Gwen watched her mother’s brisk steps as she fled the sun. When the lady was gone from sight, she looked down at the charcoals still in her lap, then up to yet another nanny strolling through the park with her charges. Inevitably her thoughts returned to where they’d been before her mother interrupted her musing. Though she stared at different children and a different nanny, the question returned, circling over and over through her mind.
Taking her pencil, she opened her journal. She skipped over the horrid doodle she’d made earlier and began at the top of a fresh page. On it she wrote,
On the 28thanniversary of my birth, I have decided I want to have children. Specifically, I want to raise a girl in the way she ought to be reared—with respect for her mind and a willingness to indulge her curiosity wherever it might lead. Therefore, as of today, I shall endeavor to find a man capable of siring a smart girl child.
She stared at her words for a long time. She re-read it a dozen times. In the end, she forced herself to make a single correction. She changed the word “man” to “husband.”
She would find a husband this Season.
“On the shelf, be damned,” she muttered.
Chapter Three
Jackson felt ridiculous.He stood next to the orchestra at Vauxhall in furred breeches meant to resemble goat legs. That was bad enough, but he hadn’t wanted to spend the money for a specially fashioned shirt. The price of a goat horned mask had been ridiculous enough. So he’d sacrificed one of his few waistcoats to his Lord Satyr costume. He dirtied it and wore it unbuttoned over his bare chest as all the best goat-men did. Then he added a cape to cover up when the situation warranted. Which was right now, he realized, as he saw Mr. Brayden Murphy walk up the path with his new, young wife.
“Welcome to the festivities,” said Jackson as he twitched the cape around his shoulders to cover the bulk of his nakedness. Then, to amuse Mrs. Murphy, he performed a goat leap in her direction before bowing deeply before them. “I am pleased you could attend. Tell me of your desire, and I shall see it fulfilled forthwith.”
Mrs. Murphy giggled like a schoolgirl. “Lord Satyr, I presume?” she trilled.
“The very same. And you must be fair Titania with your Oberon.” He gestured to her fairy costume and her husband’s much more restrained attire.
“Oh, no one so grand,” the lady said. “I am Peasbottom, and he is Cobweb.”
“A Midnight Summer’s Dreamis a favorite of mine.”
“Mine, too!” she cried.
“And if I might be so bold, a few more of the fair folk have found seats at the box just there.”
Mrs. Murphy followed the line of his gesture and let out a gasp of delight. “I knew Anna would pick the red gown. I told her the blue was much better suited for her hair, but she would insist.” She glanced at her husband. “You don’t mind, do you darling, if I go have a word with her?”
“Not in the least, my dear,” Mr. Murphy said and then smiled with fond infatuation as she pranced across the way to her friends. “Mark my words, Sayres,” he said. “A young wife brings life back into the home. Her amusements are trivial and easily satisfied, and she has not had time to grow bitter.”
Jackson quirked his brow. “I think that depends on the young wife, but it seems you have found a delightful one.”
“I have indeed,” the man said with a grin. “You should think of joining the matrimonial estate.”
Not bloody likely. He had enough women in his life with Isabelle causing problems and his three sisters at home waiting for him to bring them to London. He could not see what could possibly be gained by adding another female to his life. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he chuckled heartily as if he agreed, then spoke about what really interested him.
“If it please you,” Jackson said, “I have saved back some excellent claret in the hopes that you would accept my invitation. I should like to discuss—”
Murphy held up his hand. “Save your breath, Sayres. I know what you want, and I cannot comply.”
“I cry foul! You cannot know what—”
“You want to invest in my coal venture. I don’t know how you heard about it, but it doesn’t matter. I cannot run foul of Lady Meunier. She can be vindictive, as I’m sure you’re learning.”
True on all counts. Far from giving him until the masquerade to change his mind, Isabelle had waited a single day before she set about ruining him. Thanks to years of economy, he had a tidy sum to invest in the right venture, but now no one would take his money. He had spent the last weeks casting further and wider for someone who would risk annoying the lady. Mr. Murphy was his last hope.
“You despise her,” Jackson pressed. “You hate her methods, have called her a viper, and—”
“I still use her canals.”
Everyone used them. They were a main thoroughfare for goods coming into London. The irony was that Jackson had been instrumental in securing Isabelle’s monopoly. “I have a way around that,” he said.
Murphy’s brows lifted. “How?”
“Horses, primarily—”