“The lack of sun is a sound point,” Belinda decided. “What Gwen needs is someplace cheerful.”
“Hmm,” Alex said. “Rules out England, then, doesn’t it?”
Belinda flashed him a sharp look.
“Not the north, then,” Elma said hesitantly.
“Not the north,” Belinda confirmed.
Sighing, he tipped his head back to study the ceiling. It was an interesting geography they were assembling, here. For shame, Gwen could not stay in London. For pride, she could not go south. For spirits, north was out of the question. East lay the ocean, of course.
His eyes had shut.
Forcing them open, he said, “There’s always west.”
His sarcasm was lost on Elma. “Wales, do you mean?”
The syrupy note. He pulled his head down to confirm it. Yes, she was posing for him. Her hand strategically stroked the neckline of her gown. He did not wish to glance onward toward her husband.
Belinda cleared her throat. She looked dubious, and he did not think it all for Wales. “Herefordshire, perhaps.”
“Ireland!” cried Caroline. “Whisky cheers a lady as well as a man.” She cast a pointed look toward Henry Beecham, who had not offered to share his joy.
“Boston?” Elma frowned. “Do we know anyone in Boston?”
“Newfoundland,” said Alex. “San Francisco—bit foggy, no doubt, but most Londoners would call it tropical. Or why not China? Keep going west and you’re bound to hit it eventually. Usually works for me.”
“You might wish to reconsider that,” Caro said. “You got kicked out of China last year, if I recall.”
“Did I? Well, that explains the rude reply to my greeting at the port authority. I thought I was in Japan.”
“Your flippancy helps no one,” Belinda informed him.
He shrugged. “You propose to hide her away like a broken toy. London is her home, and you want to hound her out of it. Is that the act of a friend?”
Caroline leaned forward. “Alex, you must try to understand. It’s not at all like last time! The groom cried off. And in such a horrible way—when he needed her money so badly! People will assume he discovered something awful about her at just the last moment.” She faltered, going pale. “I really do fear she is . . .”
“Ruined,” Belinda whispered.
Elma flinched.
“For God’s sake.” Hearing the edge in his voice, he caught himself. “It isn’t as if she were caught in flagrante delicto. This is London’s darling you’re talking about. I hope you won’t feed her this nonsense; she’s silly enough to believe it.”
“You’re so naïve,” Belinda said pityingly. “How do you manage that with all these foreign places you visit?”
He sighed. In an argument, Bel was like a dog with a bone: she would never let go of her point. “Naïveté is imagining that doors will stand closed to her after this. Naïveté, Belinda, is your vast underestimation of the power of three million pounds. Preach all you like about what people will say. In Shanghai, they gossip if a woman’s feet are too large—in Valparaiso, if her mantilla clings too tightly to her breast. But no matter where you are, money makes every sin disappear. It’s better than vinegar that way.”
She gaped at him. “You can’t really believe that,” she said. “If you do, then you’ve been away from civilization for far too long.”
“Civilization,” he said dryly. “Half the guests in that church this morning were using the opportunity to pray that land prices will rise so they can sell their forty thousand acres and pay off their debts before creditors seize their town houses and ruin their season. That is your civilization. As venal as any other.”
Belinda tipped her chin mutinously but did not reply.
“Oh, and let me tell you,” he added helpfully. “Land prices are not going to rise. Not that much. Not anytime soon.”
The silence extended. It seemed to him a minor miracle. Finally, his sisters were listening to sense.
He decided to take advantage of it, for the occasion came only once in a blue moon. “And from now on, instead of standing by while she stumbles into an engagement with the first rotten bounder who bothers to smile at her, I suggest that you take an active hand in the business. Find a man who will make a proper husband for her—or at least manage to stick it out at the altar.”
Belinda huffed. “Oh, Alex.”
Of course there was an objection. “Let’s have it.”
“What do you propose? That we pick a man and instruct her to love him?”
He snorted. “Love? Have you not—”
“Paris!” Elma gasped.
“No,” Caroline said, “the viscount will be certain to pass through. The Dover-bound train, you know—”
“Guernsey, then?”
“Guernsey,” Belinda echoed.
“Yes, it’s perfect! What do you think? Sunshine, fresh air, and absolutely nobody of note!”
He fell back in his chair. This was useless. What they should be discussing was how Gwen always managed to pick the worst of a very large lot. First Trent, now this one. For poor taste in husbands, her judgment rivaled Anne Boleyn’s.
Then again—he shook his head as Caroline countered Guernsey with Cornwall, and the debate of various hidey-holes picked up steam again—perhaps he had it wrong, and the reason Gwen kept picking duds was because her counsel came from this lot. He would swallow knives for his sisters’ sakes, but if his life or even his lunch depended on it, he would not turn to them for advice. Love, Bel said. Gwen’s aim had nothing to do with love. She wanted status, a title, and so long as everyone around her encouraged her to disguise that ambition and play the nearsighted romantic, her search for golden princes would unerringly turn up toads.
Damn it. He’d promised Richard to look after her. But he’d resisted taking a direct hand in this courtship. His failure had led to the fracas today.
Black humor settled over him. Did he have time for this nonsense? No. But how hard could it be to find a tenable husband? Surely there was one unmarried, titled idiot who did not have a violent temper, or syphilis, or a consuming thirst for drink, or a destructive appetite for cards, or, for that matter, any perversions either illegal or extraordinary.
Almost, Alex could picture this paragon: balding, perhaps, with a pronounced belly accrued during afternoons sitting on his arse in the Lords and evenings relaxing at his club, drinking port and dining on steak while raging with his cronies at the gall of upstart foreigners. Irascible to abstract foes, yes, but also indubitably good-humored with friends, chivalrous with women, fond of his dogs, given to bad jokes that rhymed, and—above all—loyal through and through to those with the good taste to admire him. And Gwen would admire him. If she’d managed to admire Trent, she could manage it with anybody.
All right, so he’d draw up a list of candidates. Hire a man to research them. That should take two, three weeks at most; these MP types were never discreet. He’d dispatch the list to his sisters, instruct them to set Gwen in front of these men, and drop mention of her assets and marital intent. A month more until someone proposed? Yes, just about.
If he got on with it, they could have her engaged within eight weeks. He’d be halfway around the world by the time the next wedding day came. Would send a cable by way of congratulations. Perhaps he wouldn’t even remember the date, and someone, his secretary, would have to remind him when the event was drawing near. Yes. That sounded like an excellent plan.
What he needed, he thought, was a copy of Debrett’s Peerage. And a very strong cup of coffee.
He came to his feet. “If you will excuse me, ladies.”