At Last Comes Love

1

WHEN Duncan Pennethorne, Earl of Sheringford, returned to London after a five-year absence, he did not go immediately to Claverbrook House on Grosvenor Square, but instead took up a reluctant residence on Curzon Street with his mother, Lady Carling. Sir Graham, her second husband, was not delighted to see him, but he /was/ fond of his wife so did not turn his stepson from his doors.

Claverbrook House was where Duncan must go sooner rather than later, though. His funds had been cut off, without warning and without explanation, at just a time when he was preparing to return home at last – home being Woodbine Park in Warwickshire, the house and estate where he had grown up and that had provided him with a comfortable income since his father's death fifteen years ago.

And he had not been going there alone. The Harrises, who had been in his employ for the past five years in various capacities, were going with him – the position of head gardener had fallen vacant and Harris was to fill it. Most important of all, four-year-old Toby was going there too. He was to be known at Woodbine as the Harrises' orphaned grandson. Toby had been wildly excited when told that he would be living henceforward at the place about which Duncan had told him so many exciting stories – Duncan's memories of his boyhood there were almost exclusively happy ones.

But then, suddenly, all his plans had gone awry, and he had been forced to leave the child with the Harrises in Harrogate while he dashed off to London in the hope of averting disaster.

His only warning had come in a formal note written in the bold hand of his grandfather's secretary, though his grandfather's signature was scrawled at the foot of the page, unmistakable despite the fact that it had grown shaky and spidery with age. At the same time the steward at Woodbine Park had grown suddenly and ominously silent.

They had all known /where/ to write to him, much of the need for secrecy having been lifted with Laura's death. Duncan had felt obliged to inform a number of people about that unhappy event.

It made little sense to Duncan that his grandfather would decide to cut him off just when a measure of respectability had been restored to his life. It made even less sense when he considered the fact that as the Marquess of Claverbrook's only grandson and only direct descendant, he was his heir.

But sense or nonsense, he was cut off, turned loose and penniless, with no means of supporting those who were dependent upon him – or himself for that matter. Not that he worried unduly about the Harrises. Good servants were always in demand. Or about himself. He was still young and able-bodied. But he /did/ worry about Toby. How could he not?

Hence this desperate dash to London, which was perhaps the last place on earth he wanted to be – and in the middle of the Season, to boot. It had seemed the only course of action open to him. The letter he had written in reply to his grandfather's had been ignored, and already precious time had been lost. So he had been forced to come to demand an explanation in person. Or to /ask/ for it, anyway. One did not demand anything of the Marquess of Claverbrook, who had never been known for the sweetness of his temper.

Duncan's mother did not have any reassurance to offer. She had not even known he had been cut off until he told her so. "I only wonder," she said when he went to her boudoir the morning after his arrival – or the early afternoon to be more precise, since mornings did not figure largely in her favorite times of the day – "that he did not cut you off five years ago, my love, if he was going to do it at all. We all /expected/ that he would then. I was even toying with the idea of going to plead with him /not/ to, but it struck me that by doing so I would quite possibly goad him into cutting you off even sooner than he planned. Perhaps he forgot until recently that you were still drawing on the rents of Woodbine. Not so harshly, Hetty – you will pull out every hair on my head and whatever will I do then?" Her maid was vigorously brushing the tangles out of her hair.

But his grandfather was not renowned for a poor memory either, especially where money was concerned. "Graham says he will not support your excesses for longer than a week at the outside," his mother added, returning her attention to her son as she arranged the flowing folds of her peignoir to show her figure to best advantage. "He told me so last evening after you arrived. But I would not worry about that, my love. I can wind Graham about my little finger whenever I choose." "You need not do it on my account, Mama," Duncan assured her. "I will not be staying here for long, only until I have spoken with Grandpapa and settled something with him. He cannot intend to leave me quite out in the cold, can he?" But he very much feared that it could indeed happen – that it already had, in fact. And it seemed his mother agreed with him. "I would not wager more than ten guineas or so against it," she said, reaching for the rouge pot. "He is a stubborn, crotchety old man, and I am more than delighted that he is no longer my father-in-law and I do not have to pretend to dote upon him. Do hand me that rouge brush, if you please, my love. No, not that one – the other. Hetty, have I not told you repeatedly to set my things down so that they are within my reach while you are busy with my hair? You must believe that my arms are long enough to reach my ankles. How peculiar /that/ would be." Duncan left the room after handing his mother the correct rouge brush.

