Page 20 of A Sham Engagement

Lucy closed the door and he was left standing on the street, a further sensation of guilt at having abandoned the child too soon settling in his heart. But he couldn’t stand here all day. He had a marriage contract to go over and a fiancée to pay a call on. He turned on his heel and almost fell over a man just passing on the pavement. A man with a sailor’s hat pulled forward over his eyes and a hunch to his shoulders as he hurried away, leaving a trail of pipe smoke behind him.

Tucking his cane under his arm, Jack set off to retrace his steps back to the more salubrious areas of London that were his usual haunt.

Elenora and Augusta, along with Mama, Aunt Penelope and Cousin Petunia, were seated in the drawing room of the house in Arlington Street when Frances came hurrying in, face flushed with excitement, to inform them that Lord Broxbourne had just arrived to call on Papa.

“Hemmings has taken him into the study,” Frances blurted out, her eyes alight with excitement. “I was watching from the top of the stairs.” She giggled. “He looks very handsome but positively ancient, almost as old as Papa. But I can vouch for him having an excellent head of hair—no bald spot to be seen.”

“Good heavens! He isn’t as old as Papa, is he?” Augusta asked, setting down the needlepoint she’d been doing, eyes wide with surprise. “Tell me he isn’t.” Then she seemed to think better of her outburst. “Although an older husband would be good for Ellie, as you’ve always said, Mama.”

“Augusta!” Mama frowned at her. “You don’t ask questions like that. Your papa is not old and nor is Lord Broxbourne.”

Elenora, who had only been pretending to sew, as it was one of her least favorite of ladylike activities, also laid her sewing aside. With relief. “I have to say that he is indeed quite old, for at his ears,” she touched the side of her face, “I noticed he already has a few gray hairs.”

“I’m sure I could never marry someone as old as that, title or no title,” Petunia said, prim faced. Her attitude to Elenora had changed since the announcement of the engagement.

Everyone ignored her.

Mama shot Elenora a frown and indicated the spare chair near the long window to her youngest daughter. “Sit down, Frances, if you are staying, and get out your sewing. We must make an industrious picture when your papa brings him in here to see Elenora.”

Elenora patted the seat on the sofa beside her, and Frances went to take the space.

Mama’s imperious raise of the hand stopped her. “Not that one, child. Elenora must have a seat available beside her for her betrothed.”

Elenora bit her lip. Drat it. Mama knew all the moves required of courting. She was going to have to sit beside Lord Broxbourne—or rather, he was going to have to sit beside her—because nowhere else remained for him. A little smile tickled her lips, quickly controlled, at the thought of the discomfort he was about to suffer at the hands of her family. Because suffer he would. And, if she could, she would enjoy it.

Augusta picked up her needlepoint again, eager, as always, to oblige Mama. No doubt she was crowing inside at the thought of so swift a marriage for Elenora, as that could only mean her own debut in society must be soon. Elenora frowned. Probably her impatient younger sister would have had her marry anyone, just to get her out of the way. Even some white-haired old cit.

“I believe Lord Broxbourne has a tidy fortune and a sizeable estate in Wiltshire,” Aunt Penelope, whose husband had been parsimonious and who, since his death and her acquisition of his fortune, had become something of a spendthrift, remarked. She made it her business to know the worth of every member of the Ton, something Elenora suspected Mama had been exploiting in her list making of prospective bridegrooms.

“Of course he has,” Petunia muttered into her sewing. “I bet Elenora snared him on purpose.”

Aunt Penelope shot her daughter a quelling glare, which Petunia ignored, glowering over her sewing as though it had offended her.

Mama, who was embroidering a handkerchief she’d already labelled as being part of Elenora’s bridal trousseau, smiled in satisfaction. “He is everything one could want in a husband for a daughter with the looks Elenora has been blessed with. Rich, titled, and devilishly handsome.” Her cheeks flushed as though she might herself be finding Lord Broxbourne attractive. A bit of a change from last night.

Elenora’s brow furrowed. What? A self-centered, middle-aged rake in possession of a notorious mistress? That was what Mama had been dreaming of for her? A man who couldn’t give two hoots for anyone but himself? Although, it had to be admitted, his actions were going to be a great help to her in staving off any suitors Mama might have been likely to thrust under her nose. He probably felt he was benefitting more than her, though, or he wouldn’t have done it.

“Is he very handsome, Frannie? Did you manage to see?” Augusta put in. “I quizzed Ellie on his looks, but she said she was sure she didn’t know and beauty was in the eye of the beholder. So boring of her and so typical.”

“For such an old man, very, I suppose…” Frances said, her head tilted to one side like a little brown bird’s. “Tall, well-made, and wearing the most highly polished boots I’ve ever seen. And such a well-cut coat.” Frances was a keen follower of fashion, both for young ladies and for gentlemen, or at least as keen as she could be living in Hampshire. Being brought to London with her two older sisters had almost given her a fainting fit from delight.

“He’s not so old as all that,” Elenora put in, a trifle stung that her supposed future husband was being compared to Papa, who really was old.

“I believe Viscount Broxbourne is thirty-eight years old,” Aunt Penelope said. Another of her obsessions was keeping account of the age of everyone who was anyone. She knew the birthdays of all her friends and acquaintances and a lot more people besides.

Augusta wrinkled her nose. “So indeed quite old then.”

“Twice Ellie’s age,” Frances added.

“Ancient,” Petunia put in, stabbing her needle into her sewing.

“I’m surprised you can divide thirty-eight by two so successfully,” Elenora snapped at her sister, still a little miffed. Thirty-eight did sound quite old though, even she had to admit it. But only to herself, not her sisters.

“Get on with your sewing, girls,” Mama said. “I want his lordship to see what quiet, well-behaved girls I have.”

Augusta sniggered. “If you wanted him to think that, you shouldn’t have let him offer for Ellie. She’s the least quiet and well-behaved of all your children.”

Mama’s chest swelled like that of an angry hen. “Be quiet, Augusta, unless you have something nice to say. I will not have you saying things like that about your sister. When Lord Broxbourne arrives, both you girls are to remain silent. Have I not told you often enough that children should be seen but not heard?”