Countess by Coincidence Read online

  “All I can say is that the fates brought me together with the man I adored at just the right moment. Now, my dear sister, shall we take the dowager’s coach to Madam Duvall's on Conduit Street? I, for one, fancy a stunning new gown for my bridal ball."

  * * *

  When he arrived at Tatt’s, his gelding had just come up. Perry was standing in the front row, eying John’s horse. John raced through the packed crowd and was winded when he reached Perry’s side. “Don’t you dare.”

  The two men’s eyes locked. Perry shrugged. “You abuse me. I only meant to assure that that magnificent beast comes into your possession.”

  “Friends we may be, but you’re not above claiming something I want.”

  “He’s right, old chap.” It was then that John saw David Arlington standing to Perry’s left. “Remember when Finch was prepared to take that Cyprian—what was her name?” He eyed Perry.

  Perry glared. “Winnie.”

  Arlington smirked. “How could I forget? As soon as you knew Finch meant to take her under his protection, you promised her a much heftier allowance.”

  John shrugged. “You must own that once Perry had installed her in luxurious lodgings, he gave me leave to . . . have her to my heart’s content.”

  “Your heart, old fellow, was not the part of your anatomy directing you to Willing Winnie.” Arlington grinned. “Speaking of hearts, how’s the marriage going?”

  Just then, the auctioneer began praising John’s gelding. "Gentlemen, we've saved the best for last. One can look far and wide and never find a horse to match this." John's attention darted to the gelding. What a fine-looking beast it was. Its noble lineage was evident in its perfect symmetry and graceful gait. All eyes were drawn to the rich brown gelding with four white feet.

  "Not only has this gelding been bred for speed," the auctioneer said, "but ye'll not find its equal for grace and beauty."

  Though he did not want to appear too eager, John was anxious to take possession of such a creature. When the auctioneer picked up the gavel and said, "Who will give me fifty quid?" John's hand was the first to go up. Then he glared at Perry.

  Perry shrugged. One competing bidder eliminated.

  "Fifty-five," shouted Lord Elsworth.

  The two peers continued bidding against one another.

  When the price went above eighty guineas, a roar of voices rose from the crowd. It wasn’t every day a single horse merited so high a value.

  “Eighty-five to Lord Finchley,” the auctioneer said.

  Then, nodding to the other man, he said “Ninety to Lord Elsworth.”

  “One hundred,” John shouted.

  The crowd went deadly silent. All eyes moved to Lord Elsworth, who shook his head. “I’ll bloody well never pay a hundred guineas for any beast!”

  John, who had managed to lure back his former groom and coachman, entrusted his new horse to his groom. He and his three friends wished to celebrate John’s purchase over several bottles of brandy at White’s.

  Once they gathered around their usual table, Knowles joined them. His brows lowered, and he looked troubled.

  “Something the matter?” John asked.

  Knowles nodded. “Did none of you see this morning’s newspaper?”

  Perry shook his head. John shook his head. Arlington said, “Seeing the newspaper and reading it are two entirely different things. I could barely focus my eyes when I left my bed.”

  “Pray, what was in it?” John asked.

  “George Weatherford has died. His name was listed among the casualties in Spain. He was an officer in the 11th Light Dragoons."

  John felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. He was only vaguely aware of the groans and utterances of sympathy from his friends. Everyone had liked George Weatherford.

  Weatherford was the same age as he, and they’d known each other since they came up to Eton at age eight or nine. The two had not been close like he always had been with Perry, Arlington, and Knowles, but they shared a mutual respect for one another.

  Weatherford was more serious and less affluent than the others, but John admired his intelligence and kindliness. And he was a slap-dash fine cricket player.

  Later, when John and his friends had gone up to Oxford, Weatherford’s family bought him colours, and he went off to the Peninsula.

  It did seem as if John had heard that Weatherford had married. It was just like him to settle into marriage. He’d never been one to enjoy the same things John and his friends enjoyed. How had Grandmere stated it? Wine, women, and faro.

