Refuse an offer of marriage with grace and great delicacy.
The Rules (according to Dara)
Because even boorish men are fragile creatures.
Tweedie’s interpretation
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Dara Lanscarr chided as she scrambled her way up the wooded hill, trampling bluebells in her mad dash to reach Wiltham House.
“I’m caught!” her sister Elise shouted. Elise was a year younger than Dara’s one-and-twenty. It had been years since either of them had run this hard.
Dara turned to see Elise trying to unsnag her hem from the dead wood of a fallen limb. “Tear it,” she ordered. “We will repair it later. We have to stop Squire Davies.”
“I’m trying,” Elise snapped back.
Huffing her impatience, Dara stumbled back down toward her sister, her own skirts in danger of tangling. She deftly unsnagged Elise’s hem before grabbing her hand. “Run.”
Together, the women charged toward the crest of the hill, before stopping to catch their breaths. Below them, the white walls of Wiltham, their family home, shone bright against the dark green of the forest—and their fears had not been unfounded. Squire Davies’s bony chestnut was being walked by a stable hand.
“We’re too late,” Elise said.
“We can’t think that way,” Dara snapped. “We are going to save Gwendolyn.” On that vow, she grabbed her skirts up with one hand and practically dragged her sister down the slope toward the house with the other.
Now she understood why her cousin Richard’s wife, Caroline, had insisted she and Elise walk a huge hamper to the crofters on the other side of the property. Richard and Caroline had not shown any interest in the crofters since they moved into Wiltham almost a year ago, when they’d claimed the property for themselves.
Of course, all of this was their father’s fault. Captain Sir John Lanscarr had left his three daughters in the care of their grandmother while he traveled with the military and later as a gambler. His vices were well-known to his daughters. They had enjoyed growing up with Gram at Wiltham and had lived for those moments when their father would “pop in,” as he liked to call it. He would shower them with attention, make them feel special, and then leave again . . . only he had stopped returning. Or sending letters. Or money.
Upon Gram’s death, and learning that it had been close to two years since anyone had heard from Captain Sir John, Richard Lanscarr had gleefully moved his family into Wiltham. He claimed their father must be deceased, and the authorities had agreed.
Why else had no one heard from him? And though Dara and her sisters protested, they found themselves living in their childhood home as the guests of their cousin.
Yes, there had been the admonishment that Richard should see to the well-being of Sir John’s three daughters, but pigs would fly before their cousin thought of anyone other than himself.
Nor was this hamper gambit his first subterfuge.
The ever-astute Dara had been wary of him from the beginning. She might be the middle sister, but she was her sisters’ defender, their strategist. She had promised Gram on her deathbed that she would do all she could for her sisters, and she’d meant those words. She was not afraid to butt heads with Richard. It was her responsibility to do so. Nor would she support his plans to marry Gwendolyn off to some belligerent, barrel-shaped squire with six children. Gwendolyn was made for better things than the likes of Davies, and so Dara had told Richard.
In fact, Dara had a better plan for herself and her sisters, and she didn’t want Gwendolyn to accept Squire Davies’s proposal before hearing her idea. Oh, no, she did not.
Reaching the house’s front step, she dropped her skirt, shooting a scowl at the ogling stable hand holding the squire’s horse, and charged into the house, Elise at her heels. They were both out of breath, but Dara’s anger and determination were enough to carry them forward.
Their butler, Herald, practically jumped at the door being thrown open. “Where are they?” Dara asked in a furious whisper.
Herald had been with the family for close to three decades. He was tall and lean with a head of white hair and a face like a fox. He pointed down the hall to one of Wiltham’s many sitting rooms. This one was called the Green Room because of its wall color and was the most formal. Richard and Caroline eavesdropped by the door. They were so intent in their task, they hadn’t realized the sisters had returned.
Dara relished the moment. She shot a glance to Elise, who nodded. The Lanscarr sisters always stood together. They might have just run almost a mile and have twigs and leaves in their hair, but they had come to save Gwendolyn, and so they would.
They marched down the hall, not bothering to tread lightly. They let Richard know they were here and they were angry at his attempt at deception.
Caroline heard them first and gave her husband a wide-eyed nudge. Richard looked up. “No,” he said, moving forward, followed by his mousy wife. “You will not destroy this. Davies is a good match.”
“For a fishwife,” Dara flashed back.
“He’s respected—” Richard started.
“By whom?” Dara interrupted. She never hesitated to be forthright, and she knew how to throw her cousins into a tizzy, which was what she was doing now . . . so that Elise could sneak around them, open the Green Room door, and walk right in.
“Gwendolyn,” Elise called sunnily in greeting. “Oh, Squire Davies, I didn’t know you were here. Am I interrupting anything?”
