Chapter Two

In Eaton Square the two Stafford brothers sat down to luncheon.

“Ned, do you remember the Marshfields?”

“Of course. Robert is the best of fellows. We were at Magdalen together. His father shot himself in public—well, practically—in one of the writing-rooms at Whites, actually. Horrendous business. Gambling debts, I believe. I doubt there was anything left for Robert. Daresay the family is all to pieces.”

And he had gone on to say that he would like to meet up with Robert again but that he had heard nothing from Robert since he had joined the army. “Why do you ask?”

“There is a Miss Marshfield who has apparently been governessing the Yardley girls. I presume it is the same family.”

“That would be Ellie or…”

“Helena.”

“That’s right. Robert used to call her Ellie. Poor woman. How long has she been with the Yardleys?”

“No idea. I’ve only just met her. She spends most of her time with the younger daughter.”

“Hmm. I know you and Josh Yardley do business together, Ivor, but I have to say I sincerely pity Miss Marshfield. From a pleasant country seat at Oxford with a house in town, to chaperoning the Yardley chits. Ghastly. The Marshfields had an excellent estate you know. Marshfield invited a group of us there at half-term break once. Don’t remember meeting Miss Marshfield though. She may have been in town.”

“I’d think you would remember her if you met her.”

Ned looked quickly at his brother. “Really?” He selected some more slices of roast beef. “If you see Miss Marshfield again, ask her how Robert is, would you?”

“I’m sure I shall be seeing her again.”

Ned hesitated. “This is a bit awkward Ivor but… just remember that she’s the sister of a friend of mine. I realize that recently you haven’t lived up to your er… past reputation, but I should think a woman in her position would be fair game.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t like to see it.”

“Is that what you think I’d do? Give her a slip on the shoulder?” Ivor felt as though Ned had punched him.

Ned persevered. “No idea what you’d do. As I said, you’ve changed.”

Ivor reflected grimly that Ned was quite correct. Three or four years ago he would have had no compunction in sounding out Helena Marshfield to see how far their relationship might progress. Had the attraction been mutual he might have set up the governess as his latest flirt. Ingénues had never been his style, but the elegant governess with the unusual eyes was exactly the sort of young woman he had once pursued. Both of them would have known the ropes, of course. She looked to be past her first prayers, and he had never believed in leading on innocent young women.

But deep down he knew he was maligning her. It was true that she held herself with a ladylike assurance, but that was belied by the innocence and uncertainty in those purple-gray eyes. He had never, to his knowledge, seduced an innocent.

All the same, he wondered if she had any idea what a complex mix of signals she had given him.

No, he was certain she was innocent. And therefore he must, as Ned had said, leave her alone. He knew how to deal with experienced women. And there abounded in the ton some very experienced women who had selected him from amongst those youths leaving the hallowed halls of Cambridge, and who had taken it upon themselves to complete his education.

Ned changed the subject. “I say, Ivor, did you hear about Dalrymple?”

“No. I don’t get about town as much as you do.”

“That’s true. I say, Ivor, why…? Never mind.” He continued with his on dit. “Well, it appears young Dalrymple is enamored of one of this year’s crop of delectable débutantes. Unfortunately, before pursuing her, he did not check to see if his feelings were reciprocated. Apparently at the Marchington soirée he seated himself beside her, and the next thing everyone heard was her piercing voice shrilling, ‘Please, Lord Dalrymple. Remove your hand or I shall call Papa.’”

Ivor snickered. “Poor devil, to have made a fool of himself over a witless seventeen-year-old. What happened after that?”

“He left the soirée abruptly with a red face and has gone back to his country seat. I daresay we shall not see him again until next Season.”

“What happened to the young woman?”

“Nothing. We’ve all been steering clear of her. I can attest to the fact that Miss Trevor certainly has a penetrating voice. I danced the boulanger with her last month at…oh…I forget where…and she carried on a loud conversation even when we were separated by the turns. Unnerving. Her mother should have a word to her.”

Ivor grimaced. “Thank God I’ve chosen to leave all that behind me. More to the point, I’m glad I’m not an earl or some such. Poor old Tolly told me that this Season he has employed a smoke screen by hinting he is interested in an unspecified woman who is rarely in town. Even then he is still besieged.”

“God, yes. Even I, a mere second son of a baronet, have had to be downright rude in order to avoid ambitious mamas.”

“At least most of the mothers have respectability on their side. The young matrons, on the other hand, are worse than the veriest trollop.”

