Countess by Coincidence Page 19

  A female caller? He hoped to God it was not Mary Lyle. From his butler's disturbed look, something told John this female wasn't the sort he was accustomed to seeing at a fine home in Mayfair. "What is the female's name?"

  "Miss Margaret Ponsby."

  Chapter 20

  He hadn't thought on the Windsor spinster's name in several weeks. How had she found him? He'd been careful to only use his family name of Beauclerc on the contract. How had she learned that the man she had planned to marry was the Earl of Finchley?

  Why had she come today? It suddenly occurred to him that the woman had never received the hundred guineas he'd promised her.

  He strode to the library and opened the door. She had not taken a seat but was perusing the books in his library. "Miss Ponsby?"

  She turned around. The woman was old enough to be his mother. Possessed of black hair lightly threaded with gray, she was ugly. What a contrast the two Margarets were!

  His thoughts flashed to how distraught he'd been after he'd wed Maggie. Now, he realized that a Higher Power must have known what was best for him that day, must have guided the most flawless creature to become his wife. What had John ever done to deserve such blessings?

  "Lord Finchley, I believe you're guilty of being in breach of contract with me."

  "Pray, be seated."

  He sank into a chair by his desk and regarded her. "I beg your forgiveness. I am under an obligation to pay you a hundred pounds. You shall have two hundred. I'm sorry you've had to come all the way from Windsor." Obviously, the woman knew the Beauclercs were the Earls of Finchley.

  She glared at him. "I want an annuity."

  "I am not a wealthy man. The reason I wished to marry was to get my hands on my grandmother's money. I've not been successful."

  "But now you've married an heiress. A duke's daughter. I think you'll pay. I'll tell your grandmother—and the Duke of Aldridge—about your matrimonial scheme."

  She was bluffing him. Outside of himself, no one knew about his matrimonial scheme except for Maggie, Perry and his solicitor. All them were completely trustworthy. Anything she thought she knew was pure conjecture. Even if she had hit the nail right on the head. "You're at liberty to do so. But then you'll not get a farthing from me."

  Her shoulders sank. She looked pitifully defeated. He did feel beastly that he'd forgotten to send her the hundred quid. She looked as if she could use it. "It was unforgiveable of me not to send you the money." He unlocked the desk drawer where he kept a pouch of sovereigns. At least a hundred of them. "Pray, Miss Ponsby, I beg that you accept this in partial acceptance of the debt I owe you. There are a hundred here. I'll have my solicitor bring you another hundred in Windsor this week." This time he would not forget the unfortunate woman.

  He stood and strode to her.

  She stood and accepted the pouch, then began to leave the room. When she reached the door, she turned back. "You've fallen in love with Lady Margaret, have you not?"

  His eyes widened. And he nodded.

  John Beauclerc, the Earl of Finchley, never lied.

  * * *

  Margaret and Caroline went to Haverstock House to see the new babe. The marchioness, in white lace, sat propped up in her bed surrounded by those who loved her. The marquess sat on the side of the bed, holding his wife's hand. Was it the sunshine streaming in through the casements illuminating them like deities in Renaissance paintings, or did the two of them actually glow, Margaret wondered.

  Their babe slept in a cradle near the bed, with Lady Lydia giving him her full attention.

  "You just missed the duchess," Lady Haverstock said. "She's been here all day, but Aldridge insisted she go home to rest."

  "My friend," Lord Haverstock explained, "worries about the babe my sister's carrying."

  "He's as bad as Morgie was," Lady Lydia said, shaking her head.

  "Where is Morgie?" Lord Haverstock asked.

  Lydia smiled. "He decided he wanted to take his son for a ride through the park. He won't own it, but he's exceedingly proud of little Simon."

  Lord Haverstock rolled his eyes. "He may not own it, but he's one proud papa. Everyone at White's knows the little fellow's first word was Papa."

