Any Groom Will Do Page 20

  “Quite so,” said Mary, sounding impressed. “Not quite a holiday, is it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Cassin returned to the table with a heaping plate. “I’ve written to my family in Yorkshire and expect a return letter any day. I’ll rely on your staff to send for me if some word arrives. I am anxious to hear of the progress of my brother, Felix.”

  “Oh yes, Willow has told us about your dear brother,” said Aunt Mary.

  And so the conversation tripped along, leaving Willow calm enough to serve her plate. She was halfway to the sideboard when Cassin said, “I should also like to make time to see Willow’s work while I am in town.”

  Willow turned and blinked at him. “You would?”

  “If I won’t be an intrusion.” He took a bite of crescent bun and made an expression of bliss. “We eat cold fish for breakfast in Barbadoes,” he said.

  “Cook will be delighted to indulge you,” said Aunt Mary. “But my lord, would you have time in your schedule to accompany your young countess to something like a garden party? To the benefit of Willow’s work, of course. Well, our work.”

  Willow paused with a piece of toast hovering above her plate.

  Aunt Mary shrugged. “It cannot hurt to ask, darling.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Willow with a nervous laugh. “What garden party? When?” She looked back and forth between her aunt and uncle.

  “A small gathering tomorrow, I’ve been told. The Eaton Square townhouse.”

  “Lord and Lady Landfair’s house?” gasped Willow. “But we only finished that house last week.”

  “Indeed. And the baroness has wasted no time showing it off. We didn’t mention the party because you intended to be in Yorkshire. I hesitate to bring it up even now, not knowing when you’ll away to Yorkshire . . . ” She trailed off and looked at Cassin.

  “I am not certain that I will travel with the earl to Yorkshire,” said Willow, taking a step to the table. “Cassin and I have not discussed—”

  “I should like very much for you to join me in Yorkshire,” he said plainly, “if your schedule permits.”

  “Of course,” Willow said, gratification rising in her chest. “I had always intended to go. But you didn’t—that is, we had not . . . ” She looked at him.

  Cassin folded his napkin in his lap. “It is my goal to discuss everything we might do, well before we might do it,” he said softly, looking only at her. “But I may fall short of that goal for a time. The notion is new.” He smiled a boyish smile, and Willow drew her empty plate up to her chest, shielding her heart.

  “It had been my hope,” he went on, “that you would make the journey to Yorkshire with me. I should like you to meet my family. I should like you with me.”

  Willow could but nod.

  Aunt Mary said, “Lovely. It’s all settled then. The party begins at four o’clock.”

  Willow gawked at her aunt. She’d known nothing of a garden party before this moment. It was not their practice to mingle socially with clients.

  “But what is the occasion for a party?” Willow asked cautiously. “I cannot believe the paint is even dry on the walls.”

  “They took up residence the very day the last carpenter had gone. The garden party is the first of several events meant to reveal the new house to society. And why not? The tiles in the ballroom alone took more than a year to lay, well before you came to us. Arthur’s furniture can be found in nearly every room. She will preen over it, as well she should. But how nice to have some ally among the guests to acknowledge some of the praise. And I’d love to hear what people will say. I’d love to make our services available when they say it.”

  “But if Cassin and I are unavailable, you must go, Aunt,” said Willow.

  Aunt Mary paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “But Willow . . . ” she began.

  “No, truly, you should do,” Willow pressed. “I was late to the project, after all; you said so yourself.”

  Aunt Mary smiled and looked to her husband. Uncle Arthur folded his paper and tapped it on his knee. “What your aunt is trying to say, dear, is that you and only you would be welcome at a party hosted by the baroness. You forget how far from grace Mary fell when she married a common tradesman like me.” He winked at Mary. “But a countess and her earl? It should not be difficult for you to wrangle an invitation and pop in, just for a bit. On behalf of the business. Nose about. Fan the flames of adoration, and give credit where credit is due.”

  “Oh . . . ” said Willow, blushing. She was embarrassed to have forgotten the wide gulf between craftsman and society. “Forgive me, but I did not think. You, that is to say, we live so comfortably here. And we all sit in meetings with these people for hours; they fawn on you. They take your advice to heart and heed every word.”

