Page 17 of Hearts at Home

9

T he Fishingham girl had finally realized that the Beast of Beastwood had lied to her. Lady Wayford spared the silly chit a moment’s sympathy. For the first week of the family’s return to Bath, the girl had glowed. No other word for it. She’d been almost pretty, with her colour high and her eyes full of dreams. Certainly, the men had noticed, for they had swamped her with requests to dance, and her mother made her accept them all.

Look at her now, back hiding in corners, wan and pale.

The mother was a stupid and self-centred woman. She clearly hadn’t noticed that her eldest daughter was setting herself up to be ruined. Nor did she see the signs that Miss Fishingham imagined herself in love and increasingly, as one week turned to two and then three, that the fool girl had grown pale and withdrawn, her eyes dark bruises in a woeful face that contrasted bitterly with the brittle gaiety she adopted when forced to be social.

Lady Wayford watched Charis Fishingham circling Lord Chadbourn in a long dance, her steps graceful, her lips curved in a polite smile, her eyes bleak.

The poor deluded child. Though even such a waste of air as Mrs. Fishingham had surely warned her daughters not to be private with their suitors. If Miss Fishingham had made her wares available outside of marriage, she was entirely to blame for her current misery.

Lady Wayford had her own disappointments. Having met both Mrs. Fishingham and Charis, she had been so sure that the child would be a suitable bride for the new earl that she’d arranged to take over the tenancy of a house unexpectedly made vacant when its owners were forced to rusticate.

Not that the Fishinghams knew the name of their benefactor. It didn’t do to raise expectations.

A wise decision, as it turned out. Mrs. Fishingham was as venal and as easily manipulated as Lady Wayford could have hoped, but Charis soon showed a disturbing intelligence. That could have been ignored had she not had Opinions. The last thing Lady Wayford wanted in a bride was a rival for her position as head of Wayford’s households. She had sacrificed everything for the Wayford legacy, and she deserved the rewards.

She had a firm hand on the purse strings, despite Wreck’s stubborn efforts to assist, and she had no intention of giving them up. She would guide the Wayfords into the next generation, and even, perhaps, the one after.

The eldest Miss Fishingham was quiet and well mannered, but stubborn and unwilling to be accept the dictates of those who knew better. Why, she had told no less a person than Lady Harriett Ross that she thought the current system of patronage for election to the House of Commons old fashioned! And in the hearing of others, too!

The other Fishingham girls were more skilled at disguising their disgusting independence, but they would not do, either. Lady Wayford had briefly considered Miranda de Courtenay. That young lady was Lady Wayford’s favourite of all the offerings of Bath society, being very like Lady Wayford herself as a young woman. For that reason, she would not do, either.

Perhaps she should consider Prudence Carlisle or Rebecca St George. She would need to spend more time with them.

The dancers were clearing the floor as the musicians put up their instruments for a short break before the next set. Lady Wayford sniffed. Another break. Surely, they had one a mere two hours ago? Still, this would be the opportunity to speak to some of her acquaintances about possible brides for Wreck.

As Lady Wayford gathered her reticule and her shawl, Chadbourn passed with Miss Fishingham on his arm. Someone should hint him away. A girl who would meet a man in private, whether the wicked boy took advantage or not, was not fit to be a countess.

Charbourn left Miss Fishingham with her mother, but as he crossed the floor, someone accosted him. Wasn’t that Taverton? What on earth was he doing here?