Page 3 of A Gentleman’s Offer

2

It would be inaccurate, for a number of reasons, to describe the evening of the engagement party in Grosvenor Square as the night everything started going wrong. It was merely the night the prospective bridegroom found out, that was all. For one thing, Dominic was very soon to discover that the wheels had come off the carriage of his betrothal long before, and he had been entirely and humiliatingly unaware of it. For another, the celebration, from his pathetically ignorant point of view, started well, though later when he reflected it upon it he was forced to admit that he’d carelessly ignored several obvious warning signs, struck as he’d been by a sudden, unexpected and most welcome sense of attraction towards his intended bride.

It wasn’t anything as grand as a ball. Lord Nightingale hadn’t held a ball, with all the trouble and expense that such an occasion entailed, to celebrate his elder daughter’s come-out, and he had no intention of holding one to mark her engagement. His Lordship had made this quite clear – that the disruption to his comfort and his studies was not to be thought of – when Dominic had called on him to ask permission to address his daughter, but since Dominic had attended more than enough balls already in his life and didn’t care if he never went to another one, least of all one held in his honour, there’d been no unseemly dispute upon the matter, or on any other.

He’d found the old gentleman to be an odd mixture of scholarly vagueness and shrewd self-absorption. He was later to hear the Baron described, by someone who might be supposed to know, as ‘the most infuriatingly selfish man who was ever born, and the most impossible to live with’. But it wasn’t really to be expected that he would show sign of such intractability in the brief, formal interview they shared.

The fourth Baron Nightingale was a curious creature indeed, almost a caricature by Gilray of a classical scholar. When Dominic paid his momentous visit, his host was wearing a dreadful frockcoat, covered in nameless stains, and a horrible old grey wig that made the fastidious Beau feel itchy, and sat surrounded, as in a nest he’d made for himself, by a great disarray of ancient books and scattered manuscript papers. His library was stuffy and faced north, away from direct sunlight, and would have benefited from an open window or two, to let in some air. It was not a room his guest would have cared to spend long in, and he couldn’t help reflecting that if it served as a reflection of its owner’s mind and temperament, as it appeared to, Miss Nightingale might well be only too happy to leave her father’s house behind her forever. He could give her a better life than this, at least.

The old fellow’s satisfaction with the entire situation had been evident. The match was clearly most agreeable to him, but Dominic felt somehow that his future father-in-law’s pleasure had little to do with Miss Maria herself, but was instead rooted, he must assume, in his own undeniable eligibility in terms of social standing and fortune. The older man didn’t know him from Adam, and couldn’t have the least idea whether or not he’d make a good husband. Since he’d never offered for anyone’s hand before, Dominic didn’t know if it might be traditional for the lady’s father to interrogate the suitor as to his character and morals. He’d almost expected such an examination, had been prepared to face it – he was no rake, far from it, and there was nothing in his past of which he need be greatly ashamed – but it did not occur, and he was a little surprised.

If the Baron felt any deep attachment to Miss Nightingale, regret at losing her companionship or concern for her felicity, he showed no sign of it. A sentimentalist, or a loving father, might have spoken of his daughter’s sterling qualities, might have said, ‘I hope, sir, that you will be good to her, and make her happy.’ But there was no sign of any such tender emotion. Perhaps the old fellow was merely reserved, Dominic thought doubtfully. But it felt like more than that. He could not help imagining a list among the piles of papers, and this one item – Arrange Maria’s Marriage – ticked off from it, allowing the Baron’s mind to move on to matters he considered more important. An interesting antiquarian discovery at Pompeii, perhaps, or a disputed line in Chapman’s Homer. He found it hard to picture this dry, old scholar having anything to say to his own late father, although Lady De Lacy claimed they had known and liked each other well enough to plan their children’s marriage. Sir Thomas had been a man of great energy and wide liberal sympathies, who had lived in the present day and concerned himself with living people, not the dusty past. But how well had he really known his father, or his father’s friends, or what they discussed together? In truth, it hardly mattered, since he was committed now, as a matter of honour, and it was too late to withdraw.

The engagement celebration was to be a rout party to signify the union of the two noble families. Lord Nightingale had waved a careless greyish hand and said that the women would take care of all the arrangements and were well aware of his wishes. From his manner, Dominic did not doubt it, and surmised that there’d be no music or dancing, very little or no food, and as little drink as the Baron could get away with. Though he was wealthy, nobody could accuse the man of being a hedonist, or addicted to luxury, or even personal comfort. His home, though it was clean and, apart from his library, tidy, had obviously last been decorated a considerable time ago, and it seemed clear that no extraordinary effort in that regard could be expected for the party. Everybody would stand about the slightly shabby rooms talking and drinking indifferent wine, would congratulate the happy couple, and then presently go away again, either to their beds – or someone’s bed, at any rate – or to some more relaxed, enjoyable event where they’d at least be fed, watered and properly entertained.

Dominic would freely have admitted that he didn’t have much – any – experience of arranging and hosting festivities of this nature. His mother, on such occasions, would complain that it was an enormous amount of work, though as far as he could see Cousin Sarah and the servants undertook most of the labour, and once the evening was over Lady De Lacy would take to her bed, claiming to be prostrate with exhaustion, for days afterwards.

With this in mind, he wasn’t particularly surprised when he arrived in Grosvenor Square escorting his parent on the night of the celebration, to see Mrs Greystone, once again in her puce gown, in a highly agitated state and apparently on the verge of tears; the strain of organising the party, not to mention all the wedding preparations, must be affecting her, he thought, and was sorry for it.