  Mary chuckled. “That may be, but in the end, we are meant to create the backdrop for their lives, not appear in them.”

  “But I hardly feel esteemed enough to garner an invitation,” countered Willow, looking around the table. “I wouldn’t begin to know how to—”

  “I’ll procure the invitation,” Cassin cut in, popping a sausage into his mouth. “I’ve sent an urgent note to Lord Althorp and requested a meeting about Caldera.”

  “Althorp?” exclaimed Uncle Arthur. “Leader of the Commons?”

  Cassin nodded. “Likely, he will be chancellor of the exchequer after the elections, and his Chancery Court would be the one to hear any case from my uncle’s bogus mine. After we discuss Caldera, I will ask Althorp about Lady . . . who was it?”

  “Landfair,” provided Aunt Mary, beaming. She reached for Arthur’s hand.

  “Right. Lady Landfair. Compared to this mess with my uncle, a garden party should be an inconsequential request.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cassin’s first order of business was his uncle’s townhome in Adelphi. He went in person, sending no message ahead. If possible, he would catch the pompous relation off guard.

  Sadly, a uniformed butler informed Cassin that Mr. Caulder was “not in.” No indication was forthcoming about Archibald’s locality, and Cassin hurried away without leaving his card.

  Two shillings later, a stable boy informed Cassin that Mr. Archibald Caulder had taken his best carriage to Yorkshire weeks before, with no promise of when he would return. Cassin gritted his teeth and lobbed another coin, asking him not to repeat their discussion.

  Next he paid an informal call on Lord Althorp. He’d written ahead but doubled down and called on the politician in person just the same.

  Here, too, a restrictive butler refused admittance, but he returned with a summons from Althorp, an appointment for a proper meeting the next day. Cassin was swamped with relief, and he asked the butler to furnish Lord Althorp with a brief report he’d written that detailed the Caldera mining conflict.

  With this errand complete, Cassin needed only to procure an invitation to the garden party that had been so adroitly foisted on his wife. He did not fault Mary Boyd for making the request; in fact, he quite liked the idea of squiring his countess around London. But procuring the invitation from Lord Althorp had been an ambitious suggestion indeed, and Cassin mentioned it mostly to show off. Luckily, he had another card to play, and he made his way to quiet, out-of-the-way Moxon Street in Westminster to beg help from a friend of a friend.

  “The Earl of Cassin to see Mr. Bryson or Mrs. Elisabeth Courtland,” Cassin said hopefully. What were the odds that he’d be denied by the third butler of the day?

  “Brent?” cried a voice from behind the butler. Cassin leaned in to see Elisabeth Courtland rushing to the door. She elbowed the butler aside and reached for Cassin.

  “But we’ve not heard from Stoker in weeks,” Mrs. Courtland said, giving his shoulders a shake. “Tell me now: Is he in London? I swear to heaven, if he is here and has not called on me . . . ”

  Elisabeth Courtland had known Jon Stoker since he was a street urchin in Rotten Row, raiding brothels on behalf of her charity.
Their friendship had grown, and she began to provide for his education, his daily necessities, and his erstwhile scrapes with the law. When she married her husband, Bryson, the couple became Stoker’s surrogate family. Eventually, the wealthy coupled delivered Stoker from the streets and sent him to university in Yorkshire. It was here that the lot of them first encountered Cassin. The Courtlands were Stoker’s frequent visitors to school, and Cassin came to know them well. The couple was middle-aged now, with two growing boys. Mrs. Courtland’s charity continued to rescue girls from the horror of London’s streets, and Bryson Courtland’s shipyard was one of the most prosperous in the empire. Stoker’s pride had prevented them from asking the Courtlands to sponsor their guano expedition, and Cassin respected his partner’s desire to make his own way.

  “Stoker remains in Barbadoes, madam,” Cassin assured Mrs. Courtland. “I’ve come alone. Some ugly business with an uncle and my estate in Yorkshire.”

  “How sorry I am to hear it,” said Mrs. Courtland, drawing him inside. She dispatched the butler to fetch her husband. “But how kind of you to look in on us. The boys are in school, or they would be delighted to see you.”

  “Rudely, I’ve come to beg a small favor, actually.”

  “Anything, of course. How can we help?”

  “My wife,” he began, coughing slightly, “has developed an interest in a certain garden party at the home of a society matron, Lady Landfair. The event, I believe, is set for tomorrow. I was hoping you could assist with an invitation.”

  “Oh,” breathed Mrs. Courtland, wrinkling her brow. “I haven’t the slightest notion of Lady Landfair or her garden. I avoid parties whenever possible, as you may know, but Bryson will help you, never fear.” She glanced to the door. “However,” she said, turning back, “it cheers me to hear that you and your wife are . . . enjoying time together while you’re in town.” She eyed him expectantly. The Courtlands had made no secret of their suspicion of Jon Stoker’s hasty marriage to Sabine; indeed, they found all three rushed marriages very strange indeed.

  “Quite so,” Cassin said. “Willow’s aunt and uncle have been kind enough to allow me to crowd in on them in Belgrave Square. It is my goal to make the most of my time with Willow while I’m in England. When my London business is done, she will travel to Yorkshire with me.”

  “She will,” trilled Mrs. Courtland, clapping her hands together. She smiled and patted his knee. “It’s none of my business, I know, but it cheers me to hear that your marriage was not—” She stopped and bit her bottom lip. “I am so hopeful for you and your new bride.”

  “I feel the same hope,” Cassin said, unable to tamp down a foolish grin.

  “Cassin!” called a voice from the doorway. “By God, you’re a welcome sight.” Cassin rose to shake hands with Bryson Courtland. “We had no warning that you’d returned to England.”

  Cassin nodded and apprised him of the situation with Archibald and the fresh worry with his brother.

  Bryson listened carefully, gesturing for them to sit. The older man settled closely to his wife, despite the long couch and collection of plush chairs. He stretched his arm around her shoulder. It was the same comfortable sort of familiarity that Cassin’s own parents shared, and he felt a persistent stab of longing. He missed Willow, despite having just left her bed.

  “I know Althorp and consider him to be reasonable and fair,” mused Bryson. “You should have no trouble convincing him of the machinations of your uncle. His agreement to see you on such short notice is a very good sign, indeed.”

  “This was my thinking,” said Cassin.

  “Yes, but what of the party his lovely countess wishes to attend?” prompted Mrs. Courtland.

  “Right,” said Bryson. “Lady Landfair. I’m in the acquaintance of the baron and his wife—”

  “Of course you are, darling,” sighed Mrs. Courtland.

  “Procuring an invitation should be no effort at all. We’ve our own summons to a forthcoming ball in their new home. Next month, I believe it is.”

  Mrs. Courtland made a face. “I won’t go.”

  “You will go, darling,” said Mr. Courtland, “if only to compliment Lady Cassin’s interiors.”

  “Oh, I suppose I could be troubled for that.” She gave Cassin a wink.

  “Thank you so much,” said Cassin, rising. “I cannot express my gratitude, honestly.”

  “Wait just a moment, if you please,” said Bryson. “Can we not pry some insight from you, anything at all, into the marriage of our wayward Jon Stoker? Please, Cassin, honestly. What can you tell us? Elisabeth worries so.”

  Cassin rolled his neck and returned to his seat.

  “Anything?” said Mrs. Courtland, scooting to the edge of the sofa. “We have written to Belgrave Square several times to call on his wife, Sabine, but she always sends her regrets. She is perfectly cordial but quite . . . resolute. We should like to support her in any way we can. It had been our plan to make the acquaintance of all three of the girls. And now to hear that Joseph’s young wife is expecting a baby?”

  “Yes,” said Cassin uncomfortably, locking and unlocking his hands. “I understand your curiosity; truly I do. But there is very little I can say, I’m afraid. You are correct that the marriages were not traditional. But the six of us have made a sort of mutual vow of, er, discretion as we sort things out, each in our own time. For loyalty’s sake, all I can say is that your desire to know the brides is no different from my wishes and Joseph’s. I cannot speak for Stoker, but I believe it may even be his wish, which is a rare sentiment, indeed, coming from him.”

