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Lord Radcliffe's Season
A Regency Romance
By Jo Ann Ferguson OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1999 Jo Ann Ferguson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0912-6
CHAPTER 1
Starlight pricked through the fog twisting itself into impossible shapes along the quiet street. A distant church bell pealed twice through the night. A cat yowled before the baying of a dog silenced it. By the doorway of a townhouse on Cavendish Square, a footman stood with a lantern held high. His eyes scanned for what he could not see. Only the rattle of wheels on the street warned him that the carriage approached.
The closed carriage rolled to a stop directly in front of him, and he hurried to open its door. Stepping back, he stood without speaking as a man emerged. Not even his lips twitched as the man nearly tripped over his own feet.
The man regained his balance and turned to hand down a woman whose blond hair glowed in the dim light of the lantern. When he offered his arm, she disdained it and walked toward the townhouse. He followed, the flapping tails of his stylish coat over his rotund form making him look like a duckling trailing its far more elegant mother. Behind them, the footman smothered a laugh. Lady Lisabeth's obvious vexation was no less than he had expected and no more than Mr. Smythe deserved after his high-handed greeting to Lady Lisabeth earlier in the evening.
By the door edged with Palladian columns, Lisabeth Montague extended her hand stiffly in a motion more meant to keep Mr. Smythe at bay than bidding him a polite adieu. "Thank you for an unusual evening, Mr. Smythe."
"Now, Lisabeth, that is a most unwelcome way to treat an old friend."
She resettled her Kashmir shawl on her shoulders, wavering between the temptation to offer some demure hit that would strike that irritating smile from Mr. Cyril Smythe's lips or simply to have the door slammed in his face. Old friend, indeed! Mr. Smythe was a dreadful bore—and he presumed to call her by her given name as if they were closest of bosom-bows!
With a silent sigh, she reminded herself he apparently had no idea that his every word filled everyone within earshot with ennui. Mr. Smythe was a gentle soul, not like.... An icy shiver curled up her shoulders, but she suppressed it. The past was dead and buried with Frederick. Tonight had been the beginning of her new life without her late husband, and she did not want to look back.
"Good evening, Mr. Smythe," she said quietly. She dared not be too gracious, for he would see that as an invitation to press his company upon her even more. Neither could she be indecorous. He was trying to be kind. Or just trying, she thought, silencing her chuckle. "As I told you before, it has been an evening of rare entertainment. I daresay I shall speak with you at an upcoming rout."
"Not at the Park tomorrow?"
Lisabeth tensed. How could this tedious man threaten to send her up to the boughs with a single innocuous question? Mayhap it was because he had plagued her with dozens over the mortally long evening.
"I shall not be riding in Hyde Park tomorrow," she answered, struggling to offer him a polite smile. She feared her face would freeze in this insipid expression which she had worn since he called to take her to the soirée in Bloomsbury this evening. "I have other obligations."
"I trust I may call tomorrow. You will be at home?"
"No." When his round face drooped, reminding her of a chastised puppy, she relented. "I am sorry, Mr. Smythe." She held up her gloved hands in a pose of dismay she did not have to feign. "I would enjoy a ride, but I shall be engaged throughout the day in the tedious chores that have required my attention since Frederick's passing. I am sure you understand."
He bowed, accepting her dismissal with more aplomb than she had anticipated. Although he gave her hand a fervent squeeze before he took himself down the steps, Lisabeth could find nothing else to complain about in his behavior. Certainly it was more respectable than hers, for her excuses had been out-and-outers.
Lisabeth surrendered to the shivers coursing up her back, for the dampness which accompanied the fog had sunk within her. Yet a deeper chill resurrected memories she wanted to erase from her mind. Being false had become a habit she must put aside. Telling lies had been necessary before, but she was now a widow who could live her life as she wished and without the fear of what waited within the respectable walls of this house.
Rubbing her hands together, she stepped into the foyer. It was bright with light from the brass chandelier set in the curve of the long staircase leading to the upper floors. Home. In the past year, while she lived in seclusion as befit Lord Montague's widow, this house had become home as she had doubted it ever would.
She smiled when the footman followed her in and took her shawl, then stepped aside for the butler. Doherty's long face was as bony as the rest of his spare frame. Thin hair on his high forehead bounced as he nodded a greeting. He always was waiting when she returned, and she wondered when he ever slept.
"Lady Montague asked me to convey her plea for your forbearance that she retired before you arrived home, Lady Lisabeth." His voice resounded through the foyer, which was quiet, save for the clank of the pendulum in the tall-case clock set beside the arched door to the parlor on the floor above.
