Chapter Eleven

Candidate Number One

Jasper’s carriage rumbled into the northern county of Suffolk. It had taken all day, but Frederica and her maid Martica had made an early start of it. The young girl slept almost in a ball in the corner.

The butterfly kept pulling a blanket on Martica in somewhat of a motherly fashion. It put a question deep in Jasper’s breast about what type of nurturing figure the spry Miss Burghley would be.

Knowing a few facts about his girls didn’t prove that she had the instincts to mother one or three children.

But what if she did?

“Lord Hartwell, are we there yet?”

“Almost. But do not worry. The good vicar won’t be allowed to sweep you off your feet. You have other proposals to consider.”

She looked at him, and her large hazel eyes pierced. “Not that many. The shopkeeper has married.”

“Yes. That’s too bad.” He tried hard not to grin. “So we’re down to a baron, a barrister, and this vicar.”

“Options are good,” she said.

No, they weren’t. Waiting was. He adjusted his scarf. “I’ve made arrangements to stay at an inn on the way back. My sister-in-law and your friends the Bexeleys were very insistent on making arrangements. Very insistent.”

She chuckled as if he said something funny. “It’s good to be prepared when traveling, my lord.”

Her gaze left him again and returned to her sheet music.

Again Jasper stewed. Maybe it was going to someplace unfamiliar with a maid in tow that made the trip feel different, even awkward. It was the proper thing to do to bring Martica, but facts didn’t keep Jasper from feeling cheated. This was the first time in four days he’d seen Frederica alone. He missed her, missed the closeness of their afternoon of chocolates.

Frederica didn’t look up. Not once.

He stewed more. Drummed his hands on his knees. Peered out the window at the puddles on the road. It was warmer, and he felt hot and bothered, and Frederica looked polished and unflustered. Her new carriage dress of rust complemented her figure, made her glow.

Another half hour passed, and she didn’t glance at him or offer a tease. Perhaps it was best, but his anticipation of another frank conversation, another opportunity to dissuade her from marrying, or a chance to give her his best kiss—with them both awake—drove him nutters.

She’d called his kiss dry.

“My lord, you look hungry,” she said. “If you are, I had the Fitzwilliam-Cecil’s cook make you something. It’s in here.”

Frederica reached for the woven basket that sat by her feet. The brass fobs on her sleeves jangled as she picked it up and set it on his lap.

He took off his gloves and pushed back the linens. Expecting bonbons or cake, which would’ve been a nice treat, he was stunned to see hearty sliced bread, a container of mashed turnips seasoned with tarragon, and a wrapped roasted goose.

“Turnips? How were they cooked, Miss Burghley?”

Her smile brightened with a hint of mischief and gloating. “They were cooked with the goose, so they’d take on the savory nature of the meat. And dig deeper, there is a plum pudding. It’s an early treat, being it’s not yet December. Your favorite?”

“What wizardry is this? How?”

“A remark you made at Christmas Eve dinner last year at Tradenwood and again this past spring. I pay attention, my lord.”

He looked over at her sleeping maid then leaned forward to Frederica. “You don’t have to do these things to make me like you.”

She leaned toward him. “I do things because I like you.” She sat back. “I appreciate you chaperoning Martica and me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She offered her polite smile and put her shaking fingers back to her papers. Then he saw through the veil, maybe for the first time. She was nervous about this meeting. Her eyes held a tinge of fear in their hazel-gold pools.

He wanted to say don’t fret, but there were many things to fret about.

He wanted to take her hand in his and say, Let’s turn around. You don’t need to do this. But that wasn’t what she wanted.

He wanted her to know that she was the one woman in the world who needed to have everything she desired.

But he said nothing and lowered his gaze to the basket. “Yes, Miss Burghley, I am glad to be here with you. I take pride in being your errand guardian. I’ll enjoy this after our visit with Vicar Pregrine.”

In another hour, his carriage came to a stop in Suffolk. Jasper scooped up his hat and then proceeded to assist Frederica out. Her hand lingered upon his for a moment, then she clutched her reticule in both palms.

Before the steps of the small house was a placard on a stake, which read Reverend Frank Pregrine. She fingered it, then lifted her head.

On the portico stood a portly and short man. He waved, then stopped. Then waved again.

As they came closer, Jasper could see the man’s smile waning. Could he not see the charming woman he’d corresponded with or did he see the too-tall-too-good of-a woman for him? Or something else?

After helping Frederica up the steep stairs, he nodded to the man. “Mr. Pregrine, this is Miss Frederica Burghley. She is the woman you’ve corresponded with through The Morning Post. I am Lord Hartwell.”

