Douglass Hall, Scotland

October, 1815

"Cat's on the table again," Ian, Viscount Douglass, said pointedly over supper. "Fang—"

"His name is Mr. Fancy. And it's hard for him to resist," Charity Douglass, his viscountess, cooed, petting the little dear and pouting in her husband's direction. "We are having some tasty fish, after all. Fancy dear, you'll have some later. Do get down."

"It would be tastier with less of his hair garnishing it." Ian snapped his fingers. "Fang! Down!"

The cat put his tail up, glaring at Ian, though he did jump from the table.

Charity scoffed loudly. "He doesn't like that beastly name."

"Funny, because he listened when I called him that beastly name." Ian smirked as if this meant he'd won.

Not while she had anything to say about it. "Only because you said it in that menacing tone. You could very well say his real name in the same timbre and he'd listen just as well."

"He hates that name. It makes him feel weak."

Charity smirked now. "You say that as if the two of you have talked extensively on the matter." She had often overhead Ian talking to Mr. Fancy, though he refused to admit it.

Ian flushed adorably. "No one could manage saying 'Mr. Fancy' in anything approaching a menacing tone." Ian pointed his fork across the table. "And since I already contend with animals with names like Boo-Boo, Dolly, various Henriettas, and Princess Sugar Biscuit, you could allow me just one name that doesn't drain away my manliness every time I say it."

"What utter silliness. They're just names. I'm sure your manliness is not so fragile as all that," she said, giving him a rather heated look.

"We'll talk about that later," he said, blushing even more.

She did so delight in making him blush. Even more than winning an argument.

"We have a guest," he reminded her.

Now she was blushing. She slid an apologetic gaze to Emilia Finch, grateful he had the presence of mind to remind her.

"Come on, Sticks," Ian said, "take my side." That or he was just continuing the argument, the stubborn man! He pointed his fork at poor Emilia now.

"That's not her name, either," Charity protested. Why did he insist on calling Emilia Sticks? Yes, she was a bit skinny, but she was much too pretty to suffer being compared to a batch of twigs.

Ian shrugged. "It is to me. And I know she agrees with me."

"Just because the two of you came up in service together," Charity huffed, "doesn't mean she agrees with you."

Ian Douglass might have once been her family's servant, as was Emilia, but he was now her husband and a viscount. She wasn't quite sure if he was abusing his current position or his past connection to gain Emilia's agreement but, whichever it was, it was very unfair.

And Emilia Finch might have started as Charity's maid but she was, after everything, one of Charity's most intimate friends. Why else would she come here mysteriously, in the middle of the night, crying and saying she had nowhere else to go, but without offering any other relevant details? Which was really so maddening and frustrating that Charity could burst!

No, don't ask her why, Charity reminded herself. She will tell me when she is ready. But it would help if she could find some way to hurry that along.

Ian must have caught her staring as he cleared his throat loudly, then stared at Charity hard, shaking his head, which was truly unfair as she hadn't asked Emilia a thing... in the last hour or so.

Charity waved him off and turned to their guest. "Uncle Davy caught a whole basket of trout and gave us ever so many. So far, I've only baked these with cream and onion. I don't know many fish recipes, so I am utterly lost and beg for your advice as to the rest." She waited for a response, then prodded her. "Emilia?"

"Hmm?" Emilia glanced up from the very engrossing business of pushing her food from one end of her plate to another with her fork, then gave Charity an apologetic smile. "Er... yes. The cat. Should I take Fang out?"

"Hah!" Ian looked far too pleased with himself. "Thanks for that, Sticks."

Emilia blinked at him. "For what?"

"Never mind him," Charity said. "I was asking you about the fish."

"Oh, of course." She turned to Charity. "What do you wish me to do?"

"You're not to do anything," Charity said firmly. "You're our guest. I was simply hoping for your expert opinion."

Emilia glanced down at her plate, as if surprised to see it. "On the fish? It's... very nice."

"Thank you," Charity sighed, tossing Ian a worried look.

Emilia suddenly sat up straighter. "It was all very good. But I'm quite full."

"Are you?" Charity tossed a dubious glance at her plate. The contents had been rearranged, but not much of it was eaten.

"Aye, if you'll excuse me." Emilia dropped her napkin over her plate, standing. "I should see what Miss Harmony is—"

"She's in bed," Charity said.