  Now Lydia rolled her eyes. "I daresay everyone's grown tired of hearing how Simon is possessed of extraordinary athleticism because he walked at so early an age."

  Margaret moved to stand over the cradle and gaze upon the sleeping babe. Like his parents, he was dark haired, only his little wisps of hair were much finer, like down. He was so small, even though he was big for a newborn. He lacked the reddish complexion of those who've just left the womb. With his smooth, fair skin he did look he was a month old. He was awfully precious. "You two have a beautiful babe."

  "Thank you," the marchioness said in a low voice. Then she eyed her sister. "I can stand it no longer. I daresay it's been half an hour since I've held our little lamb. Please bring him to me."

  Lydia beamed. "Any excuse to pick him up." She reached down and tucked a thin blanket around the sleeping babe, then lifted him, cooing and planting soft kisses atop his head as she gave him to his mother. "It seems like it was just last week when Simon was that tiny."

  Lady Haverstock's cooing and kissing of the slumbering babe were indistinguishable from Lady Lydia's, Margaret thought. What a beautiful mother she was, all in white lace, her dark tresses curling about her beautiful face. The picture she presented as she gazed adoringly at her infant, her loving husband leaning over the pair of them, was worthy of a Rafael.

  How Margaret would have liked to hold the babe! But Lady Haverstock had waited so long for this day to come, Margaret hadn't the heart to take him away. Perhaps next time.

  "I do hope he has his mother's fine looks," Lord Haverstock murmured.

  Lady Haverstock shook her head, laughing. "I wish for him to be the image of his papa."

  "It matters not what either of you want," Lydia chastised.

  As she stood there in the marchioness's chamber, Margaret was seized with an intense sense of emptiness. She wanted John to love her as Haverstock loved his Anna, as Morgie loved Lydia. She wanted a son, a son borne of their love. Like the Haverstocks and Morgans. As she stood there amidst such happiness and merriment, she had never felt more alone.

  When she returned to Finchley House she told herself her veil of melancholy might be lifted if John were there. She was determined to force herself to act as if she were Caro. She would gather her courage and tell him of the desire that strummed through her whenever she was with him. She knew enough of men and their needs to know that it would be difficult for a man to not jump at such bait.

  When she arrived home, the house was quiet. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, hearing no sounds that would indicate John might be there.

  From habit, she went first to her room. Annie had left a candle burning beside the bed, and a fire burned in the grate. Her eye darted to her dressing room—which abutted her husband's dressing room. I must act as Caro would. She drew a fortifying breath.

  Emboldened, she strolled through her dressing room, through his, and came to his bedchamber, where his valet was scooping her husband's boots from the floor.

  "Oh, my lady, you've just missed his lordship."

  "Has . . . has he gone for the night?"

  "Yes. He told me not to wait up for him."

  Now she felt even lonelier, were that possible. Her secret hopes of consummating this marriage tonight were crushed.

  * * *

  White's was thin that night. "Where in the bloody hell is everyone?" John asked Arlington.

  Knowles responded. "The House of Commons is voting tonight on the tax bill."

  Though heretofore he had little interest in the political arena, John realized his wife's sister would soon be married to the powerful Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley, and John didn't want to be the family fool. "What do you say we go sit in the gallery there tonight?"

  Perry's brows lowered. "Have you not known me for two decades?"<
br />
  "I have," John responded.

  "And in those two decades have I ever demonstrated the slightest interest in the affairs of government?"

  "You've demonstrated interest only in drinking, gaming, and whor- - -"

  Knowles cut off Arlington. "Certainly you never demonstrated an interest in your studies."

  Perry took a long look at the faro box on the next table, then glared at Knowles. "Pray, enlighten me as to why it's necessary in life that I speak in Latin. Or Greek. I've been gone from university for almost seven years and cannot remember a single instance when I needed such knowledge."

  Knowles shrugged. "It's one of a gentleman's necessary accomplishments."

