Gunter’s Tea Shop on the east side of Berkeley Square was a half hour’s leisurely stroll away on that warm, sunshiny day that seemed to have all of Mayfair out taking the air.
Kipp and Edwardine led the way, the young girl’s hand tucked most endearingly and trustingly around his elbow. And making Kipp feel very much like an older brother, even a father, but most definitely not a suitor.
Abby and Brady followed behind, careful to linger as far behind as necessary to hold a private conversation. “Not too far back, my dear,” Brady warned facetiously, gesturing toward his friend. “I have to feel confident can stop him if he decides the only sane solution left is to throw himself in front of a passing carriage and end it all.”
Abby bowed her head, tried in vain to control a giggle. “Did you see the expression on his face when Edwardine so innocently said ‘bosoms’?” she then asked him. “Although it was funny, wasn’t it?”
“She’ll make someone a fine wife, Abby, have no fears about that. As long as he’s rich, madly in love, and as silly as she is, of course. Luckily for your niece, the type of gentlemen I’ve just used as an example always lie quite thickly on the ground here in London.”
“How you comfort my mind,” Abby said, wondering how to ease back into the conversation the two of them had danced around last evening, the memory of which had kept her awake half the night. “But you still don’t see Edwardine as the answer to the viscount’s cold-blooded hunt for a suitable wife?”
“Do you?”
“That’s not the question, my lord. I am barely acquainted with His Lordship, and could scarcely know his possible preferences, now could I? Other than that silliness you were waving in front of me last night, which I’m sure is fair and far out, because he couldn’t possibly be interested.”
“Silliness? Interested? Ah! You mean my suggestion that you would make my friend a nearly perfect wife?”
“Yes, yes,” Abby said quickly, looking about to see if anyone could overhear them as they walked along the crowded flagway. “Now here’s a thought, my lord. Why don’t you climb to the top of St. Paul’s, and shout your suggestions to the populace?”
“Forgive me, dear madam,” Brady told her, squeezing her fingers as they lay on his well-tailored sleeve. “Secrecy is, of course, of the utmost importance, isn’t it? Especially since the last person who should hear of my plan is Kipp himself. He’d run for Willoughby Hall in a heartbeat—right after he broke my interfering nose, that is. You see, he might say he wants my help, but he’s never meant it. Now, have you given any more thought to my proposal?”
She had. She most definitely had. For nearly all of last night and most of this morning. “I do have some more questions, my lord, I cannot help but admit that.”
“Good, then you haven’t rejected my inspiration out of hand. Go on.”
Mentally reviewing the few conclusions she’d been able to draw, Abby began, “Sophie—that is, the duchess of Selbourne knew all about my late... about our family. I suppose it wouldn’t stretch credulity too far to believe that you also know all about them, would it? Not just some small snippets—but everything? That both you and the viscount knew all about the family scandal before you so much as introduced yourselves to Edwardine last night?”
“The curse of being in Society, Abby, my dear,” Brady responded as kindly as he could. “Can’t take more than two steps in any direction without hearing all the gossip. That said, I imagine I should belatedly offer you my condolences on the loss of your husband.”
Abby gave a small wave of her gloved hand, silently accepting Brady’s condolences and dismissing them at the same time. “And my brothers-in-law, the rest of the family? You know about them as well?”
“Casually, yes. Although the Backworth-Maldons have not appeared in town in some years, I remember enough to feel sure that they must be... interesting,” Brady admitted. “But, to be truthful, none of that mattered all that much to me until I met you last night, Abby. Before that, my primary concern had been, frankly, to simply parade your niece under my friend’s nose so that he’d see the error of his judgment in believing that he wanted a young, innocent wife.”
“How very calculated of you.”
Brady smiled at her. “Calculated? I prefer brilliant, but I’ll have to settle for calculated, I suppose. But, to continue. The fact that a young lady in your niece’s position would probably grab at someone like my friend with both hands was, of course, not lost on either of us. Your niece was thought to be perfect for his needs, and is now, happily, perfect for my own plans. Especially since the viscount wishes to have the entire matter settled quickly, probably within the week. Remember, my dear, the viscount sees this entire project as one of business, not pleasure.”
