Chapter 9

That afternoon, while the Weatherby sisters were gathered in Eleanor’s bedroom, Kate did something unusual.

She spoke.

“I was thinking I might go out to the barn and sketch the kittens,” she said. “Would anyone like to join me?”

Pippa looked up from her journal, in which she had been scribbling furiously for the last half hour. “I would! Just let me finish this thought.”

Eleanor looked up from her stack of correspondence. She was fielding letters from the many distant relations to whom she had reached out for help. Most of the responses were demurrals, but an elderly great-aunt who lived in Edinburgh had offered to let them stay with her. Eleanor knew that Aunt Agatha lived in a cramped pair of rooms and could barely afford to feed herself. Still, it was better than being without a roof over their heads, and she appreciated the offer tremendously.

Eleanor could sleep on the floor. It wouldn’t be enjoyable, but she could do it. All they needed was to buy enough time for a couple of the sisters to find paid positions. If all went well, perhaps they could move Aunt Agatha into a better situation after a few months.

“I have a guess as to what you’re writing about,” Eleanor said, voice teasing. “Or should I say, about whom.”

“And your guess is probably correct,” Pippa said good-naturedly.

Clarissa, who had been reading a book next to the window, looked up. “I overheard something this morning I think you should know about, Pippa.”

“Oh?” Pippa asked, continuing to write. “What’s that?”

“It was that Anna-Maria Robertson.”

Pippa looked up, frowning. “Which one is Miss Robertson?”

“She’s the one Clarissa was squabbling with at dinner,” Eleanor said. “I take it Miss Robertson made a number of disagreeable remarks.”

“Ah, yes,” Pippa said. “What about her?”

Clarissa leaned forward. “On the way back, I was walking closely enough that I overheard her conversation with her brother. It would seem that Miss Robertson has set her cap for Felix. Suffice it to say, she is not pleased by the attentions he has been showing to you, Pip.”

Eleanor shrugged a philosophical shoulder. “It doesn’t surprise me that Lord Felix would have captured the fancy of Miss Robertson. He’s as good-natured as he is handsome, and by all accounts he will be coming into a respectable fortune. I’m sure half the young ladies of his acquaintance must sigh over him.”

“But this is no mere whim,” Clarissa cautioned. “After Miss Robertson complained to her brother, he asked her if she wanted him to ‘do something about it.’ Pippa needs to be on her guard.”

“Those were the exact words he used?” Eleanor asked. “That he would ‘do something about it?’” At Clarissa’s nod, Eleanor continued, “That isn’t necessarily nefarious. He probably just means that he will create an opportunity to thrust his sister into Lord Felix’s path so they might have the chance to talk. It’s scheming, to be sure, but ultimately not so different from what matchmaking mothers do every day.”

Clarissa shook her head. “That’s not what he meant. Mark my words—their intentions are malicious.”

“Dear,” Eleanor said, “do you think your disagreement with Miss Robertson over dinner could be coloring your opinion of her and her brother?”

Clarissa lifted her chin. “Not in the slightest.”

Eleanor attempted to shift the conversation. “How on earth did you get close enough to overhear all of that, anyway?”

“It’s her gowns,” Kate offered. “She blends into her surroundings. Much as the barn owl has its speckled feathers and the fawn its spots, Clarissa is a master of concealment in her dirt-colored dresses.”

Eleanor felt her heart squeeze. That was the first lighthearted remark she had heard Kate make since their father’s announcement. How she hoped her sister was starting to mend.

Even Clarissa was smiling. “Precisely right, and that’s why you won’t catch me in some insipid gown of red or blue.”

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to stick to that, Claire,” Pippa said. “Lady Milthorpe is planning at least one dance, and I don’t think any of the ballgowns were brown.”

“Not so!” Clarissa’s eyes sparkled with a wicked gleam. “I found one at the bottom of the stack in a lovely shade of sepia.”

Her three sisters groaned.

Pippa snapped her journal closed. “Done! Let me grab my bonnet and we can head down to the barn, Kate.”

“Bring your journal,” Kate suggested as they headed for the door. “I’ll make a few sketches of the kittens in there. That way you can look at them as often as you like.”

“Oh, would you, Kate?” Pippa asked as they trailed down the hall.

