At that pronouncement, the dowager lost some of her haughtiness and suddenly looked just like she was—an old woman.

“Bertram,” she muttered, flexing her fingers on her cane. “He’ll be the death of me.”

“He is quite possibly the worse gambler I have ever encountered. Perhaps he should find another pursuit for his time. Some gentlemen like the hunt, I understand.”

The lady’s haughtiness returned in a flash. In ringing tones she replied, “I assure you my grandson has a new occupation and that is to wed an heiress. With his title, that should not be difficult. My granddaughter should soon make a match as well. No doubt you will charge an exorbitant interest, but we shall pay our debts to you, Mr. Caulfield.” She muttered his name as if it dirtied her tongue. “In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would not call upon me in my home again. You may hold those vouchers in your pocket, but I have powerful friends, and I will not stand for your bullying tactics—”

“What if I said I would be willing to waive all debts?”

She shut her mouth and squinted pale blue eyes at him. Over her shoulder, Portia popped her dark head up from behind the chaise, her spectacles askew on her surprised face. Somehow the girl had crawled from behind the pianoforte and managed to position herself behind the chaise her grandmother occupied, His mouth twitched with amusement.

“I would say such a gesture does not stem from your innate sense of generosity.” Suspicion laced her voice. “What is it you want?”

“A favor.”

She studied him warily. “Have out with it.”

“I need you to sponsor my half brother’s widow this season.”

Lady Derring puffed herself out, expanding her generous bosom. “I don’t sponsor just any chit.

Do you know how many girls have vied for my sponsorship? Who is this woman? How shall I know she won’t embarrass me in front of the ton?”

“She was raised a gentlewoman—”

“But she married a relation of yours?” the dowager interrupted, disdain and skepticism writ across her countenance. “She can hardly be suitable to move about in Good Society.”

Clearly, the lady thought he had crawled out of some hole and could not possibly be respectable, nor could any member of his family.

“I don’t see why not. My brother was an earl.”

It was somewhat satisfying to deliver that bit of news and observe the dowager’s small blue eyes bulge out of her fat cheeks. At least the title carried some rewards. Leaving the pretentious dowager dumbfounded gratified him.

“You’re jesting. If your brother was an earl then you’re—”

“Titled? Yes. I am the new earl.”

He grimaced in the face of her open transformation from wary foe to agreeable hostess. In seconds he had become worthy, estimable… someone deserving of her company.

“Caulfield… Caulfield.” She muttered the name to herself several times, tapping her cane on the floor as she scanned her memory. He waited.

At last he decided to help her out. “My brother was Edmund Caulfield, the Earl of Brookshire.”

“Ah, yes. The recluse. He never went about Town much.” Her eyes alighted with sudden recollection. “But his father created quite a scandal in his day, marrying an Italian opera singer and then divorcing her—” She ceased her prattling and inhaled sharply, her shrewd eyes suddenly bright with understanding as they absorbed his swarthy good looks.

“Now it comes together?” he asked, one corner of his mouth quirking.

“Quite so,” she murmured. “Now, about this sister-in-law. Anything I should know about her should I agree to do this? And I do mean should.”

Where to begin? By explaining that she was a lying, devious conniver who would go to any lengths to get her way? That might raise her in the dowager’s estimation.

“She is quite unassuming, having lived her whole life in the country. She’ll have a respectable dowry, I’ll see to that. You just see that she gets a husband. I’ll send her to you before the start of the Season so that you may prepare her as you see fit.”

“What of her looks?”

Lovely hair and a wide, lush mouth flashed in his mind. He brushed the images aside and waved his hand dismissively. “Unremarkable.”

“Another wallflower,” she sighed. At that comment, Portia popped her head up and stuck her tongue out at the back of her grandmother’s head. Apparently the girl was acquainted with that unflattering application.

He suppressed his laughter, not wanting to give the girl’s presence away. “I trust you’ll see to the arrangements. Naturally, I am not equipped to introduce a young woman to Society, which is why I require your assistance, my lady.”

“If she has not been presented, that shall have to be rectified before she can make the rounds.”

She snorted in disapproval. “Though why the wife of an earl would not already have been presented at court is beyond my comprehension.”

“As I said, she is from the country and not savvy with the fine points of Town Society.”

Something, he admitted, he had found to her merit.

“I suppose I will take her on, but I’ll have those vouchers.” She extended a bejeweled hand and wiggled her pudgy fingers.

He patted the front of his jacket. “Not until Lady Brookshire has accepted an offer of marriage.”

“You surely jest.” The dowager dropped her hand. “This is based on whether she actually snares a husband. I can only guide and point her in the right direction. Whether or not a suitable gentleman proposes is out of my hands.”

“I want to make sure you put forth your best effort, my lady. I’d hate for you to be too focused on the marriage prospects of your own grandchildren that you neglect Lady Brookshire’s matrimonial needs.” He met her outraged gaze. “I don’t want her to simply enjoy a Season; I want her affianced and wed by the end of it. Let her become some other poor clod’s responsibility. Understood?”

“I am not a magician, but I understand your desires. Now, know mine. You are an earl.” She leaned forward, her wily eyes intent. “And as such, imminently respectable. Not to mention wealthy and handsome.”

He raised a dark brow in amusement. “Moments ago I couldn’t even gain entrance without threatening the butler.”

She fluttered a hand to silence him. “Clearly, you possess wealth through your own earnings, but with your newly acquired inheritance, I cannot fathom how deep your pocket goes. The ton will be standing in line to introduce its daughters to you. With your title, you will be the most sought after bachelor of the Season.”

He shuddered. “Thank you, but I have no intention of attending soirees where nobles can pelt their daughters at me.”

“That is where you are mistaken. If I am to do this, I will need your cooperation. Your attendance at key functions this Season is crucial.”

Dread gnawed at the pit of his stomach. “Crucial?” He shook his head stubbornly. “How?” He had envisioned himself ensconced snugly before his fire while Meredith paraded through the Season under the vigilant eye of Lady Derring, comfortable with the knowledge that in due course she would land herself a vapid, watery-eyed second or third son with whom she would wed and retire to some far corner of England, never to be heard from again. He didn’t need to play the nobleman and waltz with every insipid debutante to ever flutter her eyes.

“Your presence is vital to successfully marry your sister-in-law. That is what you want after all, is it not?”

“Explain why my participation is necessary,” Nick insisted, needing to be convinced before he subjected himself to the torture of a London Season.

“It will visibly remind everyone that Lady Brookshire is your relation and that by marrying her they will be forming an alliance with an affluent family. You.” The dowager’s eyes shifted to the floor as she added slyly, “And if you were to single out my granddaughter for a dance or two, it would make her all the more intriguing to other gentlemen.”

“Grandmother!” Lady Portia erupted from behind the chaise in a quivering mass of ruffles and lace.

The dowager screeched, her cane clattering to the floor as she clutched her heaving bosom.

“Portia! How dare you eavesdrop—”

“How dare you bribe someone to dance with me?” she countered, flinging her slim arms wide in a flurry of yellow ruffles.

“I wouldn’t precisely call it a bribe—” he interjected, enjoying himself.

“And you!” Portia dropped both hands to narrow, almost boyish hips. “Does this poor woman know what you’re planning? Listening to you discuss her future so unfeelingly makes my blood run cold. Commanding my grandmother to see that she is wed by the end of the Season. The very idea.”

His grin slipped. “It’s exactly what she needs.”

“I’m sure she will be grateful to be foisted on some… clod, was it?” She flung the word at him as if it soured her tongue.

“Perhaps this young woman simply knows her place,” the dowager sharply intoned. “Perhaps she is grateful for those taking an interest in her life and seeing that she makes a suitable match.”

His lips quirked with wry amusement. That hardly described Meredith. In fact, she would probably be a greater trial for Lady Derring than her own granddaughter. Best not mention that.

Lady Portia resembled a fish, opening and closing her mouth several times, at last recovering her voice to burst out with, “I won’t dance with him.” Then she darted from the room, leaving the dowager and Nick staring at one another.

“She’ll come around,” the dowager said with an unperturbed shrug. “But back to the point, I’ll have your oath that you will be available for a requisite amount of engagements.”

He could hear Mac’s laughter now when he learned that Nick was going to be rubbing elbows with the peerage he had sworn to avoid. With a heavy heart, Nick nodded his acceptance. “I’ll do my part. But don’t expect me to attend every ball, soiree, and tea you attend.”

“Of course not. That would take far too much of your time.” She nodded her head in easy agreement. “I should only need you to attend perhaps two… three dozen affairs.”

 Bloody hell.

“And one more item,” she called as he turned to leave. “Do try not to address your sister-in-law as Meredith in public. People shall wonder at your informality.”

Chapter 14

“Are you certain this is the correct address?” Meredith craned her head back to take in the stone mansion looming at least five stories high.

“Yes. Lord Brookshire’s letter was quite to the point, dearest. He said that after we settled in at the Brookshire townhouse, we were to call upon a Lady Derring at this address.”

Meredith had taken advantage of the last few weeks to reflect and accept that she had no choice but to remarry. Despite her wishes to the contrary.

The wisest course, she decided, was to find a husband who suited her needs. Unlike before. She would make the best of her time in London by finding the right husband. Though deciding what constituted the right husband had taken a great deal of contemplation. She had lain awake many a night before arriving at several necessary requirements.

First, she need not feel love or physical attraction. Second, he must be financially secure and agreeable in assuming the burden of her relatives. And third, but not as critical as the first two conditions, he should be a gentleman disposed to country living. She would simply expire if she had to live in Town. A retiring, country gentleman, financially secure—who would not mind her few eccentric relatives and servants—satisfied Meredith’s requirements perfectly. In one word: safe.

Accustomed to her independence, she admitted that a man she could manage would not be entirely amiss. But she could not expect too much. Not if she wanted to find a match in the span of one Season. The last time she rushed into marriage, she had paid the price. This time around she would not be so impulsive.