  As the only aristocrat in their wing at school, John had always been accorded respect from his fellow students. Weatherford was especially in awe of him.

  John set down his glass of brandy and rose to his feet, shaking his head. “I no longer feel like celebrating. 'Tis a bloody, bloody bad piece of news.”

  He left White’s and began to walk to Cavendish Square. To his home.

  Not even the prospect of taking ownership of the gelding could lift his spirits on so somber a day.

  * * *

  He was mildly disappointed that Maggie had not returned. As much as he did not want to share his house with a blasted female, there was something comforting about having someone to talk to when one came home.

  Not that he and Maggie had ever really talked. Of the four times they'd been together, only once had she actually spoken much: the day she persuaded him to allow her to pretend this was a real marriage.

  He found himself going to the library. What was coming over him? He never wanted to be in a chamber filled with books.

  But Maggie did. After all these years, the Finchley library was finally going to be used.

  Perhaps the reason he'd come here was because being around these books reminded him of Weatherford. They had helped each other translate an obscure Ovid poem from Latin into English.

  John was so unfamiliar with the library he was not sure where the Romans were shelved, but in a few moments he located two volumes of Ovid in crimson leather, their lettering etched in gold. He sighed, took one of them, and went to the sofa near the fire. For some unexplainable reason, he wanted to find that poem again.

  Before five minutes had passed the chamber door burst open. He looked up to see Maggie standing there, a broad smile on her face. "You're home early! I hope you've good news." As soon as she spoke she must have discerned from his expression that he was in low spirits.

  Her brows lowered, and she moved to him and spoke in a gentle voice. "I'm so sorry. You didn't get your horse?"

  "I got it." His gaze dropped.

  "Something's wrong."

  He nodded. "An old friend of mine was killed."

  She gasped and dropped onto the sofa beside him. "I'm so terribly sorry."

  Neither of them spoke for a moment.

  "I suppose you didn't feel like celebrating your purchase once you received such terrible news."

  How in the devil had she known he and his friends were drinking to his good fortune in winning the gelding? Was she spying on him? He solemnly nodded.

  "Can you tell me about your friend?"

  It was a moment before he could speak. "His name was George Weatherford. He was an officer in the Peninsula."

  "How tragic."

  "I met him when I went to Eton."

  "So he was a young man. Your age?"

  He nodded.

  "I hope he didn't leave a widow," she said solemnly, "But for his sake, I suppose I hope he did find love and happiness before his life was cut short."

  Oddly, despite his own aversion to marriage, John found merit in her sentiment. He hoped to God Weatherford had found happiness in marriage. He was just the sort of solid chap who would. "We'd lost touch with each other in recent years, but it seems as if I'd heard he did marry. I pray it was a happy marriage."

  "Now," she said brightly, flashing a smile at him. "I wish you would tell me about your horse."

  She did know how to lift his spirits. Not that any bloody horse was an
ywhere near as valued as an old friend. He eyed her. "It's as fine a beast as I've ever seen. A gelding."

  "What colour?"

  "Dark brown. With four white ankles."

  "Oh, he sounds beautiful."

  "Not exactly a he."

  Colour stole into her cheeks. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

  "I wanted to thank you for your extreme kindness to me in front of Caro."

  "You don't have to thank me. I was only doing what any husband ought to do." Not that he wanted to be a husband. "Did I succeed in lessening your sister's loathing of me?"

  "My sister doesn't dislike you. She merely worries about me."

  "With good cause. Am I not the most profligate rake in all of London?" He cocked a smile.

  "You said I couldn't believe that rot one reads in the newspapers."

  He smiled. This wife of his did have a way of lifting his low spirits.

  Chapter 9

  Margaret, Caroline, their sister Clair, and the duchess all descended upon Number 7 Trent Square the following day. Carter, the house's steward who'd formerly been a footman at Aldridge House, let them in. Seconds later, the youthful, widowed Mrs. Hudson, who had taken it upon herself to be the home's resident matriarch, happily greeted them. "Should you like me to send the children to the music room now, Lady Margaret, or do you fancy a cuddle with Mikey first?"

