Lord Greywell's Dilemma Read online

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  Copyright ©1983 by Elizabeth Rotter

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  LORD GREYWELL'S DILEMMA

  Laura Matthews

  Chapter One

  "She's going to drive me to Bedlam,” Sir Edward insisted, his blue eyes scowling beneath bushy brown eyebrows. “You have no idea, Hampden. From the time I get up in the mowing until the time I go to bed at night I can feel her watching me, and you may be sure it's not with approval. Why the devil doesn't she get married? She's had opportunities enough! There was Knedlington back when she was only seventeen, but I didn't think anything of it when she turned him off. Seventeen is still a flighty age, though she's never been what you'd call frivolous."

  His companion surreptitiously pushed an encroaching dog away with one booted foot. “She's not a bad-looking woman. Handsome in a prim sort of way. Not a beauty, of course, but there's nothing in her countenance to give a fellow a disgust of her. How old is she now?"

  Sir Edward allowed his eyes to flick exasperatedly toward the ceiling of the one room at Lyndhurst from which his daughter was most decidedly excluded, his study. Not a very appropriate name for it, he thought. “Five and twenty, for God's sake. Can you believe she's still here at five and twenty? Knedlington wasn't the only one, you know. Somerville came around when she was eighteen, and Prestbury when she was nineteen or twenty, I forget which. And it's not as if they were old men like you and me,” he said, not really believing himself old, but willing to concede the point that his daughter was a great deal younger. “When Chastleton showed some interest, I warned him off. He must be my age if he's a day. Probably older."

  "Yes, Chastleton has to be almost sixty.” Hampden Winterbourne stretched his legs toward the warm fire in the grate, thinking rather dolefully that it was nice to know a few people who were older than oneself and still alive. “Why doesn't she marry?” he asked, curious.

  "How the hell should I know? To spite me, more than likely. She says she has to keep an eye on my bastards, since I won't do it."

  Hampden choked on the sip of brandy he'd just taken. After a fit of coughing he ran a finger under his neckcloth before speaking.

  "Does she call them bastards?"

  "No,” Sir Edward admitted. “Elspeth is far too puritanical to use such offensive language. She calls them ‘love children,’ with the most obnoxious emphasis on ‘love.’ I've tried to induce her to simply refer to them as illegitimate, but she won't have anything to do with the term, as it in no way links them so thoroughly to me

  "Imagine, Hampden, having a daughter who is forever harping on one's responsibility to a string of snotty brats. They probably aren't even all mine! The whole neighborhood knows what she is. Any woman without a husband comes running to her, insisting I'm the father, and Elspeth provides her with money. My money! She makes a weekly round of them, you know, seeing that they all have food and medical attention. And whenever she returns from one of her Good Samaritan jaunts, she's out of patience with me and expects me to take some interest in their welfare. Now I ask you!"

  Hampden studied his companion for a moment. Who would have thought a fifty-five-year-old man would have such astonishing luck with the women? Sir Edward's full head of hair was beginning to gray and his waistline had thickened somewhat since Hampden had first encountered him in London more than thirty years previously. But the charm was still there, apparently, as it had been when he'd courted Elspeth's mother. Mary was the granddaughter of an earl and could probably have looked considerably higher than Sir Edward, but, no, one look into his lively blue eyes, one evening spent in his intoxicating company, and she never had eyes for anyone else.

  A pity she'd died, really. More than ten years ago now, it must have been. She'd always kept a firm rein on Edward, and he hadn't seemed to mind, but look at the way he'd behaved since then. Odd how grief took some people. Edward had sworn he'd never remarry, though there were women who'd eagerly have had him then, at forty-five, possibly even now.

  Instead of settling for the comfort of one woman who'd take care of him, he gallivanted about like a man less than half his age, unconcerned with the proprieties and totally lacking in a sense of responsibility to the women he impregnated. Hampden knew a moment's sympathy for Elspeth Parkstone.