Peeling off her evening gloves, Lisabeth smiled. Others had been disturbed by what they saw as her servants' familiarity, but she and her household had reached this compromise upon the death of her husband, for two widowed Ladies Montague now lived within the house on Cavendish Square. Allowing her mother-in-law, Lady Edwina Montague, to retain the title of the Dowager Lady Montague seemed simpler, and Lisabeth had come to prefer simplicity.
"What a sweet goose Lady Edwina is!" said Lisabeth with a laugh as she drew off her white satin turban and ran her fingers along its single feather. "No doubt, at breakfast, she will be eager to hear all about my evening, so I would be wise to retire as well. I do not want to keep her in suspense."
As she put her hand on the black walnut banister, the butler said, "My lady, this arrived shortly after your departure."
"Thank you, Doherty." Lisabeth took the folded page. Her forehead ruffled when she recognized the scribbled handwriting on it, and she sighed. She had thought her horrible day had ended with Mr. Smythe's good night, but she had been wrong. She would read this letter now, for anxiety over what flummery Norton Radcliffe had penned might keep her awake.
She listened to the butler's soft footfalls fading into the back of the house. Dear Doherty! She wondered what she would have done if he were not about to help her deal with overly ardent callers such as Mr. Smythe and the problems Lady Edwina seemed to attract. Doherty was able to subdue the crises de nerfs that Lady Edwina suffered.
Thank goodness, her mother-in-law did not possess the same vicious temper as her stepson.... Lisabeth berated herself. To think of the dead that way was uncommonly coarse—even though she had not thought kindly of her husband while he was living. She shuddered anew at the remembrance of the two years of what had not been wedded bliss.
And she truly loved her mother-in-law. Lady Edwina might be eccentric, but her heart was generous. If her stepson Frederick had been half as kind, Lisabeth might recall him with sorrow instead of relief. Yet he was dead, and her long year of obligatory mourning was over.
Lisabeth climbed the stairs and went into the parlor where the dim light of a single lamp glittered off the striped wallpaper and the rose satin settee. She sat on her favorite chair, which overlooked the small garden at the back of the house. In the morning, the colors of the flowering bushes would lure her out into the sunshine to gather blossoms for the dining room.
She smiled. She was hosting a small dinner party a week from tomorrow. It would be the first time she had entertained since Frederick's death. No more than a score of people had been invited, for she wanted to keep the party small to suit her recent emergence from mourning. Yet, she was as giddy as a child at the thought of welcoming her friends into the house. Mayhap their bright conversation would banish the remnants of the memories haunting her.
One of which was her last conversation with Norton Radcliffe. The man had proven to be as intractable and almost as impossible as Frederick. No doubt, he had not changed.
She opened the single sheet that was covered with such tiny scribbling she had to hold it closer to her eyes to read it. She was not surprised that Norton Radcliffe had squeezed his words onto one page, for it would be unlike his nip-cheese ways to waste a second sheet on the wife of his distant cousin. She leaned back, propping her feet on a petit-point stool, and began to read.
My dearest Lisabeth,
I trust you are suffused with good health. It is my misfortune that I cannot say the same. If I had been half as wise as Frederick (dear, departed Frederick), I would have purchased a townhouse in London years ago. Instead I continue to suffer here at Norton Hall.
Lisabeth laughed softly. Norton Radcliffe had not changed. He never let an opportunity pass when he might complain. This cousin of Frederick's—at least three times removed—was both an intolerable boor and a deadly bore.
Norton took a peculiar pride in the fact that he had never spent a full Season in Town. Instead he preferred to molder away in his country home of Norton Hall and grumble about the fate that had left him a bachelor for his forty plus years. Lisabeth's hint that he must journey to London if he wished to find himself a bride had instigated a wigging that went on, nonstop, for an hour. She had hoped, with the passing of her husband, that Norton and his whining ways would be out of her life. Her hopes had been futile.
I burden you with my troubles, when I wish to beg a favor. My cousin, Tristan Radcliffe, who bears the title of the Marquess of Radcliffe, needs to be taught the ways of the ton. He cannot learn them as long as he remains with me here or if he returns to his home of Cliffs' End. I know no one more accomplished in the skills of the Polite World than you, Cousin Lisabeth. That is why I am sending him to you for tuition.
If the roads are not bad, you may expect he will be arriving Tuesday next. For whatever you can do to help him find a proper miss to wed and gain himself an heir for the family's title, I am most grateful.
I remain,
Your servant,
Norton Radcliffe, Esq.
"Esquire?" Lisabeth laughed.
Norton's affectations were tiresome, but she could be amused when he was far from Town and clearly intended to stay there. That was a relief, although he planned to send his young cousin without awaiting the courtesy of a reply. She hoped the lad was more open to learning manners than his cousin had ever proved to be. She would learn when he arrived on Tuesday next. That would be.... She looked at the top of the page.
