But her enthusiasm checked the moment she stepped across into the parlor. Rather than those old compatriots, smiling at her from the sofa was Mrs. Ada Anderson, wife to the colonel of the Fighting Fifth’s neighboring brigade.
Before she could utter a word, the woman spied her. “Jenna, so you left Brussels at last! I had to call as soon as I learned you’d arrived and convey my deepest, sincerest sympathy!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson.” Jenna pasted a smile on her face while mentally kicking herself for coming down without first ascertaining the identity of her visitors. Now she would have to remain at least half an hour or be thought unpardonably rude. “Please, do sit down. How kind of you to come with—” she indicated the tall, angular woman in the modish bonnet and pelisse.
“Lady Fairchild, allow me to present my sister Persephone, Lady Montclare. You may remember I intended to send you back to her in London after your papa died at Badajoz. Except that you snabbled yourself a husband first! I was, you will recall, quite vexed at you for throwing away your chance at a London Season and entrusting your hand and fortune to a mere younger son. Who knew then he’d turn out to be viscount one day, eh, you clever girl?”
“Charmed to meet you at last, Lady Fairchild.” Lady Montclare rose from her curtsy to subject Jenna to a penetrating scrutiny. “My sincerest condolences.”
“Oh, yes—such a tragedy!” Mrs. Anderson lamented. “With his ability and your fortune, I expect he should have become a general. Not that he had any need of a military career, once he inherited, of course.”
“Given his responsibilities as the new viscount, after his brother was lost in that storm off Portsmouth, I am surprised Garrett did not immediately resign his commission,” Lady Montclare said.
“After Bonaparte escaped from Elbe, Garrett would not have considered leaving the army, nor, I suspect, would the Duke have permitted it had he asked. With so many Peninsular veterans dispersed from India to the Americas, he needed every battle-tested commander.”
“Given how things turned out, I imagine you now wish Lord Fairchild had not remained with the army,” Lady Montclare observed.
“I would not have had Garrett shirk his duty or disregard his loyalties,” Jenna replied stiffly, “regardless of how ‘things turned out.’”
“Well, ’tis no matter,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You must now think to your future—which means carefully evaluating the new contenders for your hand.”
“Contenders for my—?” Jenna gasped. “I hardly think it necessary to concern myself about that yet!”
“I know you were sincerely attached to Garrett,” Mrs. Anderson said. “But a widow with a fortune as vast as yours is not likely to be left to mourn in solitude. As soon as the ton finds out you are established here in London, you can expect all manner of invitations.”
“Your husband’s aunt is charming,” Lady Montclare said, “but I fear she doesn’t move in the first circles. Since you quite rightly wish to pay proper honor to poor Garrett’s memory, ’tis of the utmost importance that you know which invitations to accept, which you should refuse. Ada and I will be happy to assist you.”
“It will be our privilege! The first thing you must do—” Mrs. Anderson cast a pained look at Jenna’s three-year-old gown “—is procure a proper wardrobe.”
Reining in the temper that urged her to demand that the visitors leave immediately, Jenna forced herself to speak politely. “Mrs. Anderson, Lady Montclare, I appreciate your kindness in offering to help, but I haven’t the least interest attracting ‘contenders’ for my hand.”
“Come now, Jenna, you were with the army long enough not to be missish about this,” Mrs. Anderson countered. “You wed Garrett before your papa had been dead a month!”
“That was…different! I couldn’t remain with the army alone, and I loved Garrett.”
“Desire it or not,” Lady Montclare said, “your youth, beauty and wealth—added to the connection you now boast to the ancient name of Fairchild—will catch the interest of every bachelor of the ton on the look for a bride.”
“Since you cannot avoid scrutiny, ’tis only prudent to plan on it,” Mrs. Anderson advised. “Reconnoiter the ground and use it to your advantage, my husband would say! And as one of Lady Jersey’s bosom bows, Persephone stands in perfect position to advise you on the most select entertainments—and most desirable gentlemen.”
Both ladies beamed at her, appearing supremely confident that Jenna must be thrilled at their offering to guide her in her choice of beaux. Appalled by the notion, for a moment Jenna contemplated informing the ladies of her pregnancy. Surely a widow who was increasing would be less appealing to discerning ton courtiers.
But though her condition would soon be obvious, for now she did not wish to share the news of her secret joy with these sisters whose supposed concern for her welfare barely concealed their relish for obtaining a social pawn they might manipulate.
As the mantel clock chimed, signifying the elapse of the requisite half hour, Jenna rose and offered a curtsy. “Ladies, I am quite…overwhelmed by your offer. Please know I will carefully consider it.”
Obligated to rise as well, the sisters returned her curtsy. “I’m staying with Persephone while Walter prepares for his next posting,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Call on us any day—your butler has the card with our direction.”
“Indeed,” Lady Montclare said. “I shall be very happy to take you under my wing, dear Lady Fairchild.”
Stifling the impulse to tell Lady Montclare just what she could do with that wing, Jenna made herself incline her head politely. “Good day, ladies.”
Long after Manson had escorted them out, Jenna stood staring at the closed door, recalling the various ton gentlemen she’d observed during her rides—Dandies and Bucks in skintight coats and trousers, elaborately arranged cravats, ridiculously high shirt collars. She’d found their appearance quite amusing.
The idea of such men calling on her was less amusing.
Men who had remained safely at home while other men fought and bled to protect their liberty. Indolent men with nothing better to do than drink, gamble away their nights—and entice widows of large fortune into marriage.
The handsome face of one such dark-haired, gray-eyed man materialized out of memory, his lips curved in a sardonic smile that was half interest, half disdain. Heat rose in her cheeks as she forced the image away.
Cousin Lane seemed thoroughly familiar with the London ton. Perhaps she should ask him whether the sisters’ prediction about the interest she would arouse among its gentlemen was likely to prove true.
For if dealing with reprobates like Lord Anthony Nelthorpe was to be her fate in London, the convention about living with Garrett’s relatives be damned, she would start immediately looking for a residence elsewhere.
Chapter Three
TWO WEEKS later, Jenna sat in the parlor, trying to keep a polite smile pasted on her lips while the notables of the ton paraded past to offer their condolences, their gimlet eyes and assessing glances evaluating the dress, manners and breeding of Viscount Fairchild’s widow. She’d even overheard one dandy, in a whisper just loud enough to reach her ears, compare her unfavorably to the Lovely Lucinda—the fiancée who had jilted Garrett for an earl.
Nearly as annoying, Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare arrived early “to support dear Jenna through her first public reception.” Effusing with delight at their thoughtfulness, Aunt Hetty had chairs installed for them beside Jenna’s, where the two were now dispensing sottovoce commentary on each caller who approached.
Jenna had thrown an appealing glance at Lane, seated beside Aunt Hetty on the sofa, but he’d returned nothing more helpful than a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. While Cousin Bayard,