  He paused and looked at the floor. “We would know our wives,” he said. Looking up again, he told Elisabeth, “In time, I hope we will. I never suspected to be the first to do so, but I will not deny that I feel very grateful. If I had one piece of advice for each of my partners, it would be to facilitate that knowledge as soon as possible. Every day that I did not know Willow was a wasted day, indeed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cassin did not fail in his promise to procure an invitation to Lady Landfair’s garden party in Eaton Square. The hand-lettered invitation arrived later the same day, while Willow led Cassin on a walking tour of Belgravia.

  “Look what’s come,” her aunt sang when they returned.

  Willow had been conditioned by these last five months to go very, very still, strumming with breathless hope, when anyone came at her with a letter. She froze in the act of removing her pelisse.

  “Landfair’s garden party,” her aunt nearly whooped, waving the invitation in the air. “When the baroness takes a victory lap, you shall be trotting along beside her.”

  Willow looked to Cassin. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Her husband ducked his head to her ear and whispered, “You may thank me later,” before sweeping away her pelisse.

  It was a promise that she made good on, although they struggled to keep quiet and resist toppling from Willow’s small, soft bed in her basement room.

  The next morning was devoted to negotiating with Perry about what she would wear to the party. When luncheon came, they were still at odds. Only when Mr. Fisk was asked to have a say did they settle on a full silk dress in icy turquoise, the soft fabric just a few shades lighter than Willow’s eyes.

  “You look like a tropical waterfall,” sighed Perry, fluffing the skirt from the hem.

  “Better than a tropical guano mine, I suppose,” said Willow, hoping she was not overdone.

  Cassin was in meetings all morning and returned to escort her with very little time. Between Perry’s secluded efforts on Willow’s hair and Mr. Fisk giving Cassin a fresh shave, they did not cross paths until the earl clipped up the stairs to collect her in the parlor.

  He froze when he saw her. “I will never grow weary of looking at you,” he said gruffly.

  Willow smiled, taking her own long look. How was she in possession of a husband so tall, and tanned, and broad chested? Impeccably dressed, a gentleman on sight. The fine w
ool of his ebony coat stretched tautly over a grey waistcoat and shirt the color of snow.

  “How was your meeting with Lord Althorp?” Willow asked.

  “Informative,” he sighed. “Archibald has been very busy, indeed. Forgery was only half of it. He’d done everything I assumed he’d done—rallied investors, bought equipment, applied to Parliament for a joint-stock company to dig the new mine. There is a chance we will arrive at Caldera and see the thing half dug.”

  “But can you stop it?”

  “Yes. For all practical purposes, it’s stopped. The hearing for the joint-stock company has been tossed out. Parliament can hardly proceed with forged documents. And there may be legal ramifications for Archibald. Certainly he will have to repay investors and explain the whole bloody thing.” He let out a pained breath. “But I’ve no wish to discuss the mine or Archibald Caulder now, not when I have a beautiful countess to convey to a glittering party in a home of her own design.”

  “Well, in a home about which I took dictation while my aunt and uncle devised the design.”

  “That too,” he said, extending his arm. “I’ve borrowed a Phaeton from my friends, the Courtlands,” he said. “Despite the chilly afternoon, it pleases me to show you off.”

  Willow laughed. “We can easily walk. Belgravia is hardly expansive. You saw this yesterday.”

  “You are thinking like a tradesman, Willow,” scolded her aunt, bustling into the room with a fresh rose for Cassin’s lapel. “Remember this afternoon, you are a countess.”

  ***

  Lady Landfair knew his mother, Cassin learned. These were the first words from the baroness’s mouth.

  “But I owe her two shillings,” gushed the baroness, “from a ten-year-old game of whist. Oh, how I have missed Louisa in town these many years. And your sisters must be nearly grown. But will they have seasons? You must bring them, Cassin, you must!”

  “It is my great hope,” Cassin assured her. “We are to Yorkshire tomorrow, in fact. I have been out of the country, and no one looks more forward to our reunion than I do. I shall convey your intention to make good on that bet.”