CHAPTER TWO
* * *
Merribeth Wakefield stepped into the Weatherstones’ cheery yellow parlor shortly after Emma. She untied the periwinkle ribbon of her bonnet and removed it from her raven tresses. “What a gorgeous day! I’m tempted to suggest we hold our first official needlework circle of the Season in your lovely garden, Penelope,” she said with a smile brightening her cerulean eyes. “But I would hate to freckle before the wedding.”
Penelope gasped in delight and stepped forward to embrace Merribeth. “Mr. Clairmore proposed! Oh, that is wonderful news.”
Emma embraced Merribeth, too. “I’m thrilled for you.”
Her friend had spent the entire Season last year embroidering her wedding dress with the certainty that her childhood sweetheart, William Clairmore, would finally ask her to marry him. It was a common understanding that they’d been unofficially engaged for the past five years. However, Mr. Clairmore’s studies had put their official engagement on hold.
“I wouldn’t say he actually proposed,” Merribeth said as she glanced away. “It’s more like he proposed that he would be proposing very soon. It will happen any day now, I’m sure. Perhaps even after the Sumpters’ musicale later this week.” She retrieved the large satchel she carried with her, which Emma knew was filled with the wedding gown.
Emma and Penelope exchanged a look. “I’m sure he will.”
“Any day now.”
Merribeth turned to face them and drew in a deep breath. “He’s probably only waited this long to make an entire scene of it. A grand romantic gesture.” For the first time, the ever-present dreamy gleam in her eyes dimmed. “Those take a great deal of planning, after all.”
Emma took Merribeth’s hands and led her to the settee. “That is exactly what he’s doing. Never fear.”
“After all, look how long it took Mr. Weatherstone to finally realize he couldn’t live without me.” Penelope smiled, brightening the mood with her usual grace and good nature. While her long-standing affection for Ethan Weatherstone had been no secret to the members of the needlework circle, their sudden wedding over the Christmas holiday had been quite the surprise. But a pleasant one.
Emma was delighted to see her friend settled, as well as truly and completely in love. In fact, Penelope fairly glowed with happiness. Marriage certainly agreed with her.
One day, she hoped to find the type of affection and respect the Weatherstones shared. Of course, her own parents had a deep love for each other, even if it had addled their brains over time. Her marriage, she knew, would never cause her to go mad. For, if she were to go off to bedlam, her husband would be the kind of man to bring her back to sanity.
If only.
The sound of a commotion in the hall drew their eyes to the parlor doors. Then, with a glance at one another, they all said in unison, “Delaney.”
They were right, of course. In the next moment, Delaney McFarland swept in, closed the door and leaned against it. Her lids closed over violet eyes. Curling wisps of her sunburst red hair snaked out from beneath her bonnet. “Younger sisters should be raised by grandparents to avoid the risk of being murdered by their older and much wiser siblings.”
“What has Bree done this time?” Penelope asked. Even though she was the only other one to have a younger sister, they all giggled.
Her eyes flew open. “It isn’t her—well, not entirely. I mean, it’s always her. But this time, it’s Father as well.” Since she hadn’t bothered to tie her lavender bonnet ribbons, she simply pulled her hat off and let it dangle from her hand, freeing a tumble of wild, corkscrew curls. “He let her come out. Out! She’s only seventeen. I had to wait until I was twenty—practically on the shelf, thanks to that retched decorum instructor, Miss Pursglove.”
Emma and Merribeth had delayed their debuts, as well, making the three of them the same age, with Penelope only two years older. While Delaney blamed Miss Pursglove and Merribeth had been busy waiting for Mr. Clairmore, Emma had delayed hers by a year out of respect for the death of Rathburn’s father.
“This will be my second Season,” Delaney lamented. “With Bree out, you know what this means. I’ll never marry.”
They gathered around her in a supportive circle and guided her toward an upholstered chair amid a constant flow of “never fears” and “I’m certains.”