Richard was the one who answered. He stormed to the door, his arms flung wide in fury. “You certainly are interrupting. Out of here—”
Dara slipped under his outstretched arm and into the room, even as she felt the wind stir as he reached to stop her.
She quickly summed up the situation. Squire Davies was proposing, as they had suspected. Gwendolyn leaned back as far as she could on
a threadbare settee while the squire held her hand in that limp manner of his. “I requested privacy,” he complained to Richard. “I haven’t asked her for the honor of—”
“No one told us you were calling today, sir,” Dara cut in with loud cheerfulness, pretending to be delighted to see him. “We would all have been waiting for you if we’d known.”
“R-Richard knew—” he stuttered and then shot a frown at their cousin.
“Did he? He didn’t mention it.” Dara marched to the settee and squeezed herself between the squire and Gwendolyn, forcing him to let go of her hand. Gwendolyn’s expression was a mixture of relief and . . . what? Resignation? Fear?
Dara knew Gwendolyn believed she must do something to help their lot. Richard and Caroline were overbearing and thoughtless. They had been doing everything in their power to make the sisters and their great-aunt Tweedie feel unwelcome in their own home. However, becoming Squire Davies’s wife was not a solution.
Before the world had believed their father dead and back when Gram was alive, the Lanscarr sisters had been lauded as the Beauties of County Wicklow. That they lived in the stately Wiltham was enough to attract suitors, especially those with the mistaken belief they had huge dowries.
Furthermore, they also had good looks. Gwendolyn’s hair was the rich color of a blackbird’s wing. Intelligence sparkled in her golden-brown eyes. She had an exquisite figure with enough height to meet most men’s gazes. In fact, she had to look down quite a bit at Squire Davies.
Most notable was her delicate, aloof manner, which spoke of excellent breeding. Their father had met Gwendolyn’s mother when he served in the Indies. Sir John had never tired of lauding the beauty of his late first wife—and Gwendolyn obviously favored her mother. The marriage had come with a plantation that Sir John had gambled away shortly after his wife’s death.
He’d then brought Gwendolyn to Ireland, where he’d met and courted Lydia Walsh, the heiress of Wiltham. Their marriage had given him the manor house and two more daughters, Dara and Elise, but then tragedy struck. Lydia had died of childbed fever. That baby, a boy, had died with her. Sir John had not married again. He claimed he was unlucky in love. Instead, he had supposedly dedicated himself to his military career, and later his enjoyment of gambling, while leaving all three daughters in the care of their beloved Gram, Katherine Walsh.
Gram had doted on all of them, but especially Elise, whom she had claimed took after their mother. Elise was a golden beauty whose shy smile stopped men in their tracks. Even women couldn’t help but stare when she passed. Her cheeks were rose-tinted, her skin clear and unblemished. When she turned the full force of her almond-shaped eyes on a person, she usually
received whatever she wanted.
Elise was almost as tall as Gwendolyn. “A proud woman like my Lydia,” Gram had been fond of saying. Gram had also claimed Elise had Lydia’s spirit. “I could never tell that child what to do, and Elise is exactly like her.”
Fortunately, Elise was rather oblivious to all the attention she attracted, especially from men. “They are so shallow,” she complained on many occasions. She’d rather read than accept callers. She claimed, quite rightly, that reading was vastly more entertaining.
In contrast to her beautiful sisters was . . . Dara.
She was the petite one in the family. The one who always had to stand on a stool to reach things. Her hair was brown, like their father’s, with some strands of her mother’s gold but not enough to matter. Her figure lacked Gwendolyn’s grace or Elise’s buxom perfection.
She had blue eyes, but hers lacked any memorable quality. It wasn’t that her features weren’t pleasant enough. If she were a member of any other family, she would have been considered quite lovely. However, her sisters were spectacular.
What did set Dara apart was her ability to think through a situation. She had guided her sisters ever since Gram died. She was the one who had big dreams for her little family—and she wasn’t going to let Gwendolyn sacrifice herself by accepting an offer from the squire.
Not when she had a better idea in mind.
“Elise, Gwendolyn,” she said, “please, go find Tweedie.” Tweedie was Gram’s sister, Dame Eleanor Roberson, who had lived with them at Wiltham for the past decade. “She will enjoy knowing Squire Davies is here.”
“I did not wish to call on Dame Eleanor—” the squire started.
“No, you did not,” Dara agreed. Her sisters had already escaped the room, using one of the Green Room’s many doorways. “So sorry. I should have known. But then, I can’t call them back now. They’ve already gone for her.”
“Dara,” Richard bit her name out. “You were not invited here. Squire Davies requested a moment alone—”
“Not invited? Here? In my own house?” Dara pulled a face as if Richard was being silly.
“You know what he means,” Caroline replied.
