Page 22 of His Lordship's True Lady
Two young men vacated a bench at the approach of the ladies. The handsomer of the two tipped his hat and swept a bow in the direction of the bench.
“Such nonsense,” Roberta muttered. “I’m a woman of mature years and have no time for flirting dandies.”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
The bench was hard, the sunshine bright enough to give a widow in first mourning freckles despite her veil, and the day a disappointment from every perspective.
Dorie Humplewit was known for enjoying her widowhood, but according to Lady Dremel, that enjoyment had become a business venture. Dorie would accost single gentlemen of means in private locations and arrange for friends to come upon the couple at the wrong moment. The gentleman would face a choice of offering marriage or purchasing silence—from the very woman who’d drawn him into the interlude.
“The most vexing part,” Roberta muttered, “is that she needn’t even… well, you know. She simply endures a few kisses from a man she, herself, has chosen.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking.” Dorie’s scheme was disgraceful and undeniably clever. The worst that might happen was she’d end up married to a man of her own choosing. If the fellow took umbrage at being kissed, well, a gentleman ought to have known better. That he ended up married to a woman more clever and daring than he was his own fault.
The fellows who’d given up the bench lounged beneath the shade of a nearby maple, showing off their tailoring and trying to catch Roberta’s eye.
Her finances had grown perilous, and she didn’t have time for foolish young men and their silly behavior. Something about Dorie’s scheme begged for further examination, though Roberta herself had no interest in being kissed.
Fourteen years of marriage to the colonel had been penance enough. For a lifetime of financial security, she might endure some groping, but then, marriage should have provided her that security—and in exchange for a great deal more than mere groping.
Alas, the colonel had not enjoyed much business acumen.
“Grampion’s brother is excessively wealthy.” And dear little Amy Marguerite was in Grampion’s care, without the comfort of even a female member of the earl’s household to take the girl in hand.
A devoted auntie—and Roberta was entirely prepared to fulfill that office—ought to shower the child with boundless affection, becoming the next thing to a fixture in Grampion’s household.
Roberta considered that prospect and considered inveigling Grampion into marriage.
He was a widower. He’d know how to deal with his base urges without overly troubling his wife, or Roberta would soon provide him instruction on the matter.
He was titled—never a bad thing.
He danced well enough and did justice to his evening finery, which would make all the other widows jealous—also not a bad thing.
He was very likely wealthy, and the family wealth was vulgarly abundant—the best kind.
“I’m still very much in my prime.”
Penelope was too busy admiring the foliage to comment, or she accepted that statement as so obvious, it required no assent.
Then too, Roberta was dear Amy Marguerite’s only living female relation. Grampion, being dull as a discarded boot, would see a certain economy in marriage to the person who by rights ought to have responsibility for the child’s moral development.
And yet… any earl would expect his wife to produce an heir, a spare, and who knew how many little insurance policies against the crown’s greedy ambitions.
Marriage to Grampion was out of the question. “Come along,” Roberta said, rising. “You have enough burdens in the appearance department that you ought not to risk freckles, my dear.”
“Very true, ma’am.”
One of the dandies blew Roberta a kiss.
“Wretched beasts,” Roberta said, hastening her step. “A woman is never free from the admiration of such as those when she has decent looks and a fine figure. I hope you grasp that in your very plainness, the Almighty has spared you much tribulation.”
“I’m most grateful for heaven’s mercies.”
Roberta was too, especially when heaven gave a lady a brain to equal her other endowments. Dorie Humplewit’s scheme was clever, as far as it went. More clever still would be a scheme that assured that Amy Marguerite’s doting auntie became a fixture not in the earl’s household—what an excruciating fate that would be—but in his expense ledger.
And if Roberta had to put up with a child underfoot to achieve that goal, well… nursery maids and governesses could be had for coin, and coin was something Grampion would be happy to provide to the woman who took the brat off his hands.