“Really? How cold-blooded of you both, my lord. Do you know what? I don’t like you. Neither of you,” Abby said, stiffening. “I thought I might, but I now know I don’t.”
“Now there’s a pity, for I find myself liking you, Abby, more with every word you speak. I think we could be great friends.”
“Oh, really? How unflattered I am by that sentiment, my lord. Now, as you’ve admitted that you know about my family’s foibles... can you tell me if they had anything at all to do with our last-moment invitation to the Selbourne ball? Are you how the duchess found out about us, why she invited us to her ball? Even though I’m sure I already know the answer. I did see the duchess wink at you, you know.”
“Gloves off?” Brady asked, smiling what he hoped was his most ingratiating smile.
“Gloves off,” Abby answered, glaring at him.
“All right, my dear inquisitor. First, I will reiterate. We—Kipp and I—saw your niece in the Park, and the viscount decided to begin his hunt for a bride by pursuing her. Cold-blooded enough for you so far?”
“I saw you in the Park as well,” Abby admitted. “And I saw the viscount measuring Edwardine with his eyes. Go on.”
“There isn’t much more. Yes, I went straight to Sophie after I’d found out your niece’s name, and begged her to invite you and your family to her ball. Which wasn’t difficult to do, as Sophie is, well, she’s just Sophie. The best of good fellows, you understand, and always willing to help. Especially when I told her your family’s sad story.”
“She already told me there is some hint of scandal attached to her and the duke, if that’s what you’re trying not to say,” Abby told him.
“More than a hint, Abby, but that’s all in the past now, although I admit to shamelessly recalling the Backworth-Maldon scandal for her, to gain her sympathy—and your invitation. Anyway, I had hoped that Kipp would meet with your niece, dance with your niece, and be bored to flinders by your niece, at which time he would begin to listen to me, and my notions of what he needs in a wife.”
“Because you’re to choose his bride for him? What utter nonsense!”
Brady shrugged. “Perhaps. But only because I was asked, Abby, only because I was asked, even if he wasn’t being completely serious about the thing. And now we come to my most recent inspiration, the one I alluded to last evening. I’m sure you remember it.”
“Oh, yes, I remember it. How many inspirations do you usually have of an evening, my lord?”
“Ah-ah, Brady. Even if you do detest me at the moment.” He grinned at her. “Three, at the very least,” he then answered easily. “You see, I have some very firm opinions of just what my good but obtuse friend needs in a wife, opinions quite opposite from his, although I do believe he’s already questioning those opinions. And you, madam, are all I have been looking for and everything he has sworn to avoid, although he’d never see that, as he’s still too busy sunk in a funk, pitying himself and what he sees as his unhappy fate. It’s perfect!”
“Perfect,” Abby repeated hollowly, shaking her head at this insanity. “My lord—Brady—have you at least considered that you might have drunk too much wine last evening?”
“No, no, to the contrary. I was blessedly sober when my inspiration hit me. You’re the perfect bride for Kipp. And I believe I can—or you can—convince him that you are just the bride he needs.”
“Me, convince him? Are you out of your mind? Besides, I am anything but perfect, and we all know it.”
“All right, Abby,” he agreed, patting her hand. “Perhaps you’re not perfect, not in the way you believe perfection is calculated in Society. But you are perfect in ways you don’t yet understand.”
“And will never understand, don’t wish to understand,” Abby told him, withdrawing her arm from his as they turned yet another corner, heading toward Berkeley Square. “I think we’re done talking now, Brady, if you don’t mind.”
But Brady wasn’t about to let it go, let her go. Not when he knew he was right. “He doesn’t want your niece, but if he gets you, Abby, he still gets the entire Backworth-Maldon clan. All those interesting Backworth-Maldons. Think about it, Abby. He would have his hands full, even as he believed he wouldn’t, even as he believed all his problems to be solved. He wouldn’t be able simply to keep going along as he is now, skimming through life, not really feeling, not really enjoying that life. He needs to be shocked, shaken up—perhaps even to the point of falling in love again.”
“Falling in love,” Abby repeated, slowing down, taking Brady’s arm once more. “Would that be possible?”
Brady immediately knew he had gone too far, said too much, set one too many dreams to dancing in her head.
“Anything is possible, Abby. Although he won’t see it that way at first, of course. And not that you, being a practical sort, would even wish it, correct?”