“You don’t understand. She’s perfect in every way that matters. At least on the outside,” Delaney added with a grumble. “They’ll take one look at her perfect complexion and perfect golden hair that curls in an acceptable manner and wonder why I even bothered to show up this Season. Especially, after last year.” She lowered her face into her hands. “I’m a virtual pariah.”
The group exchanged a look and shook their heads. They’d each vowed never to speak of the incident.
In the chair beside her, Penelope reached out and patted her shoulder. “There, there. If you’re lucky, Bree will find a husband at her first ball as Eugenia did.”
“If I’m lucky, the Duke of Fiddler’s Green will sweep her off her feet and take her to his far-off land before she sets foot in the Dorset ballroom next week.” She sank even farther forward, which one could only do if one weren’t wearing her stays. Then again, Delaney was not fond of propriety, and no wonder, with Miss Pursglove breathing down her neck every moment. The decorum instructor was even more severe than Rathburn’s grandmother, though she held less clout in society.
Imagine having to deal with such a woman on a daily basis. Emma suppressed a shudder.
“I’m certain any gentleman would prefer you over your sister,” she said, wanting to cheer her friend.
Another round of “never fears” followed.
Delaney grunted and sat up. “They didn’t prefer me last year. With Bree around this year, she’ll be the toast, while I’ll be . . . the crust.” She made a face. “Burnt crust at that. I’ll be lucky to have two dances this entire Season, and those will be with my cousins.”
“Then we’ll have to trade for every other set,” Emma decided, not quite certain she could manage it, especially considering she hadn’t danced at all last Season. She still hadn’t forgiven Rafe for his part in her lack of partners. “Your cousins will take a turn with Merribeth and me, while my brother takes a turn with you, and Rathburn . . .” she added hesitantly not sure why the mention of his name made her feel those fireflies again, “will take a turn with Penelope, if her husband will allow it.”
Penelope smiled again, a peculiar light in her eyes. She reached into the basket beside her chair and retrieved a bundle of white satin attached to her embroidery hoop. The others followed suit, settling their needlework on their laps, as she spoke. “While we’ll be attending the musical, I’m not certain we’ll attend the ball.”
“You’d miss your first ball as a married couple? But I so want to see you dance with Mr. Weatherstone,” Merribeth added with a rather romantic sigh.
“I want to see his face while you’re dancing with the ever-dashing Lord Rathburn,” Delaney said with a broad grin that Emma tried to ignore, though why it should bother her that her friends found Rathburn handsome, she didn’t know. After all, half the ton thought so as well. “Is he a jealous husband?”
“Jealous?” Penelope said, glancing at the door as if she could see through it to the study across the hall. “I’m not certain. However, I do know he is quite overprotective. Especially now.”
Concerned, Emma looked over at her friend. “Why now?”
Penelope smiled, as if secretly, and then unfolded the scrap of white satin in her lap. It was in the shape of a gown. A very small one.
“Oh, Penelope!” they cried as one, followed closely by, “A baby!” and “My goodness!” and the absolute certainty that she and Mr. Weatherstone deserved every happiness in the world.
After admiring the christening gown, they settled in their seats again and took up their needlework. The maid knocked on the door and brought in a tray of tea, scones, and clotted cream.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy beside Penelope’s chair. “Mr. Weatherstone said to thank you for the tea and especially the orange marmalade.”
Penelope blushed. “Very good, Sally. Is Lord Rathburn still with him?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Now, Sally turned to Emma. “The Lady Danvers sent a message down for Maudette to return. And this is for you, Miss Danvers,” she said, handing over a folded missive before she quit the room.
“Thank you,” Emma said, hiding the dread she felt before she even read the note. Then once she skimmed the words, she refolded it and tucked it into her reticule. With all eyes on her, she managed to keep her embarrassment in check. “My mother needs Maudette’s assistance with her latest”—she took a breath—“project.”
As if overtaking the parlor wasn’t enough, now her mother had to take her chaperone and use her as a model. Fond though she was of Maudette, Emma did not want her bust on the table in the center hall.