Ned shook his head. “Well, they are safe if they get pregnant, so they throw out lures to all and sundry and pass off the offspring as their husband’s.”

“Hmm.” Ivor reflected on the knowing looks and clever hands of the married women who had been willing to service his needs. Gradually he had become contemptuous of their easy virtue. Perhaps as he neared the time when it became necessary to take a wife for himself, he shrank from finding himself a cuckold.

He had never under any circumstances lain with the wife of one of his close friends, yet he knew many who could only achieve sexual satisfaction with the added frisson of knowing how close to the line they stepped. He had a sense of honor that decreed he could not call ‘friend’ the husband of one of his lovers. But just as important to him was his intention never to raise false hope in an innocent débutante’s bosom.

At least the embarrassed Dalrymple was not in Ivor’s shoes. He did not have a sword of Damocles hovering over his head, determining his every move. Ivor gave a mental shrug. Now that he had succeeded to his father’s shoes just in time to avert the family fortunes from a fate precisely like that of the Marshfield family, his interests lay in keeping his estates entire. His days of wine and roses were far behind him now and would have been curtailed earlier had his profligate father taken him into his confidence. Now Ivor had responsibilities in the shape of his mother, brother and two sisters, not to mention Stafford Place itself. As soon as he discovered just how deep his father had dipped into the family coffers to keep his ruinous drinking and gambling fever fed, Ivor had eschewed as much as possible both those fashionable occupations. Concerned that he may have inherited a tendency toward profligacy, he became more temperate in his lifestyle. He now indulged only in the occasional minor bet at Whites so as not to draw attention to the change in his circumstances.

He could still hear their solicitor’s unctuous tones. “I regret to tell you, Sir Ivor, how time and time again I warned Sir Theo that he was overdrawing the budget, but…” and he had shrugged negligently. Ivor had quickly realized that the solicitor did not give a damn, nor did he expect the son to be any better than the father.

Their steward had been browbeaten to the point of despair. “I am sorry, Sir Ivor. Over the past couple of years, no matter what I did, your father remained uninterested in the estate.” Ivor was forced to conclude that his father had knowingly run the estate into the ground, leaving the pieces for him to pick up. Stafford had been an unloving, distant father, but their mother had adored him, so Ivor had held his tongue and begun the uphill struggle to restore his inheritance to the prosperity he remembered from his grandfather’s day. So far, so good.

He knew damn well that his contemporaries had commented that he was no longer to be found at his old haunts, and they had shaken their heads in puzzlement. It amused him. Did they not realize it would happen to some of them?

Matchmaking mamas suddenly approved of him. Polite Society saw that yet another young man, on succeeding to his heritage, had set aside youthful excesses and settled down to get his estates in order. Ivor, however, had disappointed those matchmakers by ignoring the charms of their daughters and grand-daughters. They could present him with all the young women they liked, but he was too damned busy to worry about paying court to some sweet young thing who demanded all his time and who would probably bore him to boot. Yes, he knew everyone thought he should beget himself an heir. Well, he had time enough to spare and frankly, none of the young ladies straight out of the schoolroom had caught his eye.

His tastes had always run to older women, but of course what one chose for one’s paramours was not the sort of woman one chose as a marriage partner. No, Ivor would continue to hold his cards tight to his chest. Let them think he was too nice in his sensibilities. He had responsibilities way beyond the claiming of a wife.

For the past three years he had been struggling to restore the Norwich estate to its former glory to ensure that his mother and siblings would never realize how close they’d come to penury. The Staffords were no longer as close to debtors’ prison as they had been, but he still needed to be careful—exceptionally careful.

He smiled grimly to himself. Had some of the matchmaking Mamas who had tried to foist their daughters on him known the true state of the family fortunes they would have been less pressing. And he certainly did not need a demanding spendthrift for a wife. As far as he could see, most of the last few years’ débutantes came into that category. Heaven only knew what this spring’s lot was like. He recalled Ariadne Yardley and rolled his eyes.

****

Ned watched his brother and wondered. He felt helpless to understand why, since taking over the reins on their father’s death, Ivor had changed so dramatically. His large group of friends had dwindled to a select few. He seemed to find little joy in the sporting pursuits and round of social entertainments that had once been his whole life. He took far more interest in their lands and investments than Theo Stafford ever had, and though Ned was not as much the countryman as his brother, he knew that their lands had never been in better heart. What drove Ivor? He was as close as an oyster. Ned had tried once or twice to winkle out of his brother the reason for his abrupt change of lifestyle but to no avail. Ivor had seemed to be amused, as if he were dealing with a playful puppy, which had irritated Ned vastly. When Ned had persisted, Ivor had become implacable. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, Ned. Just enjoy yourself. The Stafford holdings are my responsibility.”

