London, December 1811
“Thank you for offering to introduce me to your friends, but…” Sir John paused on the stairs leading to the hallowed halls of White’s gentleman's club.
“But what?” asked Lord Darington, a tall man of reserved nature and few words.
John had sailed with the Earl of Darington for five years as his second in command. They had seen much action and their efforts had been rewarded, so much so that John had been able to buy a ship of his own.
“This club would not have given me entrance the last time I was in London,” said John carefully.
“Last time you were in London you had not wealth nor title,” said Darington, blunt as ever.
“Not sure I want to belong to a club that would only admit me now that I do.”
Darington gave a nod in understanding. “Some in society are not worth your time. These blokes are.” Dare opened the door and John followed, as he had followed Darington into all sorts of adventures over the past five years. If Dare said these were upright gentlemen, it was good enough for him.
Darington led the way to a well-appointed sitting room with dark wood and burgundy wallpaper. Everything about the room bespoke quality. One gentleman was reading a newspaper in a polished-leather, high-backed chair, a second stirred punch by the fire, while a third played solitaire. All looked very much at home in their environment.
“Greetings!” The man playing solitaire was the first to rise with a smile on his face. “Darington, good to see you again. Who is your friend?”
“Mr. Grant, may I present Sir John—”
“Capital!” cried Grant. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“A pleasure, sir,” replied John, somewhat surprised at the warm greeting.
“Allow me to acquaint you with Lord Wynbrook,” said Grant, quickly taking over the introductions from Darington who settled into a chair, picking up a freshly ironed paper.
“Pleasure,” said Wynbrook. He was an impeccably tailored man, who like Grant had an easy manner.
“And the Duke of Marchford.” A square-shouldered man with a commanding presence acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head.
John bowed in return with a glance at Dare. He did not know he was going to meet a duke.
“You are just in time for some wine punch,” said Wynbrook as he stirred. I don’t like to be immodest, but I have something of a hand for it. May I offer you a cup against the winter chill?”
“Yes, thank you,” answered John, accepting a cup and taking a seat. Darington and Marchford also took a cup.
“So here is the man I have heard so much about,” said Wynbrook. “I have it on good authority that you, Sir John, have become the most sought after matrimonial prize in London.”
John sputtered as he attempted to take a sip of his wine punch and ended up coughing as he stared at Wynbrook. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You are a single man with wealth and title,” said the formidable person of the Duke of Marchford. “As such, society mamas no doubt already assume that you are the rightful possession of one of their daughters. The only question that remains is which young lady shall induce you to propose.”
“And I have no say in the matter?” John gulped a mouthful of punch, which was as good as Wynbrook promised.
“Not if the society mamas have anything to say about it.” Mr. Grant passed on the wine punch, choosing instead a cup of tea.
“I hate to be disobliging, but I have no intention of being caught in some matrimonial trap,” said John with conviction.
The men exchanged glances for a moment and broke into a laugh.
“I am quite sincere in this. I have no intention of being leg-shackled just because I have made a little money and inherited a title.”
“You can fight it all you want, but take it from this group of confirmed bachelors turned husbands, in the end, you will be got.” Wynbrook delivered the unhappy news with a sympathetic nod.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to think that my bride-to-be would actually have some affection for me and not just my pocketbook.”
“Odd notion,” said Grant with a teasing grin.
“I confess to being new to London, but I thought I heard yours was a love match.” John was determined to stand his ground.
“Absolutely. Completely done in, first time I saw her.” Grant’s smile never dimmed and John did not doubt the man’s devotion to his wife. What he did doubt was his ability to find a bride in London. If every lady he met knew of his title and wealth, how could he know if any interest she showed was sincere?
“I fear I shall have to hold out for the same kind of affection,” replied John.
“Here, here! To Sir John and his new bride, whomever she may be,” said Grant warmly.
The men all raised their glasses and toasted his ultimate demise.
“Speaking of,” said Grant with a wink. “Lady Devine has requested you pay her a morning call. I am going that way and would be delighted to take you.”
“Lady Devine?” John asked.
“Lady Devine is a matron of society. Her parties are renowned, her invitations are not to be missed,” advised Wynbrook.
“Every year they hold the Devine Christmas Ball. They say people come in to town just to attend,” said Grant.
“It must be quite a party,” commented John.
“The best part is the Christmas tree,” said Marchford.
“A Christmas tree?” John raised an eyebrow.
“German tradition, I believe,” said Wynbrook. “A tall evergreen tree is cut down and set up inside the ballroom. They decorate it with bows and attach candles all over to make it shine.”
“Sounds somewhat dangerous.”
“There was an incident last year,” said Grant with a laugh that was joined by the others. “Me and some mates had to throw the burning tree out into the snow.”
“And I thought society parties were dull.”
“Then you’ve never been to a Devine Christmas gala,” laughed Wynbrook.
“Then I suppose I should meet this Lady Devine,” said John, slugging back the remainder of his warm punch.
“Fair warning, she has a niece,” said Marchford.
“A young niece of marriageable age,” added Wynbrook. “A Miss Frances Devine.”
“And so it begins,” sighed John.
Grant gave him a mischievous grin. “And so it begins.”
***
“Sir John is a welcome addition to society this year. What with his new title and prodigious wealth, I can little wonder at his appeal.” Lady Devine spoke with a glint of ironic humor in her eye, which was missed by her company.