Like Delaney’s calamity last Season, the cut direct her father had received years ago was a topic they’d vowed not to discuss. During her second Season, she’d lamented that if a gentleman were to show interest enough after learning of her abysmal dowry and her father’s disgrace, surely after meeting her parents, the question of insanity running in her family would take highest priority.
“Third Season or not,” she said as she stabbed her needle through the petal-soft leather. “If my parents continue like this, I will never marry.” The sense of urgency that had plagued her of late returned like the threat of a storm on the horizon. If she didn’t find a well-grounded husband soon, she feared her own brand of madness would overtake her.
Her friends, the best in the world, she was sure, gathered around her with a chorus of “never fears.”
Yet, even then, she had her doubts.
Ledger in hand, Rathburn walked to the study window, as if better light would somehow alter the figures on the page before him.
Unfortunately, not. They were still the same. Still not enough.
“As you’ve doubtless noted, the sum has nearly doubled from last quarter,” Ethan Weatherstone commented, jotting down an equation on a fresh sheet of parchment before handing it to him. “If everything goes as planned, this should be your profit next year.”
He took the paper, impressed by the sum and having enough confidence in Weatherstone to count on its accuracy. In another year, he’d have all the money he needed. The only problem was, he didn’t have another year. He needed the money now.
“That is fantastic news,” he said, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.
“But it does not improve your immediate circumstances,” Weatherstone said, understanding.
Rathburn handed back the paper and the ledger. “Collingsford decided to alter our agreement. He wants the balance paid in full before he releases the funds to finish.” He gritted his teeth. “Somehow, he learned about my grandmother’s most recent refusal to release my inheritance. Now, with mere months to completion, all work has stopped.”
“On Hawthorne Manor or the . . . other project?” Weatherstone asked, keeping his voice low. He was one of the few people who knew about the hospital Rathburn was building in memory of his father. And for now, it was important to keep it that way.
“Both,” he said, angered.
After losing his father in the fire that had destroyed half of their home nearly four years before, Rathburn wanted nothing more than to honor his father’s memory by building a teaching hospital that would aid in the study of treating severe burn victims, among other things. However, he didn’t want anyone to know about it. At least, not yet. Not until the possibility of his reputation tainting it diminished. He’d even disguised the true purpose of the building and paid a handsome sum to keep his name from being associated with it.
“I know I’ve no right to be angry with the man for wanting payment. If our positions were reversed and I’d lent a fortune to a reputed ne’er-do-well, then I might want guaranteed assurance I’d get paid too.”
“You’re hardly that. Not anymore at any rate,” Weatherstone added with a chuckle as he stood and clapped a hand over his shoulder. “You must know how much I admire what you’re doing. When I think of all the people who will be saved and treated with the care they deserve for years to come, I am in awe of you.”
“Don’t say that, please.” Rathburn shifted, uncomfortable by the compliment. He’d put so much pressure on himself, this only made the situation worse. People, even the ones who didn’t know about it yet, were depending on this hospital. What if he let them all down?
It would be like disappointing his father all over again.
Weatherstone closed the ledger and placed it inside the desk drawer. “You’ll have to get used to taking a compliment, my friend. Of course, if you’re willing to accept my offer for funding . . . we could both share the burden.”
He shook his head. “I have to do this alone.”
He needed to prove himself. However, now, his goal appeared out of reach. If the hospital wasn’t finished in two months, he was going to lose the surgeon and physician from Germany.
Dr. Friedrich Kohn had made it eminently clear that his expertise in working with burn victims was in such high demand that he was considering other offers: from a well-established hospital in Paris, as well as in Geneva. He refused to consider relocating his family without the assurance of a finished hospital and a salary by June.
Rathburn had researched and interviewed surgeons from all over the world, and he felt that Dr. Kohn’s ideas were the most promising. For the sake of his father’s memory, and for the servants who still carried the burden of scars from that terrible night, he had to have the best.
Now, he needed enough money to pull off a miracle. He wondered if he should take up gambling as a true occupation. Many a Rathburn had fallen down that path. In fact, his father had spent most of his life repaying the debts incurred by previous titleholders in the family.
Rathburn hated that some of the debts his father had repaid had been his own, as well.
