Page 29 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
Edward swallowed. “I hope I do not create the impression that I am contradicting you, sir. But I do believe that Harrington did everything within his powers to restore the peace.”
His father clapped him on the shoulder. “It speaks well of you that you would defend your brother. But Harrington had to be brought in line. Twenty-six years old, no prospects, and splashing the family name across the scandal sheets.” The earl shook his head. “But the threat of sending him to India seems to have made an impression.”
Edward dropped his gaze to the ledgers. He hadn’t necessarily disagreed with his father that Harrington needed a push. Not because of the recent incident, but because it was high time his brother embarked upon a career. There were a number of possibilities—the army, civil service, the church (all right, perhaps the church wasn’t theidealoption). Harrington could be very persuasive, and Edward fancied he might do well in politics.
But it was difficult for a man to establish himself in any of these careers. All of them required either funds, connections, or both. And after the scandal, their father had made his threat that if Harrington set a toe out of line one more time, the only career he would support would be with the East India Company.
Edward shook himself. It would not come to that. He would not allow it. He would find some way to win that contest. The alternative was too horrible even to contemplate.
His father nodded crisply. “Yes, I daresay the threat of India has done it, and we won’t be seeing any more misbehavior from Harrington. But I’m not here to talk about your brother and his opera dancers. Your mother informs me that you are contemplating a more respectable alliance.”
“You have been informed correctly, sir.”
“Is there a particular young lady you have in mind?”
“There is not. I asked Mother to choose the candidates. I trust her judgment.”
His father squeezed his shoulder. “That’s the way. I daresay your mother will find you the perfect girl. Then we’ll have you well-settled, in addition to Anne and Caro.” The earl barked out a laugh as he strolled across the room toward the door. “I despair of finding a man willing to take on Izzie. And pity the poor girl who finds herself shackled to Harrington. But yours is the marriage that matters most. You’re the one who will continue the family line.” The earl paused in the doorway. “I’m sure you’ll make me proud once again by picking the perfect countess.”
“Thank you, sir.” Edward felt slightly queasy as he watched his father’s retreating form. He opened the volume of Euripides and tried to concentrate on the words, but his thoughts kept straying. He was curious about which young ladies his mother had invited. He hoped she had found someone he might like. A girl who was intelligent. Intelligent and well-read. Someone who made him smile.
Would it be too much to ask that she have red hair?
Edward groaned. This line of thought was useless. The perfect countess, that was who he needed, who he would be required to choose. The sooner he put Elissa St. Cyr out of his mind, the better.
“My lord,” the butler said, appearing in the doorway, “your first guests have arrived.”
Edward rose and straightened his coat. “Thank you, Harding.”
One carriage had pulled up beneath the columned portico, and he could see another coming up the drive. A footman rushed to open the door of the first carriage, and Edward smiled as he saw his close friend, Marcus Latimer, the Marquess of Graverley, emerge.
“Graverley,” Edward said, jogging down the steps to shake his friend’s hand. “Welcome. It was good of you to come.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Graverley said. Edward snorted, but they were both grinning. Graverley was the only son of the Duke of Trevissick and due to inherit an outlandish fortune of silver and copper mines. He was widely considered to be the most eligible bachelor in all of England and was not lacking in self-regard.
The second carriage drew to a halt, but before the footman could lay his hand upon the door handle, it swung open and out climbed Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy.
Edward strode over, extending his hand. “Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy, welcome.”
Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s grandfather was an obscenely wealthy blacksmith-turned-iron-magnate. His only grandchild was rumored to have inherited the engineering acumen that had unfortunately skipped his father’s generation. He clasped Edward’s hand, his grip a hair firmer than was comfortable. “Fauconbridge, thank you for having me.”
“It is our pleasure.” Edward gestured toward the marquess, who had wandered over. As the three of them served together on the board of Anne’s society, introductions were not necessary, so Edward said, “You know Graverley, of course.”
“Good afternoon, Graverley,” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy said, then strolled around to the back of his carriage. Edward watched in astonishment as he began unstrapping his own luggage.
“Stop that,” Graverley snapped. “A gentleman does not carry his own trunk. Leave it for the footmen.”
“Hmm?” Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy looked up. “Oh, I just wanted to see to my bassoon. It’s fragile.”
Graverley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me you didn’t really bring a bassoon. And what in seven hells are you wearing?” He gestured toward Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s jacket with a flick of his wrist. “I sent you to my tailor. You have proper clothing now. I’ve seen it. And yet you show up here, wearing that hideous sack.”
Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy frowned. “I brought my old things. Are we not supposed to dress less formally in the country?”
Graverley made a sound of frustration and stalked up the front steps.
“Ignore him,” Edward whispered, leading Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy inside.
They repaired to the parlor in which Edward had been working. Harding poured a round of drinks.
