The Wedding Season Read online

  To Elizabeth’s delight, Mr. Lindsey managed to do at least as well as the others. Once again, he fit into the family activities as if he belonged. And of course, he cut a fine figure in his black morning coat and tan breeches. With his wavy black hair tossed about in the wind, he appeared much as he had when he had burst into the church and interrupted Sophia’s wedding.

  After several missed attempts, Jamie announced he would take his best shot by imagining a certain viscount’s visage on the ball. He placed his ball by the first arch, drew back the mallet and smacked the orb soundly. It spun across the grass, shooting directly through the distant hoop. He executed a comical bow, complete with a flourish of his hand. “There, Lord Chiselton. What do you think of that?”

  Everyone, even Pru, laughed and applauded.

  “Good show,” Mr. Lindsey said. “I may just borrow your inspiration.”

  They enjoyed the game for an hour or so until the sun grew too warm and drove them inside for a midday repast.

  After a brief lie-down, Elizabeth found Mr. Lindsey in his favorite spot by the windows in the library. His broad, welcoming smile reached clear to his eyes, and she permitted herself to bask in the kindness reflected there.

  He stood and bowed. “Are you rested, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She settled into the chair across from him, the better to see his handsome face. Any day he could be called away from here, and she wished to record his features so as never to forget them.

  “I am glad you found me, for I’ve a question best asked in private.” He glanced toward the open door and nodded his approval at the footman, far enough away not to hear their conversation, close enough to ensure propriety.

  A pleasant suspicion tickled Elizabeth’s brain. She could trust this gentleman’s question would not at all resemble the viscount’s impropriety. “Very well. Do ask.”

  He gripped the arms of his chair, as he often did. “I’d like to ask Captain Moberly for permission to…well, I cannot refer to it as calling upon you, for here I am.” He chuckled and shrugged one shoulder in the most charming way.

  She laughed. Or rather, breathed out a happy sigh. “Yes.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Yes?”

  Now she laughed in earnest. “Yes, please do speak to Papa. And do be encouraged, for I cannot think he has permitted us to spend so much time together without having the highest regard for you.” Oh, how she longed to reach out and grip his hand, but that would not be proper. “Do remember he has been approached by my two sisters’ suitors, and not a one has perished.”

  “Ah.” Another chuckle. “Then I’ll do it without delay.”

  As if summoned, Papa entered the room, and Mr. Lindsey stood. He exchanged a quick look of understanding with her, and she jumped to her feet.

  “Papa, how well you look today.” But in fact, he actually looked somewhat careworn.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He pressed a light kiss on her temple. “Now, you must excuse us. Mr. Lindsey has received his summons to Bennington Manor, and I intend to accompany him.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A bow string couldn’t have been pulled tighter than Philip’s nerves as he and Captain Moberly approached Bennington Manor. They rode up the tree-lined drive toward the brown stone edifice, whose broad, three-storied façade was even more impressive than the rear elevation Philip had see on his previous visit. When they reached the front, two grooms rushed from the side of the building to take their horses.

  After dismounting, Philip straightened his coat and inhaled a deep breath. The pleasant fragrance emanating from the nearby bed of roses stood at odds with Whitson’s foul-smelling deeds he must now contend with.

  “Steady, lad.” Moberly clapped him on the shoulder. “My brother is a reasonable man.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Philip tried to pray as he approached the front door, but the heavens seemed encased behind a silent wall.

  A butler greeted them, an ancient stick of a man dressed in black and topped with a silver crown of close-cropped hair.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lindsey, Captain Moberly.” The man bowed to each in turn.

  Philip wondered whether the old fellow was losing his grip on reality. Most certainly, the captain should have been addressed first. Philip cast an apologetic glance at Moberly, who shrugged and shook his head. Once again, the man’s graciousness bound Philip’s heart to him. How he prayed today’s events wouldn’t destroy any chance he might have to marry Miss Elizabeth.

  Blevins, the butler, took their hats, then led them without ceremony up the front staircase to Bennington’s first-floor library. He stepped through the open door and intoned, “Mr. Lindsey. Captain Moberly.”

  Pity for the old servant welled up in Philip’s chest. This type of error in precedence might see the fellow set out to pasture, should some august personage complain.

  Moberly nudged him into the room, and Blevins retreated, closing the door behind him. The room smelled of tobacco and, if Philip was not mistaken, bergamot, most likely from someone’s over-applied shaving balm.

  Across the large chamber, Bennington sat in a red, thronelike chair behind a white oak desk, his gray hair curled impeccably at the sides of his round face. Two slender, middle-aged men dressed in black were posted like sentinels on either side of the unlit hearth. Whitson stood beside the desk, his eyes wide. Philip hadn’t seen him since the canceled wedding and, strangely, felt nothing at all. No rage. No fear. Certainly no charity.

  “Come in, come in.” Bennington waved them to the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit, sit. You, too, Whitson.”

  Like obedient minions, the three took their places across from him, with Moberly between Philip and his adversary.

  “You’re looking well, Tommy.” The earl gave his brother a placid smile, then nodded to Philip. “Thank you for coming, Lydney.”

  Philip’s chest constricted. “Lindsey, my lord.”

  Bennington eyed him and smirked. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He shuffled the papers on his desk. “I suppose I was recalling an old political foe. Lord Lydney. Haven’t seen him in years. Old age and infirmity have kept him from taking his seat in parliament these six years. Just got word through my solicitors here that the old goat has passed on at last. God rest his miserable soul.”

  An icy shroud descended upon Philip’s head and shoulders as its watery counterpart sluiced through his veins, numbing him clear to the ends of his toes and fingers. How could one freeze and burn at the same time? Lydney dead? Now his future was sealed. There was no escape. He gripped the carved oak arms of his chair, as if that would keep him from drowning.

  “Are you ill, sir?” Bennington’s tone held a hint of amusement.

  What possible pleasure could the earl take from another man’s distress? What did he know? Anger and fear flared inside Philip, but caution doused both. “No, my lord.”

  “Are you certain?” Captain Moberly leaned toward him and gripped his arm. “You’ve gone pale. No, your color is coming back.” He chuckled. “You must forgive my brother’s seeming disregard for Lydney’s eternal soul. He is not as coldhearted as he sounds.”

  “Of course not.” Philip forced a casual grin. Only a brother or intimate friend would dare to direct such banter at Bennington. But Philip wouldn’t be diverted from the task at hand. Shoving aside thoughts of the future, he stared unblinking at the earl, determined to avenge sweet Lucy. With a strong measure of resolve, he brought to mind her bitter heartbreak and ignored the memory of her letter stating her relief over learning of Whitson’s true character. And of course, the scoundrel must not be permitted to keep the dowry.

  “Shall we proceed?” Bennington beckoned the two black-suited men with an imperious wave of his hand. “These are my solicitors from London, Graves and Soames. Gentlemen, give us your report.”

  “My lord.” Graves bent forward in an elaborate bow. Behind him, Soames copied the gesture. “We have thoroughly examined the document and the signatures—”


  “My lord.” Whitson’s voice resonated with strain, but Philip refused to look at him for fear of at last losing his temper. “I’ve already admitted I signed the contract.”

  “So you did, my boy.” Bennington’s bland expression didn’t mask the kindness in his tone. “Carry on, Graves.”

  The dour solicitor glared at Whitson over his reading spectacles. “Ahem. As I was saying, we have examined the document, and it is a flawlessly executed legal contract duly signed by those named therein.”

  “And there are no provisions for a volte-face?” Bennington’s arched eyebrows displayed only mild curiosity.

  “No, my lord. Nothing about a change of heart.” Graves stepped back, and his colleague stepped forward. He glanced nervously between Bennington and Philip.

  “My lord, according to the Hardwicke Marriage Act of 1753, a contract such as this cannot be used to force a marriage.”

  Force a marriage? Now Philip’s latent anger rose to the surface, and he moved to the edge of his seat, ready to stand and declare they could keep their warnings, for he would never give Lucy to this scoundrel.

  Captain Moberly once again gripped his arm. With difficulty, Philip settled back into the chair.

  Soames gave him a smile that appeared more like a grimace. “However, the Marriage Act did allow for Mr. Lindsey to take Mr. Whitson to court and sue him for breach of contract and thereby lay claim to the ten thousand pounds.”

  Whitson squeaked out some unintelligible word, and at last Philip looked at him. Pale as a winter moon, the man looked stricken. “I haven’t got it.”

  Graves moved up beside his partner and cleared his throat. “I must say, Mr. Lindsey, I cannot comprehend your turning over the dowry to Mr. Whitson before the marriage took place. Whatever were you thinking?”

  Soames’s eyes widened, and he nudged his partner.

  “Forgive me, eh, sir, I mean no disrespect.”

  “But it is a good question, do you not think?” Bennington gazed at Philip as if asking him whether he played billiards.

  The earl’s mild tone notwithstanding, Philip felt very much like a schoolboy called before the headmaster. The vast chamber suddenly closed in on him, but he managed to resist the urge to wipe perspiration from his forehead. “He said he needed the money for an investment to ensure his future. At my sister’s request but against my better judgment, I trusted him, not knowing he planned to invest in a London Season.” He stopped before his anger generated careless words that might insult the innocent Lady Sophia.

  “Ah. I see.” Graves nodded, as though it made perfect sense, whereas Philip could at last perceive what a schoolboy’s error his generosity had been. He still had much to learn regarding his responsibilities and hoped Captain Moberly could advise him.

  “Have you a solution?” Bennington eyed his solicitors.

  The two men traded a look. Soames spoke.

  “There are several options, my lord. Should you permit Mr. Whitson to marry Lady Sophia, he can use her dowry to repay Mr. Lindsey. Should you decide against it, Mr. Lindsey has the recourse of the suit we mentioned, or—” he cleared his throat “—he can demand satisfaction on a field of honor.”

  Whitson jumped to his feet. “My lord, I am not a man of violence.” His wild-eyed stare shot around the room, taking in all inhabitants but Philip.

  Philip should have felt some degree of satisfaction to see his adversary—Lucy’s adversary—in such fear. But no such sense of triumph filled the emptiness within.

  “Well.” Bennington’s tone remained languid, as did his posture. He studied Whitson, who looked as if he were taking a turn before the headmaster’s desk. “You’ll not have my daughter or her dowry until you repay Lydney…Lindsey.” The earl glanced at Philip.

  Prickles of intuition crept up the back of Philip’s scalp. Somehow Bennington knew about him and hoped to goad him into some reaction. But he wouldn’t give the man what he wanted. At least not until this matter was settled.

  “But, my lord.” Whitson gaped. “I have no funds, no prospects.”

  “Pity.” Bennington waved one hand dismissively. “Very well, Lindsey, I turn him over to you.”

  All eyes snapped to Philip. Now satisfaction flooded his entire being, body and soul, and he felt his lips curl upward in a sardonic smile.

  “What say you, Whitson? Do you prefer debtor’s prison, or shall I demand satisfaction on a field of honor?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Why are they taking so long?” Elizabeth paced back and forth across the Wilton carpet before the drawing room hearth. At each outside sound, she dashed to the front window, thinking Mr. Lindsey and Papa had returned, only to see the breeze blowing a branch against the glass or a groom exercising one of Papa’s horses.

  “And of course your pacing will bring them home sooner.” Pru threaded her silver needle and began to embroider a blue monogram in the corner of a linen handkerchief.

  Elizabeth dropped onto the settee beside her. “How can you be so patient? Until Uncle and Aunt Moberly return next month, you cannot receive Mr. Smythe-Wyndham other than as our vicar. I should go mad waiting that long.” She tapped her fingernails on the settee’s ornately carved wooden arm. “At least I shall have Papa’s answer soon.”