  Did everyone at Trent Square know how completely besotted Margaret was over the adorable little toddler?

  "My sister is no longer Lady Margaret," Caro snapped. "She's now Lady Finchley." From her tone, Caro sounded as if she were still unhappy over Margaret's unexpected marriage.

  Mrs. Hudson whirled at Margaret and smiled. "Felicitations on your nuptials, my lady. That's very exciting."

  Margaret smiled. "Yes, it is awfully, and yes, you may summon the children. I do hope Louisa has recovered from her fever."

  Mrs. Hudson managed a smile. "She's not recovered yet, but at least the fever is past. Last night was the first night she hasn't been burning with fever."

  "Oh, you poor dear," Margaret said. Louisa was Mrs. Hudson's only child, and Margaret knew how worried the mother had been about her. "I suspect you've not slept much this week."

  "You sound exactly like Carter. He offered to stay up with Louisa the night before last so I could finally get some sleep, but I knew I wouldn't be able to close my eyes for worrying about my little one—even though he promised that if there were any change or if Louisa called for me, he would knock loudly upon my chamber door."

  Whether Mrs. Hudson knew it or not, the house's handsome steward Abraham Carter was in love with her, and he also adored her little girl in the same way a father would. Margaret thought too that whether she knew it or not, Mrs. Hudson was falling in love with him. Poor Mrs. Hudson had known her share of pain. She deserved happiness. Now if only the two could get together.

  Abraham, too, deserved happiness. It was devilishly difficult for Margaret to think of her family's former footman as anything other than Abraham. She was ever so proud of how hard he had worked to "better" himself, of how much all the children at Trent Square loved him, of how efficiently he kept Number 7 moving. She could not remember when a servant had ever commanded such respect.

  But then she realized that to these widows and their children, Abraham Carter was not a servant. He was like an engaging uncle, a caring father, and a jack-of-all-trades all rolled into one and put on this earth to keep their lives running smoothly.

  "I fear several of the other children have caught Louisa's malady," Mrs. Hudson continued. "Only Peter and Sarah will come to you today."

  Margaret's brows lowered. "The poor dears. Should you like me to send for an apothecary?"

  The widow shook her head. "I don't think that will be necessary at this time, but many thanks for your kind offer." Mrs. Hudson then faced Clair and smiled. "I was so impressed to see you named in the newspapers, Lady Clair, and with such a famous person! The right honorable Richard Rothcomb-Smedley."

  Clair looked inordinately pleased. "He's a wonderful man, to be sure."

  "Is it true he will be Chancellor of the Exchequer before he's thirty?"

  Clair shrugged. "We certainly hope so. He's worked very hard."

  A pity he'd not yet offered for Clair, Margaret thought. They were not only perfectly suited for one another, they also held each other with the greatest affection.

  Perhaps after learning about the thirty thousand Lord Finchley received upon marrying a Ponsby sister, Mr. Rothcomb-Smedley would beg for Clair's hand. As a younger son, he could certainly use Clair's fortune.

  Mrs. Hudson regarded Margaret from beneath lowered brows. "I believe I've read about your Lord Finchley in the papers, too, but I cannot remember in what context. Is he also in Parliament?"

  To Margaret's consternation, her sisters began to laugh. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at them, then addressed the widow. "No, my husband is not yet in Parliament, and he's told me not to believe the wicked things that are printed about him in the newspapers, and I beg that none of you will, either." She stalked to the stairways and began mounting them.

  "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you our own wondrous news," Mrs. Hudson said.

  Margaret turned back around.

  "Mrs. Nye will be leaving us."

  "I fail to see what's wondrous about that," Caro snapped.

  "She's to remarry. It seems one of the gentlemen in the village where she was raised was always smitten with her, and once he learned of her widowhood, he began calling on her. They're to marry after the banns have been posted, then he'll be taking her to her new home."

  "I'm very happy for her," the duchess said. "And that will mean there will be room for one more family."

