“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.
L
edger 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.”
A
fter a horrendous night’s sleep, Rathburn lumbered into the breakfast room. “Good morning, Mother,” he said on the tail end of a yawn.
On the way to the buffet, he squinted against the cruel sunlight streaming in through the diamond-paned windows. It was the second sunny day in a row. Quite an astounding occurrence. One he was trying hard to appreciate at the moment.
At least, it boded well for the laborers at Hawthorne Manor
if
he managed to convince them that their wages would be paid soon, no matter what Collingsford had told them.
At the far end of the polished oval table, his mother poured milk over a bowl of berries. “I’m surprised to see you still here.”
He picked up a plate and began with a neat pile of kippers. “When I am here breakfasting nearly each morning? That wounds me more than you’ll ever know,” he said with a dramatic sigh, teasing her as he added a slice of ham and a mound of buttery eggs. “I would prefer to put forth some effort in order to surprise you. Yet, clearly, all it takes is showing up for breakfast day after day. All these years wasted, I see.”
He glanced over his shoulder and caught her hiding a grin behind her napkin.
“You’re usually off on some errand for the length of the day by now.”
He shrugged before he set his plate down and slid into one of the fiddle-backed chairs that surrounded the table. “I slept later than usual.”
Ever so casually, she dusted her berries with sugar. “It wasn’t because you came in over-late last evening. So, then there must be a reason you still look tired this morning.”
He reached for the teapot and filled his cup with the steaming elixir that would make him feel human. “Mother, are you having Stewart inform you on the schedule I keep? Perhaps I should assist you both and begin to sign a ledger for each time I leave and then list the time I return.”
“As you will,” she said with a flip of her wrist. “I thought, perhaps, you were losing sleep because of your grandmother’s arrival this afternoon.”
Slicing into his kipper, he paused briefly. “I dearly love Grandmamma. There is no reason why her visit would cause me to lose sleep,” he lied smoothly. Or at least he thought he had until he saw the look his mother leveled at him.
Her pale brows lifted. “Nothing to do with your declaration of how you planned to prove yourself worthy of your inheritance, then?”
“An inheritance I should have received on the day of reaching my majority,” he answered with more calm than he felt. “That was years ago. Since then, Grandmamma has made the reason she altered the original contract quite clear. I have done my utmost to stay out of the scandal sheets. I keep schoolboy hours . . .” He was about to go on, but the scoff from his mother stopped him.