Tender Torment (5 page)

Straeford displayed no enthusiasm or agitation at Loftus’s words, but commented levelly, “I’m listening.”

“A commission in the army for my son John and… marriage to one of my daughters. Make one your countess and see that she is
presented to the
ton.”

The moment of silence following Loftus’s terms was abruptly shattered by Straeford scraping his chair across the floor as
he rose to his feet, swearing softly to himself.

Angus rose too and spoke before Straeford could put into words his opinion of this scheme. “My dead wife was the daughter
of Sir Harry Bradshaw, an impoverished lord from the North Country. It is my wish to see that my children take their rightful
place in society.”

“And I am to provide that entrée!” Straeford laughed scornfully.

“Why not? It’s more than a fair proposition to you.”

“You’re willing to sell one of your daughters to me for a place in the
ton?”
Straeford jeered.

“Don’t set me down, Lord Straeford, for something that is a common practice among the gentry; marriages of convenience are
arranged all the time.” Loftus betrayed a touch of anger as he spoke.

“But not for me,” Straeford’s voice was laced with steel, “they aren’t.”

“My girls are dutiful and know what to expect.”

“Damn you man! You’ve had the temerity to speak to them about this?”

“And why not? It’s what they want too.”

“Indeed, do they?” Straeford’s black brows rose disdainfully. “Well, I can assure you it is
not
what
I
want!” And the earl attempted to pass the stocky man who was blocking his exit.

“Wait,” Loftus importuned. “Why don’t you think about my offer and let me know your decision later?”

“There is nothing to think about. I have no intention of offering for a daughter of yours, and I may add that I
find your tactics distasteful in the extreme. You led me to believe it was a business proposition you were considering—not
a back door to the
ton!”

With effort Loftus ignored the bitter thrust and stood his ground. “I’m having a dinner party Thursday. Come and meet my family.
No obligation.”

The earl did not reply but stepped around Loftus and crossed to the door, jerking it open. Then he swung around to face the
merchant once more and demanded, “Who put you on to me?”

“Don’t you know?”

Straeford slammed the door shut and stared at Loftus incredulously. “That interfering old troublemaker!” he stormed. “I should
have wrung her neck when she was at Straeford last week.”

“I wouldn’t advise it, laddie. Lady Maxwell is the best friend you have… besides me.”

“Damn you and Lady Maxwell!” Straeford shouted before slamming out the door.

Within an hour the angry man of war was glaring at Lady Maxwell in the comfortable drawing room of that lady’s spacious residence
on Grosvenor Square.

“So you’ve had your talk with Loftus,” she claimed, reading the thunder in her grandson’s face. She seated herself regally
on a small settee before the fire and regarded him with interest.

He gave her a dark look and flung himself into a wingback chair opposite her.

“Well, will you take one of the cit’s daughters, my boy?”

He jerked out of the chair and crossed to stand in front of her. “I ordered you not to interfere in my affairs! Yet you ignored
my right to privacy and approached this… this merchant and dared to suggest a match between a daughter of his and myself…”

“Justin St. Clare,” the lady claimed, cutting through his impassioned speech, “sit down and exercise some of that icy control
you are famous for. Your conduct smacks of the very class you profess to abhor.”

Lady Maxwell’s tactic worked immediately. The earl stepped back a pace and waited for his grandmother to continue.

“That’s better, boy. Now if you were thinking rationally and not letting emotion blind you, I’m sure you would realize this
is the only alternative left you.”

Straeford sank into the chair once more, nodding his head in reluctant agreement.

Some minutes passed without further exchange between them, but not wishing to let the matter close until she received her
grandson’s verbal commitment, Lady Maxwell broached the subject once more. “So you will marry a Loftus girl.” It was more
of a statement than a question.

There was a strangled oath from the earl before he replied curtly, “I shall have to, I suppose, before you try to arrange
my entire life to your liking.”

This mild satire brought forth a crack of rusty laughter from the old woman.

“Loftus has two daughters, a young dark one and an older blonde one. Which do you fancy?”

“How should I know?” He scowled and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

“They are called Margaret and Marisa.”

