Martha Barwood
Regency Romance Author
A Convenient Bride's Dilemma
Prologue – Chapter One – Chapter Two
Prologue
Hayes Manor, Devonshire
Greyson yanked open the bedroom door, collaring a maid as she walked past.
“Where,” he hissed, teeth gritted, “is the physician? Has anyone sent for a physician?”
The maid – his mother’s personal lady’s maid, he realised after a moment – only stared flatly back at him. The woman’s name was Agnes, he recalled with an effort. She yanked her shoulder free from his grip in a shocking display of insubordination.
“It is far too late for physicians,” she replied. “Indeed, it has been too late for many weeks.”
“Preposterous,” he retorted, regaining his composure. “Pray, summon one forth at once. Without delay!”
Agnes did not move. She stood her ground, meeting his eye squarely.
“Your mother has been languishing for weeks, my Lord,” she replied, her tone dripping with disdain as she pronounced “my lord” as if it were an invective. “You would have been aware of that, if you were here instead of making yourself the most notorious rake in London. Perhaps she wouldn’t have faded quite so quickly if it hadn’t been for the shame.”
Greyson flinched backwards, finding himself at a loss for words.
“You cannot speak to me like that,” he said, vaguely aware that his voice was too shrill, like a petulant child’s voice. “You listen to me…”
“No,” Agnes cut him off. “It is time you listen to me. Lady Marilla Hayes is the finest and best woman to have walked this earth, and I’ve been honoured to serve her. I have watched your antics drag her further and further down with shame and worry. It was her request that her final hours were not ruined by ministrations of physicians, with their instruments and elixirs and unwelcome examinations. I intend to fulfil that request. You’re free to ride to town for a physician yourself, if you wish, but I daresay she’ll be dead before you return. She desired to bid farewell, and you have only just arrived a few hours prior. Were I in your position, I would devote my time to your mother whilst the opportunity remains.”
Without waiting for a response, Agnes turned on her heel and began striding away down the hall, heels clicking on the floor.
“Wait,” Greyson called, his voice cracking. “My… my mother is dying. Can you do nothing?”
Agnes glanced over her shoulder, and he was sure he saw tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Not a thing, your lordship. Pray, convey my farewells to her, if you would be so kind.”
And then she was gone, leaving Greyson alone in the draughty corridor. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and turned wordlessly back into the room behind him.
His mother’s chamber—the very one in which he had frolicked as a child, and burst in upon as a thoughtless youth, brimming with news or grievances—was shrouded in darkness, and not solely due to the night encroaching from outside. Thick curtains covered the windows, some of the furniture was shrouded, and the hearth was dark, as Lady Hayes could no longer bear the brightness of the flames.
She was always cold, though, and so the huge, four-poster bed was piled with quilts, furs, and blankets. The woman herself was lost in the centre of it all, just a white face and a single white hand above the covers, a fan of silvery hair covering the pillow.
“Greyson?” she quavered. “Was that Agnes I heard outside?”
He swallowed hard. “It was, yes. She was extremely rude to me, Mother.”
Lady Hayes gave a weak chuckle. “Aye, that sounds like Agnes. Always speaks her mind, that one. She doesn’t know I’ve left her a hefty bequest in my will. She shall no longer be required to toil, in grateful recognition of the devoted service she has rendered to me throughout the years.”
A lump had formed in Greyson’s throat. He lowered himself back onto the hard chair beside his mother’s bed. His legs were cramping from the hunched-over position, and his back twinged with pain, but he didn’t care.
“You can’t die, Mother,” he whispered. “I… I haven’t been the best of sons, but…”
“Hush, hush,” Lady Hayes soothed, extending a papery hand. He took it, trying to work some warmth into her icy fingers. “You’re a good boy, Greyson. Never think that I didn’t love you, or that you didn’t occupy every minute of my thoughts. I just… I just wish I could have been more proud of you.”
Shame stabbed through Greyson’s chest. He pressed his mother’s hand to his cheek.
