Susan Paul - Beguiled

“Fits?” Lord Daltry asked. “ Mad fits?”

Graydon shrugged lightly. “I don’t know what else you’d call chasing after a perfectly happy female who had her mount under complete control and treating her like the veriest child. Really, Matthew, you astound me. Why didn’t you just grab Lady Isabel by the hair and drag her about the park like a heathen cave dweller?”

Lord Daltry straightened in his saddle. “I don’t want to talk about that female, if you please. I don’t even want to hear her name. Never met a more pestilential woman in my life. She’ll have London on its head before the season’s done, mark my words. Did you make any headway with Lady Lillian?”

Graydon gave an assenting nod. “I think it’s going to work out quite well. She’s a charming girl, and can make herself understood more ably than I’d expected. Whatever her upbringing was, it must have been good enough to give her the confidence to express herself. I may try to engage Miss Hamilton’s aid in the matter,” he added more thoughtfully. “She’s always been tenderhearted to the less fortunate, and if she’ll befriend Lady Lillian, I’ve no doubt matters will proceed much more smoothly.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Daltry said approvingly. “With Miss Hamilton for an ally, none of the other comeouts will dare be uncivil. But what,” he asked directly, “will you tell her?”

“She’s already aware that I’ve undertaken to introduce two young ladies from the country into society. I needn’t tell her anything more, although Miss Hamilton is such a gentle soul that she wouldn’t turn them away even if she knew the full truth.”

“Please,” Daltry said, “don’t tell her. I don’t fancy spending the next ten years visiting you in prison. And I doubt Miss Hamilton would care for it, either.”

Graydon laughed out loud. “I’ve no intention of giving Cardemore a reason to be displeased. Never fear, Matthew. Lady Lillian will enjoy her stay in London. I’ll devote myself to the task entirely.”

“It may be harder than I first thought,” Daltry admitted. “I didn’t understand any of those hand movements she made. Looked like a sorcerer’s trick.”

“I didn’t, either,” Graydon said, “but before you and Lady Isabel returned she used a different method of communicating that was quite charming. If I can somehow convince her to use it with others, I believe she’ll readily conquer even the most unforgiving members of the ton.”

“You sound more confident than you did two nights ago.”

“I am. All I need to do is make certain she’s out and about town as often as possible, meeting the right people and making the right friends. Her beauty and Cardemore’s power should do the rest in securing Lady Lillian’s place in society.”

“I hope that’s true, my friend,” said Lord Daltry.

“As do I. Most fervently.”

Graydon spent the remainder of the day making plans and visits. The plans, he knew, were only as good as upcoming circumstances, or the Fates, might make them. He wrote his steward at St. Cathyrs with instructions to proceed with the land improvements they had agreed upon. Having met and, to some degree, successfully communicated with Lady Lillian, he at last felt comfortable in taking such a step. To his mother and sisters he wrote a determinedly lighter, more entertaining missive, striving to erase any fears they might have taken from the steward’s behavior. Not that Graydon believed his competent employee would have spoken of or shown his concern regarding the warnings of impending doom that Graydon had recently sent him, but the ladies of St. Cathyrs were remarkably sensitive, and Graydon, having spent a lifetime drowning in their well-meant concern, had learned early on to nip such worries in the bud. In addition, he wanted his mother in London. It was true that Countess Graydon rarely came to Town, and his sisters seldom more, if they could avoid it, yet his dainty, slightly lunatical mother still welded the respect and power claimed by only the staunchest of the ton’s matrons to ably launch a young lady, regardless of the particular young lady’s imperfections. If Lady Lillian could weather his mother’s and sisters’ peculiar brand of coddling, she’d have nothing left to fear in the way of making her way through the ton’s treacherous waters.

The visits were, on the whole, more predictable. Frances and her mother, Lady Hamilton, received him in the usual fashion, making him feel exactly like what he knew he was: an extremely eligible, highly titled, unmarried peer of the realm. The prize of the season’s marriage market, just as he had been the season before, and the season before that, and even the season before that. He’d had more young women thrown at him during the past four years than he could either remember or give count to, but had successfully managed to escape wedded bliss, or even the consideration of it, until the right woman had finally been thrown at him.

Frances.

She was as delightful in her own right as she was in her physical form, and he had realized, shortly after having met her, that she was the ideal wife for him. Graydon had very nearly decided to make her an offer this season. Nearly. He wasn’t altogether certain what it was that held him back. He was fairly sure of the depths of his own feelings—if he didn’t actually love Frances, he certainly admired and held her in great affection—and he had good reason to believe that she felt similarly toward him. She had given him every indication that if he should ask her to become his wife, her answer would be a positive one.

And yet he held back, waiting for something that he couldn’t define. Something foolish, he often told himself, chiding. Something ridiculous. A bolt out of the heavens when he looked at her, perhaps, or a light-headed feeling when he kissed her lips—as he had already done twice without feeling even the least bit dizzy—or some kind of heart-pounding sensation, anything, that would tell him he would never regret making her his wife.

His visit with her this afternoon only served to confirm to Graydon how foolish he was to hesitate. Frances and he were ideal for each other, both in mind and spirit, and he would surely never find another such lady, so sweet and intelligent and understanding.

He presented himself at Wilborn Place at half past four, and was informed by the earl’s dour butler that the earl wished to speak with him before Graydon took Lady Lillian and Lady Isabel on their planned drive.

The study to which Graydon was taken was by now familiar to him as that place where Cardemore carried out most of his dealings. This time, the earl was already in the room, waiting.

“You’re here,” Cardemore said, glancing up from the papers on his desk as Graydon walked through the door. “Good. Sit down.” He nodded to the chair Graydon had occupied on his earlier visit. “I suppose you already know what I want to discuss.”

“I can guess,” Graydon replied, staring down at his host from behind the chair, where he continued to stand. “Your minion took no permanent damage, I hope. I shouldn’t want to have the man out of the way of useful employ. Such a one shouldn’t be allowed to live off the largesse of the workhouse.”

Cardemore smiled in an unpleasant way. “Perhaps you’d prefer to make him the responsibility of the jails? Never fear. I take care of all those in my employ, one way or another.”

Graydon didn’t doubt that in the least. He wondered if the little man who’d made such a pest of himself, having made a muddle of his assignment, was even still breathing. “I’m glad to know it,” he replied evenly. “Send another such a one to shadow me and I can promise I’ll not leave so much to care for.”