"Well, if ye have any mending—"

"Cora finished it this morning."

"Well, these dishes should—"

"Emilia, we're still eating," Charity said, forcing a laugh.

"Oh." Emilia took her seat again, placing her hands by her plate. "Isn't there anything—"

"There's nothing for you to do." Charity smiled and reached for her hand, squeezing it.

Emilia shook her head, frowning hard. "I don't much like being idle."

Ian chuckled. "Neither did I. It takes some getting used to."

Charity tossed her husband a fond smile. He really had worked so hard, not only in making their house, once a half-burnt ruin, into a home, but in accepting that he didn't need to do it all alone. She was quite proud of him.

"If you're looking for something to do," Ian said, "I think Charity was just complaining about—"

"No," Charity broke in hurriedly. "I was not complaining about anything. I have no complaints," she finished with what she thought was a well-aimed and pointed glance at her husband.

"But you said before that the drapes in the drawing room were—"

"I said no such thing. You must have heard me wrong." She turned to Emilia with a smile, squeezing her hand again. "Truly, there is nothing she needs to do." She speared Ian with a glance. Had she just been proud of him? An obvious mistake. The man was hopeless. Emilia needed rest and relaxation and the freedom to tell Charity why she had dropped herself on their doorstep with as much detail as possible and...

"Very well." Ian rolled his eyes. "But I hope she finds something to do so she doesn't go mad." He pointed his fork again, the brute. "Come see me, Sticks. I'll set you right."

"Don't listen to him, Emilia," Charity finished pointedly. "You are not to be put to work here except in an... well, in an advisory position."

Emilia glanced up from her plate again, as if she'd never left it. "Yes. Thank you. Advisory. Yes. I understand. The fish. It's very good."

Charity peered closely at her, wondering if she was even listening. "I'm glad you think so. I am thinking of boiling the rest of the trout in blackberry jam."

"That should be interesting." Emilia stood. "I'd best look in on Miss Harmony."

Charity stood as well. "But she's—"

"I'll help you dress for bed later."

"But I don't need you to—"

Emilia moved absently out of the dining room.

Charity huffed loudly. "Did you hear that?"

Ian nodded, looking perturbed. "I did. I hope she doesn't wake Harmony. Getting her back to sleep is torture. And why does she keep insisting on undressing you for bed? That's my job!"

"Not that! Fish in blackberry jam? The very thought of it is unpalatable! And she said it was interesting..." Charity tossed her napkin over the main course. "Do you see it now? She's not herself! There is more to this! And nobody is telling us! It's maddening!" She stood from the table and started collecting the dishes, Emilia's still barely touched.

Ian rolled his eyes. "But why does it matter if—"

"Yes, yes. I know you don't care, but I—"

"That's not fair," Ian cut in, standing as well."I happen to care a lot about Sticks. I just think, if she wants us to know, then she will tell us." He pointed his dratted fork again. "So you need to be patient."

"Patient?" Charity turned to him, giving a beleaguered sigh. How she hated that word. "Look, from what I've gathered in my investigations—"

"Oh, Lord!" Ian rolled his eyes at the word. "Do you mean the letter from your mother? I'm certain she was exaggerating."

"There was a house party," Charity went on, ignoring him, "a scandal, a masquerade, a reckless dog, and my dear friend and my sister were mixed up in all of it. And Prudence won't say a word. So I'm supposed to... what? Ignore all that and wait for her to tell me?"

Ian seemed to consider it. "It would make life easier." Ian stood and moved to help his wife as she cleared the supper dishes... ostensibly. What he was really doing was stacking them and pushing them away before gathering her closer.

As Charity had no objection to her husband closing in on her, she bared her neck to him. "It's sort of our business, isn't it? She's here with us to--"

"To escape for a while, so shouldn't we let her?"

Charity drew away, frowning at Ian. "Aren't you going just a little bit mad? Not knowing--"

He sighed, drawing her close again. "At the moment, yes." He slid his lips along her shoulder. "Between all our visitors this year, I can't get you to myself for a—"

"You are not seducing me away from this subject." She put a good foot between them. "Pru won't tell me. And neither will Ernest."

"I, for one, am glad your brother's finally learned to keep secrets. Good for Ernie."

"He's only your friend. I'm your wife. You could take my part and urge him to tell you."

"I'm taking no part in this."

