The Bargain of a Baroness Read online

  Graham’s brows furrowed. “Even after Lord Harrington proposed to Hannah?”

  Thomas looked to Emma, whose lowered lashes suggested she knew the truth of the matter. “Emma?”

  Emma allowed a short sigh. “Your father is right. Lady Simpson still wished for her daughter to be your wife, even when she knew of Lord Harrington’s interest.”

  For a moment, Graham felt ill at the thought that he had cursed Hannah’s mother nearly every day for the week leading up to his departure from England. Learning she wasn’t responsible for Hannah’s acceptance of Charlie Harrington’s proposal had him asking, “If not Lady Simpson, then who encouraged Hannah to marry Harrington?”

  “Her father,” Thomas replied, an expression of pain crossing his face.

  “Mr. Simpson?” Graham repeated in disbelief. “But... why?”

  Emma moved up to sit on the edge of her chair, eager to stifle any thoughts of anger her son might be considering. “So his daughter would one day be a countess,” she whispered. “Quite a coup for a man who had at one time been a butler, don’t you think? You hadn’t put forth a proposal, and apparently you had told Hannah you wouldn’t be looking to marry until you could ensure your own fortune,” she said. She dipped her head. “Which made it sound as if you didn’t think Wellingham Imports would be yours to inherit one day.”

  Graham blinked. “I’ve always known I would inherit at least part of the company,” he argued. “But I didn’t wish to rely on an allowance to keep Hannah in good stead.” He paused, an expression of hurt settling over his features. “And she knew I would propose when I was good and ready.”

  “Are you now?” Thomas asked, his voice gentle. He remembered well how hurt Graham had been when he learned of Hannah’s betrothal. How Graham had suggested it was time to start the Boston office, and how he wanted to be the one to do it. Remembered how Graham immersed himself in learning the details of Wellingham Imports’ operation—even though he knew them well—before he set out for Liverpool and then boarded a ship bound for Boston.

  Graham gave a start. “More ready than you can know.”

  “You’re prepared to court her?” Emma asked, as she refilled his teacup.

  “I am.”

  “There will be others, now that she’s out of mourning,” Thomas warned.

  “Doesn’t matter. Hannah will accept my suit,” Graham claimed.

  Emma’s eyes widened. “You seem terribly sure of yourself.”

  “I am. It seems the current Lord Harrington wants me to marry his mother,” Graham said with a grin. “And who am I to argue with my future stepson?”

  Emma and Thomas exchanged looks of surprise but said nothing. After all, what could they say to such a pronouncement?

  Chapter 15

  A Pending Portrait Portends a Problem

  Later that day, at Harrington House

  Penning a congratulatory letter to her niece, Emily Grandby, for her recent wedding to James Burroughs, Hannah paused to reread her words.

  She had been sure the newlyweds were on the Continent enjoying a wedding trip. Instead, she had learned from her nephew, Tom Grandby, that they wouldn’t leave London for a honeymoon until later in the year. Apparently, James’ duties as his father’s replacement at the Bank of England made it impossible for him to take time away just yet.

  Feeling ever so guilty over her tardiness with her good wishes, she had arranged for a Chippendale console to be delivered to their townhouse as a wedding gift. Word had come from the studio that the maple and cherry wood furniture was to be delivered this Tuesday.

  With any luck, her missive would arrive before the gift.

  About to fold and seal the letter, Hannah was startled when the Harrington House butler interrupted her. “Potter, what is it?”

  “Mr. Henry Simpson has paid a call and wonders if you are in residence, my lady.”

  Hannah stiffened, immediately thinking something might have happened to one of their parents.

  “He said it has nothing to do with your parents,” Potter added, as if he could read her mind.

  Relaxing, Hannah glanced around her salon. “Have him join me here, and could you have a tea tray delivered?” She dared a glance at the Rococo clock on the fireplace mantel.

  Given the time of day, she decided her mother was probably at the Wellingham townhouse having tea with Miss Laura Overby. Henry had probably planned his exit from the Simpson townhouse to coincide with his mother’s departure.

  “Of course, my lady.” Potter backed out of the salon as Hannah quickly folded her letter to Emily and then moved to take a seat in her favorite upholstered chair.

  A minute later, Henry appeared on the threshold. “Sister,” he said with a bow.

  From his expression, Hannah couldn’t tell if he was the bearer of good news or the harbinger of bad. “Brother,” she countered. She patted the chair adjacent to hers. “I’ve ordered tea, but I can certainly have the butler bring brandy if you’d prefer.”

  Henry gave her a quelling glance. “A bit early in the day for brandy,” he commented. “Tea is fine. I’ve merely come about the issue of this... this family portrait Mother wants painted.”

  “You’re not in agreement we should sit for it?”

  Grimacing, Henry took the chair she had indicated and settled into it with a heavy sigh. “I am not,” he admitted.

  “Why ever not? An hour a day is all you’ll be required, at most,” Hannah insisted, remembering what Preston had said about the length of time Emma Wellingham sat for the painter in the mornings.

  “A woman?” he replied curtly. “Painting portraits? It’s not seemly.”

  Hannah blinked. “I cannot believe you just said that,” she replied in surprise. “I thought you seemed especially fond of the wedding portrait our nephew had done,” she added, referring to a painting of Victoria and Thomas Grandby that hung over the great hall fireplace in Fairmont Park. “Miss Overby painted it.”

  This she knew from having had dinner with Tom and Victoria the fortnight before, a dinner party which included Henry and several other relatives of the newlyweds. The name of the artist hadn’t meant so much at the time Lady Grandby mentioned it, but now it was vital information.

  Henry gave a start. “She did?” he asked, just as a maid delivered the tea tray.

  Hannah motioned for the maid to set it on the low table in front of her. “Indeed. Victoria said she was very professional. Always on time for their sittings and quite concerned for their comfort.” She leaned forward and prepared the cups for tea.

  “Older woman, I imagine,” Henry murmured. “Has to be given the level of skill apparent in that wedding portrait.”

  Offering him a cup of tea, Hannah did her best not to grin at his expense. “Hardly,” she said as she turned to pour a cup for herself.

  “The lace in that gown of Lady Grandby’s was rendered in such detail, it could not have been done by someone too young.”

  “And yet it was,” Hannah murmured.

  “You’ve met her?”

  Hannah shook her head. “I have not, but Mother has had tea with her. She is quite impressed with Miss Overby.”

  Henry shook his head. “If she is so accomplished, how is it I’ve not heard of her before?” he asked as his brows furrowed.

  “Well, we’re not related to her,” Hannah replied. “And I rather doubt your position at the bank would have the two of you crossing paths.”

  “I suppose she’s peculiar,” Henry groused.

  Hannah blinked. “Henry! I doubt that.”

  “Why?” Henry’s simple query came at the same moment he straightened in his chair and regarded her with challenge in his eyes.

  For a moment, Hannah thought he would have made an excellent soldier. Or a barrister. The enemy would cower in fear at seeing the cross expression he aimed in their direction.

  In fact, she had been the victim of that look of annoyance far too often of late. Far more than she had been while they were growing up tog
ether in their parents’ townhouse.

  For a moment, she wondered if he directed the same expression at their parents. At his superior at the Bank of England. At the clerks who referred to him as their superior. At his friends whilst they were at their club.

  When had Henry Simpson grown cross—and stayed cross—with the world?

  “That look might work on one of your lowly bank clerks, