April Kihlstrom (3 page)

The valet consoled himself with the knowledge that the trip was not likely to take place anyway. By morning Rothwood would almost certainly have changed his mind. “Perhaps a short nap?” he suggested. “Until your carriage is brought round again?”

Rothwood yawned. “Just a short one,” he said. “Mind, you wake me as soon as we’re packed and the carriage is ready.”

“Of course, sir.”

Half an hour later, Rothwood was sound asleep and the household could finally breathe a sigh of relief and take themselves off to bed, certain that in the morning Rothwood would thank them for once again having thwarted one of his schemes concocted in the depths of the bottle.

For once, they were wrong. But who could have guessed that this time Rothwood meant it, that this time Rothwood was going to follow through on his scheme?

Chapter 2

Beatrix stared at her father with resignation as he confessed, yet again, that he had lost money. Money they badly needed. Didn’t he understand what he was doing to all of them?

“It seemed such a sure thing!” he protested. “You know how fast Sam’s pig has always been. Who could have guessed it would be beaten by that lumbering Dawson sow.”

“Perhaps anyone who noticed that Sam’s pig is now pregnant?”

Mr. Trowley, having no answer to that, took refuge in a pretense of indignation. “Well! I don’t know what has happened to respect for one’s elders, especially one’s parents,” he said, tilting up his chin. “Go and help Cook in the kitchen while you think about
that
!”

Help Cook in the kitchen? That would be a recipe for disaster. Beatrix was not about to do so. After all, Papa only wanted to be rid of her because she’d said out loud what she had been thinking. But what did it matter? Her words would not stop her father from gambling away funds they could ill afford to lose. And Mama would do nothing to stop him. She would only plead ignorance of anything to do with money.

No, as always, it was up to Beatrix to find a way to manage. She didn’t want to have to do so. Heaven knew she’d have been happy, nay,
thrilled
if she could have placed responsibility for the family in someone else’s, anyone else’s capable hands.

But that was the rub. Who was capable besides herself? Certainly not her mother or father. Her siblings were not only younger than she was, they showed not the least inclination to responsibility, happy to leave it all in her hands.

There were times when it made Beatrix want to cry. She was tired, so very tired of all of this. There were moments when she dreamed of a Prince Charming riding into her life, scooping her up and galloping off with her to live happily ever after.

It wasn’t going to happen. Even if it did, how could she abandon her family to be happy herself? No, the future stretched on for what seemed like forever, trapping her into the role she now played. It was enough to make Beatrix want to run away from home. But she wouldn’t. They needed her far too much. Instead she turned toward the kitchen. Cook needed to be warned that the food in the pantry would have to stretch even more than usual. The woman was clever and, for the moment, they would manage. The problem was, what were they all going to do if Papa didn’t stop gambling?

* * *

In the other room, Mr. Trowley wiped his forehead. Beatrix was an estimable girl but not an easy one to live with, not easy at all. Not like his dear Marianne, who was amiable in all respects. As if she heard his thoughts, she appeared in the doorway of his small study. In her hands she held a letter and her face was wreathed in smiles.

“Mr. Trowley,” she said, “we are to have a visitor! The Viscount Rothwood! And he is likely to offer for Beatrix. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Beatrix? Our Beatrix?” Mr. Trowley asked, bewildered. “But why?”

“What does it matter? I must confess that I had feared she was past any hope of marrying and now this! I am over the moon, my dear!”

“Yes, of course, but what do we know about the fellow? How did she ever meet him?”

“That’s the best part. You know my dear friend, Lady Kenrick? He is her nephew! No doubt she has told him all about our estimable daughter and that is why he is coming to offer for her. Or perhaps . . . ” Her voice trailed off as she gazed into the distance, a speculative look upon her face. After a moment she said slowly, “I had forgotten but we have met him, John. Don’t you recall? It was some nine or ten years ago that Violet brought him for a visit. He must have taken an interest in Beatrix and had a
tendre
for her all this time.”

“Lady Kenrick can’t have told him all about Beatrix nor could he remember her all that well,” Mr. Trowley muttered, “or the last thing he would be doing is offering for her.”

“John!” Mrs. Trowley said in shocked tones. “Beatrix is our daughter and I am sure she is a most worthy young woman.”