“I believe I should leave,” a highly insulted squire said.
“No, don’t take off,” Richard said, even as Dara spoke over him.
“Farewell. Lovely to see you.” On those words, without waiting for an answer, Dara turned on her heel and left the room, following the path she knew her sisters had taken. She found them on the
second floor, standing in front of Tweedie’s room.
“Richard locked her in,” Gwendolyn said. “That is why she wasn’t down there to help me ward off the squire. We don’t have a key to let her out.”
“Let me see.” Dara pulled a wire pin from her thick hair. She bent over the lock, and in less than a blink, there was a click.
“You need to teach me how you do that,” Elise said.
Dara opened the door. “Tweedie?”
Their great-aunt was sitting by the window. She had her blackthorn walking cane beside her. Her expression was one of foreboding. “Is it done? Did Richard force you to marry that lout? We had such an argument, and then he locked me in.” For being in her seventies, Tweedie was still spry and had all her mental faculties. She was how Dara imagined a leprechaun to be—feisty and sly. She never held back her opinion, and Dara adored her.
Gwendolyn knelt beside their aunt. “Richard said you were in the Green Room, asking for me. When I went in there, Caroline was waiting with the squire—” Her voice broke off. “I knew why he’d come. And I thought maybe I should marry him. Then you, Dara, and Elise would have a place to live without worrying about Richard’s threats to send us to the poorhouse.”
“I’d like to see him try,” Dara replied.
“The county would be up in arms,” Elise predicted.
“But we need a place to live,” Gwendolyn said. “One where I know you both will have opportunities to find good husbands. We can’t trust Richard. I need to protect you.”
“So, you would marry the squire?” Elise asked, doubtful.
“For you two I would,” the ever-sweet Gwendolyn answered.
“You do realize that if you marry the squire, you will have to see him naked?” Elise questioned. “I wouldn’t want that sight in my mind.”
“Exactly,” Dara said, adding her own shudder. “It is too much of a sacrifice to ask of you, Gwennie.”
“But we must do something,” Gwendolyn said. “Caroline and Richard want us gone.”
“Wiltham is our home,” Elise said. “It belonged to our mother’s family.”
“True, but it became Father’s possession once they married. It always will go to the next male in line no matter who lives under its roof,” Gwendolyn reminded her. “We have no claim.”
“It is not fair,” Elise answered. “Women should have the right to own property in spite of a husband.”
“And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Tweedie answered.
Elise practically growled her frustration, and Dara knew the time had come for her to speak. “I have a suggestion,” she announced. “Why don’t we go to London for the Season and find ourselves dukes to marry?”
“What?” Gwendolyn said, as if not hearing Dara correctly.
“The Season?” Elise repeated.
“How?” Tweedie w
ondered.
“We just go.” Dara sat on the edge of Tweedie’s bed. “I’ve researched the idea.”
“Researched?” Elise asked.
“All of those papers from London I’ve been collecting?” Dara reminded her. For the last six months, Dara had pleaded with neighbors and acquaintances for any London papers they might have received. “I believe we can let a house, and with Tweedie as our chaperone, we can participate in the Marriage Market.”
Her sisters looked at her as if she had lost all good sense. They knew what the Marriage Market was. During the London Social Season, families from all over Britain would bring their eligible daughters to show off at balls and events with the hope of finding an even more eligible husband for them.
“But don’t you have to know someone of consequence to be invited?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Or be part of the ton?” Elise wondered, using the word for those who were members of the highest ranks of society.
“Oh, please,” Dara said, annoyed. “We are young women of consequence. Father was knighted for serving his king brilliantly.” She wasn’t certain that was true. Their father was a bit of a ne’er-do-well, and many had wondered how he’d managed a knighthood. “Also, our mother was related to the Duke of Marlborough.”
“Distantly related,” Elise reminded her.
“Related is related,” Dara assured her airily. “She was the second cousin to the Marchioness of Blandford, who is the duke’s daughter by marriage. There. Related.”
“But they don’t know us,” Gwendolyn said. “What are we going to do? Show up on their doorstep and beg an invitation to their next party?”
“Of course not. That is not how it is done,” Dara answered knowledgably. After all, she’d been studying this for some time. She had even been compiling a list of the rules of Society. “We will send them a letter of introduction. Then they will invite us to pay a call. Finally, after we have met them, they will invite us to a ball. It is all so clear and simple.”
Elise lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “It is?”
“It is,” Dara assured her. “The duke will introduce us to other dukes, and then we marry. Oh, don’t make those faces. It has happened before. Have you not heard of the Gunning sisters?” She knew they hadn’t, and it gave her great pleasure to share. “They were poor but genteel young Irish ladies—like ourselves. They had nothing but their looks and their wits—like ourselves. They went to London and ended up marrying important noblemen and becoming great ladies—just as we can.”