“If you get better, Mamma, I swear you’ll never read a single line about me in the scandal sheets. I shall be a model viscount. I shall never swear, or drink, or carouse, or break a single one of Society’s nonsensical rules. I promise I shall be the son you wish me to be.”
She smiled faintly. “Careful, Greyson. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You see that I do not make assurances I know I cannot uphold – I do not vow to endure.”
“Mother…”
“I’m dying, Greyson. I’ve known it for some time. I should have told you earlier, I should have drawn you home, but my pride got in the way. It’s too late now but you’re here, thank the lord. My little boy.”
Greyson didn’t realize that he was crying until the first hot tear streaked down his cheek, full of shame and misery. What had he been doing yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that? While his mother lay dying, he was drinking in unspeakable clubs, losing hours of time, cavorting with all sorts of rakes and flirts – and worse, for that matter – losing small fortunes on cards, and generally behaving like a child with no sense of decorum or correctness. He’d idled away hours, days, when he could have been here, setting things right with his beloved mother. The woman who’d raised him so well, who’d loved him even when his vile father turned on them both, who’d taught him how to be a viscount when he was too young to understand what it meant.
They could have been reminiscing, spending quality time together, saying goodbye. Instead, he’d drunk himself into a stupor, and had almost arrived too late.
What have I done? What have I done?
With an effort, Lady Hayes shifted towards him, pulling her other arm out from underneath the sheets with a visible effort. She cupped his cheek, brushing away his tears with trembling fingers.
“I’ve been thinking about what I should say to you,” she said, voice quavering. “How to say goodbye.”
“Mama…”
“No, Greyson, you must listen. You must listen. For years, I have watched helplessly as you squandered your potential. You have chased pleasure and scandal, caring nothing for what others think, thinking of nothing but your own whims. I’ve watched and despaired. But I know you are better than this. I know you can be better. I had such plans for you, you know. And then I had ideas on how to turn you back to the straight and narrow, but of course there’s no time for that now. So, I shall say this. I want you to promise to me now, Greyson, as I lie on my deathbed, that you will change. You will become a better man. Become the man you ought to be. You must be kind, dear child. Restore honour and dignity to our name.”
“I will, Mamma,” he vowed. “I swear it. I shall make you proud. I shall!”
She smiled faintly. “It won’t be easy. You must marry, Greyson. I said it a thousand times before, and I’ll say it one more time now. You must marry a good woman and produce an heir. I shall never have the pleasure of meeting my grandchild, but perchance you might display a portrait of me in our London residence, so that they might behold it. Pray, promise me you shall take better care of yourself, my dearest boy.”
“Mamma, please don’t talk like that.”
“Do you promise, Greyson?” she repeated, her hand tightening on his with a surprising strength. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” Greyson replied instantly. “I shall make you proud. But if a physician could be fetched…”
“I’ve seen physicians enough,” she said, with a sigh. “I’m glad you arrived in time, my love.”
She fell back against the pillows, suddenly limp, and closed her eyes.
“Mother?” Greyson ventured, voice trembling. “Mamma?”
“I think I’d like some water,” Lady Hayes said, eyes still closed. “There is a decanter of water on the table over there. Could you fetch me a glass?”
Greyson scrambled to obey. It was a good sign, surely, if she wanted water, was it not? Perhaps a little time, a little positive thinking and physician’s attention, and maybe…
He poured out a glass, carelessly slopping water over the expensive lace at his cuff and turned back to the bed.
The glass fell from his hand, shattering at his feet. Water and shards of glass flew all over the rug, but he barely noticed.
Lady Marilla Hayes, Dowager Viscountess, was dead.
Greyson’s howls echoed through the house, mingling with the servants’ sobs below stairs.
***
One Year Later, London
Heads turned to follow the glossy, freshly lacquered carriage as it made its way down the busy Mayfair street. The horses, dashing, high-stepping chestnuts, barely flicked an ear at the chaos and traffic around them.
The carriage turned, affording spectators a glimpse of the family crest embossed on the side, and a few people hissed between their teeth, turning away with a disapproving shake of the head.
