Page 1 of A Brilliant Match
Chapter1
March, 1805
Grosvenor Square, London
Sounds of the bustle of opening up a long-dormant residence erupted in all corners of the late Earl of Poole’s London house, most favorably situated on Grosvenor Square. Lady Dorothea Rowlandson, eldest sister to the next earl in line, sat at the Hepplewhite writing desk in a bedroom she’d only once had occasion to use and sifted through the stack of letters she had brought to London with her. Every one of them was addressed to The Right Honourable the Earl of Poole.
Two letters were covered with the spidery handwriting of Lady Cowper and the more youthful scrawl of Lady Jersey, both of whom she had learned were London’s arbiters of thetonin their role as patronesses of Almack’s. It should be a natural thing that Dorothea and her sister be accepted into Society because of their father, but such a conclusion was not foregone since they had never been introduced to any of the patronesses—nor anyone else of consequence, really.
Other letters sported more masculine scrawls—some names with which she was familiar, such as Lord Berkley, but most with whom she was not. More than one letter was written by the hand of a certain Archibald Stanley, but she could not tell from the contents of his letter if he was a gentleman or a merchant, and therefore could not be sure if he would be a useful person to know. Amidst the more usual correspondence were also scented letters from women with the names Mrs. Grace Plummet and Mrs. Rosalie Kavanaugh, but the letters dripped with more intimacy than was proper between a married earl and a woman betrothed to someone else. Dorothea had not troubled her mother with the task of looking through any of the correspondence from her late father and had certainly not made her privy to those letters.
Once again, she sorted the correspondence into stacks, hesitating over certain names whose consequence in thetonshe could not immediately divine. Then, smoothing her hand over those letters more pertinent to her quest—all of them softened with age and rereading—she allowed her gaze to roam around the unfamiliar room. Behind her, a fire crackled in the grate of the marble fireplace. On the opposite corner of the front-facing bedroom was a bookcase filled with books on history and agriculture she was unlikely to read, not a novel to be found among them. The four-poster bed was made up with a white and blue counterpane and pale blue bed curtains. And the dressing table held a mirror that seemed to have been recently replaced, as the glass had not yet blackened with age.
She looked down at Mr. Stanley’s name again, puzzling over the contents of one letter, which mentioned investments but no gentlemen’s clubs. It included another one of his invitations to a “cozy evening’s entertainment at his house,” which left her none the wiser about his importance to her late father.
But now was not the time to ruminate on things she had no answer to—or to wonder again at their father’s neglect in bringing them to Society’s notice. Time was running out before her first London event that evening, and she must learn as much as she could about its members so she might take her place among them without faltering.
“Dorothea.”
Her mother stood at the bedroom door, her hand on its post as though to prop herself up. Lady Poole was a faded version of her second-eldest daughter, Sophia, although very little of the beauty she had bequeathed her remained in evidence.
She cast a pleading glance at her daughter. “I do believe we should send our regrets for this evening. We have only arrived in London this morning. It is all too much to contemplate going out again so soon.”
“We shall not stay late, Mama,” Dorothea soothed, coming over to take her mother’s arm. “There are several hours yet in which you might rest. Let me take you to your room, and I’ll have Mrs. Platt bring you a tray with tea.”
“I fear I shall needdaysand not hours to recover. I was already worn through from worry over Tilly.”
Her frail mother fussed in that way back to her room but allowed herself to be persuaded of the necessity of attending the opening ball, adding only how regrettable it was that such a thing must be undertaken without the escort of their father, who had been most attentive to family duties up until his death.
At such a fictitious tribute, Dorothea pinched her lips together to prevent a wayward retort and went over to tug on the bell pull, returning to settle her mother comfortably into a chair. After giving the orders to Mrs. Platt and reassuring her mother as well as she could, she strode back to her room.
“Dorry!” Her third youngest sister popped her head out of her room when she passed it. “You forgot to tell Betty to pack my braided riding crop. You know ’tis the one I prefer. I should not like to use a borrowed crop. Perhaps you might send for it?”
“You were to oversee your own trunk, Joanna,” she answered without pausing in her steps. “You are fifteen, for heaven’s sake. See if Miss Cross remembered to have it packed.”
Miss Cross had served as governess to the three eldest daughters—and their brother before he went off to Eton—and now had charge of the youngest two. Contrary to her name, she was a sweet, plump woman who managed to teach the basic arts essential to any young lady, but without any real authority.
“Found it!” Joanna shouted a moment later. “It was at the bottom of my trunk.”
Miss Cross hurried by, her sewing kit in hand. “Oh dear, is anything amiss? I was quite sure we’d thought of everything.”
Dorothea reentered her room, her brows constricted. They most assuredly didnothave everything. As the eldest daughter, she was embarking upon her season an entire year after she was supposed to have done so. And rather than being in a position to help Sophia establish her place in Society as her oldermarriedsister, Dorothea was to come out at the same time as her. Besides that, the two gentlemen she had decided were an interesting catch last year had both found a bride in that same season. There might not be such eligible options again this year.
Alas, her coming out last year had had to be pushed off. The Fourth Earl of Poole fell off his horse after imbibing too much at a country party, and a letter with the news of such arrived at the manor two days later. Dorothea ordered new black gowns for every one of them, mourning attire for the servants, and a black coat for young Everard, her brother of twelve, who was now the Fifth Earl of Poole. She had the servants drape the windows in black crepe and set a hatchment upon the front door. Then, in the weeks that followed, she received any number of callers with the support of her sisters Sophia and Camilla, since her mother found the effort beyond what must be asked of a woman prostrate with grief. Dorothea had carefully wrapped every one of her newly made gowns in silver paper—and with those, her hopes—to be thought of only the following year. And now the season was once again upon them.
Her eyes fell on the discarded stack of correspondence on the desk. From it, she pulled a letter from the hand of a Mr. Plummet, less than friendly in nature, and attempted to see through what was written and discern if this was indeed the Plummet of thescented letter.
“I know I am not to attend any of the parties this year,” her second youngest sister announced, entering Dorothea’s bedroom without ceremony. “But I am convinced I do not have enough gowns even for the occasions Iamto be part of. I must have grown a full head since last year and none of my silk gowns fit.”
Dorothea set down the letter and raised her eyes to her sister, releasing a silent breath. As her sister’s words registered, she pursed her lips and refrained from stating the less-than-flattering truth. Camilla had not just grown in height.
“You cannot have grown a full head. Besides,” Dorothea assured her, “I have taken care of the matter, just as I promised I would. Pen is letting out the seams of my old gowns that have enough fabric to allow it. I’ve written ahead to secure an appointment with amodisteas soon as one might be arranged, and your gowns will go to Joanna.”
Camilla gave an unladylike snort. “Shewill not wear them.”
“To Tilly, then,” Dorothea said, striving for patience with the sister who held the unfortunate place of middle child, and who combatted a lack of confidence with a grating bluster that must be refined out of her before she was to come out next year. “But do give me some time alone to think, dear. I have much to see to before we leave tonight.”
Camilla made a face and left the room, sparing Dorothea a few minutes of peace before it would be stolen from her. It always was. She carried the letters over to the armchair, placed near the warmth of the fireplace, and dropped half of them when she went to tug her shawl back over one shoulder. With a hiss of frustration, she bent down to collect the letters.