“Could we meet
these sisters?” Gwendolyn asked. “Perhaps they could help us?”
“There were two sisters, and they are no longer alive. However, if they could fly high, even several decades ago, why can’t the Lanscarr sisters?”
Elise looked to Tweedie. “Did you know these Gunning sisters when you lived in London?”
“I can’t say I did,” Tweedie admitted. “But I have heard of them. One of them had just died when Sir Phillip and I moved to London. They married very well.”
“See?” Dara said, using Tweedie’s verification to support her idea. “Bold women reap rewards. We can capture the hearts of the ton. All three of us could marry dukes.”
Gwendolyn frowned. “Dara, how would we travel to London, let alone rent a house? That takes money.”
“And what of clothes?” Elise wished to know.
Dara took Elise’s question first. It was the simplest to answer. “We know how to handle a needle. We have been making our own dresses and refashioning them for different Assemblies for years. We will do it there.”
That made sense to Elise.
Gwendolyn’s question was more of a challenge.
Money.
Dara folded her hands in her lap. She needed Gwendolyn’s support to make her plan work. “I’ve made an accounting of how much we would need for one Season, which should be ample time for us to find suitable dukes to marry.” She drew a deep breath and dropped the concerning news. “We can do it for four hundred pounds. We could even,” she hurried to add as she watched Gwendolyn’s eyes widen and Elise almost fall off the stool she’d sat on, “manage to be highly respectable for three hundred. That is for the whole Season, including lodging, servants, and whatnots.”
“Three hundred pounds?” Elise repeated in disbelief.
Gwendolyn shook her head. “Sometimes, Dara, your imagination makes you nonsensical. We only have thirty-four pounds between us. Remember?”
She did. They had taken an accounting last week when Richard had announced he was going to let some of Wiltham’s servants go. He might have claimed the estate as their father’s heir, but that did not mean he could afford it. He’d imagined there had been coffers of money that would come into his possession. The Lanscarr sisters had laughed and laughed over that one. No gambler of their father’s stature let money lie around untended.
Of course, Richard’s announcement had sobered them quickly.
The sisters had been determined to do what they could to help their faithful servants. They had fifty pounds because their grandmother had been a great one for hiding money. When Richard and Caroline had first arrived to take over the house, the sisters had gone in search of every shilling they could find. Gwendolyn guarded the money in a carved wooden box with a secret compartment.
The sisters had divvied up some of that for the leaving servants. The balance
was thirty-four pounds.
Thirty-four pounds was not a small amount. It could support them in a tidy cottage for a year, maybe two if they were very frugal.
But Dara didn’t want to live in a cottage, two years wasn’t a lifetime, and she knew their days were numbered under Richard’s roof. If Squire Davies couldn’t succeed, their cousin would find other men to marry them off to.
So Dara spoke with a confidence she wasn’t certain she felt. “I believe we can turn our thirty-four pounds into three hundred pounds.” For a second there was a startled silence. Dara nodded, knowing she had their full attention, and then she announced her plan. “Gwendolyn gambles for it.”
They all stared at Dara as if they were waiting for more explanation. And then Gwendolyn declared, “You are jesting.”
Elise burst out laughing before saying, “This is your plan? Sending Gwen to the gaming tables? And you being such a stickler for manners?”
Dara had also expected them to balk at her solution. They lacked her imagination. Therefore, it was up to her to help them embrace the idea.
“I have thought this out very carefully, I assure you. Father said highborn ladies gamble all the time. Remember?” She looked to her sisters for confirmation. Elise’s brows came together in puzzled concern, Gwendolyn was withholding judgment, and Tweedie appeared fascinated.
Dara stood and began pacing as she continued briskly, “He also said that few could match Gwendolyn’s luck at games of chance, especially faro. Remember how many twigs she won whenever we played with Father?”
“But twigs are not money,” Gwendolyn pointed out.
“Dear sister, have faith in your abilities. Father was a renowned gambler. Remember his coming home with his arms loaded with presents? That happened more than once—”
“Perhaps twice?” Elise observed.
Dara ignored her. “And he always praised your talent, Gwennie. He said you had his own luck. That you ‘sensed’ the cards. Besides, what else are we going to do?” She paused, meeting her sisters’ gazes with a solemn one of her own. “Stay here? Marry Squire Davies? Or Mr. Bellamy, the innkeeper? Or, considering how desperately Richard wishes to be rid of us, Patrick Lynch, the pig farmer? Don’t worry. He’ll save Lynch for me.”
Then she made her plea. “But what if my plan works? What if Gwendolyn could use her talent to win three hundred pounds, even six hundred pounds, and we take ourselves off to London? What if we introduce ourselves to Lady Blandford, ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
