Recognising that, after the death of her mother, Helena would be in need of a female companion and disliking the idea of bringing a stranger into his house, Mr Wheatley had invited his sister’s eldest daughter, Charlotte, to make her home with them. Lottie, being one of a family of seven children, had been more than delighted to accept her uncle’s offer, for with it had come the promise of a room of her own and a generous quarterly allowance, as well as an opportunity to move into a social circle that, whilst not being of the highest, was certainly considerably removed from that of her own country-vicarage upbringing.
However, despite being more than two years older than Helena, Lottie lacked her cousin’s fine judgement and presence of mind, possibly due in part to the fact that she had not had the benefit of the highly expensive schooling that the younger girl had received and, although Helena loved her dearly, she was frequently obliged to take Lottie gently to task in order to curb her somewhat impulsive behaviour.
Disregarding Helena’s constant pleadings that she had no wish to marry into high society and was perfectly happy to remain as she was, Mr Wheatley, concerned that his daughter had reached the ripe old age of twenty-two without so much as a single suitable offer, had made up his mind to take matters into his own hands. In reaching this conclusion, it had pleased him to ignore several tentative proposals he had received from various of his city acquaintances on their sons’ behalves since, despite his own relatively humble beginnings in the world of commerce, his aspirations for both of his offspring had always been somewhat more high-flown. Hence his current ambition to secure his daughter’s elevation.
Observing that her cousin was, once more, deeply absorbed in her sewing, Lottie was unable to resist taking the occasional quick peek out of the window along the path that led to the front gate, in the hope of catching sight of this new contender for Helena’s hand. Being an inveterate reader of romantic novels, she had developed the notion that it was simply a matter of time before Mr Right would ride out of the blue and capture her beloved cousin’s heart. For, quite apart from the fact that Helena was possessed of the most generous of natures and—as a result of having lost her brother in so tragic a manner—given to devoting much of her free time to the welfare of the many crippled or displaced soldiers who roamed the capital daily, she was, without doubt, an extremely attractive young woman. With shining russet-brown curls that framed the creamy complexion of her face, expressive violet-blue eyes and the neatest of noses, she was, in her cousin’s eyes at least, quite without equal. Lottie, although she had inherited her mother’s light-hearted and easygoing personality, had also been, somewhat unfortunately perhaps, blessed with her father’s somewhat Romanesque features and, well aware that she herself lacked the physical attributes of her storybook heroines, had long ago given up any thoughts of meeting her own Prince Charming. Instead, finding herself not entirely unsympathetic towards her uncle’s attitude regarding his daughter’s continued single state, she was quite content to spend a good deal of her time indulging in her own private fantasy that, any day now, the ultimate beau idéal would arrive and sweep Helena off her feet.
Therefore, when her eyes did finally alight upon the carriage that drew up at the gateway to the Wheatley house, she was obliged to push her disappointment firmly to one side. For, instead of the showy, dashing carriage of the sort with which each of Helena’s three previous potential suitors had equipped himself, today’s visitor had arrived in nothing more than a common hackney carriage!
‘I perceive that Lord Markfield has arrived, Nell,’ she began, her tone non-committal but then, as the earl’s rangy figure hove more closely into her view, her eyes brightened and she leant forward with deepening interest.
‘Lottie, please!’ urged her cousin. ‘If the gentleman should happen to look up and catch you staring, it might well give him the impression that I have been eagerly awaiting his attendance! With Papa in his present frame of mind, I swear that it will be difficult enough to turn this one off but if, in addition, I have to cope with the fellow’s puffed-up supposition that I am on tenterhooks to meet him…!’
‘I’m sorry, Nell,’ said Lottie contritely, as she pulled back from the window. ‘I don’t think he saw me—but I have to tell you,’ she added, in a breathless rush, ‘he really is most awfully good-looking!’
‘And, very probably, just plain awful!’ replied Helena tartly, folding away her sewing and getting to her feet. ‘Nevertheless, I suppose I shall have to go and tidy myself up in readiness for when Papa summons me to meet the odious sycophant!’
Richard, who had indeed caught a glimpse of Lottie peering down at him from the window of the morning room, suffered a moment’s irresolution as he approached the house but, steeling himself, he remembered his grandmother’s words about the Standish Stud and, striding purposefully up the steps to the front door, pulled at the bell knob.
He was ushered into what appeared to be a study and was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not confronted with the brash, modern furnishings that he had, for some reason, associated with the nouveau riche. Instead, the room was filled with comfortable, well-worn pieces that he recognised as being of very good quality.
Seated at the large mahogany desk that dominated the room was a rather stout gentleman with a florid complexion. At Richard’s entrance, he rose to his feet and offered his hand.
‘Your lordship,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
Mr Wheatley’s voice, Richard noted, as he took the seat that his host had indicated to him, was nicely modulated and, relieved that the man was exhibiting neither servility towards his rank nor—and what he had dreaded more—the superior air of one who has all the cards at his disposal, he accepted the drink that Mr Wheatley offered him and leaned back in his chair.
‘You will no doubt have some questions that you wish to put to me,’ he ventured slowly. The man’s first impression of him, he knew, would be vital and, since he had made up his mind that, come hell or high water, he would do everything in his power to succeed in this undertaking, he forced his lips into some semblance of a smile.
Mr Wheatley waved his hand dismissively. ‘That will not be necessary, your lordship,’ he replied. ‘I have already made it my business to enquire into your background and find myself more than satisfied with your credentials. Let us proceed.’
Extracting a single piece of paper out of a folder, he placed it down on the desk in front of him and began, ‘In my taking what you might well consider to be this rather extraordinary course of action to find my daughter a suitable husband, you must realise that I have only her best interests at heart. She will be in possession of a considerable fortune when I am gone and I am sure that you will understand why I feel that it is my duty to ensure that she is not taken advantage of by some unscrupulous scoundrel.’
‘Naturally,’ replied Richard smoothly. ‘As her father, I would expect nothing less of you.’
‘I have drawn up this agreement,’ continued Wheatley, nodding to the sheet of paper under his hand. ‘It contains the main qualities that I require in any prospective candidate for my daughter’s hand—you will, no doubt, have heard that you are by no means the first such contender. I myself do not consider that these requirements to be particularly onerous but, for some reason, it appears to be increasingly difficult to find someone who is able to fulfil my expectations.’
Urging Richard to cast his eye over the several clauses therein, he pushed the sheet of paper across the desk. ‘It will save time if you read the thing yourself, my lord,’ he said. ‘If there are any points that you do not understand or on which you are not prepared to agree, we need not waste any more of each other’s time.’