“Oh, right,” Lady Vickers said, groaning as she rose to her feet. “She’s a tedious old windbag, but she does lay a nice table.”
Annabel and Louisa stood as their grandmother left the room, and then, as soon as she was gone, they sank back down and Louisa said, “Whathappened while I was gone?”
Annabel sighed weakly. “I assume you refer to Lord Newbury?”
“I was in Brighton for only four days.” Louisa cast a quick glance at the door, making sure that no one was about, and then resumed in an urgent whisper, “And now he wants tomarry you?”
“He hasn’t said as much,” Annabel replied, more out of wishful thinking than anything else. Based upon Lord Newbury’s attentions toward her these last four days, he’d be off to Canterbury to obtain a special license by the week’s end.
“Do you know his history?” Louisa asked.
“I think so,” Annabel replied. “Some of it.” Certainly not as much as Louisa would. Louisa was already on her second London season, and more to the point, she had been born to this world. Annabel’s pedigree might have included a grand father who was a viscount, but she was a country gentleman’s daughter, through and through. Louisa, on the other hand, had spent every spring and summer of her life in London. Her mother—Annabel’s aunt Joan—had passed away several years earlier, but the Duke of Fenniwick had several sisters, all of whom held prominent positions in society. Louisa may have been shy, she may have been the last person anyone would expect to spread gossip and rumors, but sheknew everything.
“He’s desperate for a wife,” Louisa said.
Annabel gave what she hoped was a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m rather desperate for a husband myself.”
“Notthat desperate.”
Annabel did not contradict, but the truth was, if she didn’t marry well and soon, heaven only knew what would become of her family. They had never had a lot, but when her father had been alive, they’d always managed to make do. She wasn’t sure how they had afforded the tuition to send all four of her brothers to school, but they were all where they should be—at Eton, receiving a gentleman’s education. Annabel wouldnot be responsible for their having to leave.
“His wife died, oh, I’m not sure how many years ago,” Louisa continued. “But that did not signify, as he had a perfectly healthy son. And his son had two daughters, so obviously his wife was not barren.”
Annabel nodded, wondering why it was always the woman who was barren. Couldn’t a man be incapable, too?
“But then his son died. It was a fever, I think.”
Annabel had been made aware of this part already, but she was sure Louisa would know more, so she asked, “Has he no one else to inherit? Surely there must be a brother or cousin.”
“His nephew,” Louisa confirmed. “Sebastian Grey. But Lord Newburyhates him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Louisa said with a shrug. “No one knows. Jealousy, maybe? Mr. Grey is terribly handsome. All the ladies fall at his feet.”
“I should like to see that,” Annabel mused, imagining the scene. She pictured a blond Adonis, muscles straining his waistcoat, wading through a sea of unconscious females. It would be best if a few of them were still somewhat sentient, perhaps tugging on his leg, setting him off balance—
“Annabel!”
Annabel snapped to attention. Louisa was addressing her with uncommon urgency, and she’d do well to listen.
“Annabel, this is important,” Louisa said.
Annabel nodded, and an unfamiliar feeling washed over her—maybe of gratitude, certainly of love. She’d only just got to know her cousin, but already there was a deep bond of affection, and she knew that Louisa would do everything in her power to keep Annabel from making an unhappy alliance.
Unfortunately, Louisa’s power was, in this capacity, limited. And she did not—no, she could not—understand the pressures of being the eldest daughter of an impoverished family.
“Listen to me,” Louisa implored. “Lord Newbury’s son died, oh, I think it must be a bit over a year ago. And he started looking for a wife before his son was cold in his grave.”
“Shouldn’t he have found one by now, then?”
Louisa shook her head. “He almost married Mariel Willingham.”
“Who?” Annabel blinked, trying to place the name.
“Exactly. You’ve never heard of her. She died.”
Annabel felt her eyebrows rise. It was really a rather emotionless delivery of such tragic news.
“Two days before the wedding she took a chill.”
“She died in only two days?” Annabel asked. It was a morbid question, but, well, she had to know.
“No. Lord Newbury insisted upon delaying the ceremony. He said it was for her welfare, that she was too ill to stand up in church, but everyone knew that he really just wanted to make sure she was healthy enough to bear him a son.”
“And then?”
“Well, and then she did die. She lingered for about a fortnight. It was really very sad. She was always very kind to me.” Louisa gave her head a little shake, then continued. “It was a near miss for Lord Newbury. If he’d married her, he would have had to go into mourning. As it was, he had already tried to wed scandalously soon after his son’s death. If Miss Willingham hadn’t died before the wedding, he’d have had another year of black.”
“How long did he wait before looking for someone else?” Annabel asked, dreading the answer.
“Not more than two weeks. Honestly, I don’t think he would have waited that long if he thought he could have got away with it.” Louisa looked about, her eyes falling on Annabel’s sherry. “I need some tea,” she said.
Annabel rose and rang for it, not wanting Louisa to break the narrative.
“After he returned to London,” Louisa said, “he began to court Lady Frances Sefton.”
“Sefton,” Annabel murmured. She knew that name but couldn’t quite place it.
“Yes,” Louisa said animatedly. “Exactly. Her father is the Earl of Brompton.” She leaned forward. “Lady Frances is the third of nine children.”
“Oh my.”
“Miss Willingham was the eldest of only four, but she…” Louisa trailed off, clearly unsure of how to phrase it politely.
“Was shaped like me?” Annabel offered.
Louisa nodded grimly.
Annabel gave a wry grimace. “I suppose he never looked twice in your direction.”
Louisa looked down at herself, all seven and a half stone of her. “Never.” And then, in a most uncharacteristic display of blasphemy, she added, “ThankGod .”
“What happened to Lady Frances?” Annabel asked.
“She eloped. With afootman .”
“Good heavens. But she must have had a prior attachment, wouldn’t you think? One wouldn’t run off with a footman just to avoid marriage to an earl.”
“You don’t think so?”