“Worthy and managing and not in the least respectful toward anyone,” he countered. “Not to mention hopelessly uninterested in her appearance. No, no, depend on it, he will take one look at her and take himself straight back to London!”

For perhaps the first time in her life, Mrs. Trowley showed that she actually possessed a backbone. “We must make him realize her worth,” she said with some spirit. “We must make him wish to marry her. I will not see my Beatrix grow old a spinster. And if she is managing, well, if we are honest, John, it is our fault that she has had to be. Don’t deny it. You know as well as I that neither you nor I have a head for managing a household. No, nor the funds to do so adequately. Depend upon it, if Beatrix were to marry someone who did have a head for such things she would be happy to leave the reins in his hands! And don’t you dare do anything to suggest otherwise to our guest. Lady Kenrick writes that he wishes to marry a meek and dutiful girl and that is what we must make him believe he is going to get with Beatrix.”

Mr. Trowley looked incredulous. “But my dear,” he protested. “Don’t you think it both unwise and unfair to deceive this young man? Won’t he and Beatrix both be unhappy when he finds out the truth?”

Mrs. Trowley sniffed. “By then they will be wed and will have to make the best of it. I’ve no doubt Beatrix will find a way to do so. It is one of her chief talents, after all.”

Mr. Trowley gave it up. Instead he held out a hand to his wife. “I’ve done something foolish, my dear. I’ve lost some money betting on a pig who let me down. Beatrix has already rung a peal over my head so there’s no need for you to do so. I am so sorry.”

She took his hand and smiled fondly at him. “I know you are. I ought to be angry but I’m afraid I don’t know how. One way or another we will manage. Beatrix will find a way, you’ll see.”

“And once she’s gone? How will we manage then?” he could not help but ask.

“Much more comfortably, even if not as well, I expect,” Mrs. Trowley replied. “After all, she cannot scold us when we are here and she is in London.”

Much cheered by this thought, Mr. Trowley smiled and suggested, despite the fact that it was midmorning, some of the activity that had already resulted in the existence of their numerous offspring. Mrs. Trowley was happy to oblige. After all, she so hated to disappoint Mr. Trowley in any way and he was so very good at this particular activity.

* * *

Had Rothwood known his aunt had sent a letter ahead, he was not likely to object. Anything that smoothed his path could only be a good thing. The faster the matter was settled, the faster he could return to London and his friends. Besides, if Miss Trowley did not prove acceptable or if she refused him, he would have to scramble to find another bride by the deadline set in his father’s will. Even to himself, he would not admit how much he hoped that she was the girl he remembered and that she would still look fondly at him. That would have smacked too much of the kind of sentimentality his father had done his best to browbeat out of him. No, he would not let himself think in such a way. He would be the man his father had wished him to be. After all, had it not served him well to do so thus far?

Life was, he reminded himself, generally quite good, and he savored every moment—just as his father had taught him to. If he was bored, he merely did something different, and doing things kept one from feeling those pesky feelings one wasn’t supposed to feel. To be sure, his father would have said he was too soft, too cautious. He would have told Edmund to quit coddling his servants and take charge like a man, as he would have done. He would have told him to take more risks.

That was perhaps why Lord Rothwood was on the box of his traveling coach, engaged in an attempt to cover ground as fast as possible—over the objections of his more reserved coachman—when disaster struck. The wheel of the coach hit a large rock in the road and something broke. The carriage began to slew sideways, the horses began to panic and it took both Rothwood and the coachman to keep them from bolting. As it was, they came to a halt half in a ditch with the horses stamping and snorting impatiently.

Rothwood jumped down to survey the damage. It was, unfortunately, even worse than he feared. He looked up at the coachman. “I shall have to walk to town,” he said, “and get help.”

“Here, no! I should be the one doing the walking!” the coachman protested.

“Yes, well, I’ve a notion the horses will need your expert hand to hold them,” Rothwood replied. “Besides, it is my fault we are in this mess and therefore my responsibility to do the tromping to the nearest village. I shall send back help as quickly as I can. If the weather turns bad, tether the horses and take refuge in the coach,” he advised.

The coachman straightened his back. “I think I know my duty,” he said indignantly.

Which meant, Rothwood thought with a sigh, the man would probably stay on the box of the coach holding the reins even if it started to pour buckets of rain. Rothwood didn’t mind the walk ahead but it did bother him that his coachman should suffer for his folly. His father would have been appalled that he gave two thoughts to the man’s welfare but he could not help himself.