Inside the carriage, the Viscount Hayes let the curtain fall. He’d seen quite enough. Almost everybody who’d seen the carriage had watched it go by in admiration, only for their faces to fall when they saw the crest on the side.
The scandal sheets had made such a spectacle of the affair that the public still recalled it, a full year later.
London’s Greatest Rake Is In Mourning!
Lord “Hellfire” Hayes Allows His Dying Mother to Languish Alone In A Country Home
Lord Hellfire Frequents Gaming-Underworld The Day Of His Mother’s Death
He closed his eyes. Most of the scandal-sheet authors were anonymous, but they generally spoke the truth, with painful accuracy.
He had let his mother die alone, very nearly. He had visited a gambling-den before he travelled down to see her, foolishly thinking her illness wasn’t so bad.
Not a minute, not a single second of that lost time could be gotten back. A lock of Lady Hayes’ hair had been pressed into a signet ring he wore on his forefinger, but hair was a poor substitute. Lady Hayes rested in the family mausoleum, beloved and much mourned, whilst her son bowed his head in sorrow at her funeral.
I haven’t forgotten, Mother, he thought, swallowing down the lump in his throat. I shall strive to improve myself. I shall endeavour to make you proud. I shall endeavour to be a gentleman of good character. Now, I must convince London of my resolution to be a man of virtue.
The carriage jolted to a stop, and he was nearly propelled into the opposite seat. Flushing, he hauled himself to his feet just as the door flew open, revealing a youngish, red-faced footman.
“What are you doing, you simpleton?” Greyson snapped. “Where’s the coachman? Is he incapable of managing a pair of horses?”
The footman flushed redder. “I’m sorry, your lordship. The fault is mine, I stepped in front of the carriage too soon and the man had to stop abruptly. I…Do forgive me, your lordship.”
Greyson bit the tip of his tongue. Part of the reasoning behind his nickname, Lord Hellfire, was because of his fiery temper. Another thing that his mother had disapproved of.
“It’s fine,” he snapped, not quite as graciously as he’d hoped. “I take it the house is ready?”
“It is, your lordship,” the footman responded, eyes fixed on the ground.
Greyson stepped out onto the raked gravel drive, adjusting his waistcoat.
The Hayes townhouse was a rather remarkable building. It was huge, much larger than most townhouses in that area, with a long garden, exquisitely decorated.
I have Mother to thank for that. It’s been years since I set foot in this place.
Breathing deeply, he stepped inside.
The first thing that greeted him was Lady Hayes’ portrait. It was recently done, barely five years old. She smiled benignly down at newcomers, the focal point of the Great Hall.
Greyson’s fingers clenched into fists, and he stared up at the picture.
I’m trying, Mother. I’ll make you proud, just wait and see.
“Should we have taken down the picture?”
He flinched at the voice from behind, glancing over his shoulder to glare at the same footman from before.
The man flushed again. “Sorry, your lordship, I…”
“Why would I want a picture of my mother removed?” Greyson inquired testily. “It’s perfectly situated where it stands.”
“But… you are in mourning, sir.”
“Do you think I shall burst into tears at the sight of her? No, I will not. It is very well placed, I assure you.”
The footman looked as though he were about to sink into the floor, so Greyson added a belated, “Thank you, though.”
It seemed to work. The man brightened.
“Your things are being taken upstairs, your lordship. Is your valet here?”
“No, the man wanted to stay in the countryside. Engaged in matrimony, or so it appears; I cannot say for certain.”
It was a sore point. Greyson would generally have refused to write the man a reference, on account of leaving him at an inconvenient time, but the spectre of his mother loomed over him. He’d begrudgingly written an honest reference, and the valet had immediately gotten another position taking care of another gentleman, and now Greyson was without a valet.
“Oh,” the footman said quietly, frowning. Greyson eyed him. He didn’t seem particularly well-trained, but then, the townhouse had always been his mother’s domain. She hadn’t been here this Season, of course, and Greyson had stuck exclusively to his bachelor apartments. The butler in charge of the place was old, half blind and mostly deaf, so it was no surprise that the place was in shambles.
