‘If only your Uncle Leo had paid heed to my warnings after that dreadful storm, the poor old Hall wouldn’t be in this state now!’ said Lady Isobel, with a plaintive sniff. ‘I begged and begged him to attend to the roof damage, but would he listen? Oh, no! Said he had better things to do with his money. And your cousin Simon was little better. I can only thank God that neither of you is a gambling man!’
‘An occupation for fools and tricksters, in my opinion,’ replied Richard, shooting a warning glance at his cousin, whose cheeks had reddened at the dowager’s remark. ‘Have no fear, Grandmama, I promise you that neither Charles nor I has any intention of following either Simon’s or Uncle Leo’s example.’
Lady Isobel frowned, but said nothing. Having suffered the loss of so many males in her family under somewhat unfortunate circumstances, she took considerable consolation from the knowledge that the current Lord Markfield had few, if any, of his predecessors’ bad qualities and was determined to restore the estate to its former grandeur.
Furthermore she was confident that once Richard was set on a course of action almost nothing would change his mind.
Glancing across at him now, as he stood chatting to Charles, the youngest of her grandsons, her eyes softened. The 6th earl certainly cut a fine figure and was very personable to boot. If only he could be persuaded to take himself a wife and start setting up his nursery! Having reached the ripe old age of eighty-one years herself, she was well aware that her time was running out and she dearly wanted to hear again the joyful sounds of childish laughter ringing through the old Hall before she eventually met her Maker.
‘You’ll stay for dinner, of course?’ Richard was asking his cousin.
Placing his empty glass down on the tray, Charles shook his head. ‘Better not, old chap,’ he replied. ‘I promised Mother I’d be back in time to dine with her. It’s been over a week now and you know how fidgety she’s apt to get if I’m away for more than a few days at a time. I’ll look in tomorrow, if I may?’
‘Of course—you’re always welcome, as I hope you know.’
After escorting his cousin to the door, Richard returned to his grandmother’s side. Sitting himself down on the sofa next to her, he leaned back and stretched out his legs, a slight frown on his forehead.
‘Take heart, my boy,’ Lady Isobel said bracingly. ‘At least you don’t have to face up to a complaining invalid every time you come home. How Charles finds the patience to deal with that woman is quite beyond me. I have never been able to understand what your Uncle Andrew ever saw in her, for she was always completely useless as a cleric’s wife!’
Richard, whose own mother had died when he was just seven years of age, gave a rueful smile. ‘Well, it’s not as though he can ignore her, is it? Besides which, he’s obliged to come down to Southpark to attend to various estate matters.’
‘To see how much is in the coffers, you mean!’ returned the countess, with some asperity. ‘He would do far better to get himself a wife and run his share of the estate as it should be run, instead of gallivanting about town!’
Well aware of what was about to follow his grandmother’s observation in regard to his cousin’s marital state, the earl, shifting uneasily on his seat, compressed his lips and waited.
‘And, much the same applies to you, Richard, my boy,’ she then went on. ‘Apart from anything else, you have the succession to consider! Four changes of title in eight years should be more than enough warning to you. What if you were to die without issue?’
‘Well, I did manage to get through an entire war pretty well undamaged,’ he felt constrained to point out. ‘I dare say I’m good for a few years yet! But, as to marrying, there’s time enough for that—besides which, I have far too many other problems to deal with without adding the complications of courtship to the list.’
‘That would depend on your requirements, surely?’ returned his grandmother. ‘In my experience—which is hardly limited—the acquisition of a wealthy wife tends to solve a good many problems!’
Richard stared at her in amazement. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that I should choose a wife on the strength of her dowry?’
Lady Isobel lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. ‘It’s hardly uncommon, amongst those of our standing, my boy. Always provided that the gel comes from good family stock, of course.’ Pausing for a moment, she then continued, in a seemingly offhand manner, ‘Added to which, a sizeable injection into those dwindling funds of yours would enable you to concentrate your efforts on that new horse-breeding programme you keep on about. I cannot think of anything that would please your grandfather more than knowing that you had brought the Standish Stud back into the forefront of horse-racing circles once again—he was deeply hurt that not one of his sons showed any interest in what had always been his pride and joy!’
One quick glance at her grandson’s expression assured the countess that she had hit the vital spot. ‘All those empty stables over at Markfield are just crying out to be restocked,’ she added persuasively.
For a moment, Richard regarded her in silence, the hint of a frown sifting across his brow. ‘I’m beginning to get the feeling that you won’t be satisfied until you see me actually standing at the altar. Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d already drawn up a list of this Season’s likely candidates—the usual progression of whey-faced schoolroom misses out on the catch, I dare say!’
‘And I dare say that you might expect to do rather better than that!’ laughed the countess. ‘You are a Standish, after all! All you really need is some suitably endowed young female of acceptable breeding who fancies herself as a countess. Sadly, it would seem that this Season’s selection has very little of interest to offer. Why, only the other day I was talking to my stock-broker—trying to find out if any of my shares were worth more than a fig—and he was telling me—Oh! Good heavens! I do believe I may have hit upon the very thing!’
Giving little credence to the idea that the dowager might be seriously considering involving herself in his selection of a bride, Richard was, however, somewhat confused by her sudden change of topic. ‘Thinking of selling some of your shares?’ he queried. ‘I doubt if we have enough between us to cover even half of what’s needed to fix that roof.’
His grandmother shook her head impatiently. ‘Wheatley—my broker—I hear that he has been touting around for a leg-up into the beau monde for his girl for over a year now.’
‘You’re not about to suggest that I shackle myself to a Cit’s daughter, I hope!’
As she eyed him uncertainly, Lady Isobel’s brow furrowed. ‘Whilst it is perfectly true that Giles Wheatley is a man of business, he also happens to be positively dripping with lard. Besides which, it just so happens that the girl’s grandmother was a Coverdale.’
‘I’m afraid the name means nothing to me,’ said Richard, giving a careless shrug. ‘So, what’s she like—this daughter, I mean? She must be something of an anathema, since your man hasn’t been able to palm her off for a twelvemonth or more!’
‘That’s as may be,’ returned the countess, with some asperity. ‘She is, however, her father’s only heir and, apart from the fact of her dowry being something in the region of fifty thousand pounds, it would seem that her background is reasonably sound. In point of fact, if I remember correctly, I was slightly acquainted with her grandmother, Lady Joanna Coverdale, before she became Countess of Ashington. Be that as it may, it seems that Lord Ashington disowned their daughter—Louisa, I believe her name was—when she eloped with his accountant’s clerk—who is now my very wealthy stockbroker, Giles Wheatley. They—the Ashingtons, that is—died in a carriage accident shortly