“I understand your anger, Alexander, and I dislike putting you in such a predicament.” Alexander looked up, hopeful that his father could still be persuaded to change his mind, only to be disappointed as his father continued implacably, “But you have been on the town now for nearly a decade and have shown no inclination to make your own choice. The few women you do consort with are totally unfit to become the next duchess of Alford.”
“I hope you at least trust me to know the difference between a lady of quality and a light-skirt!” Alexander shot back, standing up abruptly and beginning to pace about the room. His father’s words wounded him deeply, but he was pained even further by the knowledge that it was his own behavior that had caused his father to form such a poor opinion of him.
The duke was moved by his son’s obvious distress. “I am not an ogre, Alexander. I will not force you to marry a young lady you could not esteem. If you and the girl cannot come to an agreement, I will forgo making an announcement. But,” he added, as a dazed smile of relief lit Alexander’s face, “do not think that means you are relieved of all responsibility. If I do not find that you have made every effort to make yourself agreeable to Miss Smithfield in the next thirty days, then I will be forced to cut off your allowance. You’ll find that your free and easy lifestyle is not so easy to maintain on an empty purse.”
Alexander nodded his agreement to his father’s terms. He realized it was time he settled down, so if he liked the girl well enough, he supposed he might as well marry her. And if he did not, well, his father had loosened the noose around his neck just enough that he might be able to slip through.
“If you are concerned about Miss Smithfield’s appearance, you needn’t be. I would not expect you to marry a woman you found unattractive. I made her acquaintance four years ago at a wedding. She was only seventeen at the time, but already blossoming into a beautiful young lady with a pleasing demeanor. She is tall and slender, with light brown hair and fine blue eyes.”
To Alexander, she sounded just like every other milk-and-water miss he had ever met at Almack’s. “Why is it such a vision of pulchritude is still single at the ripe old age of twenty-one?” He asked, half-jokingly.
“Miss Smithfield was to have a London season her eighteenth year, but it was cut short when her father fell ill. She and her mother returned home immediately, and a month or two later Sir John passed away. The estate was entailed on a distant cousin, and Lady Smithfield and her daughters were forced to relocate. They now reside in the village of Stonehurst, where they have been the past two years or more. I assume they no longer have the finances to expend on a London season. Sir John left them comfortably enough, from what I have heard, but the cost of another residence probably took a large portion of their settlement.”
Alexander was dismayed by his father’s story. If the Smithfields were financially depressed, his father’s offer would seem like their salvation. What self-respecting mother would not jump at the chance to marry her daughter to the heir of a wealthy duke? He could behave like an ill-mannered boor and they would pronounce him charming. He tugged uncomfortably at his exquisite cravat, which Jenkins must have tied too tightly that morning, for it suddenly felt as if it were choking him.
Chapter Two
Stonehurst. Stonehurst. As Lord Wesleigh left Alford House to walk the short distance to his own residence, he struggled to recall why that name sounded so familiar. He knew he had heard it before, in a completely different context. He was walking up the steps of his town house when he finally remembered.
“Of course,” he said aloud, “Sedgewick!”
The butler, who had just opened the door to let his master in, wondered at Lord Wesleigh’s sudden bout of forgetfulness after his nearly ten years of service. Shaking his head at the vagaries of the nobility, he nevertheless reminded him, “Simmons, my lord.”
“What is that, Simmons?” asked Wesleigh, startled from his reverie. “Oh, you thought I was referring to you. No, I was referring to my good friend, Jonathan Sedgewick, the vicar in Stonehurst. I intend to pay him a visit. Jenkins,” he hollered, taking the stairs that led to his second-story bedchamber two at a time, “pack our bags. We are going to Stonehurst.”
An hour later, as Wesleigh stood surveying the mountain of luggage that his finicky valet considered essential for a short visit to the country, he realized that it would not do. It would not do at all. The half-formulated plan he had been thinking through since he’d realized he had a connection in Stonehurst was contingent on his ability to arrive virtually unnoticed on the village scene, not to arrive in ducal splendor with his crested carriage and a small army of servants.
He had what he felt was a perfectly normal desire to observe what his future held before being presented with it on a silver platter. If Lydia Smithfield had any major defects of personality or character, she would take the greatest care to hide these from her prospective bridegroom, the heir to a dukedom. Therefore, he intended to pose as someone so insignificant, so far beneath her notice, that she would be at no pains to hide her true self from him.
He thought first about masquerading as a servant, but quickly changed his mind. He preferred to at least pose as a member of the gentry, albeit a lesser member. Besides, he doubted his ability to play the part of a servant convincingly enough, particularly for any length of time. There had to be some sort of position he could occupy in Sedgewick’s household, some minor, but realistic, role he could perform that would not cause undue notice.
He could not say what finally caused him to stumble upon the notion of posing as a curate, but it seemed a realistic enough disguise. No one would question a curate coming to visit his close friend, the vicar. And a curate was low enough on the social ladder that his entrance into Stonehurst society would cause barely a ripple. That is, if he traveled, dressed, and acted as a curate would. Which meant leaving Jenkins and his freshly laundered cravats behind.
“I have changed my mind, Jenkins. I will pack a small bag myself. And you are to remain here in London.”
Wesleigh had the satisfaction of seeing his valet’s perpetually expressionless face assume a look of dismay. “But, my lord—”
“I shall be taking the stage to Stonehurst, and I doubt there would be room for the other passengers were I to take such an impressive array of baggage.”
“The stage, my lord? Do I understand you properly? You cannot mean that you, the heir to the duke of Alford, are taking the common stage from London to Stonehurst.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I need you to see about securing my passage. I would prefer the boxseat, but any outside seat will do, I suppose. It would be criminal to have to be shut inside on a day like today.” Wesleigh turned to search for his plainest jacket, preferably one a few seasons old as well, before realizing that his valet still stood rooted in place, his mouth hanging open. “Jenkins, I haven’t a lot of time to spare. I am hoping to make Stonehurst by nightfall.” Turning back to his wardrobe, he pulled out an old, badly cut jacket he’d never worn. “Ah, this should do nicely,” he said to himself. As he removed the jacket he was wearing, a sartorial masterpiece of Weston’s, Jenkins shuddered violently, and left to do his master’s bidding.
The Smithfield ladies and, indeed, every inhabitant of Smithfield House, were on pins and needles awaiting the arrival of Lord Wesleigh. Even though Lady Smithfield had stuck to her promise of keeping silent about the match, the servants, who invariably came to know of any circumstance in their mistresses’ lives, had somehow succeeded in ferreting out this secret as well.