Page 13

It did not take long to realize Lady Maeve and the Duke of Thornhill were not far from a match.

Freddy may not boast the sharpest of intellects, but even he could see that they had eyes only for each other.

When Thornhill giggled—the indignity!—Freddy had had enough.

He cast his gaze across the garden, seeking respite from the matrimonial machinations that now surrounded him.

He spotted Joy, lounging near the pastry table with her customary air of rebellion and biscuit crumbs.

She was the only soul who understood his plight.

Crossing the lawn, he addressed her with an air of tragic resignation. “I knew I should find you near the treacle tart,” he said, dropping into the seat beside her without ceremony.

Joy didn’t flinch. “You look as if someone tried to foist a bonnet onto your head.”

“I feel as though someone did,” Freddy replied grimly. “You must save me, Joy. Lady Maeve and Thornhill are all but composing poetry to one another, and every débutante here either simpers like a sick bird or proses on about embroidery.”

“Were you lectured about embroidery again?”

“Miss Plumb gave me a twelve minute discourse on her sampler. I now know far more about silks and stitches than any man ought.”

Joy sighed dramatically. “Poor lamb. Would you like a tart?”

“Desperately.” He reached for one. “Tell me—have you anyone else for me to meet before I offer myself up to the mercy of a vicar’s daughter with a claimed fondness for kittens she has never actually met?”

Joy, ever practical, took a sip of her punch and surveyed the blurred garden party like a general reviewing a battlefield. “Well, that one,” she pointed discreetly with her chin towards a tall, elegant young lady in violet, “thinks Byron was too restrained.”

“Too restrained?”

“I heard her say she writes poetry of her own about stormy emotions and dead flowers.”

“Good Lord.”

“That one,” she gestured again to Miss Henley, “laughs at everything. Even when someone spills tea on her gown. Hysterical, giggling laughter—all the time.”

“Is she the one who laughed when the pigeon dived for something?”

“The very one, though I confess I also laughed a little. You remember the hyena we saw at the ‘Change?”

Freddy suppressed a shudder.

Joy nodded gravely. “And then there is Miss Franks.”

“What is wrong with Miss Franks?”

“She is perfectly lovely, until you realize she has memorized every one of Fordyce’s sermons and recites them when she is nervous.”

“Surely there must be someone with a tolerable sense of humour and an affection for animals?” Freddy asked plaintively.

Joy shook her head. “If there is, she is disguised as shrubbery. Now, do you have anyone for me to meet?”

Freddy gazed about. None of his new friends were on the hunt for a bride—not that any of them were terribly appropriate.

Joy would not mind that so much, but he knew Westwood would be quite particular.

Joy was a favourite with all the gentlemen.

She was pluck to the backbone, as his friends would describe it, but the problem was it was hard to see Joy as a wife and mother. Well, other than to animals, of course.

“Well…Worth is charming, but he is as poor as a church mouse from gambling debts and is on the hunt for an heiress. Godwin is a devilish boor, and Singleton is hopelessly devoted to a French opera singer.”

“So your prospects are no better than mine,” Joy concluded with a sigh.

Just then, his mother approached in a swirl of silk and gardenia scent. “Frederick, darling,” she cooed, “have you made any progress?”

He looked at her blankly. “Progress?”

“With the eligible young ladies! Lady Constance is hosting a dinner party, and you must attend. Joy, you too, of course. There will be eligible gentlemen present.”

Joy opened her mouth to reply, but his mother had already swept away with the regal determination of a mama with a singular purpose.

Freddy turned to Joy with a dramatic shudder. “Eligible young ladies.”

Joy pulled a face. “Eligible young gentlemen.”

“I cannot think of more damning words.”

“Except perhaps, ‘suitable match.’”

“Or ‘decorous behaviour.’”

“Or ‘Fancy a stroll in the garden, Miss Joy?’”

He winced. “That happened to you?”

“At the ball.”

“Who is the blackguard? I shall call him out.”