  He ran a hand through his grizzled hair, shrugging. “You can't expect her to appreciate your providing her with a lot of unrecognized half brothers and sisters, Edward. They must be a great embarrassment to her."

  "Not a bit of it! She dotes on them. You've never seen such a mother hen. When one of them is sick, she frets herself to flinders. She knows more about caring for sick children than anyone else in the vicinity, including the doctor. He comes to her for advice. It's disgusting. And when is it going to end, if she won't even consider marriage? Hinchwick hung round for two months last summer. I know it's hard to believe, she's already a spinster, but he'd have had her if she'd given him the least encouragement. I threatened to turn her out of the house if she wouldn't accept, and she merely laughed at me. Her own father! Something must be done about her."

  There weren't many opportunities for Sir Edward to complain about his daughter. His neighbors to a man (and woman) considered her nothing short of a saint (with himself cast as sinner). It was only on those rare occasions when a visitor came from outside the area that he grasped the chance to let off a little spleen. Hampden had been visiting a nephew in Warwickshire for some time and was only making a short stop on his way through to London.

  Edward didn't expect his old friend to be of any real assistance; he didn't, in fact, feel there was an possibility of his situation changing. Elspeth was going to remain at Lyndhurst for the rest of her life, his nemesis right up to the day he drew his last breath. Perhaps he wouldn't have minded so much if under her austere gray gowns and severely drawn-back hair she hadn't reminded him so thoroughly of his dead wife. It was like having Mary there to witness his dissipation, except that Mary wasn't there, and he wouldn't be at such loose ends if she were.

  His glass was empty, and he rose to pour himself another from the bottle of his best brandy which stood close by. He could hear movement in the hall but relaxed in the knowledge no one would interrupt him. If Elspeth was still up, she wouldn't even bother to put her head in the door to say goodnight. She had learned, some time ago, and rather drastically, not to take such a chance. Edward smiled at the memory. Though it was not without its embarrassment, it had served a most useful purpose. Lifting a brow toward Hampden, who nodded, he refilled his friend's glass.

  "She walked in on me once,” he explained, though Hampden's preoccupation was not so much with the mysterious smile as with his own thoughts. “I'd warned her that the study was my private sanctuary, but when she's full of zeal she tends to forget ordinary politeness. It was late, about eleven I suppose, and I thought she'd gone off to her room. I'd slipped Fanny in through the side door. You have to do that on account of the servants, of course, though why a man can't do whatever he wants in his own home is beyond me. Anyhow, we were on the sofa over there, naked as the day we were born, when Elspeth walked in without a by-your-leave. I didn't notice, being a bit excited at the time, but Fanny kept poking me in the chest and opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water.

  "Elspeth was standi
ng there with her eyes bulging out of her face, as pale as a ghost. It was rather dark in the room, fortunately. Fanny moaned and covered her face, but I'm sure Elspeth had already seen who she was. I couldn't very well get up without exposing more of myself than was absolutely necessary, and Elspeth kept standing there as if frozen to the spot. Finally I roared at her to get out, and she bolted, dropping some list she'd brought to show me and not stopping to pick it up. She didn't talk to me for a week."

  "No wonder."

  "Well, it was her own fault. Hell, it would be a lot more convenient to take them to my own room, where I have a perfectly comfortable bed. It's all for her sake that I use the study sometimes, in a pinch. I've been very indulgent with her, when you come to think of it. Maybe if I just paraded them around the house she'd be more eager to marry and leave home,” he mused, a thoughtful light appearing in his vivid blue eyes. “I'd never considered that before. Desperate times demand desperate measures."

  "No, no,” Hampden protested, agitatedly waving a pudgy hand. “You're a gentleman, Edward. One doesn't do that sort of thing."