“Of course,” Abby parroted, her head beginning to spin. “And, if you can’t convince him of my, um, suitability by throwing me at his head, then you propose that I do? You propose that I propose? Is that what you said? How could you think I could do that?”
“Abby, my dear, dear Mrs. Backworth-Maldon,” Brady said with a grin, taking her hands in his, “I may have only just met you, but I believe you could tell the devil himself how warm to keep Hell. Now, if you don’t confide to me your heart has been given over to some country squire, and if you truly aren’t interested in my plan, my inspired brilliance...” He let his words fade away as he pretended an interest in a passing coach and four.
She looked at him levelly, and for a long time. “Your brilliance. Your plan, you mean. Your plan to have me married to the viscount, because he needs a wife he can’t possibly love to produce children he probably doesn’t even want and then leave him alone to do whatever it is he was doing before he married. Is that your plan, my lor—Brady?”
Brady scratched at the side of his head, trying not to wince, as he looked at her, saw her deathly pale cheeks. Had he really worried he had been making his proposition too appealing? “Hearing it all stated so baldly, Abby, I suppose I should be ashamed of myself. But my plan is still new, just born, so you will please oblige me by not becoming too insulted as I do most of my thinking out loud. Forgive me, please.”
“Don’t worry, my skin is necessarily thicker than most. Besides, I’ve heard that lunatics often speak their every raving, rambling thought to the masses, and should be excused for their lapses,” Abby told him, relaxing slightly at his apology, yet still more wary than could be considered comfortable.
“Oh, you’re perfect, Abby. Perfect! That said, I’ll insult you again, as I push home my point while you feel in some charity with me. You failed to mention that, as a widow with little money, your matrimonial hopes can’t be much higher than a flea’s kneecaps, Abby. Which means you will be left to tend to your remaining Backworth-Maldon relatives after you’ve married off your niece. Tied to them, slave to them, keeper to them, the lot of you constantly sunk in debt.”
“My, what a cheerful person you are, Brady. I shall probably remain awake all night tonight, giddily recounting all the blessings in my life as you’ve pointed them out to me. Does the entire world know this much about us, about me?”
“Not everyone, Abby. I imagine there are a few who are still tottering along in happy ignorance. Like those drooling little boys who keep flitting about your niece, too stunned by her beauty to ask any of the important questions. But, yes, I am very much aware of the Backworth-Maldon finances, or lack of them, I should say. I was present, you see, the night your late husband recklessly gambled away the family’s small town house, his carriages, even his horseflesh. If he hadn’t passed out from drink, right there at the table, I daresay he would have wagered his valet on the next hand.”
Abby held up a single finger, stopping Brady from speaking further, as she had a question of her own now. Damn the uncles, she was beginning to look for reasons to believe them. “You were there? You were there the night Harry lost everything to Sir Thurston Longhope? You heard him wager his horseflesh? All the Backworth-Maldon horseflesh? I mean, did Harry actually say that he was wagering all of the Backworth-Maldon horses? Not just the ones he kept here, in London?”
Brady frowned, not quite understanding Abby’s sudden intensity, the sudden change of subject, but knowing his answer was important to her. “Which horses did he wager? I don’t think he was specific, Abby, to tell you the truth. I think we all just assumed he meant those useless, showy nags he kept to pull his curricle, and his saddle horses, those he kept in town. After all, everything he’d wagered was connected to his town house, to London.”
Brady rubbed at a small, suspicious itch that had begun just beneath his nose. Had Sir Thurston overstepped, claiming more as his winnings than the drunken Harry Backworth-Maldon had wagered? Was that why the Backworth-Maldons had been too purse-pinched to appear in town for the past few years? Interesting. “This is important to you in some way, isn’t it, Abby? If I ask how, will you tell me?”
“No,” Abby said, shaking her head. “I don’t think I will. In fact,” she continued, thinking of the uncles and what they would do with such information, “if I possess so much as a single smidgen of brainpower, I will never mention what you just said to anybody.”
Brady considered himself to be nothing else if not obliging, and very obligingly dropped the subject from his conversation, if not from his mind. “Then, as we’re nearly at Gunter’s, we shall quickly return to the matter at hand. If you’ll allow me to state my case in a nutshell?”
