A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

“Toby is only teasing,” Isabel said. “He knows how important my charitable causes are to me.”


Yes, Toby sighed. He knew. Those damnable causes were everything to her. For weeks now, Isabel had declined any typical amusement, finding pleasure only in visiting orphans and collecting charitable subscriptions. Even the wedding preparations were a task she suffered through, he suspected. She probably thought of lepers while she looked at samples of lace.

“How are things in Surrey, Mother?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Well, as always.” Lady Aldridge motioned for the footmen to clear the table. “Except for one minor annoyance.”

Reginald chortled. “Need we guess the annoyance’s name?”

Toby asked, “What’s Mr. Yorke done this time?”

“Oh, it’s the plans for the irrigation canal. He agreed to the placement months ago. Now that the papers have been drawn up he refuses to sign, the impossible man. I know he does these things just to spite me. Toby, you’ll have to speak with him.”

“Certainly I will.”

“He’s always liked you. Though I never understood why.”

With a self-effacing smile, Toby laid down his fork. “This, from my own mother.”

“You know I don’t mean it that way, dear,” she said. “It’s just—that man doesn’t like anyone.”

Archibald Yorke owned the lands bordering their estate in Surrey. He was a fixture in the neighborhood, known for his dry wit and shrewd bargains, and as the other primary landholder in the borough, he’d taken some pride in his position as the Aldridge family’s archnemesis. Because Toby had assumed the baronetcy in his infancy, for many years, the task of dealing with Mr. Yorke had fallen to his mother. Now their scuffling had simply become a matter of habit, a sport neither party seemed inclined to give up. Despite the history of rancor between the two—or perhaps because of it—Toby had always liked the man immensely. In his youth, he’d been drawn to the prickly old bachelor. They’d spent many an afternoon in Yorke’s stables or by the fishing stream. In keeping with his life goal of thwarting Lady Aldridge, Yorke had provided young Toby with sanctuary and a sympathetic ear anytime he fled a punishment or simply chafed on his mother’s leading strings.

“Who’s Mr. Yorke?” Isabel asked.

“A friend,” Toby replied.

At the same instant, Augusta answered, “Mother’s enemy.”

“He’s just a neighbor,” their mother said. “And he’s not worth further discussion. Let us speak of pleasanter things.”

“Oh, Augusta,” Isabel said, brightening. As ever, charity absorbed her complete attention. “I have an idea for the Society pamphlets. My sister-in-law, Soph—”

Her voice trailed off. Forks teetered midair.

“Sophia,” his mother completed smoothly. “We know Sophia, dear.”

“Yes, of course you do,” Isabel murmured. She cast a guilty look at Toby. He forced a smile and a wave of nonchalance. “Go on then, darling,” he said, although he hoped she wouldn’t.

“Sophia has agreed to sketch a portrait of little Peter Jeffers, to illustrate the pamphlet. We must put a human face to the climbing boys’ misery, to stir the hearts of potential donors. Augusta, don’t you agree?”

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” Augusta answered. “Can your sister provide a sample before the next meeting?”

And on and on it went through dessert—which, of course, Isabel did not eat. Toby stabbed at his portion of quince tart. It wasn’t that he begrudged Isabel her good deeds—he just wished she’d warm up to him a bit. After nearly six weeks, he was still clinging to this betrothal by the skin of his teeth and an arm-long list of absurd promises.

By his own agreement with Gray, he had to keep Isabel smiling. And none of his usual methods—compliments, jests, fawning attention, little gifts—earned even the slightest twitch of her lips. No, there was nothing to make Isabel Grayson smile like an impetuous act of selfdenial: Yes, of course I’ll raise funds for the dispensary’s new building.

Though I’d just as soon pay for the thing myself.

Certainly, I’ll canvass the gentlemen’s club for subscriptions.

The day they terminate my membership.

Absolutely, I’ll let grimy gutter waifs ride on my shoulders.

Can’t I just give them a pony instead?

No, I didn’t notice the children had fleas.

Scratch, scratch, scratch …