Stephanie Laurens: All About Passion

“Indeed. I take it you have news?”

“I have.” Settling a pair of spectacles on his nose, Waring withdrew a sheaf of papers from his satchel. “As we’d heard, the gentleman and his household resided permanently in Italy. Apparently both parents, Gerrard Rawlings and his wife Katrina, perished together. Subsequently, the daughter, Francesca Hermione Rawlings, returned to England and joined the household of her uncle and guardian, Sir Charles Rawlings, in Hampshire.”

“I’ve been trying to recall…” Gyles swirled his glass. “Were they-Charles and Gerrard-the sons of Francis Rawlings?”

Waring shuffled his papers, then nodded. “Indeed. Francis Rawlings was the grandfather of the lady in question.”

“Francesca Hermione Rawlings.” Gyles considered the name. “And the lady herself?”

“That proved easier than I’d expected. The family entertained extensively-any member of the ton passing through northern Italy would have met them. I’ve descriptions from Lady Kenilworth, Mrs. Foxmartin, Lady Lucas, and the Countess of Morpleth.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“A delightful young lady. Pleasant. Well-favored. A most amusing creature-that was old Lady Kenilworth. A young gentlewoman of excellent breeding-so said the countess.”

“Who said ‘well-favored’?” Horace asked.

“Actually, all of them said that, or words to the effect.” Waring glanced at the written accounts, then offered them to Gyles.

Gyles took them, perused them. “If you put them together, they spell ‘paragon.’ “ He raised his brows. “You know what they say about gift horses.” He handed the reports to Horace. “What of the rest?”

“The young lady’s now twenty-three years old, but there’s no record nor rumor of any marriage. Indeed, the ladies I spoke with had lost sight of Miss Rawlings. Although most were familiar with the tragedy of her parents’ death and were aware of her return to England, none have seen her since. That seemed strange, so I followed it up. Miss Rawlings is residing with her uncle at Rawlings Hall, near Lyndhurst, but I haven’t been able to locate anyone presently in the capital who has met the lady, her guardian, or any member of the household in the past few years.”

Waring looked at Gyles. “If you wish, I could send a man down to assess the situation locally. Discreetly, of course.”

Gyles considered. Impatience-to have the whole business of his marriage safely dealt with and behind him-flared. “No-I’ll deal with it myself.” He glanced at Horace and smiled cynically. “There are some benefits to being head of the family.”

After commending Waring for his excellent work, Gyles saw him into the front hall. Horace followed; he left on Waring’s heels, stating his intention to return to Lambourn Castle the next day. The front door closed. Gyles turned and climbed the wide stairs.

Discreet elegance and the unmistakable grace of established wealth surrounded him, yet there was a coldness about his house, an emptiness that chilled. Solid and timelessly classical though it was, his home lacked human warmth. From the head of the stairs, he looked down the imposing sweep and concluded that it was, indeed, past time he found a lady to correct the fault.

Francesca Hermione Rawlings easily topped the list to be invited to undertake the task. Aside from anything else, he truly wanted the deed to the Gatting property. His list had other names on it, but no other lady matched Miss Rawlings’s credentials. She might, of course, prove to be ineligible in some way; if so, he’d learn of it tomorrow.

No sense in dallying and allowing fate an opportunity to stick her finger in his pie.

He drove into Hampshire the next morning, reaching Lyndhurst in the early afternoon. He turned in under the sign of the Lyndhurst Arms. Bespeaking rooms there, he left his tiger, Maxwell, in charge of settling his greys. Hiring a good-looking chestnut hunter, he set off for Rawlings Hall.

According to the garrulous innkeeper, Gyles’s distant kinsman, Sir Charles Rawlings, lived a reclusive life in the depths of the New Forest. Nevertheless, the road to the Hall was well graded, and the gates, when Gyles came to them, stood open. He rode in, the chestnut’s hooves beating a regular tattoo along the graveled drive. The trees thinned, then gave way to extensive lawns surrounding a house of faded red brick, some sections gabled, others battlemented with a lone tower at one end. None of the building was new, not even Georgian. Rawlings Hall was well looked after but unostentatious.

A parterre extended from the front courtyard, separating an old stone wall from the lawns surrounding an ornamental lake. Hidden behind the wall, a garden ran alongside the house; beyond it lay a formal shrubbery.

Gyles drew rein before the front steps. Footsteps pattered. Dismounting, he handed the reins to the stable lad who came pelting up, then strode up the steps to the door and knocked.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

Gyles considered the large butler. “The Earl of Chillingworth. I wish to see Sir Charles Rawlings.”

To give him credit, the butler blinked only once. “Indeed, sir-my lord. If you will step this way, I’ll advise Sir Charles of your arrival immediately.”

Shown into the drawing room, Gyles prowled, his impatience fueled by an inexplicable sense of being just one step ahead of fate. Devil’s fault, of course. Even being an honorary Cynster was tempting fate too far.

The door opened. Gyles swung around as a gentlemen entered-an older, softer, more careworn version of himself, with the same rangy build, the same chestnut brown hair. Despite the fact he had not previously met Charles Rawlings, Gyles would have instantly recognized him as a relative.

“Chillingworth? Well!” Charles blinked, taking in the resemblance, which rendered any answer to his question superfluous. He recovered quickly. “Welcome, my lord. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Gyles smiled, and told him.

“Francesca?”

They’d repaired to the privacy of Charles’s study. After seeing Gyles to a comfortable chair, Charles subsided into the one behind his desk. “I’m sorry-I don’t see what interest you might have in Francesca.”

“As to that, I’m not certain, but my… dilemma, shall we say? is common enough. As the head of the family, I’m expected to wed. In my case, it’s something of a necessity, given it’s most seriously necessary I beget myself an heir.” Gyles paused, then asked, “Have you met Osbert Rawlings?”

“Osbert? Is he Henry’s son?” When Gyles nodded, Charles’s expression blanked. “Isn’t he the one who wants to be a poet?”

“He did want to be a poet, yes. Now he is a poet, and that’s infinitely worse.”

“Good lord! Vague, gangly, never knows what to do with his hands?”

“That’s Osbert. You can see why the family are counting on me to do my duty. To do him justice, Osbert himself is terrified I won’t, and he’ll have to step into my shoes.”

“I can imagine. Even as a lad he had limp wool for a backbone.”

“Therefore, having reached the age of thirty-five, I’m engaged in looking about for a wife.”

“And you thought of Francesca?”

“Before we discuss particulars, I wish to make one point clear. I’m looking for an amenable bride willing to engage in an arranged marriage.”

“An arranged…” Charles frowned. “You mean a marriage of convenience?”

Gyles raised his brows. “That always struck me as an oxymoron. How could marriage ever be convenient?”

Charles didn’t smile. “Perhaps you’d better explain what you’re seeking.”

“I wish to contract an arranged marriage with a lady of suitable birth, breeding, and comportment to fill the role of my countess and provide me and the family with the heirs we require. Beyond that, and the household and formal duties pertaining to the role of Countess of Chillingworth, I would make no further demands of the lady. In return, in addition to the position itself and all things reasonably accruing to it, such as her wardrobe, her own carriage and servants, I will settle on her an allowance that will enable her to live in luxury for the rest of her days. I’m hardly a pauper after all.”