Well, he would just have to hope the clouds did not bode as badly as they seemed. At least not until his coachman could reach the safety of a dry inn. Now the question was, how far back was the last village through which they had passed and was it so far that he should go forward instead?

“Forward,” a voice advised.

Startled, Rothwood looked around and discovered a rather untidily dressed woman regarding him with grave eyes. Over one arm was the handle of a basket full of ripe berries. A housemaid no doubt sent to collect fruit for the family’s table. At least that was the status he gauged by the shabbiness of her gown. No doubt it had been a gift of sorts from one of the young ladies of the house.

Then he looked at her face and went still. He knew her. Even after all this time, he knew her. He took a step forward and she took a step back, looking a trifle alarmed. Hastily he recollected himself. Clearly she did not recognize him and perhaps he was even mistaken. He tried to collect his wits but he could not seem to make sense of what she had said.

“Beg pardon?”

“I presume you are trying to decide whether to go back to the last village or whether it is closer to the next one,” the young woman told him. “Most definitely closer to the next village. You’ve not more than a twenty-minute walk, I should say.”

She was no housemaid. Those cultured tones belonged to a well-bred person. One more bit of evidence that she was who he thought she was. “Thank you,” he said with a bow. “Miss—?”

“Miss Trowley. Would you like me to show you the way? It’s not difficult to find but I should warn you that when you come to a fork in the road, you will wish to go to the right.”

Miss Trowley. So this was, or rather this might be,
his
Miss Trowley. Beatrix. Surely those were the same blue eyes regarding him with the same grave sympathy as his Miss Trowley had, almost ten years ago? Surely that was the same tilt of her head, the same curls, the same kind face. But the body had changed. Even in her drab clothing he could tell that much. He wondered if she would recall him.

“I should be grateful for your guidance,” he said with his most charming smile. “It sounds easy enough to find but I don’t wish to risk making a mistake. After all, it is likely to be my coachman who will suffer the most, not I, if there is a delay in sending a rescue party to deal with the coach.”

She hesitated, then blushed. So the years in between had not spoiled her. She had grown into a young woman with an understanding of what was proper and what was not, just as she had sworn she would. Excellent!

Edmund made his voice even kinder as he assured her, “I will be upon my best behavior and offer you no cause for discomfort, I promise. Nor are we entirely strangers, Miss Trowley, for we met some years ago. I am,” he said, sweeping off his hat and bowing deeper than before, “Viscount Rothwood.”

Uncertainty gave way to a blinding smile. “Oh, yes! I do remember your visit! I was a mere child and you were so dashing!”

With that she clapped a hand over her mouth. His father would have been appalled that her words had been so forward, but Rothwood could not feel the same. Not when they cast him in such a positive light. Not when he hoped she would remember him so kindly.

But he wasn’t supposed to choose a bride on the basis of sentimentality. This was to be a practical decision. He still must make certain she was as she ought to be, a young woman worthy to be his bride. His own emotions mattered less than what he owed to his family name. So instead of reminding her of the past, Rothwood smiled and kept his voice carefully proper, carefully reserved as he said, “Now that that is settled, will you take me to the village, Miss Trowley? Since we are, after all, old acquaintances?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Excellent.” Rothwood paused and turned to assure his coachman, “I shall send back help as quickly as I can.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

As Rothwood held out his arm to Miss Trowley, he silently congratulated himself for hitting upon precisely the right tone to take with her. Although a trifle unorthodox, walking with her to the village would give him a chance to begin to fix his interest and that was all to the good.

* * *

Beatrix blushed. She could not help herself. But he was waiting and she could not keep him staring at her, his arm held out like that just because she felt like a silly school girl offered the attention of a boy she dearly desired to have notice her.

With the calmest voice she could manage, she stepped forward as she said, “Yes, of course. This way.”

She meant to be cool. After all, no matter how handsome he was or how deep a
tendre
she had felt for him all those years ago, now he was a man and men were not to be trusted. Look at her father. Look at her brothers. The more charming they were, the more likely women in their lives were to be hurt. Besides, it was foolish to think he could remember her with the same fondness she remembered him. This dashing gentleman could have no interest in someone as dull and plain as she was.