He could not decide between turning up unannounced at Claverbrook House on the one hand and writing to request an audience on the other – for that was what a familial visit to his grandfather amounted to. If he went in person, he might have to suffer the ignominy of being turned away by his grand-father's Friday-faced butler – if Forbes still held the post, that was. He must be nearly as ancient as his master. If he wrote, on the other hand, his letter might yellow with age before his grandfather's secretary deigned to give it any attention.

The pot or the kettle.

The devil or the deep blue sea.

Which was it to be?

And there was a degree of urgency to the situation that threatened to throw Duncan into a panic. He had settled the Harrises and Toby in a couple of cramped rooms in Harrogate and paid one month's rent. There was simply not enough money for another month. And one week of this one was gone already.

Even so, he procrastinated instead of making a decision and spent one whole day reacquainting himself with London – and London with him. Much as one set of instincts warned him to lie low, to avoid being seen if he possibly could, another part of him argued that since he could not avoid the company of his peers for all of the rest of his life without becoming a hermit, he might as well sally forth now with all the nonchalance he could muster.

He went to White's Club, where he still had a membership and where he did not find the doors barred against him. He met a number of former friends and acquaintances there, none of whom gave him the cut direct.

On the contrary, a number of them hailed him with jovial familiarity, as if he had been there just last year or even last week and had never in his life dashed away from London and from society under a huge cloud of scandal. And if a few gentlemen ignored him, well, there was nothing so very unusual about that. One did not hail everyone one met, after all, at White's or anywhere else. Nobody made a scene and demanded that he be removed from the hallowed sanctum of the club.

He allowed himself to be borne off to Tattersall's with a group of equestrian enthusiasts to look over the horses, and then on to the races. He even acquired some modest winnings at the latter by the end of the afternoon, though they were far too modest to make any significant difference to his financial circumstances. In the evening he went to a card party, where he lost the afternoon's windfall before winning more than half of it back again.

He packaged up the money before going to bed and dispatched it the next morning to Harrogate. By now Toby was bound to have put his heel through a stocking or his knee through his breeches or his toe through his shoes or… Well, the possibilities were endless. Bringing up a child was a decidedly expensive undertaking.

On the second day the ticklish decision of how best to approach his grandfather was taken out of his hands. There was a note beside his plate at the breakfast table, written in the all-too-familiar hand of the secretary. It was a summons to appear before the Marquess of Claverbrook at one o'clock precisely. The old gentleman did not go out much these days, according to Duncan's mother, but obviously he did not miss much of what went on beyond his doors. He had heard that his grandson was back in town. He had even known where to find him.

And it was definitely a summons rather than an invitation – /at one o'clock precisely/.

Duncan dressed with care in a coat of blue superfine that was neat and elegant but not in the first stare of fashion. He had his valet tie his neckcloth in a smart yet simple knot. He wore a plain fob at his waist and pulled on well-polished Hessian boots over his gray pantaloons, but plain black ones rather than anything more flamboyant. He certainly did not want to give the impression that he lived extravagantly – which he did not. "You do understand, Smith," he said to his man, "that I will be unable to pay you this week and perhaps will not be able to next week either – or the week after. You may wish to look about for other employment, and London is by far the best place to do it." Smith, who had remained with him through thick and thin for eleven years – though never before in utter poverty – sniffed. "I understand a great deal, m'lord," he said, "not having been born an imbecile. I will leave when I am good and ready to leave." Which would not be immediately, Duncan gathered – a loyalty for which he was silently grateful.

He frowned at his image before leaving the room. He did not want to appear obsequious before his grandfather any more than he wished to look expensive, though of course he /was/ desperate. He sighed inwardly, took his hat and cane from Smith's hands, and left the room and the house.

Forbes took Duncan's things when he arrived at Claverbrook House, scarcely sparing him a glance as he did so, and invited his lordship to follow him. Duncan followed, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips at the butler's stiff back. It was probably a good thing he had not come yesterday, uninvited. He doubted he would have got past Forbes unless he had been prepared to wrestle him to the ground.

The Marquess of Claverbrook was in the drawing room, seated in a high-backed chair he had possessed forever, close to a roaring fire despite the fact that it was a warmish spring day. Heavy velvet curtains were half drawn across the windows to block most of the sunlight. The air was heavy with the smell of the ointment he used for his rheumatism.

