Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's ListSaved by the Viking WarriorThe Pirate Hunter Read online

  ‘I don’t need a woman to bring anything but herself to the union,’ he finished belligerently.

  Once again it was Ashe who defused the tension, by summoning the waiter who’d been hovering at a discreet distance, and asking him to fetch ink and paper.

  ‘What we need to do, I think, is to make a comprehensive list of exactly what you do need, before we set our minds to the problem of how you may acquire it.’

  ‘There,’ cried Chepstow triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I say that Ashe was the very fellow to help? I’ll just...’ He half rose from his chair.

  Havelock only had to glare at him for a second or two to take the wind out of his sails. A gentleman didn’t bail out on his friends when they’d gone to him for help. Havelock had stood by Chepstow every time he’d needed help getting out of a scrape. Now the boot was on the other foot, he expected a similar show of loyalty.

  Chepstow subsided into his seat with an air of resignation and, in a hollow voice, asked the waiter, who just then arrived with the writing materials, to bring them another bottle of wine.

  ‘So,’ said Ashe, dipping the pen into the ink, ‘you do not require beauty, or wealth, in your prospective bride. But you do require a compliant nature—’

  ‘A mouse,’ repeated Morgan derisively.

  Ashe shot him a reproving look over the top of his spectacles.

  ‘Undemanding. And not one of the circle in which you habitually move.’

  At Havelock’s shudder, Ashe wrote, not of the upper ten thousand on his list.

  ‘Any other requirements?’ He paused, his hand hovering over the paper.

  Havelock frowned as he considered.

  ‘Quite a few, actually. That’s what makes it all so damned difficult.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, for what felt like the thousandth time that day. Not that it made any difference to the style, or rather lack of it. It was fortunate he wasn’t obsessed with his appearance, for his thick, curly hair did whatever it wanted. Impervious to comb, or pomade, the only thing was to keep it short and hope for the best.

  ‘I don’t want a woman with any family to speak of,’ he said with feeling.

  ‘You mean...no titled family?’ The nabob’s son shot him a glance loaded with sympathy. ‘Wouldn’t want them looking down on you.’

  Before Havelock had a chance to get up, seize the fellow by the throat and give him a shaking, Ashe put in mildly, ‘Morgan is not aware of how very well connected you are, Havelock. I am sure he meant no insult.’

  No, Havelock sighed. He probably didn’t. And anyway, he’d already decided to forgo the pleasure of indulging in a decent set-to with anyone within the walls of this club.

  ‘Look, I’m related to half the bloody ton as it is,’ he explained to the bemused Morgan. ‘What with stepbrothers, and stepsisters, and all the attendant stepcousins and aunts and uncles and such like all thinking they have a right to poke their nose into my affairs, I don’t want someone bringing yet another set of relatives into my life and making it any more complicated, thank you very much.’

  He saw Ashe write the word orphan on the list.

  Morgan nodded. ‘Makes sense. And an orphan, a girl with no family to support her, is all the more likely to agree to the kind of bargain you seem determined to strike.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Chepstow poured a large measure of wine into Havelock’s empty glass and nudged it towards him.

  ‘I am sure Morgan meant nothing you need take offence at, Havelock,’ reproved Ashe in the reasonable tone that so many men found damned supercilious.

  He was beginning to understand why.

  Havelock folded his arms and glared across the table.

  To his credit, Morgan met his look without blinking.

  Ashe removed his spectacles and set to polishing them with a silk handkerchief he produced from an inner pocket of his tailcoat. ‘May I make a suggestion?’

  ‘I wish you would. It’s why I came in here, after all. See if anyone could help me find a way through this...morass,’ said Havelock.

  ‘Well, for myself,’ said Ashe diffidently, ‘I could not stand to be married to a woman who did not possess a keen intellect.’

  ‘Lord,’ said Havelock, aghast. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with a bluestocking!’

  ‘Oh, come,’ said Lord Chepstow, his devilish grin returning for the first time since they’d sat down. He then proceeded to offer a variety of suggestions about what exactly a man could do with a bluestocking, her garters, and various other items of apparel before descending into a spate of vulgarity that, though a little off the topic at hand, did at least serve to lighten the atmosphere.

  When they’d stopped laughing, had wiped their eyes, topped up all their glasses and called for another bottle of wine, Ashe brought them all back to the point.

  ‘You mustn’t forget that this woman, whoever she may be, will be the mother of your children, Havelock. So, as well as considering what kind of woman you could tolerate living under your roof, you should also ask yourself what kind of children do you want to sire? For myself, I would hope my own offspring would have the capacity to make me proud. I would hate to think,’ he said, giving Havelock a particularly penetrating look, ‘that I had curtailed my own freedom only to produce a brood of idiots.’

  Havelock ran his fingers through his hair yet again. ‘You are in the right of it.’ He sighed. ‘Must think of the succession. Very well, put that on your list, Ashe. Not completely hen-witted.’

  Since Ashe was taking a sip of wine it was Morgan who picked up the pen and wrote that down.

  ‘I want her to be kind, too,’ declared Havelock with some force. ‘Good with youngsters. Not one of these women who think only of themselves.’