And Ned had been firmly excluded. But with no real interest in the estate at Norwich and having been on the town for several years and finding the endless round of pleasure becoming tedious, Ned knew he needed an occupation. He had no inclination to join the army, or to take orders. In short, he did not wish to be beholden to his brother, but he was not trained for anything of any consequence. However, he had done well at Cambridge, if he said so himself. Latin and mathematics had been his favorite subjects, and one of his tutors had once mentioned that he would make a fine physician. He had therefore turned more to scientific studies rather than the classical topics he had previously undertaken.

He sought now for words to explain himself to his brother. “Ivor?”

“Hmm?”

“I had thought I might take the Licensing Exam at the Royal College.”

“Ned!”

“Is that a ‘Ned’ of surprise or a ‘Ned’ of horror?”

“Surprise, I assure you. Are you tired of being a man about town?”

“Very much so. As we have just been saying, evading the jaws of matrimony and the endless repetition of the entertainments has begun to pall. There is no purpose to anything. And it was suggested to me once that…well, I think it might suit me to be a physician. What do you think?”

“It is not for me to think, Ned. It is your future.”

“Yes, but Ivor, you’re the head of the family. Oh, you know what I mean.” Ned gave up, laughing. “It sounds so stuffy to call you the ‘head of the family’ as if you were fifty or sixty.”

“Thank you, brother.” Ivor grinned. “Seriously, Ned, I am honored that you confided in me. Are you certain about this?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have my congratulations.” Ivor stood and came around the table to his brother. “I am proud of you, Ned. It is an important decision.”

Ned flushed. “And once I go into practice, I shan’t be a cost upon you anymore.”

“Surely you are not doing this merely to gain an independence?”

“Of course not. To have an occupation, unfashionable as it may be, suits us both. We Staffords are not made to be idle. And you must admit that one less responsibility will make your life easier.”

Ivor placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I must know, Ned. Do you sincerely wish to do this?”

“Yes,” Ned said simply.

“Excellent! When will you take the entrance exam?”

“I can take it next week if I wish, or leave it till June for the next intake.”

They began discussing the future in earnest, and for the first time in four years Ivor felt that the sword of Damocles hanging over his head was lifting. It might have been better to discuss the future with Ned a couple of years ago. He needed an ally within the family. “Ryewolds is almost free of encumbrances,” he explained, “and two of the five farms including the home farm yielded their highest ever this past autumn. Replanting is already under way.”

Ned was not particularly interested in that aspect of his heritage, but he was worried about his sisters. “Is there any money put by for settlements for the girls?”

“Yes. Not as much as I’d hoped but…”

“Our father was as careless of his family as he was with money,” Ned burst out. “You must have had a dreadful time of it, Ivor. I’ve often wondered how you managed.”

“It could be worse. Nerida has already been brought out and there’s a small dowry available for her, thanks to Mama’s marriage settlement. It was tied up for her daughters, and Father couldn’t touch it. By the time Erica is ready to be brought out, there’ll be sufficient in the coffers for that, too.”

Thank God for Mama’s marriage settlement. There was a mortgage on the townhouse, but there was scarcely a townhouse which wasn’t mortgaged. Best of all, a minor investment which he had tentatively taken up last spring had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Unlike his father he was not a natural gambler, so his cautious nature had prevented him from investing as much as he might have. Importing goods was a notoriously dicey way of making money. But the shipload of tea he had invested in had not foundered, nor had the tea moldered as had happened to so many other shipments. The English had an undying thirst for tea, for which he was grateful.

And now Ned might one day be in a position to reduce his expenses even further. Naturally he would still make Ned an allowance of some sort or other; that went without saying. But for the first time since their father had died, Ivor felt he could breathe freely again.

Soon he might be able to find the time to do more work for the Committee, to contribute his mite to the war. He burned to come out of the shadows of the half-life he had been living, not to rejoin the amusements of the ton but to make a difference in the war effort, and to live a less secretive existence.

He had thought to give himself another year before he could afford to relax. But maybe six months might do it… Involuntarily his hand clenched, and he inhaled sharply. Light at the end of the tunnel.