25 September, 1822
The Sawley Estate, Bedfordshire
“No, no, no, Mary Elizabeth.” Gregory Sawley’s cane hit the floor with each no, though the thick Turkey carpet rather muffled the dramatic effect. “It is not enough for you to have a knowledge about markets, compounding interest, and commodity futures, and a dependable stock jobber. The key is to have access to reliable information. The key is for you to make a proper marriage.”
Heavens.
“Marriage, sir?” Mary Elizabeth Parker—Mel to her late father and her cousin, Hermione—took in a quelling breath. “And hand over my inheritance to a nodcock of a husband who’ll dismiss all my ideas?”
She pressed her lips closed on an even sharper retort. If she wanted to be nagged and prodded about matrimony, she might have remained at Lady Clitheroe’s house party for today’s activity, a picnic, with her much older widowed cousin, Lady Hermione Gravelston and the other guests.
Hermione had wangled their invitations to the Michaelmas marriage mart Lady Clitheroe was hosting, convinced that at five-and-twenty, there was still hope for Mel. For her part, she’d been glad to attend, but not for the purpose of meeting marriageable men. She’d escaped this day for the once in a lifetime chance to visit one of Lady Clitheroe’s not-too-distant neighbors, one of England’s most successful bankers, Gregory Sawley. Her grandfather.
After the solicitor managing her money bungled an investment, she’d decided that if her grandfather could rise from humble beginnings to become as rich as Croesus, she ought to be able to manage her own small inheritance herself. She had a plan, and it didn’t include matrimony, a risky endeavor even in the most optimistic of circumstances. After months of exchanging letters with her grandfather, she’d jumped at the chance to meet him and be tutored in person.
And he’d been altogether welcoming this day. He’d answered all her questions, and provided a very good luncheon, and then, having more to say, he’d escorted them to his expansive library. Two fireplaces, one at each end, warmed the room against the autumn chill. Above the nearby mantel, the late Mrs. Sawley, Mel’s grandmother, gazed lovingly at the golden-haired babe on her lap, the child who would grow up to be Mel’s headstrong mother. Amazingly, the artist had caught the willfulness in the wide blue eyes and bowed lips of his younger subject.
Outside, the day was advancing, heavy clouds obscuring the late afternoon sun. If they didn’t leave soon, they might have to stay the night.
Was that why her grandfather had required this parting lecture? Did he want her to stay? Pain lurked in his eyes, and his gray pallor and gaunt frame belied the strong voice, putting her in mind of her father’s last illness. She might never see him again, and though their acquaintance was short, she’d miss him, as she still grieved for her father, dead these two years.
“I said a proper marriage, one with proper contracts and settlements, to a man in the Commons, or a lord would do. Your stepfather likely has contacts, but you will not want to be under his thumb, I think.”
A shiver went through her. Upon Papa’s death, she’d dodged that thumb, and Mother’s broad hints at a betrothal to her stepfather’s nephew. She’d fled to Hermione in Hampshire while her mother returned to her husband-to-be in Kent. And the man her mother married would be no help at all to her financial plans. He was far too indolent to take up his seat in the Lords. He’d be nothing but her mother’s tool, and an utter hindrance.
“Aren’t such men often rather pompous and foolish, sir?”
Across the room, a throat cleared loudly.
Grandfather’s lips quirked and he tipped his head toward the interruption. “What about him?”
The him in question was seated on the far end of Grandfather’s spacious library, and apparently had perfect hearing.
Oh, he met Grandfather’s requirements in some ways. He had a seat in the Commons, and someday he would inherit and move on to the Lords. He was also unmarried, his wife having died in childbirth the previous year.
And breathtakingly handsome with rumpled golden hair, soulful blue eyes, and a wide-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-limbed form that had at first sight sent her blood pounding. Fortunately, she’d had many years following the drum with Papa, and had seen enough well-formed men to master her baser urges.
She shook her head. “It is not that way between us, sir. In truth, I’m rescuing him today from marriage-minded mamas and their daughters.”
“What way must it be? You are a female. Your financial plans require social connections, ones that in your case can only be achieved by marriage. If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Lovelace.”
Grandfather pointed the tip of his cane at the overstuffed wing chair placed near the opposite fireplace. Mr. Fitzhenry Lovelace, eldest son and heir of Baron Loughton, had retreated there and waited at his ease, allowing them a modicum of privacy whilst imbibing every word.