The vicar stuck out his hand to Jasper, all while eyeing Frederica. “Welcome, ma’am, it is a pleasure to meet you. Please do come in.”

They followed the little fellow inside. Poor Frederica was at least three or four inches taller than the vicar. That wouldn’t do for her.

“This is my parlor, Miss Burghley. You and Lord Hartwell may have a seat. I’ll go ask my housekeeper to bring refreshments.”

The man left the room, and Miss Burghley scanned his sunny yellow walls and his library shelf of books. “Nicely dusted. An attentive housekeeper.” Her gaze stopped at a painted portrait of two boys. “Not quite twins.”

An old woman with thick-lensed spectacles came in carrying a wooden tray of teas and biscuits, but not chocolate-covered biscuits. She set it down and handed Jasper a cup.

She started to hand one to Miss Burghley but stopped. “You’re mighty brown, dear. Are you ill, too much sun? Travel is bad on the complexion, even in winter.”

Frederica offered a small smile. “I’m feeling fine, but travel can be hard.”

“It’s good you are fine,” said the housekeeper. The fevers have been rampant this winter season.”

The vicar rubbed his forehead. “Mrs. Applegate, I’ll entertain my guest. Excuse us.”

The servant nodded and left the room.

Jasper had a bad feeling about the lack of candor surrounding them, but he’d let the man disqualify himself. “Tell us about yourself, vicar.”

“I’m still looking for a wife. It’s been a while since I wrote. I suspected that you, or Advertisement Number Eleven, had been scooped up. I was very surprised to get your letter, Lord Hartwell.”

“How long have you been a widower?” Frederica asked as she added one lump of sugar into Jasper’s cup and two into her own.

The man looked down at his badly polished boots. “It’s been four years now. She died in childbirth. We would’ve had three boys.”

Boys were difficult. His son’s birth had been difficult and awful.

“I’m so sorry,” Frederica said, her voice low, her eyes seeming to set on Jasper. “And your two other boys, they seem close in age, how old might they be, sir?”

At first, the man’s face scrunched, but then it bloomed with what had to be a father’s pride. “They are seven and eight. The community here has been very helpful. How? How did you know?”

“Miss Burghley is quite observant.”

“Sir, I noticed the sketch of your boys. Very handsome fellows.”

“So what is your story, miss? Why are you in need of a husband by post? You seem bright, even pretty.”

“I’m the Duke of Simone’s daughter, his illegitimate daughter, and he and I think it is time to be settled.”

“Duke? The Duke of Simone. Goodness. I’d be connected to a duke if we married.” The man’s posture eased, and he seemed to stare at the Butterfly’s figure, which did look splendid.

“You come with a dowry, Miss Burghley? I’m a simple vicar. I don’t think I have the income to keep you in such fashions.”

“Yes, reverend. I have a dowry, a substantial one. Is there anything else that concerns you? You seem to be staring at me.”

Pregrine twiddled his fingers. “You’re mostly white?”

“I believe more than half, but I am Blackamoor. Does that change your offer? I understand.” Frederica stood up. “It was—”

“Now, slow down, Mrs. Burghley. I just have to think about this. You look very fancy, I only have the one servant.”

“My dowry will afford a modest staff that will accommodate a man of your position. I believe you will find that I’m a partner in working on the restoration of those whom Society casts out, just like the mercy of your ministry. I presume that is how you go about your work, Mr. Pregrine.”

She was sweet and disarmed this man, one whose supposed saintliness made a direct line to Miss Burghley’s bosom, not quite her eyes.

Jasper felt a wave of heat bubbling and boiling under his skin, but he had to play this hand of faro skillfully. “Have you a big congregation or a small one, reverend?”

The man smiled. “Nicely sized, five and twenty families.”

Threading the noose a little more, he picked at the tea Miss Burghley had expertly made for him. “Will they complain of your new wife’s connections?”

The vicar guffawed. “Not the Duke of Simone.”

“What of her race?”

The fellow adjusted the cravat wrapping his short, fat neck. “You heard the housekeeper. “Miss Burghley is just a little tan. Seems to me that’s a good explanation.”

Frederica looked pained, but she said, “May I meet your sons, sir?”

“They are in their lessons right now, but we can look in on them. “

The vicar stood and held out his arm to her. She took it, took the arm of the man who’d ignore half of her for want of the duke’s connections.

Up a winding set of stairs of solid, hundred-year-old pine, they looked into a room with a governess and stinking cute boys hard at work over something that seemed like cross hatches for mathematics. “Look. Jots, Miss Burghley.”

Her lips softened as she nodded. Her pretty hazel eyes drifted.