His mother’s words echoed reproachfully in his head.
You must be kind, darling.
“You can help me dress and take care of my things, if you like,” Greyson offered casually.
To his chagrin, the man’s face fell.
“Oh. Um, of course, my Lord. If that is your desire.”
Greyson tossed his coat and gloves onto a nearby chair. “It is what I desire. Pray tell, what is your name?”
“Thomas, your lordship.”
“Right. Well, have there been any cards left here recently, Thomas? The Season should be in full swing by now.”
The footman – Thomas – scrambled towards a sideboard, coming up with a handful of cards and old invitations, most of them likely addressed to Lady Hayes herself. He handed them over, and Greyson took them, making a mental note to remind the footmen to hand things to him on a silver tray, as was proper.
The cards were more or less what he’d expected – the unusual social climbers and old friends, a few invitations which had been sent out of duty or as a matter of course, without checking to see whether Lady Hayes was in town or not. Nothing of note. Until…
He paused, lingering on one particular card.
“Lady Beatrice Sinclair,” he murmured under his breath. Thomas perked up.
“Your lordship?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, I was just talking to myself. This,” he said, lifting the card, “is from one of my mother’s oldest and dearest friends. She could be an ally for me, at the moment.”
Thomas looked confused, and Greyson didn’t bother to clarify matters. He eyed the card, chewing his lower lip.
Yes, Lady Sinclair could help him a great deal.
Assuming, of course, she could forgive him for his previous behaviour. Either way, though, from what he remembered of the formidable Lady Sinclair, she could not be fooled. Not ever.
Chapter One
Rutherford Manor, London
In the middle of the night, it was funny how even the smallest sounds could echo and reverberate.
Clara froze, heart pounding, her pen clutched between ink-stained fingers. Was that a creaking floorboard she had just heard? None of the servants would be wandering around at this time of night, their sleep was just too precious.
It wouldn’t matter if she tried to hide what she was writing, if her mother, of all people, burst in now. She would demand to see it, and then it would all be over. Having a bluestocking daughter was embarrassing enough, but a published bluestocking… oh, no.
She held her breath, praying with all her might until the noise came again – a draught, blowing through the house, making the half-open door to her washroom creak just a tiny bit.
Clara let herself breathe again. Safe for now.
She returned to her papers. The essay was mostly done, its tantalizing title scrawled across the top of the page.
The Place of Woman: Far Beyond The Household
It was a thrilling title, and one that would attract a great deal of attention. In her essay, Clara went on to expound that women had the ability – no, the responsibility – to seek accomplishment and meaning beyond motherhood and housekeeping. She added, rather controversially, that any woman who accepted second place as a wife, mother, or simply as a female citizen, would never achieve true happiness or meaning.
In her conclusion, which she was writing now, she made it clear that women would not simply be handed their equality, on any level. No, they would have to make it happen themselves.
How that could happen, she was not sure, but that was a subject for another article.
The essay would be printed in the infamous and highly controversial True Thoughts Of A Woman, a bi-monthly newspaper that was written and printed in secret but read voraciously all over the country by women of all ages and station. The costs of printing, and the associated bribery that came with anonymity mostly ate up the profits, leaving Clara with only a small payment for each essay, but she didn’t mind.
She was making a difference.
With a flourish, Clara signed the essay – she always signed it the same way; An Angry Woman: Sophia Reason – and carefully folded the paper up into an envelope. Her candle was nearly out, the flame guttering and flickering over the spines of her precious books.
Her absolute favourite book, the one she had read at seventeen and which had changed her mind and her life forever, sat in pride of place. A Vindication Of The Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft, was a shocking book, and one that many ladies took pride in never having glanced at. Mentioning the book at all was a good way to send a gentleman scuttling away from you in disgust, and so Clara had used it to good effect more than once.