She’d seemed quite distracted enough the last time he’d seen her, a couple of days before. They had encountered each other quite by chance in the curious location, for a lady of quality, of Lombard Street, in the City; he’d been there on financial matters relating to his marriage. The old lady had started nervously at the sight of him and murmured something unnecessarily elaborate about delivering an urgent letter to the post office in order to catch the evening’s mail. This struck Dominic as an odd thing, because her brother was a peer and could surely have franked her correspondence for her and saved her the trouble, but it was most certainly none of his business. She’d then, her manner still flustered, gone on to volunteer the information that Miss Nightingale was a little indisposed at present. His natural concern at the worrying news had only appeared to cause her more distress, even though she’d assured him it was nothing at all – merely a slight summer cold, and dear Maria, the most tractable and sweet-natured of girls, didn’t want the least fuss made.

Mrs Greystone was even more troubled now, answering remarks addressed to her almost at random and occasionally wringing her hands in what appeared to be, but surely could not be, despair, then catching herself up and clutching her ebony fan so tightly that the fragile thing looked likely to break under the pressure. He was glad to see that his mother assessed the situation in one swift glance and took the lady aside, compelling her to sit upon an uncomfortable-looking green brocade sofa and take a restorative glass of wine, which did appear to do her some immediate good.

But the matter of his hostess’s strange behaviour vanished instantly from his mind when he laid eyes on Miss Nightingale. As they stood together to receive her father’s guests and respond suitably to their congratulations – they were mostly a motley assortment of cousins, older members of the extended De Lacy and Nightingale families rather than friends of his or persons he’d any desire at all to spend time with – he was happy to see that she must be considered completely, even miraculously, recovered from her brief illness. She was in high bloom in pearls and a charming gown of cerulean blue silk with a gauzy white overdress, looking better, in fact, than she had on any other occasion on which he’d seen her. There was colour in her previously pale cheeks, and she must have caught the sun during some outing in recent days, despite her cold, for her straight nose was scattered with a few freckles, which were surely new. In general, she now resembled a living woman rather than a statue from antiquity, and in Dominic’s eyes, at least, it was a decided improvement.

She’d also cut her hair, which perhaps contributed to her more modern and approachable air. Was it quite usual for a young lady so ruthlessly to chop off her long, lustrous and much-admired golden locks in favour of a short crop a couple of weeks before her marriage? Dominic couldn’t say. Did he mind, or think he should have been consulted? He didn’t. He detected in himself distinct signs of liking it. The change revealed the graceful arc of her long neck, unburdened by heavy curls, the fine shape of the back of her head with its feathery wisps of short hair, which somehow made him want to run a finger lightly down that swooping curve, to where her bare, creamy skin met the edge of her gown, and then around… For the first time he was conscious of a fugitive spark of sexual interest. More than that – desire. He had no reason to assume that it was reciprocated, but in the circumstances, with their wedding so close, he welcomed it as something that could perhaps be built upon, slowly and with infinite care and patience. It was surely better if at least one of them felt something more than complete indifference towards the other.

Unsure if it was wise, once the stream of arrivals to be greeted had slowed to a trickle and then stopped he could not refrain from complimenting his betrothed upon her novel and flattering way of arranging her hair. She regarded him in a measuring sort of way, and this too was new, as was her manner, which was somehow brisker than he’d known previously. She seemed about to speak – perhaps actually to offer something beyond platitudes for the first time in their acquaintance – but she was interrupted before she could do so. This was, after all, supposed to be a formal, public celebration of their impending nuptials, and must be marked as such. Lady De Lacy took swift charge of matters, since Mrs Greystone appeared to be incapable of it and Lord Nightingale disinclined to exert himself in the task, and at her instigation glasses were raised to toast the happy couple, brief speeches made, not least by Dominic himself, and renewed congratulations offered by the assembled guests. The bride to be blushed becomingly, and murmured her thanks, and everything passed off entirely satisfactorily, the company now resolving itself into various conversational groups.

‘Thank goodness that’s over!’ said Miss Nightingale unexpectedly in his ear, her breath brushing his flesh and making it tingle. ‘Now you and I must talk in private, sir. Urgently!’

He had no time to object, even had he wished to; her hand was on his arm, urging him away, and in a moment or so he found himself truly alone with his betrothed, back in the sitting room where he’d proposed to her. On this occasion both doors were firmly closed, and Miss Nightingale leaned back against the one they’d entered by, treating him to that oddly assessing glance once more. Her cheeks were still flushed, and he now realised that she had only been superficially composed before. But she was revealing her underlying agitation plainly now. Whatever the reason she had drawn him here in such a determined manner, he didn’t think, unfortunately, that it was to further their acquaintance in any of the enticing ways that had so recently occurred to him. She didn’t look in the least like a woman with an amorous purpose in mind; in fact, she appeared more likely to dress him down than kiss him.

Still he felt no sense of impending doom, no hint that his life was about to be up-ended, shaken vigorously, like a feather mattress by a chambermaid, and put down in a way entirely new to him. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘Miss Nightingale?—’

She shook her head emphatically, her bright curls bouncing. She seemed – though surely she could not be – irritated, even angry.

‘I’m not Miss Nightingale,’ she said with emphasis. ‘That’s Maria, my older sister. I’m Miss Margaret Nightingale – Meg. We’ve never met before, Sir Dominic. And I must tell you that my sister has disappeared.’