Sculthorpe Abbey, Cambridgeshire

Several days later...

Daniel Byrne stared at the glass of claret in Sir Anthony Pembroke's outstretched hand. "It's only past two," Byrne chided, though he did take it.

"Well, I found it in the cellars and realized this thing has been waiting to be released for a decade," Pembroke said with a laugh. "Least I could do for the poor bottle. What shall we drink to?"

There was a reason Anthony Pembroke was, despite his baronetcy, without a groat and he suspected a lot of it had to do with indulging in expensive aged claret on a silly whim. Still, he liked him enough to put up with such waste. "To our successful party," Byrne suggested, nodding to his friend.

"Don't bother toasting me," Pembroke said. "I'm only providing the space." He glanced around. "But your staff are excellent. Never seen people hop about so quickly."

"Yes. That's what happens when they're paid well," Byrne said drolly. "Perhaps you'll try that method some day."

"One can only hope." Pembroke rolled his eyes. "I might even hire a servant or two away from you by the end. I suppose we'll see after this nonsense."

"Necessary nonsense."

"I know, I know. Still, I wonder that you need this place at all. Mind you, I'm not complaining, since I'm enjoying your largesse for the duration of this nonsense. But I think you could have done this party at Meadowlark just as well."

"Meadowlark wouldn't work." Byrne's estate in Cumnock was pretty enough and he bought the place for a song, but while his country house in Scotland was good for a lark among the lordlings of the ton, it was much too far for even the lowest families on the rungs to send their darling daughters without complaint.

Byrne wondered, not for the first time, if he should have tried his luck in Scotland. With a name like his, he might have better luck with some Scottish lass of good family. There was always more sympathy between Scotland and Ireland, even among the nobility. They both had a general sense of unease about the English. Their languages, their culture and, in many cases, their very lives had been erased by the men who claimed to rule them for their own good.

But no. That would be too far-removed. That union wouldn't be seen, not by the ones he needed to see it.

And Sculthorpe was a very convenient location for more than one reason. In about two days time, he might finally see his plans in motion...

"The townhouse, then," Pembroke offered. "You've managed many a great party — some might even call them legendary parties — in London."

"My townhouse is still recovering from the last party." And it would be the last of such parties, Byrne vowed. His staff would not abide another, according to them, without resigning en masse. "Besides, it's not right for this kind of party." Byrne supposed his London house did well enough for when the gaming hells closed their doors, when the young men of London weren't ready for their beds and would rather gamble and drink till the sun came up, whatever might happen. But he was bored of that sort of society. They'd served their purposes and, furthermore, he was quite tired of subjecting his servants to the after-party clean-up or his prettier maids to their rowdy ways.

He was ready for a more respectable kind of gathering. Though the people invited to Pembroke's estate weren't precisely the top of society, they were close enough to suit his needs. And the place was also close, as in proximity, to a certain village and a certain other estate that was much grander... though not for long.

"This kind of party," Pembroke lamented. "Proper little misses and parlor games. It's going to be torture, I tell you."

Byrne didn't think it would be any worse than what he endured from the rich, young lordlings looking for a good time. As a man with more money than he knew what to do with, but no connections to speak of, he'd made what he could of their "friendships." But there were few among them he found less than tedious. Pembroke was one rare exception.

However, Pembroke's resistance was getting tedious.

"Necessary torture, Pembroke," Byrne reminded him. "We are looking to settle down, are we not?"

"Please! How many times have I told you? I hear that name and all I see is my father."

"Sir Anthony, then," Byrne offered.

"Not that either," he said, wrinkling his nose. "We're not meeting at some barmy ball."

"Very well, Tony," Byrne conceded. While he was used to such informalities growing up among his own kind, it had been years now since he'd been among his own kind.

"But yes. We are settling down, but it doesn't mean I'm happy about that whole thing," Tony sighed. "Still, I'm determined to do it. I've little choice now that you've provided the staff and made this dusty old relic look presentable. Yet I feel strangely guilty, putting on like this is my party when you are the one bearing the expense."

"Leave the guilt to me."

Tony chuckled. "I reckon I should. You're Irish, so you're a papist, all those mea culpas come more naturally, I suppose."

