After one final piercing stare, Wentworth shrugged his shoulders and walked over to a bellpull in the corner of the room. He yanked the rope several times before turning around and walking back toward his guest. Settling his bulk comfortably in one of the armchairs he had indicated earlier, Wentworth waited for the marquis to explain his presence.
Misinterpreting Traverston’s continued silence, Wentworth finally spoke. “I’m afraid it takes old Bentley awhile to answer my summons. If he even hears it at all, that is. Past retirement age, you know,” he apologized with an embarrassed air. “He would do better at home, but I haven’t got the blunt to pension him off.”
Traverston was momentarily taken aback. He hadn’t expected his neighbor to be as open as he was about his lack of funds, but there it was. Wentworth’s confession gave him the perfect opening, if he were but to seize the opportunity.
Before Traverston could form a suitable reply, however, the servant Wentworth had identified as Bentley opened the library doors. The decanter of brandy and two glasses he carried on the tarnished silver tray seemed to weigh him down and slow his pace even more than before. He made his shuffling way across the room, set the tray down on the table near his master, poured out two glasses of brandy for the gentlemen, handed the glasses around and made his pathetic trek back across the room. The whole process took about five minutes, but watching him, the marquis was sure it had taken twice as long.
With the servant’s delay, Traverston had time to make up his mind on how best to obtain his host’s cooperation. He could, if he were that sort of man, couch his offer in all sorts of flowery terms and euphemisms. Or, if he were the gambling sort, he could lie to Wentworth and say that he had fallen in love with his daughter after seeing her from a distance one day. That approach, however, was decidedly risky. Not only did he not have the least notion as to what his host’s daughter looked like, but he doubted that anyone would believe for a moment that the marquis was the kind of man to fall in love, let alone from a distance. He dismissed that option almost immediately. In the end, he decided that there was really only one choice. He would have to be truthful, at least partially so, and pray that Wentworth’s greed would overcome any sense of responsibility or feeling of affection he might have for his daughter.
With the doors once again secure, Traverston went neck or nothing to the point. “How would you like to be able to pension ‘old Bentley’ off, Mr. Wentworth?”
Wentworth’s eyes grew twice in size. “I b-beg your pardon?” he stuttered. “What did you say?”
Holding his impatience in check, Traverston repeated his question once more. “I said, how would you like to be able to pension off your retainer? As well as any other antique examples of humanity that might be lurking around your residence? I haven’t seen any others, but surely there are one or two.”
Wentworth blinked several times, appearing for all the world like a confused owl. Warily he sat more erect in his chair, a spot of color appearing on both cheeks. “My lord,” he responded through stiff lips, “I must ask that you explain yourself.”
In a fit of agitation now that the moment was upon him, Traverston took a sip from his glass, hoping to stall for time. Fleetingly, somewhere in the back of his brain, he decided that the refreshment was much better than his own swill he kept at home. Without realizing he was doing so, Traverston began pacing the room. So much rested on Wentworth’s acceptance of his proposal. What if he didn’t accept it? Should he then go solicit all of the neighborhood farmers for their daughters? Pretty soon word would get around of Traverston’s mission, and if doors weren’t slammed in his face, then he would be the laughingstock of the town. No, he must succeed the first time. This time.
In midstride, he ceased his pacing. Setting his glass down on a nearby table, he came forward to stand in front of his host. He grasped his hands behind his back, spread his legs into a wide stance and squarely eyed the man seated before him. Bluntly he came to the point. “Sir, I would ask for the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
Silence. For long seconds, Wentworth’s eyes slowly bulged from his head. Alarmed, the marquis rushed forward to pound his host on the back, but Wentworth managed to wave him away before he could get started. Still it was a moment before Wentworth could find the breath to gasp, “My lord, you must be joking!”
The marquis was quick to fortify his position. He leaned down into his face so that he could look the other straight in the eye as he replied with deadly earnestness, “I assure you, my good sir, I am not.”
Wentworth had just managed to summon the trace of a smile at his guest’s perceived joke when the marquis’s answer managed to wipe it clean off his face. As the horrifying truth set in that his visitor really did mean what he said, the color in Wentworth’s face leeched out of him by degrees. After what seemed to both men an interminable amount of time, Wentworth made a feeble attempt to brush the marquis aside. Traverston, perceiving his host’s need for some kind of action, stepped back and allowed the man to face his opponent on his feet.
Gaining his feet allowed Wentworth some measure of his old confidence, and he gathered enough bruised dignity to face the marquis squarely. “I fail to see how this cannot be a leveler, my lord,” he responded with scorn. “Olivia is but ten years old.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Traverston apologized, genuinely confused. “I could have sworn that your daughter was at least eighteen by now.”
As comprehension dawned on Wentworth, his hostility faded away. “Ah,” he breathed softly, “that explains it then.” Walking away from the marquis to look out one of the library windows, Wentworth continued speaking with his back turned to his guest, as if his words were more for himself than the marquis. “Of course, being out of local society for so long you could not have known.” He reached up to scratch his jaw through his graying beard.
“Margaret,” he said, turning back around, “whom I presume you meant to ask for, died in a riding accident not three years ago.” He walked over to the brandy decanter and topped off his glass before continuing. “She tried to take an old nag over a jump. The horse balked and threw her over the fence, snapping her neck on impact.” He stopped and stared down into the glass before continuing. “It was my fault, really. I was never very good about restraining her wilder impulses. And I never should have allowed her to take out Fancy that day.” His final words were almost lost in his glass. “She was a bonny lass.”
As Wentworth became oblivious to the passing minutes, Traverston used the brief interlude in the conversation to think. The daughter he had planned to marry was dead. So what now? But didn’t Wentworth say he had another?
Waiting an appropriate interval before speaking, Traverston interrupted with all the delicacy he could muster. “My apologies for bringing up, however inadvertently, a topic which is evidently very painful for you.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “But my petition remains as it stood a few minutes ago. I ask for the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
“What?” exclaimed Wentworth, immediately shaken from his reverie. “What manner of devil is it that compels you to offer for a ten-year-old chit?”
“I pray you, sir,” offered the marquis quietly, “hear me out.” He indicated the chair Wentworth had so recently vacated.
When his host was seated, Traverston began his explanation. “I understand your confusion, and the truth is I have to be honest with you and say that before this very instant I never in my life thought to be proposing for the hand of a young girl.”
Wentworth’s snort was answer enough to this statement.
Holding his hand out to indicate he be allowed to continue, Traverston waited until his host was ready to listen. “Still,” he said, “I need a wife. And I am prepared to do what I must in order to secure one.”
Wentworth couldn’t hide his amusement. “My lord, with all due respect, I doubt that there is any way you can compel me to hand over my daughter to you.”
Traverston mentally wrestled with his anger.