Horror raced through her. The letter had been written more than a week ago. The Tuesday that Norton was referring to had arrived two hours before when the clock at the countess's house had rung midnight. Lord Radcliffe would be reaching London today.
Blast Norton! He should have taken into account the slowness of the mail between his isolated country house and Town. Today! The marquess was arriving today. Nothing was ready for him.
Taking a deep breath, Lisabeth rose to stand by the window where starlight was filtered by the fog. Her hands clenched in front of her. Her plans for the Season were certain to be ruined by Norton's assumption that she would be glad to spend her first weeks out of mourning tutoring his young cousin in the niceties of the élite.
What did she know of launching a lad into the Season? Her own first and only Season had been short, for Frederick had been quite mad for her from the moment he met her at her coming-out. Or that was what he had told her while he wooed her with court-promises that had been as worthless as his professions of faithfulness. Now she must sacrifice her first Season as a dowager to play watchdog for a youngster who might have no interest in a bride.
Norton had, with his usual lack of detail, failed to mention his cousin's age. No lad about to enjoy his first Season would be interested in buckling himself to a wife when there was a bachelor's fare available before him. Flirtations and gambling and drinking and racing ... Oh, my! She hoped the marquess would bring his own horses and carriages, for she did not wish hers to be ruined when he rode hell-for-leather through the Park to impress the young misses who would be vying for the attention of any man with such a grand title.
What a jumble! Mayhap Lady Edwina would be of help. After all, she had raised her husband's son. Again a shiver climbed Lisabeth's back. She hoped this cousin of Norton's was not as beastly as Frederick had been. Asking the young man to leave, if his manners proved appalling beyond repair, would cause too much talk.
Lisabeth reached for the bellpull. As always, Doherty came before the sound could have faded in the kitchen. Not a hint of fatigue darkened his eyes.
Without preamble, she said, "We shall have a guest on the morrow—or to own the truth, later today. Please have Mrs. Outhwaite prepare a guest room for Lord Radcliffe and the appropriate space for any servants the marquess may have traveling with him."
"Lord Radcliffe?" Doherty's voice rose in astonishment. "And for his wife, my lady?"
"Procuring a bride is the marquess's purpose in coming to Town."
Doherty stood straighter, a sure sign that he was troubled, and asked, "Do you wish me to inform Lady Montague?"
Lisabeth understood his dismay. Two women should not be inviting a man—lad though he might be—into their home when neither of them had a husband. She smiled, pleased at Doherty's concern, although it was misplaced. Propriety would be maintained. After all, to learn what was expected in a gracious London home was why Norton was sending the lad here.
"There is no need to disturb her sleep. I shall let Lady Montague know in the morning that we are about to be visited by the cousin of Lord Montague's cousin." When the butler relaxed at the familial connection that would give countenance to the arrangement, she continued, "I leave the arrangements for their arrival in your capable hands, Doherty. After breakfast, I will wish to speak with you and Mrs. Outhwaite about other preparations. I fear, not knowing the young man, that I am quite at a loss to suggest how we can make him feel he might run tame through the house." She laughed, but the sound was tainted with exhaustion. "As he is coming for the Season, I suspect we shall find he shall be dining out most evenings. If that is the case, he will prove to be a most compliant houseguest."
"Yes, Lady Lisabeth."
Hearing Doherty's doubt, which mirrored her misgivings that she was trying to ignore, she told him good night and went up the stairs to the next floor. Here a pair of lamps glowed on the round tables beneath the dreary paintings of Montague ancestors. She paid the dour faces no mind as she went to the door farthest from the square. She opened it to find a lone candle burning on the dressing table and her abigail Wilson slumped, asleep, in a chair by the window.
Lisabeth loved this bedchamber. She had selected it upon deciding she would never again use, after his death, the suite of rooms she had shared with Frederick. Those rooms were dark and grim, and she would be happy if the door were left closed forever. This chamber was just the opposite. In the sunlight, the walls would be a shade paler than a cloudless summer sky. Unlike the heavy furniture in the suite overlooking the square, she had had her room decorated with white pieces swathed in flowered chintz.
She tiptoed across the Persian rug and gently shook her abigail awake. Wilson's nightcap was askew on her thick, brown hair which was as straight as her thin form.
"My lady!" She jumped to her feet. "My lady, I did not hear you come in. I should have—" Lisabeth waved aside Wilson's apologies. "Fiddle! You were wise to sleep. It shall take both of us some time to reaccustom ourselves to this schedule of fêtes and routs." A yawn interrupted her. "Now it is time for both of us to get some sleep."
With Wilson's help, she readied herself for bed. She did remember to mumble something about having her white cambric gown ready. It would serve for overseeing the preparations for their guest on the morrow.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Lord Radcliffe's Season by Jo Ann Ferguson. Copyright © 1999 Jo Ann Ferguson. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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