The earl leaned back rubbing the back of his neck and smiling at his grandmother’s ingenuousness. “Am I to choose on the basis
of name or hair color, Madam? It makes no difference to me since I must have one of them.” He stood again and began pacing
the room. “I told Loftus in no uncertain terms that I would have no part in his marriage scheme. Perhaps he will have second
thoughts and I shall be relieved of the need to decide.”

“Wishful thinking, my dear. He will accept your offer. Did I not tell you he is mad for the
ton?”

“And his daughters seem to be too,” he rejoined bitterly.

“As I begin to ponder it, Justin, I think you had best take the older girl. She is less likely to have romantic fancies. There
was some talk of her and a man called Aiken a few years ago, but that’s all past history. She’s far likelier to be of a sensible
turn of mind by now.”

“Had her fling, has she?” he claimed cynically.

His grandmother ignored this thrust. “Both girls are beauties, but the older one’s a biddable girl. Yes, Marisa
will adapt to your ways quickly and make you a good wife.”

“God spare me! I have no intention of remaining in the girl’s company any more than is strictly necessary. I shall return
to the army with all due haste.”

“But not before you’ve done your duty by her.”

The earl ignored her thrust as she had his. “I shall leave her
and
her good family in your capable hands, madam. You will share the responsibility of introducing them to the
ton.”

Lady Maxwell opened her mouth to protest, but Straeford held up his hand and continued, “That’s the price you must pay for
your interference, my dear. Is it a bargain?”

“You forget one thing young man.” Lady Maxwell smiled a trifle maliciously. “The heir. There must be an heir!”

“You try me beyond all endurance,” Straeford claimed through gritted teeth. “I have not forgotten.” He rose and bowed mockingly.
“I trust you will leave that, at least, to me.”

She cackled. “I hear tell, devil though you may be, women still want you. You’ll get us an heir for Straeford, Justin. Then
you can leave the chit and her family to me and fly back to your precious military life.”

“We are agreed. I’ll see Miss Loftus is initiated as wife and mother before I take leave of her.” He smiled wickedly. “Mmh,
I might enjoy this more than I expected—a beauty you say?”

“Justin,” Lady Maxwell warned, “whichever one you take, she’s not going to be one of your light-skirts—but your wife, the
countess—don’t forget that!”

Straeford scowled, engulfed by a sudden black rage. “How will I be able to forget it with you and Loftus
and
his daughter about my neck? Just remember, afterward, the family is your headache.”

Lady Maxwell passed an uneasy night following the disturbing interview with her grandson. Now that the machinery for the marriage
was set in motion she was suffering qualms of conscience. At heart she wanted what was best not only for her grandson, but
for Loftus’s daughter as well.

A pounding at the door in the hall beyond woke the earl from a drugged sleep. It took some minutes before Harding’s excited
words penetrated the fog in his brain.

“… Dashrami’s forces at Baklar!”

“Hold your fire, man. Did I hear you right? Dashrami…”

“… attacked the garrison at Baklar and slaughtered half the outpost! A mere handful escaped.”

“Good God! General Seton was supposed to be there.”

“I know. He escaped.”

“Escaped? General Seton? What are you telling me, Ed? Start again. My head…” The earl groaned as he massaged his aching temples.

“Look, here it is,” Harding thrust a morning journal beneath Straeford’s nose. “Read it for yourself.”

Suddenly the earl leaped from the edge of the bed where he had been sitting. Taking the paper to the window, he thrust back
the draperies so the early morning light made reading easier. He winced painfully, his head throbbing from the excess of the
brandy imbibed the
night before, but he read hurriedly, consuming the incredible facts before him.

“Attacked at sunset… a band of two thousand screaming rebels… two hundred British soldiers dead… General Seton and Major
Sellers escaped to Calcutta. I’ll be damned! The old fool must have bungled again.”

“That’s exactly what happened, Just. The garrison was undermanned.”

“I can hardly credit Dashrami’s luck. The dirty heathen must have nine lives!”

“It didn’t take much luck to outmaneuver Seton. This time there’s no covering the blunders. Sentries weren’t posted properly,
the call to arms came too late, muskets weren’t ready—Seton will be disgraced.”

“It had to happen. He’s been going downhill for a long time. It’s a wonder he got by thus far.”

