announcement. But,” he added, as a dazed smile of relief lit Alexander’s face, “do not think that means you are relieved of all responsibility. If I do not find that you have made every effort to make yourself agreeable to Miss Smithfield in the next thirty days, then I will be forced to cut off your allowance. You’ll find that your free and easy lifestyle is not so easy to maintain on an empty purse.”
Alexander nodded his agreement to his father’s terms. He realized it was time he settled down, so if he liked the girl well enough, he supposed he might as well marry her. And if he did not, well, his father had loosened the noose around his neck just enough that he might be able to slip through.
“If you are concerned about Miss Smithfield’s appearance, you needn’t be. I would not expect you to marry a woman you found unattractive. I made her acquaintance four years ago at a wedding. She was only seventeen at the time, but already blossoming into a beautiful young lady with a pleasing demeanor. She is tall and slender, with light brown hair and fine blue eyes.”
To Alexander, she sounded just like every other milk-and-water miss he had ever met at Almack’s. “Why is it such a vision of pulchritude is still single at the ripe old age of twenty-one?” He asked, half-jokingly.
“Miss Smithfield was to have a London season her eighteenth year, but it was cut short when her father fell ill. She and her mother returned home immediately, and a month or two later Sir John passed away. The estate was entailed on a distant cousin, and Lady Smithfield and her daughters were forced to relocate. They now reside in the village of Stonehurst, where they have been the past two years or more. I assume they no longer have the finances to expend on a London season. Sir John left them comfortably enough, from what I have heard, but the cost of another residence probably took a large portion of their settlement.”
Alexander was dismayed by his father’s story. If the Smithfields were financially depressed, his father’s offer would seem like their salvation. What self-respecting mother would not jump at the chance to marry her daughter to the heir of a wealthy duke? He could behave like an ill-mannered boor and they would pronounce him charming. He tugged uncomfortably at his exquisite cravat, which Jenkins must have tied too tightly that morning, for it suddenly felt as if it were choking him.
Chapter Two
“Of course,” he said aloud, “Sedgewick!”
The butler, who had just opened the door to let his master in, wondered at Lord Wesleigh’s sudden bout of forgetfulness after his nearly ten years of service. Shaking his head at the vagaries of the nobility, he nevertheless reminded him, “Simmons, my lord.”
“What is that, Simmons?” asked Wesleigh, startled from his reverie. “Oh, you thought I was referring to you. No, I was referring to my good friend, Jonathan Sedgewick, the vicar in Stonehurst. I intend to pay him a visit. Jenkins,” he hollered, taking the stairs that led to his second-story bedchamber two at a time, “pack our bags. We are going to Stonehurst.”
An hour later, as Wesleigh stood surveying the mountain of luggage that his finicky valet considered essential for a short visit to the country, he realized that it would not do. It would not do at all. The half-formulated plan he had been thinking through since he’d realized he had a connection in Stonehurst was contingent on his ability to arrive virtually unnoticed on the village scene, not to arrive in ducal splendor with his crested carriage and a small army of servants.
He had what he felt was a perfectly normal desire to observe what his future held before being presented with it on a silver platter. If Lydia Smithfield had any major defects of personality or character, she would take the greatest care to hide these from her prospective bridegroom, the heir to a dukedom. Therefore, he intended to pose as someone so insignificant, so far beneath her notice, that she would be at no pains to hide her true self from him.
He thought first about masquerading as a servant, but quickly changed his mind. He preferred to at least pose as a member of the gentry, albeit a lesser member. Besides, he doubted his ability to play the part of a servant convincingly enough, particularly for any length of time. There had to be some sort of position he could occupy in Sedgewick’s household, some minor, but realistic, role he could perform that would not cause undue notice.
He could not say what finally caused him to stumble upon the notion of posing as a curate, but it seemed a realistic enough disguise. No one would question a curate coming to visit his close friend, the vicar. And a curate was low enough on the social ladder that his entrance into Stonehurst society would cause barely a ripple. That is, if he traveled, dressed, and acted as a curate would. Which meant leaving Jenkins and his freshly laundered cravats behind.
“I have changed my mind, Jenkins. I will pack a small bag myself. And you are to remain here in London.”
Wesleigh had the satisfaction of seeing his valet’s perpetually expressionless face assume a look of dismay. “But, my lord—”
“I shall be taking the stage to Stonehurst, and I doubt there would be room for the other passengers were I to take such an impressive array of baggage.”
“The stage, my lord? Do I understand you properly? You cannot mean that you, the heir to the duke of Alford, are taking the common stage from London to Stonehurst.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I need you to see about securing my passage. I would prefer the boxseat, but any outside seat will do, I suppose. It would be criminal to have to be shut inside on a day like today.” Wesleigh turned to search for his plainest jacket, preferably one a few seasons old as well, before realizing that his valet still stood rooted in place, his mouth hanging open. “Jenkins, I haven’t a lot of time to spare. I am hoping to make Stonehurst by nightfall.” Turning back to his wardrobe, he pulled out an old, badly cut jacket he’d never worn. “Ah, this should do nicely,” he said to himself. As he removed the jacket he was wearing, a sartorial masterpiece of Weston’s, Jenkins shuddered violently, and left to do his master’s bidding.
The Smithfield ladies and, indeed, every inhabitant of Smithfield House, were on pins and needles awaiting the arrival of Lord Wesleigh. Even though Lady Smithfield had stuck to her promise of keeping silent about the match, the servants, who invariably came to know of any circumstance in their mistresses’ lives, had somehow succeeded in ferreting out this secret as well.
Emily was perhaps more anxious than anyone for the marquess to arrive, although her mother ran a close second. Lady Smithfield was terribly frustrated to have to keep the secret of her daughter’s conquest. She was desperate to tell her closest friends, not to mention her greatest enemies. Lydia was anxious, also, but not for the marquess to arrive. For the first time in her life, the kindhearted young lady was wishing an accident to befall someone. Not anything serious, mind, just serious enough to lay him up for a few weeks and somehow prevent him from marrying her or her sister. Because no matter what Emily said, Lydia could not believe that her dear sister could really wish to sacrifice herself in such a manner.
Emily assured her sister repeatedly that it was no sacrifice. If anything, she was fearful that her mother and the duke would not accept her as a substitute for Lydia. She was determined to ensure her sister’s romance with the vicar came to fruition, or she feared that Lydia would be forced to marry Wesleigh no matter what she wished. Or what Emily wished.
For Emily dearly wanted to marry the marquess. She had moments of doubt, when her stubborn little heart yearned for something like Lydia had found. Someone who loved her and wanted her, not because his father ordered him to, but because his heart did. But then she would sternly push those thoughts aside.
It was not that Emily was materialistic or grasping, determined to be a duchess at all costs. It was just that she was