There were other great philosophers stacked on her shelf – the entirety of Mary Wollstonecraft’s works, of course, along with other books that women were not meant to be reading. Beccaria, Voltaire, Kant, and more. Almost all male authors, of course. Female writers were a rarity, even in their Enlightened modern age.
Not if I have anything to do with it, Clara thought with a smile, tucking her essay into her bodice.
A clock stood on the top of the bookshelf, reading four o’ clock in the morning. Clara grimaced. She had narrowly managed her time today, yet there remained the possibility of meeting her deadline.
She was already dressed, and all that remained was to take out the old, grainy black cloak tucked into the very back of her wardrobe and swing it around her shoulders. She took her good boots, but carried them, so as not to attract any attention.
And so Lady Clara Rutherford, youngest daughter of the wealthy Raywood Rutherfords, crept out of her family home in the dead of night, and into a hired hackney carriage at the end of the street. It would have shaken Society to the core – she did not even have a maid with her. What madness.
Clara smothered a yawn. The hackney carriage rattled along the empty streets, heading for Paternoster Row, as she’d requested. Sometimes colloquially called Publisher’s Row, but at this hour even the bookmakers and printers were not yet awake.
Except for one, of course.
“Wait here,” she instructed the driver, and slipped out of the carriage.
Sandwiched in between two larger publishing houses, a neat little printing shop whose name could not be read in the dark had a candle burning in the window. Clara did not knock at the door – the sound would travel in the dead of night – but instead lifted a small latch to reveal a sort of letter-box and pushed her enveloped essay through. She paused, waiting, and heard footsteps crossing the floor inside. Through the letter-box, she saw the printer’s apprentice, the same young man she always dealt with, pick up her envelope. He checked the address, and gave her a brief smile, smothering a yawn.
She breathed out.
I did it. My essay will be in the next copy of True Thoughts. Thank goodness.
She turned, hurrying back to her hired hackney carriage, and tumbled into the stale-smelling seat in the back.
“Take me back,” she instructed, biting back a yawn. The carriage was the same one she hired, twice a month, and he knew that he would be paid extra never to mention the trip, or where it had gone to. With the Season beginning, Clara had found herself hopelessly behind with her writing. Generally, she liked to submit several articles to True Thoughts, and often had the pleasure of seeing them all published. But all the wretched balls and parties she was obliged to attend had robbed her of the time and energy for writing. It was infuriating.
“What time is it?” she asked, after a pause.
“A quarter to five, madam.”
Clara bit her lip. That was leaving it late. The family would of course not be up for hours, until eight o’ clock at the earliest, but from five or half past five, the servants were generally up. They had a large household, and it was likely that somebody would decide to mention to Countess Raywood that her daughter had been seen sneaking into the house in the early hours of the morning.
In the end, the hack stopped at the bottom of the street at about five minutes past five, and Clara slipped into her home at ten past.
A distant glow in the study told her that the scullery maid was up and getting the fires ready, but she was able to sneak past and up to her room without incident. Bone-tired, Clara barely allowed herself time to undress, falling into her bed and into a dead sleep almost without delay.
***
“Stop yawning, Clara,” Lady Raywood snapped. “It’s unladylike.”
Clara blinked at her mother. “But what if I need to yawn?”
“You simply don’t, of course. What kind of question is that? I think a more important issue is why you are so tired. You need your beauty sleep, Clara. You aren’t as gifted as your sisters, in more ways than one.”
“Why, thank you, Mother,” Clara responded, pouring herself another cup of tea. “What a delightful compliment. Pray, could you be so kind as to pass me the eggs, Father?”
Lord Raywood did, never dragging his eyes up from his newspaper.
Lady Raywood’s mouth tightened. Her plate was empty. She never ate at breakfast and was a staunch proponent of ladies maintaining their figures at all costs. Clara was not quite as willowy and slim as her two older sisters, and that was seen as quite a serious failing in her mother’s eyes.
“You must sleep more, Clara. Sleep more, and eat less, for heaven’s sake.”
Clara helped herself to some ham. “I think I eat an ordinary amount, Mother.”