  “And surely there is no reason he should deny Mr. Lindsey permission to court you.” Pru’s careful stitches began to form the letter P.

  Admiring the work, Elizabeth leaned back to watch her cousin. As the youngest of three daughters of a man of modest means, Prudence exemplified her name. She sewed her own clothing or wore Diana’s and Elizabeth’s castoffs and made her own handkerchiefs from old bed linens. Due to Papa’s success in His Majesty’s Navy and some wise investments, Elizabeth could purchase silk and lace handkerchiefs by the dozen, and her clothing was made by hired seamstresses. How Uncle Robert Moberly would provide dowries for his three daughters was a serious question. But each of these lovely girls bore their situation with grace.

  “Tell me, Beth.” Pru’s eyes lit with merriment. “What title should His Majesty bestow upon Mr. Lindsey to make him worthy to marry you?”

  Elizabeth elbowed her cousin’s arm. “Humph. Haven’t I learned my lesson? Promise me you will never tell my children about that foolish dream.”

  “I would never consider it.” Pru shook her head as if to emphasize her pledge. “Have we not heard often enough of peers who were no gentlemen, even in regard to wellborn ladies?”

  Elizabeth leaned her head on Pru’s shoulder. “Indeed. How wise your advice has always been that we should pray first for a godly husband.” She laughed softly. “And so I did but never failed to add ‘titled’ to that petition.” She lifted her head and glanced toward the front windows. No one approached. “Still, one must admit a title provides protections for a family. If Uncle Bennington sets himself against Mr. Lindsey, he is able to ruin him just as surely as Lord Chiselton threatened to do.”

  “Thus we must trust our futures to the Lord. If God be for us, who can be against us?” Pru tied and clipped her embroidery floss, then selected a yellow strand to thread into the needle. “There is no earthly thing worth having if it is outside of His will. And no harm can come to us if we follow His plan for our lives.”

  The truth of her cousin’s words fell upon Elizabeth like a touch from the Lord Himself, filling her with joy. She had not always taken Pru’s counsel to heart, but this was one gentle sermon she hoped to imbed in her heart forever.

  “Very well, then. Whitson will find a way to repay the dowry or face debtor’s prison.” Bennington rose from his chair. “There is nothing more to say.”

  The other men also stood. Philip released a quiet sigh of relief that Whitson had chosen repayment, for the burden of killing another man, no matter how deserving of death he might be, wasn’t something he wished to carry for the rest of his life.

  “Whitson, you will retire to your room.” The earl’s sober expression brooked no objections, and the scoundrel scooted out th
e door like the rat he was. Bennington dismissed his solicitors with much more courtesy, assuring them that his servants would see to their comfort. “And now, Tommy, will you give me a few moments with Lindsey?”

  Philip’s stomach churned. Which of two topics would the earl choose to hammer him with—Whitson of Lydney?

  “Bennington?” The captain’s dark frown challenged the earl as only someone close to him might dare.

  “Do not fear, my good brother.” Bennington chuckled lightly. “I shall return him to you unscathed.”

  “Lindsey?” Moberly questioned Philip with an uplifted eyebrow.

  “Have I a choice, sir?” Philip clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t relent in his suit against Whitson, no matter what the earl said. If good men didn’t stop the perpetrators of evil, no person, male or female, would be safe.

  Bennington shrugged. “Go on, Tommy. We’ll be only a moment or two.”

  “I shall call for our horses.” The captain gave Philip a reassuring pat on the shoulder and left the room.

  “Now, sir,” Bennington said, “do you require any advice?”

  Philip questioned him with a frown. “Advice?”

  “Oh, come now, Lydney—”

  “I say, uncle, may I have a word?” Chiselton sauntered into the library. When he saw Philip, his lips curled into a sneer. “Lindsey, what cheek of you to be here.”

  Philip resisted the urge to knock that sneer off his face, the way Jamie had struck the paille maille ball. Perhaps later. First he must tend to Lucy’s situation.

  Bennington blew out a harsh breath. “Not now, Chiselton. I am talking with Lydney here.”