  ‘Good, good, now we are really getting somewhere,’ said Ashe, as Morgan added these further points to the steadily growing list.

  ‘It’s all very well making a list,’ put in Morgan, tossing the pen aside. ‘But how do you propose finding a woman who meets all your requirements? Put an advertisement in the papers?’

  ‘God, no! Don’t want the whole world to know how desperate I am to find a wife. I’d have every matchmaking mama within fifty miles of town descending on me with their simpering daughters in tow. Besides...’ he shook his head ‘...it would take too long. Much too long. Only think of having the advertisement put in, then waiting for women to reply, then sifting through the mountain of responses, then having to interview them all...’

  Morgan let out a bark of laughter. ‘You are so sure you will have hundreds of replies, are you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Havelock testily. ‘I’ve had women flinging themselves at me every Season for the past half-dozen years.’

  ‘And during summer house parties,’ put in Chepstow.

  ‘There was that Christmas house party, wasn’t there,’ Ashe added, ‘where—’

  ‘Never mind that!’ Havelock interrupted swiftly. ‘I thought we’d agreed never to speak of that episode again.’

  ‘Then there was that filly at the races,’ said Chepstow.

  Morgan laughed again. ‘Very well. You have all convinced me. Havelock is indeed one of those men that society misses regard as a matrimonial prize.’ Though the way he looked at Havelock conveyed his opinion that there was just no understanding the workings of the female mind.

  ‘And you wouldn’t believe some of the tricks they’ve employed in their attempts to bag me,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Couldn’t you simply settle with one of these women who’ve shown themselves so keen to, um, bag you? That would save you time, wouldn’t it?’

  Havelock gave Morgan a cold stare, before saying, ‘No. Absolutely not. Can’t stand women who flutter their eyelashes and pretend to swoon, and flaunt their bosoms in your face at every opportunity.’


  Modest, he noted Ashe write on the bottom of the list, out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘And anyway, the girls I already know, the ones who have made it plain they want me, have also made it plain they want a damn sight more from me than I’m willing to give. I’d make them miserable. So then they’d make damn sure they made me miserable.’

  Ashe dipped his pen in the inkwell one more time, and wrote, not looking for affection from matrimony.

  Morgan frowned down at the list, sipping at his drink. ‘What this list describes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘is a woman who is willing to consider a businesslike arrangement. Someone from a respectable family that has fallen on hard times, perhaps. Someone who would like to have children, but has no hopes of gaining a suitor through the normal way.’

  ‘Normal way?’

  ‘Feminine wiles,’ supplied Morgan helpfully.

  ‘Oh, them,’ huffed Havelock. ‘No. I definitely don’t want a wife who’s got too many feminine wiles. I’d rather she was straightforward.’

  Honest, wrote Ashe.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Chepstow, peering rather blearily at the list. ‘You will never, ever, find a woman who has all those attributes, no matter how long you look.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Morgan. ‘There are any number of genteel poor eking out an existence in London right at this moment. With daughters aplenty who’d give their eye teeth to receive a proposal from a man of Havelock’s standing, from what you tell me. I’m tolerably sure that he could find one or two amongst them who would have at least a couple of the character traits he finds important. Particularly if he’s not going to be put off by a plain face.’

  Havelock leaned forward in his seat. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And do you know where I might find them?’

  Morgan leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other, and stared hard at the wall behind Havelock’s head. The other men at the table waited with bated breath for his answer.

  ‘Do you know, I rather think I do. I could probably introduce you to a couple of likely prospects tomorrow night, if you don’t mind—’ He broke off, eyeing Havelock’s less-than-pristine garb, and laughed. ‘No, you don’t look like a chap who stands on ceremony. And I have an invitation to a ball, given by people who will never be accepted into the very top echelons of society, for all their wealth. Yet, amongst their guests, there are always a number of people in the exact circumstances to be of use to you. Good families, fallen on hard times, who have to put up with what society they can get. I dare say every single female there of marriageable age will look upon you as a godsend.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t mind taking me to such a ball?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Morgan affably. ‘Is that not what friends are for? To help a fellow out?’

  It was. He’d been on the verge of being disappointed in Chepstow. But really, the fellow had done what he could. He’d brought him to Ashe, who’d helped him to get his thoughts set down in a logical fashion, and introduced him to Morgan, who was going to give him practical assistance.

  ‘To friendship,’ he said, raising his glass to the three men sitting round the table with him.

  ‘And marriage,’ said Ashe, lifting his glass in response.

  ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ said Lord Chepstow, his glass stopping a mere inch from his lips. ‘To Havelock’s marriage, perhaps. Not the institution as such.’

  ‘Havelock’s marriage, then,’ said Ashe.

  ‘Havelock’s bride,’ said Morgan, downing his own drink in one go and reaching for the bottle.

  ‘Yes, don’t mind drinking to her,’ said Chepstow. ‘Your bride, my friend.’

  And let’s hope, thought Havelock as he carefully folded the list and put it in his pocket, that the woman who possesses at least the most important of these attributes will be at the ball tomorrow night.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Can you really do nothing better with your hair?’

  Mary lowered her gaze to the floor and shook her head as Aunt Pargetter sighed.