“The fashion is for slimmer waists this year.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot alter my body like a hat to suit the fashions.”
Her mother gave an exclamation. “Oh, really, Clara! It’s those nonsensical books you fill your head with. I wish you would read something really improving.”
“Such as what, Mama?”
Lady Raywood, of course, had no suggestions. She believed that reading and writing was a waste of a lady’s time – except gossip letters and invitations, naturally – and did not read herself. However, she did not miss a beat, continuing as if Clara had not spoken.
“I would remind you, young lady, that this is your third Season. This will be your last chance to find a respectable man. I’m not sure I could handle the humiliation of a fourth Season, you know.”
“I’m hardly ancient, Mother,” Clara objected quietly. “I’m one and twenty.”
“Yes, and this year’s debutantes are seventeen or eighteen. What gentleman would choose a twenty-one-year-old spinster over a fresh seventeen-year-old?”
Clara considered this. “A man who doesn’t want to marry a child, perhaps, but would prefer a woman?”
“Men are not like that,” Lady Raywood said decisively, waving her hand to indicate that the subject was not worth discussing.
“Then why am I obliged to marry one? They seem like very weak creatures.”
Lady Raywood sighed, glancing over her husband. “Albert, do you hear your daughter? She is going to bring shame on us all.”
Lord Raywood lowered his newspaper, glancing nervously between his daughter and his wife. He hated being dragged into these arguments, and Clara knew fine well that he would much prefer to take all his meals in his study, alone.
“She is not very old,” he responded meekly. “And Clara is very clever, you know, my dear. She reads all those clever books, and she’s quite the scholar.”
“Gentlemen don’t want scholars for wives,” Lady Raywood snapped. “They certainly don’t want bluestockings spouting all kinds of nonsensical ideas about women’s place in the world. It would be amusing if it weren’t so embarrassing.”
“I’m not going to change my mind about those matters, Mother,” Clara said sharply, feeling stung. She knew, of course, what her mother’s opinions were on her beliefs, but it still hurt to hear the ideals she held dear being discussed with such contempt. “These things are important.”
“They are not,” Lady Raywood said shortly. “I expect you to make an effort this year, do you understand?”
Clara opened her mouth, half-poised to argue, but thought better of it and closed it again. She was clever enough to outargue her mother, but Lady Raywood was not clever enough to understand when she had lost an argument.
And, of course, there would be consequences for Clara. Often, it was easier to swallow her tongue and say nothing rather than debate the matter.
But that is how it starts, she reminded herself. Biting one’s tongue to keep the peace. If one must keep quiet to keep peace, then there is not any peace to keep.
She didn’t say that, of course. Instead, she gulped her tea and poured herself another cup.
“I intend for you to spend a little time with your sisters this Season,” Lady Raywood said suddenly, making Clara flinch.
“I’m surprised that Adelaide and Margaret can tear themselves away from their domestic pursuits to see me,” Clara remarked acidly.
Adelaide was the oldest of the Rutherford girls. She was now her Grace the Duchess of Kenswood, outranking even her own mother. All three girls had roughly the same features – honey-gold hair, large hazel eyes, and heart-shaped faces – but Adelaide’s features were the most luminous. She had clear white skin where Clara had freckles, a neat nose where Clara’s was upturned and Margaret’s just a fraction too long, and she had the slim, willowy figure so admired by Society these days.
Of course, Adelaide had all the accomplishments a lady should, things that Clara found difficult – pianoforte and harp playing, singing, dancing, watercolours, embroidery and many more. Adelaide had been called the Diamond of her Season, and married barely halfway through her first Season, and all of London exclaimed at the greatness of the match.
Clara did not like her eldest sister very much.
Margaret, the mild-tempered middle child, was a little more likeable. She was now Lady Greene, married to James Greene, a tubby and good-natured young man who intended to be a politician, and seemed to be rather good at it. Margaret was not quite as pretty as Adelaide but could have been taken from the same mould as her older sister.
And then there was Clara.