"If you say so." He liked Pembroke but words like that reminded him, in case he needed reminding, that he was still an oddity in his world. Byrne didn't deny either charge. He was both Irish and a Catholic, though he had no notion what the Pope was called these days and he hadn't darkened the doorway of a church nor set foot in Ireland since her funeral. Still, while nearly a decade had passed, he'd not so soon forget his mother, the things she treasured, and the life he'd come from. His first journey to England had been for her sake, after all, whatever humiliation had come of it. The fact that he'd stayed... Well, he had his reasons.

He tried to push away the memories, but they were always there.

...standing at the back door of a fine house, hidden in a dark alleyway and then upon being brought grudgingly into the light, being told how unwelcome he was to seek it. How he should have known that. And he should have known. It didn't make it hurt any less...

It didn't hurt anymore, or at least it wouldn't. In the end, he wouldn't be the one hurting. 

"I've no use for this dusty old place. I much prefer my shabby little rooms in town," Tony was saying, bringing him back to the bright afternoon sunlight and his unintentionally callous friend who, he reminded himself, he still rather liked, "but my wretched father would haunt me to the end of my days if I were the one to lose our precious ancestral home. And there's only one way for a man of no money, little talent, and only passing charm to keep it."

"Severe on yourself, aren't you?" Byrne observed.

Tony shrugged, pulling a book from the shelf and tossing it from one hand to the other. "I just know myself."

Byrne wished he wouldn't do that. It was one of his own on loan and, though he'd yet to read it, he knew it was one of a valuable collection.

"And since I haven't that magic luck of yours on the exchange," Tony went on, "one must make do."

"Luck, yes." That's what the other men all called it, as if it was no more than blind chance. Byrne knew it was more than that. Everything he had invested in had succeeded, every venture he tossed some coin at had borne more. He could say it was all due to luck, or even be charitable to himself and call it skill or instinct. But it felt more like fate.

No. Maybe even fate was the wrong word for it. It was justice because that night hadn't been the end of it. The next day...

... stupid to think it would be different with this one. He was worse, even colder, if that was possible. Byrne could only chase the letters thrown in the Thames as they floated away, his clumsy hands saving only a few dampened sheets, all under the uncaring gaze of the cold-eyed young man who told him he was nothing, meant nothing, and never would...

Those moments didn't mean nothing to Daniel Byrne, but someday, he hoped they would. He was on his way. And whether it was blind luck, fate, or whether he'd indeed been favored with some sort of divine justice, he was nearly there, nearly where he needed to be to feel satisfied.

At the very least, he knew he wasn't nothing, but he also knew well enough that being Irish was a certain sort of sin in fashionable society, though not without hope. Some people had unfortunate ancestors, but if they had enough money to carry it off, they could be forgiven. And he had more than enough money to carry off anything.

Still, it had taken work on his part. Lessons in diction and elocution, enough to turn his lilt into something easily hidden when needed, easily wielded when needed as well, exaggerated for those who might seek to underestimate him.

After all, most English thought the Irish hopelessly stupid. And many he'd dealt with had sought to cheat him... until they learned better.

As for Catholicism, there was no overcoming it in the eyes of most, in case he needed reminding while standing in one of the former monasteries raided by Henry VIII after he cut ties with The Pope when he wouldn't allow him to dispose of his wife. With how the Beau Monde claimed to treasure the Church of England, he didn't observe many attending services. Then again, most of the members of The Ton who associated with him were no better than recalcitrant little boys.

"Are you boys drinking while it's still daylight?" Mrs. Dorothy Baddeley poked her head in the door, then totted over to, thankfully, take the rare volume of The Canterbury Tales her nephew was abusing and place it on the shelf. "Chaucer," she tutted. "Reading bawdy poetry, too. Tony, you naughty thing!"

"Now, Aunt Dotty. We are simply indulging in rituals as old as time. We men are terrible creatures and you are charged with somehow making us better by your mere presence." Tony moved closer and kissed her cheek. "I don't know how you do it, but I am a penitent already."