"And now I've finally heard back from Stanborough and he had the nerve to tell me to stop nosing."

"Because you are," Ian groaned.

"There's nothing else for it," she said firmly. "I know what I must do!"

"Pillory poor Sticks in the village square until she confesses, I suppose," he grumbled.

"I shall write to Mama!"

"Don't do that," he hissed, as if Lady Crewe might somehow hear them all the way down in Yorkshire. "Whenever you write, she seems to take that as some cue to... to visit," Ian finished, horrified.

"If that's what it takes..."

***************

Crewe House, Yorkshire

August, 1815

6 weeks earlier...

***************

Lady Crewe huffed as the Duchess of Dartmore and Mrs. Fiona Douglass continued talking of the lace on their caps, as if there weren't more important things to discuss. When huffing had no effect whatsoever, she pointedly cleared her throat. "Now that we are all present—"

"Really, Constance," Her Grace drawled. "We've only just sat down. Tea hasn't even come. Surely we have a moment for pleasantries."

Mrs. Douglass, Constance's housekeeper and her dearest friend, glanced back toward the door to the Rose Room. "Should I see what's keeping Agnes?"

Constance shook her head. "I think our time would be best—"

The Duchess waved a hand. "No need to rush the poor girl," she said, as if this were her house. "Now about that lace. You're paying an exorbitant price and I should know. I've a woman in Leeds who makes much sturdier stuff and for half what you're paying from this Phillips woman."

"It's Madame Phillipe," Constance corrected, "and I think patronizing our own village shops is—"

"Whatever she calls herself now, it's a shameless over-charge," Her Grace said over her, "especially to a woman in service with limited means. No, you'd do much better using my suppliers."

Constance thought it very crass of Aunt Muriel to insist on talking of wages, cloth business, and the price of lace, but she supposed the older woman felt at ease to do as she wished here... as well as everywhere else. Perhaps she thought Crewe house an extension of one of the mills and warehouses publicly owned by her son, but in truth run on her orders. If Constance were in such a position, not that she would be, she wouldn't be so careless about it.

Constance reminded herself to bite her tongue. Muriel was her husband's aunt and had been very generous in settling dowries upon her daughters. More than that, since the madness involving Charity's marriage to Mrs. Douglass's son, the two of them had settled into an uneasy detente, determined to see that her eldest made a more advantageous marriage.

Not that Lady Crewe didn't love her son-in-law quite dearly, but viscount or not, Ian wasn't the match she envisioned for her sweet, biddable, charmingly sociable Charity. There'd been a marquess who was absolutely besotted with her until Charity inexplicably...

Well, that was a tale that could fill one of Prudence's scandalous novels — the ones she always had her nose in when she wasn't covered in paint. She'd always thought Prudence was her greatest cross to bear, but Charity seemed to put herself in direct competition two years ago. Suffice it to say, after everything that happened, she should strike biddable off the list of Charity's best qualities. Perhaps sociable, too, since her daughter now had no society to mingle with except that nosy, backwards village.

Constance should know. She grew up in such a village and was grateful to be done with the ill-mannered lot. Even when she visited her father, everyone insisted on calling her Constance or even Connie rather than Lady Crewe, which was simply galling. She'd wanted better for her daughters. She wanted them to fit into this upper echelon in the way she so dearly wished to. Yet Charity claimed she was happy. Then again, as she glanced at Mrs. Douglass, she didn't much mind sharing a granddaughter with her dearest friend. If anything, they were both in agreement that Little Harmony was the most precious thing to ever grace the earth.

"I did think it funny," Mrs. Douglass was saying in her soft, Scottish brogue, "that her prices increased so abruptly."

The Duchess chuckled. "Likely she knows your son's a viscount and thinks that justifies it."

"Do you think that could be why?" Mrs. Douglass shook her head and laughed. "Douglass Hall is doing better, but not enough for my son to send me three pounds to waste on a spool of lace. Though he would if I asked, the silly boy."

"Ian's a doting son, I'll give you that. But not with a groat to spare," Muriel grunted. "Phillips must think he's more solvent than he is."

Constance huffed again. And now they were talking of solvency? She might as well be at dinner with her husband and his ledger! She tapped her fan on the table. "Can we please come to order?"

Her Grace glanced heavenward. "Good Lord, Constance, this is not a meeting of your embroidery circle. There's no need for such formalities between the three of us."