  Perry laughed. "I'd rather be a rake." He turned to meet John's gaze. "In that vein, I have a most decided treat in store for you, old boy."

  "What would that be?"

  "We're all going to Brighton tomorrow to see the steeplechase from Brighton to Hove. I've let a house there for us—and we shall have all the feminine comforts a man could desire. Do you know, Finch, Mary Lyle says she wants you back. I've arranged for her to come."

  "And," Arlington added, "I doubt Aldridge has spies down on the coast. You can cavort to your heart's content."

  If he wanted to cavort.

  As John stood there facing his longtime friends he began to feel an outsider. He did not want to go to Brighton. He never again wanted to see Mary Lyle or other women of her ilk. He would rather be watching the action in the House of Commons tonight than standing there at White's with his dissolute friends, drinking brandy and playing faro.

  Since he'd been a boy of eight or nine he'd been dictated to by the popular Christopher Perry. But no more.

  He drew in a deep breath. "If no one means to go to watch the parliamentary proceedings with me, I shall go by myself."

  Perry raised a single brow. "We leave early tomorrow for Brighton."

  John eyed Perry. "I'm not going."

  "It's not as if Aldridge will have spies inside Perry's lodgings," Arlington said. "We'll see that the women stay indoors, if that's what you're worried about,"

  John's gaze fanned over his three friends. "My decision has nothing to do with Duke of Aldridge."

  Perry started to chuckle. "I see. You've finally bedded Lady Finchley."

  "And why shouldn't a man bed his own wife?" John challenged. It was no different than telling a lie. He never, ever lied to Perry. Yet tonight he wanted Perry to believe he and Maggie were married in that most vital way. "Has it never occurred to you that a man can tire of dissipation?"

  He thought of Georgie Weatherford, of being a father. He thought of Rothcomb-Smedley and his duties in Parliament. He thought of the serious-minded Haverstock and Aldridge, whom no one could deny were honorable men.

  He felt less a man and more a boy.

  "I wish to bring pride to my grandmother and to my wife. I've been thinking even of taking my seat in the House of Lords."

  "Put your hand on his forehead, Knowles," Perry commanded. "Finch must be mad with fever."

  "I've never felt better. I choose to act like a man." He turned and walked away.

  He was almost ashamed to admit that he was six-and-twenty years of age and had never once taken enough interest in the proceedings of the House of Commons to actually take in a session at St. Stephen's Chapel in the Palace of Westminster. He took a couple of false starts before he managed to find St. Stephen's and climb the stairs to the gallery where he squeezed into one of the last remaining seats. Members below—some raucously—discussed the merits of the tax bill.

  He found himself admiring Rothcomb-Smedley. The man could not be more than five and twenty and already he held one of the most important posts in government. All because of dedication and nobility of character.

  Fleetingly, John wondered if this time next year Rothcomb-Smedley and Lady Clair would have a son. How rich their lives would be.

  Especially when compared to John's.

  During a lull in the proceedings below, his gaze wandered, then connected with the Duke of Aldridge's. His brother-in-law was not more than twenty feet away from him. Their eyes linked. The duke nodded, then spoke to the man beside him, who scooted down. Aldridge indicated for John to come sit beside him.

  He excused himself and a moment later was lowering himself onto the bench by Aldridge.

  "I did not know you were interested in things like tax bills," the duke said.

  "My interests seem to be changing. In fact, I'm thinking seriously about taking my seat with you in the House of Lords."

  A smile slowly spread across the duke's face. "I will help you in any way I can."

  "As I will help you."

  Aldridge regarded him for a long moment. "Then you approve of the tax increase?"

  "How could I not when it's so necessary?"

  The smile Aldridge bestowed upon him made John feel as if he knew what it felt like to be coronated.

  After the votes were tallied, and the measure was proclaimed to pass, all the men surrounding them began shaking the duke's hand, their faces lifted with pleasure. "You must be very proud," one man said to Aldridge, "since you're the moving force behind this bill."