  ‘Couldn’t you at least have borrowed Lotty’s tongs? I am sure she wouldn’t begrudge them to you. If you could only get just a leetle curl into it, I am sure it would look far more fetching than just letting it hang round your face like a curtain.’

  Mary put her hand to her head to check that the neat bun, in which she’d fastened her hair earlier, hadn’t already come undone.

  ‘No, no,’ said Aunt Pargetter with exasperation. ‘It hasn’t come down yet. I am talking in generalities.’

  Oh, those. She’d heard a lot of those over the past few months. Generalities uttered by lawyers about indigent females, by relations about the cost of doing their duty and by coach drivers about passengers who didn’t give tips. She’d also heard a lot of specifics. Which informed her exactly how she’d become indigent and why each set of people she’d been sent to in turn couldn’t, at present, offer her a home.

  ‘Now, I know you feel a little awkward about attending a ball when you are still in mourning,’ Aunt Pargetter went on remorselessly. ‘But I just cannot leave you here on your own this evening to mope. And besides, there will be any number of eligible men there tonight. Who is to say you won’t catch someone’s eye and then all your problems will be solved?’

  Mary’s head flew up at that, her eyes wide. Aunt Pargetter was talking of marriage. Marriage! As if that was the answer to any woman’s problems.

  She shivered and lowered her gaze again, pressing her lips tightly together. It would solve Aunt Pargetter’s problems, right enough. She hadn’t said so, but Mary could see that keeping her fed and housed for any length of time would strain the family’s already limited resources. But, rather than throwing up her hands, and passing her on to yet another member of the family upon whom Mary might have a tenuous claim, Aunt Pargetter had just taken her in, patted her hand and told her she needn’t worry any longer. That she’d look after her.

  Mary just hadn’t realised that Aunt Pargetter’s plan for looking after her involved marrying her off.

  ‘You need to lift your head a little more and look about you,’ advised Aunt Pargetter, approaching her with her hand outstretched. She lifted Mary’s chin and said, ‘You have fine eyes, you know. What my girls wouldn’t give for lashes like yours.’ She sighed, shaking her head. And then, before Mary had any idea she might be under attack and could take evasive action, the woman pinched both her cheeks. ‘There. That’s put a little colour in your face. Now all you need to do is put on a smile, as though you are enjoying yourself, and you won’t look quite so...’

  Repulsive. Plain. Dowdy.

  ‘Unappealing,’ Aunt Pargetter finished. ‘You could be fairly pretty, you know, if only you would...’ She waved her hands in exasperation, but was saved from having to come up with a word that would miraculously make Mary not sound as though she was completely miserable when her own daughters bounced into the room in a froth of curls and flounces.

  Aunt Pargetter had no time left to spare on Mary when her beloved girls needed a final inspection, and just a little extra primping, before she bundled them all into the hired hack they couldn’t afford to keep waiting.

  ‘We have an invitation from a family by the name of Crimmer tonight,’ Aunt Pargetter explained to Mary as the hack jolted over the cobbles. ‘They are not the sort who would object to me bringing along another guest, so don’t you go worrying your head about not receiving a formal invitation.’

  Mary’s eyes nevertheless widened in alarm. She hadn’t any idea her aunt would have taken her to this event without forewarning her hosts.

  Aunt Pargetter reached across the coach and patted her hand. ‘I shall just explain you have only recently arrived for a visit, which is perfectly true. Besides, the Crimmers will love being able
to boast that their annual ball has become so popular everyone wants to attend. But what is even more fortunate for you, my dear, is that they have two sons to find brides for, not that the younger is quite old enough yet, and I’ve heard rumours that the older one is more or less spoken for.’

  As Mary frowned in bewilderment at the contradictory nature of that somewhat rambling statement, her aunt explained, ‘The point is, they have a lot of wealthy friends with sons who must be on the lookout for a wife, as well. Especially one as well connected as you.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mama?’ Charlotte shot a puzzled glance at Mary. It had clearly come as a shock to her to hear there might be anything that could possibly make Mary a likely prospect on the marriage mart, when all week they’d been thinking of her as the poor relation.

  ‘Well, although her poor dear mama was my cousin, by marriage, her papa was a younger son of the youngest daughter of the Earl of Finchingfield.’

  Mary’s heart sank. Her well-meaning aunt clearly meant to spread news of her bloodlines about tonight as though she were some...brood mare.

  ‘But if she’s related to the Earl of Finchingfield, why hasn’t she gone to him?’ Dorothy, Charlotte’s younger, and prettier, sister, piped up.

  That was a good question. And Mary turned to Aunt Pargetter with real interest, to see how she would explain the tangle that had been her mother’s married life.

  ‘Oh, the usual thing,’ said her aunt with an airy wave of her hand. ‘Somebody didn’t approve of the marriage, someone threatened to cut someone off, people stopped speaking to one another and, before you knew it, a huge rift had opened up. But Mary’s mother’s people still know how to do their duty, I hope, when a child is involved. Not that you are a child any longer, Mary, but you know what I mean. It isn’t fair for you to have to suffer the consequences of the mistakes your parents made.’