"I quite disagree, Aunt Muriel," she said pointedly. "It is rare the three of us are able to convene and some structure is needed so conversations stay on topics of urgency and don't devolve into cloth and money," she finished on a hiss. "Hadn't we three agreed to put our minds to a single purpose? Now you said you had a letter and I would rather hear—"

"Oh, yes. The letter," Muriel said slowly, looking quite like a cat who'd got the canary as she pulled it from her reticule. "Well, first you must know a bit about the—"

At that, there was a knock on the door and Constance gritted her teeth that she'd have to suffer the agony of being put off further, though her spirits did rise a bit at the smell of nutty buns wafting through the crack in the door as she bid Agnes enter.

It wasn't Agnes, however, but Emilia. "I'm sorry ye've been waiting, Ma'am."

"Is Agnes unwell?" Mrs. Douglass asked with some concern.

Though Emilia's duties once included such things, she'd been a lady's maid for over three years, at least.

"Not at all," Emilia said. "She must be held up shopping in the village, so I thought I'd better bring it m'self than keep you waiting longer."

Constance placed a hand over Emilia's arm as she set the tray down. "So kind of you, Emilie. But isn't this your day off?"

"Aye, but I just lingered a little after breakfast. Poor Cook doesn't like being left all on her own."

"With no one to shout at, you mean," Lady Crewe said wryly.

Emilia smiled. "Well, I didn't want to say..."

"Of course not, you dear girl."

Though Lady Crewe had, upon learning of Charity's sudden marriage, put some share of the blame on Emilia, she'd soon come to realize the poor girl had simply been swept along in Charity's reckless wake. Really, she should have known. She'd never had a complaint about Emilia, who was skilled enough to make even Prudence presentable, something Prudence seemed to resist at every turn. She was quite familiar with their muffled arguments and made sure to poke her head in to take Emilia's part whenever possible. Even for supper at home, Emilia insisted proper dress must be observed and Lady Crewe quite agreed.

Poor thing, to first suffer her youngest daughter's recklessness and now her eldest daughter's mulish ways. She had a good mind to have Emilia join them for this meeting of minds, since she was surely on the right side of things.

"If there's nothing further," Emilia said, "I'll be off to the village m'self."

It was just as well. Her father had been ill as of late. "You give your father my regards and tell Cook to give you some chops to take with you. We've far too many," Lady Crewe said, feeling magnanimous. What would they do without Emilia, after all?

"Are ye certain?"

"Tell Cook to direct any shouting on the matter to me."

"Thank you, M'lady." The girl dipped and showed herself out.

Constance turned to the others. "Now, back to the l—"

"The lace, yes." Aunt Muriel turned to Mrs. Douglass. "Now that I think of it, there's a fine tatter in York. Much closer to—"

"I didn't mean that and well you know it," Constance burst out, quite certain from the smirk on Muriel's face she was deliberately vexing her. "What's in this blasted letter?"

"Such language, Constance. One might mistake you for a farmer's daughter," the Duchess tutted before taking a long sip of her tea.

Constance narrowed her eyes. "Better that than a cloth merchant."

"Now, now. If the two of you start sniping," Mrs. Douglass said gently, "Her Grace will have to stay the night." Mrs. Douglass slid her a plate with two nutty buns. Constance decided that meant she was on her side and was mollified. "Your Grace, if you would please share your letter..."

"Now that I've been asked nicely," the older lady harrumphed. "I've had a letter from Mrs. Baddeley, one of my oldest friends. She's come down in the world, but before I married, she was one of the few women who, at the time, was not too snobbish to associate with the daughter of a cloth merchant," she said with a scathing glance at Constance.

"Well! Since you called me a farmer's—"

Mrs. Douglass put a hand on Constance's arm, though she spoke to the Duchess. "The poor woman. She sounds too kind to have fallen on hard times. Whatever could have happened?"

Constance contained her ire, also a bit curious.

"Bad investments, no children, estate entailed to some beastly second cousin who refused to do his duty by her," Muriel went on. "She makes her way as best she can on the kindness of relations and friends. She won't accept a thing from me except an invitation here and there or the odd present. So I was quite surprised that she wrote to request my aid. Not of the monetary kind, though." Here, Muriel stopped to take another gratuitous sip of her tea.