Abby sighed. “If I said I wasn’t interested, that I was more insulted than I am intrigued, you’d know me to be a liar, so you may as well say anything you like.”
“Frank and honest when you want to be, aren’t you, Abby? Good, I like that. All right, to go over this one last time—my friend needs a wife. You would do well to consider finding yourself a husband. And, if you’ll allow me to continue assuming a few things, there could be nothing that would make you happier than to be safely married, blissfully solvent, and yet unencumbered with having to ride herd on anybody for quite some time to come.”
Abby sighed again, wistfully this time. “There is that...”
“Exactly. Neither of you is looking for some heart-pounding love match, unless I miss my guess and you have a romantic bent I’ve not yet discovered on top of your wonderfully pragmatic view of life. And, even better, your advent into his orbit—your family’s advent into his orbit—works yet another small miracle. Merry could scarcely be able to believe Kipp would take them on without being madly in love with you. It’s the perfect solution, for both of you.”
“Merry? That would be, I assume, the woman who scorned Ki—your friend?”
“No, that would be the woman he grew up alongside, knowing full well she could never love him, had eyes only for his best friend. She and her husband, Jack Coltrane, will be returning from America shortly, and Kipp wants to be firmly bracketed by then, believing his friends will be more content if they believe him to be happily wed. Sounds something like a romantic novel, doesn’t it?”
Abby nodded. “Aramintha Zane, my favorite.”
Now Brady did have to bite his lip, to keep from laughing out loud. “She’s your favorite? Really? Well, there’s something I didn’t count on. So you are a romantic at heart. Perhaps that’s good.”
Abby decided she was giving too much of herself away to this man who seemed to see her as a solution to the viscount’s problem, as a pawn in a game he was playing. “I don’t think you have to be a silly romantic to read Miss Zane. She’s always so amusing, with all the comedies of errors and mistaken identities and such in her novels. Although, now that I think of it, there’s usually a measure of intrigue, sometimes even bloodshed included along with the romantic... um... nonsense. Such fun to read, to dream about, but I don’t think I’d like that if it were really happening to me.”
“No bloodshed involved in my plot, I promise you. And you’ve already heard about all the intrigue that will be involved. But, if it makes you feel more comfortable, why don’t we think of what we’re about to do as being just another amusing plot twist in one of the illustrious Miss Zane’s books? All that’s needed now is to keep putting you in Kipp’s company over the next few days. If he doesn’t come up with the obvious solution to his problem on his own, then I trust I can rely on you to point out that solution to him.”
He looked at Abby, smiled. “So, are you game, Abby? Does my proposal interest you at all? Because we must act quickly—forgive me—before Kipp runs screaming from your niece’s adorable but definitely mind-numbing presence.”
Abby looked toward the viscount and Edwardine as they stopped in front of the confectionery. Edwardine was beaming, absolutely angelic in her delight in the warm spring day.
The viscount, on the other hand, seemed to be smiling only because it was expected of him.
Could she do this? Could she cold-bloodedly pursue the Viscount Willoughby, watching, waiting, and then proposing the cold, impersonal solution to both their problems that Brady had suggested?
Could she do nothing, let him go, let him walk out of her life before he’d really been in it?
Could she give up her chance to be a viscountess, to have her own household? To have children of her own, a life of her own? Could she, knowing what she knew, protect her heart while she was about it?
Abby looked at the viscount. Saw his handsomeness, yes. Saw the nearly invisible strain around his eyes. If this was how he reacted to a simple walk with Edwardine, she could only imagine he would, as Brady had said, be running, screaming, from London within a week of sporting Edwardine or any of the current gaggle of giggling debutantes around town.
Could she let him get away? Did she want him to get away? Did she really have a chance to capture him?
Could she live with herself if she didn’t try?
“I don’t think we have more than two days, Brady, three at the outside,” she whispered matter-of-factly as they approached the shop. “You arrange the meetings, but leave everything else to me. Agreed?”
Brady relaxed in his skin, feeling all the self-righteous pleasure of a man who had just thrown his unsuspecting friend’s life into a turmoil. “Oh, very much agreed, Abby, my dear. I have the greatest confidence in you, almost as much as I have in my own judgment. Now, my dear Aramintha Zane heroine,” he said, “shall we begin?”