Duncan made his bow. "Sir," he said, "how do you do? I hope I find you well." His grandfather, who had never been one to indulge in unnecessary chitchat, did not deign to deliver a health report. Neither did he greet his grandson or express any pleasure at seeing him again after so long.

Nor did he demand to know why he was back in London when he had fled from it five years ago under the blackest cloud of scandal and disgrace.

He /knew/ why, of course, as his opening words revealed. "Give me one good reason," he said, his bushy white eyebrows almost meeting over the bridge of his nose, a sharply defined frown line between his brows the only feature that revealed where one ended and the other began, "just /one/, Sheringford, why I should continue to fund your excesses and debaucheries." He held a silver-headed wooden cane in both gnarled hands and thumped it on the floor between his feet to give emphasis to his displeasure.

There was one perfectly good reason – even apart from the fact that really there had not been a great many of either excesses or debaucheries. But his grandfather knew nothing about Toby and never would, if Duncan had any say in the matter. Nor would anyone else. "Because I am your only grandson, sir?" Duncan suggested. And lest that not be sufficient reason, as doubtless it was not, "And because I plan to live respectably for the rest of my life now that Laura is dead?" She had been dead for four months. She had taken a winter chill and just faded away – because, in Duncan's opinion, she had lost the will to live.

His grandfather's frown deepened, if that were possible, and he thumped the cane again. "You dare mention /that name/ in my hearing?" he asked rhetorically. "Mrs. Turner was dead to the world five years ago, Sheringford, when she chose to commit the unspeakable atrocity of running off with you, leaving her lawful husband behind." It had happened on Duncan's twenty-fifth birthday – and, more to the point, on his wedding day. He had abandoned his bride, virtually at the altar, and run away with her sister-in-law, her brother's wife. Laura.

The whole thing had been one of the most spectacular scandals London had seen in years, perhaps ever. At least, he assumed it had. He had not been here to experience it in person.

He said nothing since this was hardly the time or the place for a discussion on the meaning of the word /atrocity/. "I ought to have turned you out then without a penny," his grandfather told him. He had not been invited to sit down, Duncan noticed. "But I allowed you to continue drawing on the rents and income of Woodbine Park so that you would have the wherewithal to stay far away out of my sight – and out of the sight of all decent, respectable people. But now the woman is gone, unmourned, and you may go to the devil for all I care. You promised solemnly on my seventieth birthday that you would marry by your thirtieth and have a son in your nursery before your thirty-first. You abandoned Miss Turner at the altar five years ago, and you turned thirty six weeks ago." /Had/ he promised something so rash? Of course, he would have been a mere puppy at the time. Was /this/ the explanation for the sudden cutting off of his funds? That his thirtieth birthday had come and gone and he was still a single man? He had been with Laura until four months ago, for the love of God. But not married to her, of course. Turner had steadfastly refused to divorce her. His grandfather had expected him to find a bride within the past four months, then, and marry her just to honor a promise made many years ago – by a boy who knew nothing of life? "There is still time to produce an heir before my thirty-first birthday," he pointed out – a rather asinine thing to say, as his grandfather's reaction demonstrated. He snorted. It was not a pleasant sound. "Besides," Duncan continued, "I believe you must have misremembered the promise I made, sir. I seem to recall promising that I would marry before your eightieth birthday." Which was… when? Next year? The year after? "Which happens to be sixteen days from now," his grandfather said with brows of thunder again. "Where is your bride, Sheringford?" /Sixteen days/? Damn it all!

Duncan strode across the room to the window in order to delay his answer, and stood looking down on the square, his hands clasped at his back. Could he pretend now that it was the eighty-/fifth/ birthday he had named? He could not even remember the promise, for God's sake. And his grandfather might be making all this up just to discomfit him, just to give himself a valid excuse for cutting off his grandson from all funds. Woodbine Park, though a property belonging to the Marquess of Claverbrook, was traditionally granted to the heir as his home and main source of income. Duncan had always considered it his, by right of the fact that he was the heir after his father's death, even though he had not lived there for years. He had never taken Laura there. "No answer," the marquess said after a lengthy silence, a nasty sneer in his voice. "I produced one son, who died at the age of forty-four when he had no more sense than to engage in a curricle race and try to overtake his opponent on a sharp bend in the road. And that one son produced one son of his own. /You."/ It did not sound like a compliment. "He did, sir," Duncan agreed. What else /was/ there to say? "Where did I go wrong?" his grandfather asked irritably and rhetorically. "My brother produced five lusty sons before he produced any of his daughters, and those five in their turn produced eleven lusty sons of their own, at least two each. And some of /them/ have produced sons." "And so, sir," Duncan said, seeing where this was leading, "there is no danger of the title falling into abeyance anytime soon, is there? There is no urgent hurry for me to get a son." It was the wrong thing to say – though there probably /was/ no right thing.

