Havelock ran his fingers through his hair yet again. ‘You are in the right of it.’ He sighed. ‘Must think of the succession. Very well, put that on your list, Ashe. Not completely hen-witted.’
Since Ashe was taking a sip of wine it was Morgan who picked up the pen and wrote that down.
‘I want her to be kind, too,’ declared Havelock with some force. ‘Good with youngsters. Not one of these women who think only of themselves.’
‘Good, good, now we are really getting somewhere,’ said Ashe, as Morgan added these further points to the steadily growing list.
‘It’s all very well making a list,’ put in Morgan, tossing the pen aside. ‘But how do you propose finding a woman who meets all your requirements? Put an advertisement in the papers?’
‘God, no! Don’t want the whole world to know how desperate I am to find a wife. I’d have every matchmaking mama within fifty miles of town descending on me with their simpering daughters in tow. Besides...’ he shook his head ‘...it would take too long. Much too long. Only think of having the advertisement put in, then waiting for women to reply, then sifting through the mountain of responses, then having to interview them all...’
Morgan let out a bark of laughter. ‘You are so sure you will have hundreds of replies, are you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Havelock testily. ‘I’ve had women flinging themselves at me every Season for the past half-dozen years.’
‘And during summer house parties,’ put in Chepstow.
‘There was that Christmas house party, wasn’t there,’ Ashe added, ‘where—’
‘Never mind that!’ Havelock interrupted swiftly. ‘I thought we’d agreed never to speak of that episode again.’
‘Then there was that filly at the races,’ said Chepstow.
Morgan laughed again. ‘Very well. You have all convinced me. Havelock is indeed one of those men that society misses regard as a matrimonial prize.’ Though the way he looked at Havelock conveyed his opinion that there was just no understanding the workings of the female mind.
‘And you wouldn’t believe some of the tricks they’ve employed in their attempts to bag me,’ he said bitterly.
‘Couldn’t you simply settle with one of these women who’ve shown themselves so keen to, um, bag you? That would save you time, wouldn’t it?’
Havelock gave Morgan a cold stare, before saying, ‘No. Absolutely not. Can’t stand women who flutter their eyelashes and pretend to swoon, and flaunt their bosoms in your face at every opportunity.’
Modest, he noted Ashe write on the bottom of the list, out of the corner of his eye.
‘And anyway, the girls I already know, the ones who have made it plain they want me, have also made it plain they want a damn sight more from me than I’m willing to give. I’d make them miserable. So then they’d make damn sure they made me miserable.’
Ashe dipped his pen in the inkwell one more time, and wrote, not looking for affection from matrimony.
Morgan frowned down at the list, sipping at his drink. ‘What this list describes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘is a woman who is willing to consider a businesslike arrangement. Someone from a respectable family that has fallen on hard times, perhaps. Someone who would like to have children, but has no hopes of gaining a suitor through the normal way.’
‘Normal way?’
‘Feminine wiles,’ supplied Morgan helpfully.
‘Oh, them,’ huffed Havelock. ‘No. I definitely don’t want a wife who’s got too many feminine wiles. I’d rather she was straightforward.’
Honest, wrote Ashe.
‘Good grief,’ said Chepstow, peering rather blearily at the list. ‘You will never, ever, find a woman who has all those attributes, no matter how long you look.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Morgan. ‘There are any number of genteel poor eking out an existence in London right at this moment. With daughters aplenty who’d give their eye teeth to receive a proposal from a man of Havelock’s standing, from what you tell me. I’m tolerably sure that he could find one or two amongst them who would have at least a couple of the character traits he finds important. Particularly if he’s not going to be put off by a plain face.’
Havelock leaned forward in his seat. ‘You really think so?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And do you know where I might find them?’
Morgan leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other, and stared hard at the wall behind Havelock’s head. The other men at the table waited with bated breath for his answer.
‘Do you know, I rather think I do. I could probably introduce you to a couple of likely prospects tomorrow night, if you don’t mind—’ He broke off, eyeing Havelock’s less-than-pristine garb, and laughed. ‘No, you don’t look like a chap who stands on ceremony. And I have an invitation to a ball, given by people who will never be accepted into the very top echelons of society, for all their wealth. Yet, amongst their guests, there are always a number of people in the exact circumstances to be of use to you. Good families, fallen on hard times, who have to put up with what society they can get. I dare say every single female there of marriageable age will look upon you as a godsend.’
‘And you wouldn’t mind taking me to such a ball?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Morgan affably. ‘Is that not what friends are for? To help a fellow out?’
It was. He’d been on the verge of being disappointed in Chepstow. But really, the fellow had done what he could. He’d brought him to Ashe, who’d helped him to get his thoughts set down in a logical fashion, and introduced him to Morgan, who was going to give him practical assistance.
‘To friendship,’ he said, raising his glass to the three men sitting round the table with him.
‘And marriage,’ said Ashe, lifting his glass in response.
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ said Lord Chepstow, his glass stopping a mere inch from his lips. ‘To Havelock’s marriage, perhaps. Not the institution as such.’
‘Havelock’s marriage, then,’ said Ashe.
‘Havelock’s bride,’ said Morgan, downing his own drink in one go and reaching for the bottle.
‘Yes, don’t mind drinking to her,’ said Chepstow. ‘Your bride, my friend.’
And let’s hope, thought Havelock as he carefully folded the list and put it in his pocket, that the woman who possesses at least the most important of these attributes will be at the ball tomorrow night.
‘Can you really do nothing better with your hair?’
Mary lowered her gaze to the floor and shook her head as Aunt Pargetter sighed.
‘Couldn’t you at least have borrowed Lotty’s tongs? I am sure she wouldn’t begrudge them to you. If you could only get just a leetle curl into it, I am sure it would look far more fetching than just letting it hang round your face like a curtain.’
Mary put her hand to her head to check that the neat bun, in which she’d fastened her hair earlier, hadn’t already come undone.
‘No,