“Perhaps you could use something a bit stronger while we consider all other options?” Weatherstone gestured toward the decanter of brandy perched on the fall-front secretaire on the far wall.
“Thank you. No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “I’m not chancing a single drop before my grandmother arrives. If she catches even a whiff, I’ll be confirmed a drunkard and certainly not up to snuff.” No drinking. No cards or horses. And no more mistresses.
Weatherstone chuckled. “You’re still not willing to tell Her Grace of your venture?”
“No. Since she never liked my father, I doubt it would matter to her, anyway. Besides, she loves nothing more than keeping tight rein on the inheritance that should have been mine upon my majority.” He was seven and twenty, now. How much longer would he have to wait? “I still can’t believe how she managed to cajole a clause in my grandfather’s will stating that I must earn her approval before inheriting.”
“Then we’ll find the funds another way.” Weatherstone resumed his seat and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. Across the top, he scribbled the title Venture Capital and underlined it. “I suppose the obvious should be stated first. You could marry an heiress.”
“True.” He nodded. Weatherstone was always practical. “However, time is certainly a factor. The problem is, I am not currently acquainted with any heiresses. One would have to allow time for the inevitable courtship, along with funds with which to woo said heiress . . .”
Weatherstone put a line through option one. “What else will it take to earn Her Grace’s approval?”
Rathburn cringed. He nearly wished he couldn’t answer the question. “During the most recent conversation when I approached her in regards to my inheritance, she mentioned a few things, not the least of which was aligning myself with a young woman who met with her approval.”
His friend chuckled. “Is there such a creature?”
“Apparently, yes.” He let out a breath. “However, before I tell you, I’d rather give you the list of these characteristics and see if the same name pops into your head.”
Weatherstone drew a box on the paper beneath the title of Qualities of Rathburn’s Bride.
Rathburn began with the most general. “She must have enough sense not to laugh at my inane humor. She must possess a degree of beauty, but not enough that allows for conceit. She must be demure and yet not wilt in a crowd.” He waited a beat and then continued. “She must engage in activities that are acceptable in all circles of society and refrain from any flamboyance. She must be of excellent character, even more so if her parents don’t always display the best judgment.”
Suspicion marked Weatherstone’s features as he jotted down the last requirement. “I’m beginning to form a picture.”
“I thought you might.” Rathburn watched his friend move the quill across the bottom of the page.
“It says quite a lot of this young woman’s character that Her Grace would approve of her despite her parents.”
He linked his hands behind him and stared out the window. “I suppose it does.”
“During this conversation, did she happen to mention the young woman by name?”
“She did. She even went so far as to mention that she would think highly of any gentleman who managed to earn this young woman’s favor.”
Weatherstone turned in his chair and regarded him. “I’m curious to learn what your response was.”
Rathburn swallowed, recalling his rash choice of words that day. The lie had tripped so easily off his tongue that even he’d believed it. “I told her that this . . . certain young woman . . . and I had an understanding.”
“An understanding.”
“Yes.” Rathburn frowned. “Is that so difficult to believe?”
“Quite the contrary,” Weatherstone said as he pointed to the name he’d written at the bottom of the page, proving that they were of like mind. “However, since I’ve heard no word of this understanding through her friend, who happens to be my wife, I’m wondering how you plan to proceed.”
“Simple,” he said, his confidence already wavering. “I’m going to propose to Miss Danvers.”
Brows lifted in patent speculation. “I imagine her brother would not find this plan of yours all that simple.”
“No.” In fact, Rafe Danvers would flay Rathburn alive if he found out. Emma’s brother was his closest friend and as such knew too many of his worst traits. Specifically, how he would do anything to gain his inheritance. “I see no reason to bother him with something so trivial,” he added, offhand, guilt niggling at the corners of his conscience.
Weatherstone chuckled. “Then, it’s fortunate he’s leaving town tomorrow.”
True. It was almost as if fate were stepping in to aid his quest rather than thwart it this time.
He brushed his hands together, holding on to that last thought. “And by the time he returns, this will all have blown over.”