She was well aware that she was stocky and ungainly beside her beautiful sisters and still-beautiful Mother, that she did not wear the modern fashions well, and did not smile and simper when she was meant to do so. She’d actually given some gentlemen insults over the years, offending their pride and securing her reputation as a shrewish bluestocking spinster.
Clara dragged her eyes from her plate, catching her mother looking at her with narrowed eyes.
“I intend for you to do this Season properly, my girl,” Lady Raywood said, voice hushed. “There are men who I think you could catch – Lord Greene’s brother, for example, or the Earl of Tinley. We will start with Lady Beatrice Sinclair’s ball – her events are always full of eligible gentlemen. You had better apply yourself this year, or there will be consequences.”
Even though she knew it was a bad idea, Clara set her elbows on the table and leaned forward, looking her mother in the eye.
“What consequences?”
Lady Raywood pursed her lips. “You have your books, your study, and your freedom at the pleasure of your father and me. I am tired of having an embarrassment for a daughter. If you do not apply yourself this year, perhaps I will conclude that those books are a corrupting influence on you. And, of course, that influence must be removed.”
A chill ran down Clara’s spine. “You wouldn’t take my books.”
“I can and I will. Do not try me, Clara.”
She glanced at her father, but Lord Raywood, never a man for confrontation, had hidden behind his newspaper again. She clenched her jaw.
It was unfair, of course it was unfair, but then, wasn’t the whole world unfair if one was a woman?
Clara did not respond. She kept her eyes on her plate, and Lady Raywood seemed to think the argument had been won.
Clara’s mind was working furiously, however. It was true, as an unmarried woman, she was at the mercy of her father while she lived at home.
If she got married – which she did not intend to do – she would be at the mercy of her husband, with no chance of getting away. She thought of the money she’d earned from her writing. Her essays were popular, and if she could make them more popular still, she could maybe – just maybe – make a living from her pen.
To do that, of course, she would need to have good subject matter to discuss. The sort of discourses and opinions found in the highest circles in the land, for example. The sort of information she would have access to during her Season.
Clara bit back a smile. I know what I will be doing this Season, and it’s not charming some empty-headed lord.
Chapter Two
When Greyson stepped inside the coffee shop, a hush fell over the patrons.
He immediately wished he’d listened to Frederick, and just met up in one of the clubs. It was plain that just about everybody in the shop knew who he was, and more importantly, knew at least one of the things he’d done to earn the nickname Lord Hellfire.
Greyson was used to being stared at, but not like this. He was comfortably aware that he had a good collection of features, and was described as ‘interestingly handsome’, which seemed to be more of a compliment than being classically handsome. He had the sort of face that made men stare, admiringly and enviously, and made women stare with barely concealed longing, flashing nervous smiles if he glanced their way.
He was twenty-seven years old and had been the viscount for close to ten years now. He was wealthy, handsome, blue-eyed and dark with a pleasing curl to his hair, and a dimple in his cheek when he smiled.
It did not, of course, matter whether a man was good-looking or not – Society did not much care about men’s faces in the way they cared about women’s faces – but still, it was pleasant to be admired.
Greyson was not admired now. He hadn’t been admired even before Lady Hayes’ death. Lord Hellfire had run wild for years, and it would not be easily forgotten. Most of the faces turned his way were blank and grim, openly disapproving or even a little frightened.
And then the shop’s proprietor materialized before him, a nervous, round-faced man of middle years.
“Lord Hayes,” he squeaked. “I… I did not know you were in London. This shop was never one of your haunts.”
Greyson bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing down any number of harsh retorts.
“I came back recently,” he answered, instead of telling the man to mind his own business and get out of his way. “I am meeting a friend, Lord Frederick Worthington. Is he here?”
The proprietor shifted from foot to foot. “I… I don’t want any trouble, your lordship.”
“I don’t intend to cause any.” Greyson risked a small smile. It was not returned.
The proprietor glanced around, as if looking for support.
“Forgive me, your lordship, but I have heard… stories.”
The silence was gradually filling up with muted whispers, half-hidden behind hands, nothing loud enough for Greyson to overhear.