“Of course he was only the great-nephew of the previous owner of the knighthood, but a title is still a title,” responded Mrs. Crawley with authority. “It is true his money was earned through the shipping business with Lord Darington, but still…” Mrs. Crawley made a small gesture in the air to connote the obvious disappointment that the man’s wealth was not inherited as would be proper for any young gentleman.
“I fear his reputation as a privateer will only enhance his appeal with the ladies this season,” replied Lady Devine with a knowing smile.
“Well, yes, I suppose you are correct.” Mrs. Crawley pulled her shawl closer, though whether to protect herself from the winter’s chill or marauding privateers, Frankie could not say.
Miss Frances Devine, known to her family more informally as ‘Frankie’, sat opposite her aunt and Mrs. Crawley, wearing the congenial smile she had been taught to present to morning callers. Miss Priscila Crawley sat beside her mother during the visit, contributing to the conversation with a polished air that Frankie did not share.
“Even if his background is not everything one would wish, surely his association with Lord Darington must be in his favor,” commented the practical Miss Priscila.
“Indeed, it most certainly is,” replied Frankie’s aunt, the indomitable Lady Devine. “There can be no doubt that he will be the most sought after young gentleman of the upcoming season.” She gave Frankie knowing look.
Frankie tried not to let her smile wither. Over the past year, her aunt had made several attempts to secure a marriage proposal for Frankie without success. Frankie loved her aunt, but wished she would stop suggesting that every new bachelor to enter society would make her the perfect husband. The burden of repeated disappointments weighed heavy on her shoulders.
“Sir John for our dear little Frances, what a quaint thought.” Priscilla gave her a sweet smile that did little to conceal the malice beneath. Frankie had a familiar desire to crawl under her chair.
Fortunately, the visit did not last much longer, and Frankie let out a long sigh of relief. Aunt Hilde raised an eyebrow and Frankie gave her a tight smile in return. Frankie may have resembled her aunt in rounded figure and rosy cheeks, though Frankie’s hair was plain brown, where her aunt’s was a honey blond, but Frankie knew the morning callers were for Lady Devine, not her. Her aunt had an ease of conversation and exuded a confidence Frankie only wished she could share.
“I think I will retrieve my book.” Frankie jumped up before her aunt could comment, either on her reaction to Miss Crawley or on the prospective matrimonial prospects of Sir John. She ran on soft feet through two connecting doors into the library to collect her novel.
“…such a shame about Miss Devine.”
Frankie stopped short at the muffled sound of Mrs. Crawley’s voice, coming from beyond the room. The matron and her daughter were walking down the corridor, but their voices could be heard through the library door.
“She was always such an awkward little thing,” said Priscilla, who had been two years ahead of Frankie in finishing school. “Such a to-do when she came out, but I always knew it would come to nothing.”
“Lady Devine has dangled her niece before every eligible bachelor in London but despite all her connections, she cannot get any young man to bite on that hook,” laughed Mrs. Crawley.
“If Lady Devine cannot get Frances a husband, I warrant there’s none in England that will have her,” sneered Priscilla.
“Such an embarrassment to Lady Devine. Too bad her own social standing will diminish because of such a gel. I feel sorry for her, truly I do.”
Mrs. Crawley’s voice trailed away as she and her daughter passed the library and continued down the hall to the front door. Frankie sat down hard on the nearest chair. It wasn’t that she hadn’t known the talk, but it was different to hear it in such stark terms.
Her aunt had sponsored her entry into London society with much fanfare and was determined to have Frankie married off before the end of the season, but it was not to be. The season was now long over and Frankie was just as unattached as ever.
The doorbell rang again, indicating the next person had arrived in the steady stream of morning callers. Frankie felt how unequal she was to constant scrutiny and walked quickly back through the connecting doors to her aunt’s sitting room.
“I am afraid I have developed a bit of a migraine,” Frankie hedged. “I think I shall lie down for a while.”
“Oh, dear, you do look a bit pale. I hope you will be well soon.” Aunt Hilde’s kind concern only made Frankie feel worse for the fabrication. “Do you think you could manage just one more visit? I asked Grant to bring by Sir John and he has never disappointed me.”
“Please extend my regrets but I fear I must lie down immediately.” Frankie hustled for the door. The last thing she wanted was to be forced into awkward conversation with yet another prospective groom.
“Frankie dear, I hope your sudden ill health hasn’t anything to do with that rude Priscilla Crawley.” Her aunt may be a kind lady, but she was not easily deceived.
Frankie stopped short. “No, I just need to lie down.” Frankie glanced at the door. She appreciated that her aunt was trying to understand but Sir John might be there at any minute.
“I know that you have had some disappointments, but hear this Sir John is quite a nice man, perhaps you would like him.”
To be fair, Frankie was relatively certain she would like the man. Her aunt had been quite able at finding potential marriage partners for Frankie. The trouble wasn't that her aunt could not find attractive, well-mannered, rich, titled men for Frankie, the trouble was that the gentlemen in question were not interested in her.
“I'm sure Sir John is very nice. Perhaps I can meet him some other time.” Or never would be even better. Frankie didn’t want to disappoint her aunt, but it was too embarrassing to be continually rejected. Besides which, why should her entire existence revolve around catching a man?
A slight rap at the door heralded the entrance of the butler to announce their next visitor.
“Sorry, must dash!” Not taking any chances, Frankie picked up her skirts and ran to the side door, escaping into the library, then exiting out into the corridor to race up the stairs. She hardly took a breath until she was safe back in her room.
Whatever plot her aunt had devised for connecting her with Sir John, she would have none of it.