"You little charmer." She waved him off with a giggle. "How you are such an old roue while so young, I shall never know. But you will have to learn to behave yourselves. The young ladies should be arriving tomorrow." Her high and excitable voice lowered suddenly. "And they include Miss Prudence Crewe."

Tony seemed more animated suddenly. "Do they?"

"Would I let my favorite nephew pine indefinitely? I've had a letter just now from her aunt, a very dear friend, telling us in very certain terms that she shall attend. But really, Tony..." She looked suddenly worried. "I wouldn't wish you to get your heart broken. Muriel... er... Her Grace, The Duchess of Dartmore, says her niece will attend but..." Here, she shook her head, looking genuinely concerned. "I've received no assurance she loves you as you do her."

Byrne couldn't help but glance up at the words. If Tony loved Prudence Crewe, it was news to the both of them.

Tony put a hand to his chest. "Aunt, I wish only the chance to win her heart. I expect nothing more than that, I assure you."

"I don't see how you can fail. That you've thrown this party for love of her," she clasped her hands in front of her, "is so romantic, I can barely speak of it."

"Aunt, she's not to know—"

"Nay, I know. I can keep a secret as well as anyone."

Byrne rather doubted that. Though he did enjoy Mrs. Baddeley's sweet ways, she was almost too naive not to let something slip.

"But Tony," she said earnestly and with a sudden dire, serious expression, "do take care with your own heart."

"I trust you will protect it for me, Aunt."

"You dear little thing." She sighed. "I confess, I'm quite invigorated. It's been so long since I entertained. And how nice it will be, surrounded by youth again. Parlor games and picnics and cards and hunting parties! I'm sure I shall be exhausted, but gladly so." She tittered, adjusting her shawl. "I'm off for the village to choose the flowers. "

"Oh, but you should rest," Tony protested weakly. "You're doing too much."

"Nonsense. I must be sure everything looks right. The upstairs maid suggested carnations. Can you imagine? It is left to me to decide these things if they're to be done properly. Though we are nearly there." She turned to Byrne. "Everything looks immaculate. Your staff are flawless angels, that unfortunate carnation business aside. I can't begin to thank you for your aid to my Tony, dear Daniel."

He winced a bit at the use of his first name, and not only because it wasn't the one he was born with, but because he wondered if he was so low that he was nothing more than a servant in her eyes. Yet, with her wide eyes and easy smile, he knew he was being unfair. Perhaps, to her, such intimacies were a mark of favor. "Think nothing of it, Madam. I shall surely benefit, too!"

"Indeed you shall! I will settle for nothing less than finding you both a love for the ages. I've a nose for these things, after all." She leaned in slightly. "Everyone said the late Duke of Dartmore, God rest him, would never marry below an earl's daughter, but I met Muriel and... Oh!" She put a hand to her lips. "Her Grace, I mean. I met her and just knew they would suit. I even said to Arthur, God rest him, the night they met that they would be married before the year was out and it only took a month. And they weren't the first nor the last. It shall be the same for both of you. I'd stake my life upon it!"

"Then my heart is in very skilled hands," Tony said smoothly.

"I promise it is. I'll be back before dinner. I've instructed the chef to prepare your favorite for dessert. Bread and butter pudding!"

"You spoil me!"

"You deserve it!" She tittered again, waving merrily as she left.

Byrne chuckled. "She does spoil you quite a lot."

Tony grinned. "And I certainly don't deserve it. She's wrong about that. But she enjoys doting on me and who am I to refuse it?" He dropped his smile. "Poor Aunt Dotty. I'm glad to give her a bit of fun. She spends most of her time as a companion to deadly dull old things who treat her no better than a servant. I can't take her in with my rooms in Town, but here... I think she could rusticate quite nicely with my future wife."

Being doted on must be nice. Byrne remembered what that was like, having someone who told you that you were wonderful and that everything you did delighted them, even when it wasn't true. He missed her so much. The fact that anyone could call her nothing. He didn't care as much for his sake, but for hers...

"But she was right about this place. Look at it," Tony was saying, mystified as he stared around the gleaming library. "It looks better than I remember it since... never."