Mr. Lovelace wasn’t likely to agree with Grandfather on this subject, having that morning accosted her in Lady Clitheroe’s stables, begging the honor of conveying her here in order to escape two doe-eyed misses vying to be the first to be compromised by him.
Mel squeezed her hands together to prevent them from rubbing at the ache between her eyes. After forcing his presence upon her today, Lovelace might as well come and defend her desire to remain unmarried. “What say you, Mr. Lovelace?” she called.
He put aside his book and stood.
Grandfather waved him over, directing him to the sofa where she sat.
She slid to one end, and he seated himself at the other. “Well?” she asked.
“My father always says, it helps to know what is not in the newspapers.”
The deep, melodious tones made her skin tingle and her cheeks warm. Unlike some handsome men, Mr. Lovelace’s appeal didn’t diminish when he opened his mouth. They’d been seated much closer when they chatted in the phaeton, but the cool morning air had provided a good excuse for her blushing. Plus, there’d been no one to study her as her grandfather was now doing.
Lovelace stretched his muscular legs and crossed them at the ankles. “A word dropped at the club, in the coffee room of Parliament, or on the grouse field can be useful. Or not.”
“I know your father.” The cane thunked, more gently this time. “A wise and prudent man. Rather too many children one might say. You are the eldest of…”
“Ten. Six boys and four girls.”
Envy settled over Mel, and she glanced up at the portrait again. She’d longed for brothers or sisters, but eventually had realized the production of siblings required a husband and wife who tolerated each other. Unlike her parents. After their imprudent elopement and the birth of their daughter, Major and Mrs. Parker had gone their separate ways even during the times when they resided under the same roof.
“Mary Elizabeth, observe that Mr. Lovelace’s father, Lord Loughton, has managed to build prosperity for himself and his children by his engagement in politics and trade, something you cannot yourself do. But you do have common sense.”
Unlike your mother. His pained look communicated that message.
“You must marry the right sort of man if you wish to acquire the contacts and information needed to grow the bequest Parker left you…how much was it?”
Her father hadn’t been wealthy, but he wasn’t a pauper either. He’d left a small income for Mama, in spite of their estrangement and her abandonment, in spite of knowing that the moment he drew his last breath she’d marry her lover. He’d left a previously unknown cottage in Durham and the rest of his wealth and worldly goods to Mel. She should be able to live comfortably with a housemaid or two. She wasn’t greedy for more, not really. She relished the challenge of making her own future.
He thunked the floor again. “How much, Mary Elizabeth?”
She’d never shared that detail with her grandfather before, but she did so now.
Grandfather’s lips pressed together. Any discussion of Papa, who’d stolen away his only child without permission, was painful to him. Clearly, Mother’s failure to make an approved marriage still weighed on Gregory Sawley’s mind.
“It is more than adequate for my needs.” She didn’t need Grandfather’s fortune. In fact, the thought of managing it was frightening. The money would be a magnet for fortune hunters and leeches, anxious to get their hands on it for their grouse fields, stables, and dilapidated castles. Before he died, Papa had reminded her to be careful, for even her small income could draw a bounder who might take her inheritance and, in his words, piss it against the wall.
“I will tell you again, Grandfather, I’m not here to wheedle you for money. I’m grateful for your wise counsel.” Mostly wise, except for this last business about marrying. “I accept your decision on the matter of your estate and I fully intend to take care of myself.”
After a long look, he harumphed. “I will double what he’s left you and add it to his bequest, else you’ll only have beef on the holidays. Smith.” He signaled a specter seated at a desk in the far corner, scribbling.
Likely recording their every word. Grandfather was that sort.
“Make a note of that, Smith. Now, my joints are telling me that the weather is turning. You’d best get back on the road.”
As she’d suggested to him earlier. Mel stood and took the old man’s hand. It was skin over bone, and the touch sent her emotions tumbling. Papa was lost to her, and this man was the only one left in her life.
But his presence in her life was new and, even if he lived many more years, tenuous, and she must remember that. He had disowned his own daughter for her marriage, and Mel was the product of that imprudent union.
“Thank you for your time today, Grandfather. If ever I am able, may I come to visit you again?”
“If you are able, if I am able, yes.”
His squeeze on her hand sent tears to her eyes. Which she promptly blinked back, wishing him a good day and walking purposefully to the door while Mr. Lovelace said his own farewell and followed.