“Stories?” he echoed, his voice cracking.
The proprietor sighed. “You threw Mr. Higgins of Higgins’ Coffee and Ices through the front window of his shop, your lordship.”
A ripple went around the room, although the event had happened a year and several months ago and was well reported in the scandal sheets at the time.
At the time, it had seemed very different. Greyson had thought it a hilarious joke, and that the man deserved it for telling him they were closing and would not serve more coffee.
At the time, he’d told the story to uproarious laughter in various clubs, re-enacting the scene over and over again.
Now, he saw Mr. Higgins’ lined, worried face, bobbing up and down apologetically, and he just felt sick.
Greyson swallowed, glancing down at the polished toes of his Hessians.
“I recall the incident. It was shocking, and one I’m quite ashamed of. If you don’t wish to serve me, sir, I will of course leave at once.”
The proprietor blinked. Sweat was beading on his forehead. Perhaps he thought it was all a cruel, elaborate game, one that was going to make a fool of him soon enough.
“Well,” he managed last, “If you are meeting Lord Worthington, I’m sure there’s no harm. Just… ahem. As I say, I want no trouble.”
“And I intend to cause none. My thanks, good sir.”
The proprietor stepped aside, and Greyson walked past him, head held high. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed him as he moved through the shop floor, heading to a booth at the very end where he could see the tops of Frederick’s auburn tufts of hair.
He sat down, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Hello, Freddie.”
Frederick eyed him sourly. “You know how to make an entrance, don’t you?”
Greyson swallowed. “I don’t intend to.”
“Makes a change. I must say, when I got your letter, I didn’t know what to think. I was surprised to hear from you. I thought you’d made it clear that since I no longer drank alcohol, I was no longer welcome in your circle of friends.”
Greyson’s eyes fluttered shut momentarily. “I’d sunk low, I’d admit.”
“Lord Hellfire through and through,” Frederick agreed. “I don’t believe I ever offered my condolences, by the way. Lady Hayes was an excellent woman.”
“I… she was. An excellent woman, and I was a terrible son.”
Frederick shrugged. “She loved you anyhow.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, until the proprietor arrived, sliding down a cup of coffee before Greyson, which he had not, to his knowledge, ordered.
He accepted it anyway.
“We ended things badly, you and I,” Greyson said at last. “I’m sorry for it. The fault was mine. You were always the best friend I had.”
Frederick bit his lip. “I did miss you, Greyson. Not the way you were at the end, of course, but before. Back when we actually had fun.”
“The thing is,” Greyson hazarded, aware that he was going to have to get to the purpose of their meeting soon enough, “the thing is that I let my mother down, very much. And… and before she died, I promised her I would be a different sort of man. An honourable man, a kind man. The sort of man who could restore the dignity of the Hayes name. Not a drunkard, a carouser, a flirt, a hot-headed simpleton with an awful temper to match. I want to do better, Frederick.”
Frederick listened carefully, saying nothing. There was a long silence after Greyson had finished talking, and he forced himself to sit still and wait for a response.
“There was talk that Lord Hellfire was acting strangely,” Frederick said at last. “Your sudden departure from town created a lot of talk, as you can imagine. I suppose people simply couldn’t believe that you would be quite so affected by the death of a relative.”
“A relative? My mother,” Greyson snapped, voice cracking.
Frederick stared at him levelly. “In that last year before you left, Greyson, nobody could have believed that you cared about anything. I am only telling the truth.”
He swallowed, dropping his gaze. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I loved her, you know.”
“I know you did.”
“I promised her…” he drew in a breath. “I promised her. But turning over a new leaf is not as easy as I hoped it would be. I find myself craving old company. I want to drink until I can’t see straight or go out and do something shocking and ludicrous. I want to misbehave, but then I’ll remember Mother, and…” he trailed off, swallowing hard again, and shaking his head. “I need help, Frederick. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Will you help me.”
Frederick did not hesitate.
“Of course I’ll help you, Greyson. Of course.”