Byrne didn't know what the house had looked like in its prime, but it was a sight better than yesterday. The ornate windows could actually be seen through and it turned out some of the formerly muddy brown panes were actually stained glass underneath. It was also now-furnished, even if the furnishings were on loan from Byrne's townhouse.

"I hardly recognize the dusty, old relic. Can't even call it that now."

"Perhaps you should call it by its name."

"That's even more dreadful," Tony groaned. "Sculthorpe Abbey. Ghastly thing."

"Perhaps your future wife who you are so madly in love with will appreciate the gothic charm of it all."

"I should hope so. She reads," Pembroke waved a hand, "novels, I hear. And she'll be the one spending all her time here, not me."

Byrne didn't address the last, though he found it rather an odd notion to marry a wife one barely planned to see. Still, the first was more surprising. He didn't believe Tony loved Miss Crewe, but... "You hear? I thought you knew the girl."

"Met once or twice. She didn't seem very interested and, I confess, neither was I... at first."

"Then why her? If you don't know her—"

"I know enough about her. Trust me."

Byrne suspected Tony didn't know any more than he did — which was that she was a country miss from Yorkshire whose only interests were painting and reading. Daughter of a country baron with some connections, but they weren't without taint. Was she the one with the aunt in trade and textiles or the reckless sister... or was she both?

"Didn't her sister marry some impoverished Scottish viscount who'd started as a servant?" Not that Byrne judged such a thing. Good for him. But it wasn't the kind of connection that offered much advancement.

"Aye, she did, now that I think of it," Tony said, frowning. "I remember that one. Liked her a bit better, actually. Shame she's not the one to woo. Pretty, lively little thing. Stuck up in that lowland wilderness."

"As someone with a house in that lowland wilderness—"

"Oh, you know I mean no ill. It's damp enough in Cambridgeshire, but Scotland... I could barely abide it all the year 'round."

"I do know the brother, though," Byrne put in. "Ernest Crewe. Funny little fellow."

"Little?" Tony snorted. "You wouldn't say that if you saw him spar at Gentleman Jackson's. I'd thought of trying him out, but then decided I prefer my face as it is. Though I suppose he does look little, but anyone would, always standing next to Stanhope."

"Stanborough," Byrne corrected with a chuckle. "Good God, Tony. I thought these were supposed to be your peers, not mine. How do you know so little?"

Tony just laughed. "I only absorb what I need to and let the rest drain away."

Byrne supposed he shouldn't criticize. He didn't know either fellow well. He supposed he knew Richard Headley, Lord Stanborough, best. He'd been to more of his parties as Ernest Crewe was often said to be trapped in Yorkshire, being forced to work, of all things, by his evil father. Pampered little lords. They talked of work as if it were the worst punishment to be imagined. Fathers could be much worse.

He shook off the dark thought. He supposed Tony did know all he needed to, or at least that his future brother-in-law wouldn't be awful. On the occasion he'd met Crewe, he'd seemed a jolly fellow and Stanborough was also more tolerable than most. At the very least, at his parties, they never tried to corner his housemaids in the halls.

"But yes. Stanborough. I usually just call him Stan. Good old Stan! I almost thought of inviting him so this party would be less than deadly dull, but then I wouldn't stand a chance with any of the ladies. No. We're much better off with the men we've chosen. A dry, aging architect and a butterfly-chaser. No. I can't see them tempting any of the ladies, including Miss Crewe."

"Once again, why her? Aren't Miss Poole and Miss Marbury richer?"

"Because she would suit me best. We have... complementary needs."

"Or is it the challenge of it all?" Despite the fact that Byrne had never met Miss Prudence Crewe, he'd heard her name at Whites on the rare occasion he played there. He mostly couldn't abide the place. Too many Tories lurking about. But he'd seen her name in the betting books as a very reluctant wife and the man who dragged her down the aisle stood to make a tidy sum as well as anyone who laid money on him. "Have you put your name in the books?"

"Nothing so boorish as that. Though I suppose I would if I didn't find the practice so distasteful. Might make a pretty penny." He laughed. "I suppose the money will go to no one, since I highly doubt anyone is betting on me, but I will prevail in the end. I have a very solid plan."

Byrne sat down. "This, I have to hear."

TBC

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