Eleanor sighed as she regarded the stack of letters that were still to be answered. “I should probably go with them. They’re still young enough to need a chaperone.”

“I’ll do it,” Clarissa offered. “I’m every bit as firmly on the shelf as you, and I daresay just as effective at frightening off untoward suitors.”

“I would appreciate that,” Eleanor said, taking up another letter. “Try not to come to blows,” she added as her sister reached the door.

Clarissa cast a wry grin over her shoulder. “I make no promises.”

Jasper managed to find a chair by the fireplace in the library that was large and sturdy enough that he could sit comfortably without having to worry that the spindly legs would collapse beneath his bulk. He was settling in with a stack of newspapers when Lord Oglesby appeared in the doorway.

“Are those today’s papers?” the baron asked, his cane thumping against the Axminster carpet as he crossed the room.

“The ones from London are a couple of days old,” Jasper said. “But they arrived this morning, so they’re new to us.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” the baron asked.

“Please,” Jasper said, gesturing to the chair facing his.

They read in companionable silence. After a quarter of an hour had passed, the baron looked up, glancing around the room. “Don’t suppose you know where Lord Milthorpe keeps his brandy?”

Jasper rose at once. “I thought I spotted a sideboard over here… surely enough.” He pulled the stopper on a decanter and breathed in. “I don’t know what vintage this is, but it smells promising. May I pour you one, my lord?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Lord Oglesby replied.

Jasper poured two glasses, handing one to the baron. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass as he settled into his seat.

The baron took a sip and made an appreciative sound. “So, Norwood, I hear you’re attending this house party for much the same reason I am—to find a bride.”

Jasper froze. He tended to keep his cards close to his chest, and he wondered who might have gone blathering to Lord Oglesby, of all people, about his decision to marry.

The baron chuckled. “Don’t look so alarmed. My manservant heard from one of the housemaids that a couple of guests had been added at your request. Don’t worry—I’m not interested in Lady Francesca or Lady Josephine. This would be my fourth wife, you know, so I don’t have to be all that particular about breeding.”

“I suppose not,” Jasper muttered, unsure how to respond and wishing for a way to extract himself from this conversation.

“Have my eye on one of those Weatherby girls,” the baron continued. “Although that news might not be any more welcome. I hear your brother may be after the same gel. The youngest one, Philippa.”

The last thing Jasper wanted to discuss was his brother’s rather obvious interest in the completely inappropriate Philippa Weatherby. Deciding he would read the papers another time, he started to make an excuse. “If you’ll excuse me, I suddenly recalled—”

Lord Oglesby did not seem to have heard him. “I’ll steer clear of Miss Philippa if your brother is serious about the chit. She’s pretty, don’t get me wrong, but she’s not worth making an enemy of a duke.”

Jasper froze halfway out of his chair. Now that he thought on it, this was the perfect opportunity to show Felix that Philippa Weatherby was every bit as grasping as the women who had managed to mesmerize him when he was fresh out of school.

Felix would come into a respectable fortune that would produce an income of around ten thousand a year.

But Lord Oglesby’s income was rumored to be around twice that amount, and he was in possession of a title. Comparing the two men from a purely mercenary perspective, there was no competition—the baron was the better catch.

Given the opportunity to marry such a man, Jasper felt certain that any of those grasping Weatherby Wallflowers would throw his brother over without a second’s hesitation.

“Actually, my lord,” Jasper said, settling back into his seat, “I would not mind in the least if you were to address yourself to the youngest Miss Weatherby. In fact”—he dropped his voice low—“I would consider it to be a favor.”

The baron barked out a laugh. “Not too keen on her, are you?”

“Please, do not mistake me. I know nothing material against the young lady. But I am skeptical about the degree of affection she has apparently developed for my brother after a very short acquaintance. I would welcome the opportunity to test the true depth of her regard.”

The baron nodded. “Then I will proceed as planned, and perhaps you will get it.”

“Good. Very good.” Setting down his glass, Jasper was reaching for his discarded newspaper when something occurred to him. “My lord, at the risk of being overly forward, if you should decide to address yourself to Miss Weatherby, would you be willing to let me know what she says?”

“I certainly will.”

Jasper bowed his head. “Thank you.”

He returned to his paper, feeling more at ease than he had since hearing the name Philippa Weatherby.