His gut twisted, and he had to look away from the boys and Frederica.

He missed his own girls. The little minxes would be back to Grandbole in a couple of weeks. Their antics would provide a needed distraction when his best dinner partner was gone, married to an unworthy vicar.

“Mr. Pregrine,” Jasper said as they returned to the parlor, away from the too-stirring scene, “Do you have a pianoforte? Miss Burghley is excellent.”

“No. Music is a bit of a diversion. We don’t have time for the devil’s work.”

“No pianoforte in the church?” Frederica asked.

“No, Miss Burghley, Lord Hartwell. Is that a problem?”

Hallelujah. The hypocrite possessed a devastating flaw. There would be no way she’d choose him now. Never would she give up music. “That’s true. Music can be devilish.” Jasper hummed a few notes of the “Last Rose of Summer.”

Frederica shot him a look that made his chest ache. He must be crowing too much. He forgot that this female might be able to read minds.

Jasper stuck out his hand. “Reverend, thank you for your time.”

“Yes. Mr. Pregrine, this was a lovely visit.” Frederica’s voice was soft, and that made Jasper’s gut sting more.

“Miss Burghley, when will I know if you will accept my offer? Must you ask your father?”

She took the last step and stood by Jasper, then turned to the vicar. “Yes, but have you decided so quickly, Mr. Pregrine?”

“You’re lovely and graceful. You’re the daughter of a duke. I’ll never be so lucky. Yes, if you will have me.”

“I’d want a Yuletide wedding.”

“My little congregation will like that, too. I could make arrangements at my chapel unless your father has other ideas.”

She smiled at him. “A small chapel sounds nice, but the duke will want St. George’s. I’ll let you know.”

Jasper had a bad, bad feeling that Frederica was actually considering this a viable option. He soured. The woman would give up her music, her God-given gift, to be married to one of His short, crass, arbiters.

He helped Frederica into the carriage as the vicar waved them off. There had to be something that would dissuade her. This wasn’t a good enough situation for her. Jasper would have to show her.

…

Frederica was quiet as they changed horses at the coaching inn. Though Hartwell had arranged for them to stay, she’d convinced him to head straight to Tradenwood. She had to know how long of a trip it would be to visit her friends, the place she’d have to come to play the pianoforte.

She lay back on the seat but stirred when poor Martica snored. The girl had slept the way there and now most of the way back, curled into the corner. Would her maid enjoy living so far into the country? Would travel explain her dark complexion to Pregrine’s congregation?

Shaking her head, Frederica took her fur muff and propped it under the small girl’s head.

Hartwell came back, letting some of the cold night air inside. “Let’s let your maid stretch out, and we’ll share a seat.”

It was still several hours to Tradenwood. Martica would be so stiff tomorrow. “Martica.”

Only snores answered. Hartwell picked her up as Frederica had seen him carry his oldest, Anne, and he set her on the seat. He put the muff under her head, and the little girl snuggled it, and soon sounds of the deepest sleep resumed.

With a tap on the roof, the carriage started, and the viscount sat beside her. He stretched and put his big arm behind her. She’d miss it, him, and that feeling of safety that someone big and tall like Hartwell offered.

“So, shall we compose a note to reject the Reverend Mr. Pregrine?”

“Why should we reject him so soon?”

He leaned nearer in the low light. The carriage lantern exposed a big frown on his face. “The man would be marrying you for your fortune and connections.”

“I think that has been the basis for many good matches.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “No pianoforte in his home. Your sonatas are not the devil’s work. They are relaxing and wondrous.”

“It’s a small sacrifice. I’ve seen greater demands given for domestic bliss.”

“What are you talking about, Frederica?

“The duke and my mother.”

“Your mother gave up a lot to please the duke, didn’t she?”

“Yes. I was the only thing she demanded to keep. I was young, but I remember her saying so.”

A low hiss came from Hartwell’s lips. “Were you the only child your mother kept?”

She couldn’t answer him and say aloud how lucky she’d truly been. How could she voice the dread of knowing every time she disappointed the duke, there was a missing sibling who might’ve done better?

Nor could she say how she’d viewed the homeless little girls from her father’s carriage and wondered if one might be a cast-off half-sister, a girl birthed a year before Burghley’s relationship with the duke, one that couldn’t be kept and still maintain her exclusive clientele.

How Frederica ached to scoop all the ones she saw on the streets—to choose them, to give them an ounce of love, to let them know they mattered.

They mattered.

They mattered to Frederica.

No. She couldn’t tell Hartwell. The only proof to that missing life was at the bottom of her jewel box. A lock of hair pasted on parchment, hidden in the false bottom of the alabaster box. The thief had probably tossed it away as if it were nothing.