“He got by because you were there to see he did. Well, not anymore. He will have to face the consequences himself this time.”

The earl rubbed the black stubble on his chin thoughtfully. The War Office would not be able to sweep this disaster under
the carpet, and the press and the public were bound to hear the truth about Seton. How that would affect him depended on whether
the board saw Nangore and Baklar as two separate incidents, or a developing pattern of incompetence on the part of General
Seton.

“For once, my friend, fate is easing your way.”

“At the expense of two hundred British lives, man! Don’t forget that!” Straeford declared vehemently.

“Hell, Justin, I’m not forgetting it! But it happened, and your future looks better for it. I’m sure the board will decide
in your favor.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and Straeford’s servant, Billings, entered with a breakfast tray. After
serving each man a cup of coffee, he left them alone again. Straeford stared moodily at the cup in front of him until Harding
asked, “Something else troubling you, Justin?”

Straeford took a gulp of black coffee before answering. “It’s the Loftus business.”

“Oh.” Harding waited for him to go on.

“I’m promised to the merchant for dinner tonight to meet his daughters.”

“Take heart, old man. Mayhap you’ll like the look of them.”

“What’s that to say to anything?”

“A pretty face can ease many a sorry plight.” Harding grinned as he bit into a warm scone.

“Egads, Ed!” Straeford jumped out of his chair and began pacing the room restlessly. “They are common cits! The man’s in trade.
Daughters of a climbing, grasping merchant. Can you imagine their style? Their mode of life?”

“You over-dramatize, Just. You are not the first man ever forced to search the merchant ranks for a suitable wife and fortune.
Besides, you told me the mother was a Bradshaw.”

“Who married beneath her,” Justin snapped.

“Still, you may find the gods are dealing more kindly with you than you know, my friend. Take heart and keep an open mind.”

“An open mind is an unguarded door through which any fool may pass,” the earl retorted before dropping into his chair and
returning to the topic of General Seton and the catastrophe in India.

The modest Loftus residence in Bloomsbury surprised Straeford. The air of simple dignity presented by an unadorned dark green
door and shining brass knocker was altogether impressive. It was not what the earl expected and he regarded it favorably.

The butler’s manner was quiet, the foyer sedate and the drawing room well lighted, simply furnished and filled with fashionably
attired guests conversing in civilized tones.

It far exceeded Straeford’s expectations, and yet he was not pleased. An atmosphere of quiet repose did not belie the fact
that it was a marriage mart the earl was attending and that he was both the buyer and the bought.

Well, let’s see the merchandise and get the business settled. He did not doubt that he himself would be found suitable.

Angus Loftus came up to his aristocratic guest, a
jovial smile lighting his blunt features. “My Lord Straeford, allow me to introduce you to my family.”

It was a large family—not only Angus’s children, but cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces he met and whose names the
earl scarce heard. But he did observe carefully the immediate progeny of the wealthy merchant with whom he might be forced
into a family relationship.

John Loftus, a lad of twenty-one, greeted Lord Straeford with a direct look that revealed none of his inner feelings. He was
exceedingly fair, tall and wiry, and his handclasp was firm. His simple black breeches and frock coat were bare of the flowing
laces and stiff collars so popular among the young sporting set who aspired to join the ranks of Corinthians.

The older daughter, Marisa Loftus, shared her brother’s fair coloring and modest style, but there was a deeper intensity to
the blue of her eyes and her blond tresses, worn in charming coils that framed her lovely face, were more honey-toned than
flaxen. She too met the earl with a cool gaze that revealed nothing of her thoughts, though hers was a greater stake in this
meeting.

There was something familiar about the man, but she could not quite bring to the surface of her mind that frozen moment at
the Inns of Court when they had briefly collided in the snow.

It was Margaret, the younger daughter, who obviously was the scene stealer. Her flowing hair of dark brown was allowed to
tumble about her bare shoulders in a most provocative fashion. Her blue eyes were bright and sparkling and eager to convey
her lively interest in the handsome catch her father had snared for his daughters. It was apparent from the onset that she
was already measuring the breadth of those wide shoulders with a proprietary air, and preparing a mental list for the wedding
invitations.