The cane thumped the floor again. "I daresay the title will pass to Norman in the not-too-distant future," his grandfather said, "after my time and after yours, which will not last even as long as your father's if you continue with the low life you have chosen. I intend to treat him as though he were already my heir. I will grant him Woodbine Park on my eightieth birthday." Duncan's back stiffened as if someone had delivered him a physical blow.

He closed his eyes briefly. This was the final straw. It was bad enough – nothing short of a disaster, in fact – that Woodbine and its rents were being withheld from /him/. But to think of /Cousin Norman/, of all people, benefiting from his loss … Well, it was a viciously low blow. "Norman has a wife and two sons," the marquess told him. "As well as a daughter. Now, /there/ is a man who knows his duty." Yes, indeed.

Both Norman's father and his grandfather were dead. He was the next heir after Duncan. He also had a shrewd head on his shoulders. He had married Caroline Turner six weeks after Duncan abandoned her on their wedding day, and he had apparently got three children off her, two of them sons.

He had taken all the right steps to ingratiate himself with his great-uncle.

Duncan frowned down at the empty square beyond the window. Though it was not quite empty. A maid was down on her hands and knees scrubbing the steps of a house on the opposite side.

Did Norman /know/ that Woodbine was to all intents and purposes to be his in sixteen days' time? "If I had written down that promise I made on your seventieth birthday, sir," Duncan said, "and if you had kept it, I believe you would discover now that my promise really was to marry by your eightieth birthday rather than my thirtieth, though they both fall in the same year, of course." His grandfather snorted again – a sound that conveyed utter contempt. "And what do you plan to do when you leave here in a few minutes' time, Sheringford?" he asked. "Grab the first female you meet on the street and drag her off in pursuit of a special license?" /Something like that/. When one had been brought up to be a well-to-do gentleman, to administer land, to expect to inherit an illustrious title and fabulous wealth one day, one was not educated or trained to any other form of gainful employment. Not any that would give him sufficient income to support dependents, including a child, as well as keep his own body and soul together, anyway. "Not at all." Duncan turned to look steadily at his grandfather. "I have a bride picked out, sir. We are already unofficially betrothed, in fact, even though there has been no public announcement yet." "Indeed?" There was a world of scorn in the one word. His grandfather raised his eyebrows and looked incredulous – as well he might. "And who /is/ this lady, pray?" "She has sworn me to secrecy," Duncan said, "until she is ready for the announcement to be made." "Ha! Convenient indeed!" his grandfather exclaimed, his brows snapping together again. "It is a barefaced lie, Sheringford, just like everything else in your miserable life. There is no such person, no such betrothal, no such impending marriage. Take yourself out of my sight." "But if there /is/?" Duncan asked him, standing his ground though he had the feeling he might as well be standing on quicksand. "What if there /is/ such a lady, sir, and she has agreed to marry me on the assumption that I have security to offer her, that we will live at Woodbine Park and finance our marriage and our family on its rents and income?" His grandfather glared at him with no diminution of either anger or scorn. "If there /is/ such a lady," he said, almost spitting out the words, "and /if/ she is undisputedly an eligible bride for the Earl of Sheringford and future Marquess of Claverbrook, and /if/ you present her to me here the day before the papers announce your betrothal, and /if/ you marry her no later than one day before my birthday, then Woodbine Park will be yours again on that day. That is a formidable number of /ifs/, Sheringford. If you fail in any one of them, as I have no doubt you will, then Woodbine Park will be your cousin's on my birthday." Duncan inclined his head. "I believe," his grandfather said, "Norman and his lady may safely continue packing up their belongings ready for the move." /Continue/? Norman /did/ know, then? "They would be well advised not to, sir," Duncan said. "I will not invite you to stay for refreshments," his grandfather said, his eyes raking over his grandson with contempt. "You are going to need every hour of the next fifteen days in which to find a bride – a /respectable/ bride – and persuade her to marry you." Duncan made him another bow. "I shall explain the necessity for haste to my betrothed without further delay, then," he said, and heard his grandfather snort one more time as he let himself out of the room and proceeded down the stairs to retrieve his hat and cane.