  "Wellington will likely bow at your feet," another said.

  "It's been a momentous day, to be sure," the duke said.

  John thought of Rothcomb-Smedley's proposal of marriage and of the Haverstocks' new babe. And now successful passage of the tax bill. It was indeed a momentous day.

  He would like to have rushed home to share the good news with Maggie. She would be so proud of her brother's success. But by the time they left St. Stephen's, it was after three in the morning. Maggie would be asleep in her bed.

  Chapter 21

  When she awakened the following morning, her maid presented her with a note from her husband. Even though they’d been married for nearly two months, she had never seen his handwriting. A smile curved her lips as her gaze swept over the page. His hand conveyed the same breezy, carefree, youthful traits that imbued John. It was indistinguishable from that of a youth of sixteen.

  Dearest Maggie,

  I am obliged to miss going to Trent Square today as there are other matters of import that demand my attention. I expect to be away all day, but I beg that you join me for dinner at my grandmother’s house. I have sent a similar letter to her, notifying her of my intentions of spending the evening with the two most important women in my life. If all goes well I will be at liberty at that time to make an announcement that I hope will please you both.

  Affectionately,

  John

  That she was the only person to call him John and he was the only one to call her Maggie still had the power to gladden her. How pathetic she was that she must take pleasure in such little things.

  The pleasure she derived from her husband’s note, though, was no small thing. He had said she was one of the two most important women in his life! He wanted to spend the whole evening with her. More bricks were being laid in the foundation of their marriage.

  How ominous his letter was. What kind of announcement could he possibly make that would please both women? Had he acquiesced to a firm resolve to stay away from high-stakes play? Had he—remembering his unfortunate father’s demise—determined to become a teetotaler? Though she could wish for a promise from him to stay away from lightskirts, she knew her husband well enough to understand he would never discuss such a subject in the presence of his grandmother.

  It was really awfully mysterious how she had come to understand him so well. She’d never before been a particularly intuitive person, but with him she was. It was as if there was some magical connection between them. She could not remember a single instance when her intuitions about him had been wrong.

  From the first she had understood his great aversion to marriage. She knew that he embraced his freedom to pursue pleasure with a great heartiness. She realized he would rather be with his friends than to mingle in polite society.

 
She also understood that though he deserved his reputation as a rake, his intrinsic good was at odds with the actions that had defined him the past decade. His grandmother saw beneath the reckless behavior to the fine man he truly was.

  There had always been—on Margaret’s part—an exclusive bond to him. The attraction had been there for as long as she could remember. No one, no obstacle, or no thing had ever been able to diminish its fierceness.

  She wished his grandmother could see him with Georgie and the other lads. Something inside her melted. How she longed for him to have his own son. What a wonderful father he would be. His grandmother knew that.

  Now Margaret did too. As much as she wanted her own son, she wanted John to become a father even more passionately.

  I must mimic Caro.

  In her hands was the ability to see that dream come to fruition. If only she could seduce him. All the subterfuge would be worth it if she could get him to get her with child for he would adore a son. She would adore a son. And Grandmere would adore a great grandson.

  After she dressed, she scurried downstairs and found Mrs. Primm. “Do you know if we have any champagne here at Finchley House?”

  “I believe there's a case laid away in the wine cellar.”

  “Please have it sent to the dowager’s house on Berkeley Square with a note that says Lady Finchley has sent it for tonight’s celebration.”

  As determined as Margaret was, she knew she could use all the help she could get.

  * * *

  This was the first time in weeks she’d gone to Trent Square and not found her husband there. All the lads were vastly disappointed.

  As was Mrs. Weatherford, judging by the disappointed look on her pretty face. “I believe,” Mrs. Weatherford said, “I’ve learned enough about cricket to take them out today.”

  “It is a lovely day,” Margaret said.