  "We're all very happy for her. We understand her Mr. Miller has a bit of property and a solid old manor house."

  "That is good news indeed," Margaret said. "It's my hope that all of you can find such happiness as Mrs. Nye."

  Mrs. Hudson's brows lowered. "I should feel a traitor to my dear Harry."

  Margaret stepped back and settled a reassuring hand upon the widow's shoulder. "From what I've learned of your late husband, I'm sure he would want you to find love again, to be happy. You and Louisa."

  Surely Mrs. Hudson's loyalty to her dead husband was not the obstacle that was keeping her from finding happiness with Abraham. What a serious impediment it was to any budding romance with Abraham. She turned back and climbed the stairs.

  * * *

  "Now that you're in funds, old boy," Perry said, "What do you say to playing whist for twenty quid a rubber?"

  John smiled. "It's been a while since I've been able to do that."

  He and his three closest friends were sitting at their usual table at White's. Knowles' brows lowered, and he set a hand on John's arm. "Do you not think the Duke of Aldridge will learn of it? If I were you, I'd be more cautious. The duke's a man whose wrath you don't want."

  "Don't listen to him," Perry said.

  "It's not as if I'm going to lose the whole thirty thousand. What will it hurt to lose a few quid here and there? Besides," he said, flashing a smile to his most serious friend, "I could win."

  Arlington regarded him with a quizzing expression. "You have paid back Lord Bastingham?"

  John swallowed. He hated to think of the sizeable chunk of Maggie's dowry that had gone to repay Bastingham for former losses. He nodded gravely.

  Perry called for pasteboards.

  "Perhaps we should start a bit lower than twenty quid a rubber," John suggested.

  Arlington chuckled. "I see marriage is already having a maturing effect upon Finch."

  "Marriage has nothing to do with it," John spit out. "I just prefer not to alienate the Duke of Aldridge. I have reason to believe he despises me already."

  "No one could ever despise you," Knowles said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I remember how poor old Weatherford idolized you. He used to say you were the most down-to-earth, kindly aristocrat he'd e
ver known. He thought of you as a true friend."

  "And I, him," John said over the huge lump in his throat.

  "Enough maudlin talk," Perry snapped. "How about ten quid a rubber?"

  Arlington shrugged. "How about five? It's a long way till quarter day."

  "By the way," John said, "I shall expect to see each of you at my grandmother's ball Friday."

  Perry rolled his eyes and frowned. "I'll be there."

  "I wouldn't miss it," Knowles said. "I'm anxious to see this wife of yours."

  "Me, too," Arlington chimed. "I have to see for myself. How could Finch have ended up with a lady of fortune and beauty? The woman obviously doesn't read the newspapers."

  "Is she as tolerable looking as Perry says she is?" Knowles asked John.

  John would be pleased if they found her comely. "I expect she's prettier." He was still puzzled at how such a fine lady would consider plighting her life to his. One with her attributes could have anyone she wanted.

  * * *

  The night of the ball arrived.

  One night and one night only was Margaret assured of spending the evening with her husband, and she meant to make the best of it. As soon as John's grandmother had announced the ball, she and Caro had gone to the dressmaker's, where Margaret commissioned the loveliest gown she had ever possessed.

  Madame Duvall had called it a bridal dress, which Margaret thought most appropriate. A striped French gauze fell gently over a white satin slip, and the bottom of the frock featured deep flounces of Brussels lace wreathed with pale pink satin roses. Margaret thought the bodice particularly flattering. As was the custom, it was very low—but not so low as to lose respectability—and it was embroidered with more of the pink flowers and elegant leaves. Her shoulders would be completely exposed, but she'd been told her shoulders were most graceful. She enjoyed the good fortune of possessing extremely pale skin that was free of blemishes, so she thought perhaps her flatterers had been right. Just off her shoulders the delicate fabric puffed over her upper arms like a pair of clouds.

  Caro had been exceedingly jealous. "It is quite the prettiest dress I have ever beheld. There's nothing for it but I shall have to marry and commission a so-called bridal dress every bit as beautiful."