This was one devil of a nasty coil.

How the deuce was he to find a bride and marry her all within fifteen days? And a respectable lady of good /ton/ to boot – his grandfather, he knew, would accept no less. No respectable lady would touch him with a twenty-foot oar – not once she knew his infamous story, anyway. And soon enough the fact that he was back would spread all over London – even if it had not already done so.

Besides all of which, he had no wish /whatsoever/ to marry. He had only recently been freed from a lengthy connection that he had found tiresome, to say the least – though poor Laura had /not/ gone unmourned.

He wanted to enjoy his newfound freedom alone, at least for a few years.

Besides, and far more important, there was a purely practical reason why a wife would be a severe encumbrance. No respectable lady would tolerate the presence of an illegitimate child in her home – or even a strong attachment between her husband and his gardener's presumably legitimate grandson. And how would he ever be able to mask that attachment?

It was unthinkable.

Besides, Toby, however well he had been coached, would not remember all the time to call him /sir/ or /my lord/ instead of /Papa/.

Damn it all!

But marry he must. He needed Woodbine. He needed his home and his roots.

It was true, of course, that eventually he would inherit all his grandfather's properties and vast fortune, /including/ Woodbine Park, which was entailed and could not be given as an outright gift to Norman or anyone else. His grandfather could do nothing to prevent any of that happening beyond outliving him. But the trouble was, Duncan could not afford to wait for his grandfather's demise, which might be many years in the future. Besides, he could not under any circumstances wish for the old man's death. Far from it.

He needed Woodbine /now/.

He had a sudden image of Norman as lord of the manor there – with Caroline as its lady. And their children roaring through the house and romping in the park instead of Toby. It was a painful image. Woodbine was /his home/.

Marriage really was the only option open to him, then. But there was no time in which to choose a bride with any care to make sure he had picked someone who would not drive him to distraction within a fortnight – or, to be fair, someone /he/ would not drive to distraction. There was only time to grab whomever he could find. /If/ there was time even for that.

He could hardly walk up to the first lady he saw at the first ball he attended and ask her to marry him. Could he? And even /if/ he did, and /if/ for some strangely peculiar reason she said yes, he would still have her family to persuade.

It simply could not be done.

Except that failure was not an option.

She would have to be someone very young and biddable. Someone whose parents would be only too glad to bag a future marquess for their daughter, scandalous reputation be damned. Some cit's daughter, perhaps – no, she would not be acceptable to his grandfather. Some impoverished gentleman's daughter, then. Someone plain of face and figure.

Duncan felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he stepped out onto the square.

Or someone… But of course, it /was/ spring, was it not? The time of the Season in London? The time of the great marriage mart, when ladies came to town with the express purpose of finding themselves a husband? And notoriety aside, he was the Earl of Sheringford, even if it /was/ just a courtesy title and essentially meaningless in itself. He was also the heir to a marquess's very real title and properties and fortune – and the incumbent was eighty years old, or would be in sixteen days' time.

His case was not hopeless at all. It was a little desperate, it was true – he had only fifteen days. But that ought to be sufficient time. It was getting close to the end of the Season. There must be a number of girls – and their parents – who were growing uneasy, even a little desperate, at the absence of a suitor.

As he strode out of the square, Duncan found himself feeling grimly optimistic. He would hold his grandfather to his promise and get Woodbine Park back. He /had/ to. He would somehow have to fit marriage in with his other plans.

The thought brought out the cold sweat again.

There must be entertainments galore to choose among. His mother would get him invitations to any he wished to attend – /if/ he needed an invitation. As he remembered it, most ladies were only too eager to entice enough guests to their homes that they could boast the next day of having hosted a squeeze. They were not going to turn away a titled gentleman, even if he /had/ run off with a married lady five years ago – on his wedding day to someone else.

A ball would be his best choice. He would attend the very next one – this evening, if there happened to be one.

He had fifteen days in which to meet, court, betroth himself to, and marry a lady of /ton/. It was certainly not impossible. It was an interesting challenge, in fact.

He strode off in the direction of Curzon Street. With any luck his mother would still be at home. She would know what entertainments there were to choose among during the next few days.