London, England
December 1818
Edward stared at the four calling cards on the desk in front of him with a frown. Each one of them had a different name on the front with their expected dowries written on the back. But it was what these ladies represented that caused his cravat to feel as though it was tied a little bit too tight. They were all bridal candidates that his father had personally chosen before he’d left the city for Bath to take the waters for his ailing health.
Naturally, at two and thirty, Edward Castleford, Viscount Rundell, was old enough to make decisions for himself, but the Earl of Vellerman wasn’t taking any chances when it came to his future heirs. The man was boisterous and made no secret as to his opinions, many of which had injured his relationship with his youngest son, Jonathan. At least Edward’s brother was spared from any further interference, for he was perfectly content in Cornwall with his wife, Fanny, and their daughter. And according to his last letter, there was another child on the way.
Many times Edward had wished the same happiness for himself, but not in this hasty manner. How could one even fall in love in the matter of a fortnight? It was an impossible task, but his father had been adamant when he’d left. He’d slammed his cane down on the floor and demanded an engagement announcement upon his return or he would cut Edward off without a cent.
While Edward had yearned to tell his sire to sod off, unfortunately, he depended on that stipend for the upkeep at his estate and to pay his staff. So he had no choice but to choose one of these women that the earl had set before him.
He cleared his throat and picked up the first card. Lady Eunice Gladstone.
He couldn’t hold back a wince. Would it even be possible to call out her name in the heat of passion?
He moved on to the second — and snorted. Miss Elizabeth Tolson. An American heiress. Of course. His father claimed to detest those “ungrateful colonials,” traitors to the Crown, and yet, he didn’t mind adding their money to his coffers.
The third card read Lady Gwendolyn Hockley. He couldn’t recall much about the lady except she had a long face that always put him in mind of a horse.
He shuddered and hesitantly picked up the forth card. Lady Constance Acton. He paused to search his memory for any recollection of her, but other than a whiff of a scandal some months ago, he couldn’t rightly place her.
He gathered all the cards together and tapped them against the top of his mahogany desk. There were fourteen days until Christmas, at which time his father would return and expect to be presented with an announcement.
Failure wasn’t an option.
With a long-suffering sigh, he fanned the cards out in his hand and closed his eyes, plucking one from the rest.
He opened one eye just a slit in order to see tonight’s lucky contestant. He flicked the card with his finger and rose from his chair.
It was time to get ready for the bride hunt ball.
***
“Sabrina!” The screech could be heard through the townhouse, or perhaps nearly half of Mayfair for that matter. “Oh, where is that gel!”
Miss Sabrina Everhart heard the grumble from the Countess of Warably as she entered the front parlor. The older lady scowled at her entrance, but it wasn’t anything that Sabrina wasn’t used to by now. After suffering as the lady’s meager paid companion for the past six months, she was familiar with her continual impatience. It certainly wasn’t the path that Sabrina had imagined for herself, but when one was a poor relation with no other family, she’d had little choice but to accept the crumbs of charity that were provided. She supposed she should be grateful that she wasn’t living on the streets, that she had a roof over her head and food in her belly, but that didn’t mean she never ground her teeth when the countess ‘summoned’ her.
Rather than a greeting, the older woman snapped, “Where have you been?”
Sabrina curtsied like any other servant, for even though she came from a good family that was how low she’d fallen. “I apologize, my lady, but I was helping Mary clean the grate in the—”
The countess’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head, as if finally noticing the slight smudges of soot that stained her companion’s apron. “You were doing the work of a housemaid?”
Sabrina curtailed what she wanted to say, and instead replied with, “After Martha left the servants have been running short staffed. I only offered my assistance—”
Again, she was cut off. “A well-bred lady doing such menial work is unheard of! If we needed to hire another maid, I should have been told immediately!”
“I believe Ives mentioned—”
“The man rambles on so, it gives me a headache.” The countess put a hand to her temple for effect. “I’ve never heard of such a nervous butler, but since he was so devoted to my dearly departed husband, I can’t sack him, so I must endure his endless chatter.”
Sabrina nearly rolled her eyes. The only “chattering” Ives ever did was to approach the countess about matters like hiring a servant to replace the one who departed. Otherwise, he tended to give his employer a wide berth like everyone else.
The countess waved a hand. “I will see to the matter of another maid, so long as you don’t disgrace me by rummaging around in the fireplace again.”
“Yes, my lady.” She turned to leave, thinking that their meeting had concluded, but she was wrong.
“Make sure that you are dressed accordingly for a ball this evening. The Mayfield’s are hosting a fantastic celebration, if rumor can be believed. I should like to attend.”
Sabrina’s stomach sank. The only thing she detested more than living at Warably House in Mayfair, it was going out in public with the countess, where she could be truly humiliated in front of her peers. Even if many in London didn’t know who she was, for Sabrina had lived most of her life in Brighton, the countess made sure to announce rather loudly about her “poor great niece who was left destitute and orphaned,” and whom she “took in out of the kindness” of her heart. What she failed to say was that instead of giving Sabrina a chance at a proper season, she preferred to have someone at her constant beck and call. So at four and twenty, Sabrina was pretty much firmly on the shelf with no prospects of leaving her dusty spinsterhood behind.
But, as usual, she held her tongue and headed upstairs to her room to do her duty.