Constance held her tongue with saint-like patience... for a full five seconds. "And? What can this have to do with Prudence?"

"I am getting to it." Muriel placed her cup down. "Now, Mrs. Baddeley does have some family. She is presently staying with her nephew, Sir Anthony Pembroke, keeping house and organizing what she claims will be a very lavish house party at his estate in Cambridgeshire, outside Linton. I was surprised she used the word 'lavish' as, from what I know of the man, who I've only met once or twice, he's a baronet from the less distinguished part of the family and though the house is a fine one, the second half of his name is an accurate description of his financial state. Yet it seems the young man, upon meeting Prudence in London, was quite taken with her."

"A baronet?" Lady Crewe shook her head. "Yet another fortune hunter, I'd wager."

"I suspect you would be correct, however I didn't want to dismiss this invitation entirely, coming from a friend. However kindly Mrs. Baddeley paints the other guests, I've had a man look into them and if they aren't titles without money, they're money with low connections. And I think, considering Prudence's efforts or lack thereof among the—"

Lady Crewe put up a hand. "Absolutely not. I will grant you that Prudence hasn't put forth her best efforts this season... or the other five," she added on a mutter, "but that's no reason to toss her at some fortune-hunting baronet all the way in Cambri—"

"That's not what I'm proposing at all. Do you not trust me?"

"I didn't say that." Though she might not like Aunt Muriel, a feeling that was mutual, she did trust her to at least some extent.

"I don't think you realize how much work I do on your behalf," Muriel went on, "and my nephew's. I have introduced Prudence to countless young men who would suit both your needs and hers. Poets, art collectors, scholars, all from good families, of course. But she still insists she will not marry even if I parade her in front of Prinny like a prized mare — her words. Not mine. She's determined to wait me out. And we don't have much time left."

"And what does that mean? Besides the obvious." Prudence was now twenty-three and still unmarried, but not completely on the shelf.

"Never you mind," Muriel sighed. "My proposal is this; if Prudence is so fastidious she refuses to make a match among the upper rungs, perhaps it would be a... humbling experience to see her choices among the lower half."

"Humbling or dangerous?" Mrs. Douglass put in, glancing between them. "Knowing Miss Prudence—"

"Yes," Lady Crewe said desperately. "It would be just like that girl to go fall madly in love with some impoverished poet if only to spite me!"

Muriel laughed. "Trust me. Prudence is at no risk of falling for Sir Anthony. I've never met a more empty-headed charmer. She is quite capable of putting him in his place. Still, I'd rather she accept the invitation than not. I owe a lot to Mrs. Baddeley, if only for introducing me to my dear late husband."

"Enough to risk Prudence running off with one of the others?"

"I don't see any danger there, either."

"How do you know—"

"When I say I've done my research, I mean it." She tapped the letter. "Not a man there would interest her. An architect, an industrialist, and a..." She drew the letter away, squinting at it. "An entomologist, which I understand is some sort of insect enthusiast. Not a frustrated poet, painter, or Shakespeare scholar among them. I'm quite positive she'll find the entire experience deadly dull. After she returns, I think we might see a marked enthusiasm for her next season if she doesn't wish to be sent to another such gathering."

"But can she even be persuaded to attend this party or any other?" Mrs. Douglass asked. "She is now twenty-three, and two years past being told what to do."

"As she likes to remind me whenever possible," Lady Crewe sniffed.

"Not by me," Aunt Muriel said in what Lady Crewe thought was an unbearably smug sort of tone. She wasn't certain what transpired between her eldest daughter and her great aunt during their time together. But in the last two years, it was obvious Muriel held more sway over Prudence and her decisions than her own mother — a frustrating business!

Maddening as it was, it was still better than her bluestocking daughter being beholden to no one. She took a bite of Cook's excellent nutty bun, considering. Prudence could do with a bit of humbling.

And, as long as Emilia was with her, she wasn't likely to get up to too much mischief.

"I think it a fine idea."

TBC

*****************

Hi, everyone! Both to those returning to this series and those coming in fresh! I'm so glad to be back with these characters in their little world.

Two years ago today, I started posting The Lady Pursues. It's been such a great experience that I'm beyond excited to share a new story.

If you haven't read the first book in this series, The Lady Pursues, you don't necessarily need to, but I will say that reading it and meeting these characters in that book will greatly enhance your enjoyment of them here.