Joy smiled and patted his arm. “You are a good friend.”

“We are castaways on the same remote island.”

They exchanged a grin, united in their mutual despair. They sat quietly a moment longer. The party carried on around them—laughter rising and falling, the splash of the fountain punctuating the hum of conversation.

Then he asked, “Do you think we will ever find the right person?”

Joy didn’t answer right away. She looked around, at her sisters laughing with their husbands, at the flowering garden filled with people all seeming to enjoy the gathering. Then she turned to Freddy.

“I do not know. The prospects are not promising.”

He smiled. “Why must we marry? Why is it criminal to remain a bachelor?”

“The succession, m’dear,” she mocked in a parental tone.

“But you do not have to produce an heir,” he replied accusingly.

“I do not, do I?” She laughed, and it made him feel, for just a moment, that everything might turn out well in the end.

“Come on,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Let’s walk. I wish to avoid Miss Plumb and her views on curtain tassels.”

Joy took it and rose with a smile. “Lead on, Frederick. To freedom and pastries.”

“A fine battle cry,” Freddy said, guiding Joy down a side path flanked by espaliered pears—cool shade, fewer inquisitive matrons.

“We should have it engraved on our coat of arms—two crossed forks rampant.”

He barked a laugh, bending a branch so she would not brush it.

She tipped her head towards the farther end of the garden, where a low stone wall marked the beginning of the orchard proper. Beyond, neat rows of blossoming pear trees met the skyline.

Petals drifted like confetti, catching in her dark curls and in the folds of his coat. They let silence reign for a dozen paces, both of them savouring the reprieve.

“About prospects,” Joy said, interrupting his reverie. “Perhaps we should reconsider our approach. If you must wed someone vapid, take one with a hunting-mad brother. At least you would get decent sport out of the bargain.”

“Only if she comes with a string in training,” Freddy countered. “Otherwise the bargain is dashed poor.”

They exchanged wicked grins, allies again.

It was time to return before they were missed.

As they re-entered the main garden, Freddy spotted his mother assembling a little knot of gentlemen beneath the large cedar tree—Lord Tinmouth, Sir Gregory Pember, and young Denbigh, all of whom fancied themselves connoisseurs of bloodstock.

Joy followed his gaze. “Shall we run the gauntlet?”

“If we must,” he murmured, escorting her back.

His mother’s eyes lit up. “Frederick, these gentlemen were asking after our hunters for next season. Perhaps you can enlighten them?”

Before Freddy could begin a reply on one of his most favourite topics, Joy stepped in cheerfully. “Gresham’s hunters? Why, good bone, steady on their feet, short cannons.” She turned to Sir Gregory. “And above all, a back long enough for comfort yet short enough for power.”

Tinmouth blinked while Denbigh’s jaw unhinged.

Joy, warming to her theme, launched into the pedigrees of his hunters—touching on Highflyer, Luna’s hock action, and why a dash of Herod blood would settle Denbigh’s infamous stallion’s inclination to buck.

Freddy bit his lip. Lady Gresham paled, torn between pride and panic.

The gentlemen did not know whether to be impressed or alarmed.

When Joy finished, silence reigned for three beats. Then Freddy lost the battle. Laughter burst from him.

His mother’s head turned. “Frederick!”

He caught his breath but not his grin. “Forgive me, Mama, but she knows our horses as well as I do.”

Tinmouth recovered enough to bow stiffly. “Miss Whitford, your…er…insights astonish.”

“Delight, surely,” Joy returned, eyes dancing.

Lady Gresham cleared her throat with surgical precision. “Indeed. And now, Frederick, perhaps you will escort Miss Whitford for some punch?”

“With pleasure,” he said, offering Joy his arm. As they crossed the garden, he whispered, “You realize, do you not, you have slain three prospects in one volley?”

She tilted her head, pleased. “Only three? Next time I shall quote training plans. However, I am afraid your mother was not impressed.”