No, she couldn’t tell Hartwell a thing.

She felt his finger on her cheek, flicking away droplets. “There’s too much dust in the carriage. I’ll have to fix that,” he said.

She flashed him a weak smile as she dug in her reticule for a handkerchief.

“You’re too good for Vicar Pregrine.”

“He asked to marry me. He thinks I’m good enough.”

She felt his arm tense. Normally, she’d ask of his comfort and try to figure out how to make things better, but she didn’t have the energy to care for another right now. It was hard enough to keep from bursting into sobs and wetting Hartwell’s jacket. “There are two other offers to consider.”

He groaned a little.

“Why are you discomforted at others wanting to marry me?”

Hartwell ran a hand through his hair. “I think that you should wait. Take more time. Spending the holiday at Tradenwood would be far better than starting a new marriage so far away.”

“That would be going back upon my declaration to the duke and duchess.”

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to change her mind.”

“No admitting defeat, my lord. The Duke of Simone’s daughter will not be defeated. I have to be settled.”

“At week’s end, we will go to town to meet the barrister. He has no children, and I hear he’s taller. The baron hasn’t written yet. I’m looking into why.”

Hartwell had been checking on her candidates?

She put a hand to her eyes. “I like children. I hope he’s not opposed to adding more children to his family. I forgot to ask that of the vicar.”

“Gads, that is not a question for a first meeting.”

“But Hartwell, it’s an important one. There’s only one way to not have children. Abstinence. Do you think that’s a question to ask?”

“Definitely not on a first meeting, and not if you want a second, or a marriage. And there are ways to be somewhat careful, but you don’t think the two children the vicar has are enough?”

Hartwell’s tone sounded as if he defended himself, not the country minister they’d just visited. She settled against the seat. “Why are we talking of such things?”

“You’re right. And you shouldn’t be considering Mr. Pregrine. He will not love you like you need to be.”

“I can get him to love me.”

“What? Did Burghley provide those tips? That would go against the abstinence policy.”

“If you think that my mother held the duke’s heart because of the fleshly congress, you are mistaken. A tumble can be had anywhere and at much less cost. She made him love her in so many little ways, he couldn’t help himself. Given enough time and attention, love and devotion can be had.”

She felt Hartwell stewing, but then he returned his arm to the seat above her. “I know not to get you angry, you might turn your power on me. I don’t want to be helpless to your feminine ways.”

“Laugh. If I accept Mr. Pregrine, I’ll have to make sure that he does indeed love me so that if I bear him a tan baby, I won’t be asked if I’d been unfaithful or to abandon the child.”

Hartwell swiped at her tears again. “The dust is getting to you. I’ll have to speak with Ranson.”

“It is, my lord. Make him redouble his efforts around Grandbole. Lots of dust there, too.”

His lips brushed her ear. “You are young and healthy, Frederica, but children? There are so many dangers that childbirth can bring.”

“Nothing ventured. Nothing gained, Hartwell.”

“This is your life, Frederica. Not a slogan. The vicar has two children, already. Another would be three, which may lead to a fourth. That’s a lot of babes for you to manage and suffer through in childbirth.” Air steamed from his nostrils onto her neck, warm and tingly. “Hmmm. I should find a way to dissuade you from motherhood and instant motherhood.”

The sound of his voice, tight, hints of anger, was so different than the jovial nature she was used to hearing.

“The vicar asked me to marry him. And I will treat his children with kindness. I’m not afraid of childbirth.”

“I am. I’ve seen the toll it takes when things go wrong, even for the strongest of women. The vicar is not for you, Frederica. Not at all.”

“Is that what you are going to tell the duke? Will you doom my choice, Hartwell?”

He groaned again. “No. But I won’t be silent on my opinions. You are very fine. This vicar is unworthy.”

“You’ve had your say, Hartwell. But I will make up my mind after we meet all the candidates. So wake me when we arrive at Tradenwood.”

“Yes, my dear. I’ll add it to our growing list of times we’ve slept together. You think this habit will disqualify you in the vicar’s eyes?”

“Do you think the vicar is the thief, my lord?”

Hartwell’s sigh burned along her jaw. “No, Frederica, I don’t.”

She turned her head, putting more space between them. “Then he’s still on my list.”

Hartwell tightened his hold on her, and she turned to him, burying her face with its wet frustrated tears into his shoulder. The man could say whatever he wanted, grouse as much as he could, but only one man had offered for Frederica, and that wasn’t the viscount.

Nothing would stop her from her accepting an offer for a Yuletide wedding. Nothing.