  "What do I care what other people do?” Edward grumbled. “I have a right to some peace in my own house, and I'm not going to get it until I get rid of my daughter. She has no intention of leaving. I've told her it's her duty to marry and raise a family; she tells me she's not interested in a life of the flesh. The impudence! It's these demmed religious fellows casting aspersions on anyone who isn't as holy as they are. They just can't abide seeing someone having a good time. And Elspeth's around them all day long, organizing clothing drives and knitting scarves for orphans, running the autumn fete and the spring fete and the summer fete. I thought for a while she must be interested in the rector, though he's a sorry dog with a cadaverous body and greasy black hair. No such luck! Even a bishop wouldn't be good enough for her."

  The late October night was becoming more chill, and Edward got up to put another log on the fire. Hampden drew his chair a little closer and allowed the dog to lie on his feet after all. One of the candles guttered, but neither of the men paid the least attention. They sat staring moodily into the flames for a while before Hampden spoke. It had occurred to him it was time he changed the subject.

  "I've been with my nephew for some time, you knew. Very sad situation. Poor fellow's wife died in childbirth. Fond of her, he was.” Hampden sighed and reached down to stroke the dog in an excess of sympathy. “The child lived, but it's sickly, which is a great pity, since it's a son and heir. David's at his wits’ end, mourning his wife, worrying that the child will die, plagued by Castlereagh to join him at Vienna for the Congress. You've met David, haven't you? Lord Greywell?"

  "Some years ago,” Edward answered absently. “Nice-looking fellow, tall, an avid angler?"

  "That's him. He's also a superb diplomat.” This was said with some pride, though rather offhandedly. “Castlereagh swears he can't pull the Congress off without David, and I'm convinced he'd do better to go, if only to get his mind off his personal troubles. But he won't leave the child there with his household staff when it's so fragile. Though what good he thinks he can do, heaven only knows."

  "No man should ever set foot in a nursery,” Edward declared with great firmness. "I never did."

  "No, but you had Mary to oversee things there for you. David has no one, unfortunately. If he had a sister or some female relative..."

  Edward had been rolling the brandy glass between his hands, not paying as much attention as he ought. He was still obsessed with getting rid of Elspeth. His eyes narrowed now, looking almost black in the dimly lit room. “You say he hasn't anyone at all he can call on?"

  "Not a soul. He's the last of the Foxcotts, except for the new son, who might not live. This wasn't the first time his wife had conceived, I gather, but the first time she'd produced a living child. Might have been better if she hadn't tried again, knowing the end result. But there it is. Nothing to be done about it now."

  "What he needs is another wife,” Edward remarked with an abruptness that startled his companion.

  "Another wife? How can you even think it? His poor lady hasn't been in her grave three months yet. Maybe I didn't make that clear."

  "Oh, it's clear enough. Greywell should go off to the Congress and leave his new wife with the infant. Of course, he'd need to choose someone with a tender heart, who would look after the child as though it were her own. Someone who knew a bit about the care of sick babes, don't you know. And even then he wouldn't want to settle for just anyone. He's a viscount, after all, and could expect to marry—say, a baronet's daughter who was the great-granddaughter of an earl. Perfectly suitable, I should think."

  Hampden was regarding him with a horrified expression. “You can't mean it! He's in mourning, for God's sake! And if your Elspeth wouldn't take Knedlington or Somerville or any of those others you mentioned, why would she consider Greywell?"

  "Because,” Edward reminded him, “she has a very soft heart for children. The story of the dying child will wrench her to the very soul. Wouldn't it be her Christian duty to save the poor child? Won't she be distraught to hear of a poor young woman dying at such a time? None of my bastards’ mothers ever die,” he said morosely. “And the children are always obscenely healthy when they're born, though according to Elspeth they have their share of childhood diseases. I tell you, she's just the wife for him."

  "He doesn't want a wife,” Hampden insisted.

  "He doesn't know he wants a wife yet. It's the perfect solution to both of our problems.” His eyes glazed over with satisfaction as he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the brandy. “I think the thing for you to do is return to Warwickshire immediately and bring him here. Will he leave the child for a few days?"

  "Edward, I think your wits have gone begging. Why would Greywell listen to such a crackbrained scheme? He's still grieving over his wife. He's not likely to dishonor her by marrying again so soon.

  "Hmm. Here's what you can tell him. His wife gave her life to present him with a son, his heir, and it's his duty to see that the babe lives to perpetuate her memory. Yes, yes. That's exactly how it should be. No one is going to criticize him when he marries for the sake of his child. They'll understand the necessity and admire him for his courage in seeming to flaunt convention. Did his wife have family?"

  "Only a maiden aunt in Yorkshire, who was too ill to journey to Ashfield. She raised the girl and had a friend bring her out in London, where David met her. Look, Edward, it's not the family who're going to oppose your scheme; it's David himself."

  Hampden swirled the remaining brandy in his glass with more vigor than necessary. “From his point of view, a new wife wouldn't have a vested interest in keeping the child alive, would she? A new wife would want to present him with an heir of her own, to solidify the match."

  Edward's brows drew together in a prodigious frown. “I doubt if even Greywell could conceive of a woman's allowing a child to die because she wanted to present him with his heir. It's too monstrous to contemplate,” he added self-righteously. “You know Elspeth better than that, and I'm sure you can convince your nephew of her rectitude. No one who's ever met Elspeth doubts her rectitude."

  Hampden finished off his brandy in a gulp and set his glass on the table nearest him with a decided thump. “I'm due in London. You'll have to excuse me from going back to Warwickshire, Edward."

  Seeing the futility of urging that particular plan, Edward wisely backed off from it. “Of course, of course. You're a busy man, and you've already allotted a generous amount of time to your nephew. It was unconscionable of me to suggest such a scheme. A letter would be much the better idea, in any case. That would give Greywell a chance to mull over the proposal. He's likely, as you have, to reject it out of hand at first sight, but its merits may appeal to him after a little consideration. Well, of course they will, because it's an eminently suitable arrangement for everyone involved. Write him that he must come to stay with me and meet her before he makes up his mind."
/>   "And what of Elspeth?"

  "I can handle Elspeth,” Edward assured him, with ungrounded optimism. “You have only to do your part and the thing is as good as done."

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  Hampden and Elspeth sat across the breakfast table from each other in the morning after Sir Edward had been called away to settle an urgent estate matter. No mention had been made of Lord Greywell and his sickly son. Elspeth was calmly buttering a muffin while she spoke of her parish activities. Her gray wool dress did not completely disguise her attractive figure, but went a good way toward doing so, and the style in which she wore her hair, pulled starkly back from her face, did little to soften the strong features with which she'd been endowed.

  Her eyes were more hazel than green and were given to observing one in a disconcerting way, as though she had no patience with circumspection. Her high cheekbones and straight nose were emphasized by the scalped coiffeur she affected, and would have been greatly softened by some ringlets about her face. There was no way to conceal the soft, full lips other than keeping them in a prim line, which she attempted for the most part to do. When she smiled they curved slightly, but Hampden wasn't honored by a laugh.

  Not the way she'd been as a child, he thought unhappily, when her lips were forever curling with delight, and her luscious laughter had bubbled forth without a moment's thought. Her golden-brown hair had more often than not been slightly disarrayed then, from her youthful exertions; still, that was a great deal more attractive than the matronly knot she wore now at the back of her head.

  Hampden remembered Elspeth as a spirited child, running almost wild over the estate, to the consternation of her mother and the delight of her father. The change in her had come about shortly after her mother's death, he thought, and the mischievousness that had so endeared her to the childless Winterbournes had never returned.

  Hampden's wife had been Elspeth's godmother, and had looked forward after Mary died to bringing Elspeth out in London, but even that hope had faded as her own health deteriorated. Elspeth had insisted it made no difference; her letter had been full of concern for Mrs. Winterbourne, and had just mentioned that the frivolity of London was not, after all, just the sort of setting to which she was accustomed. Hampden had always thought it might have made all the difference, induced her out of her narrow life. But that chance was gone.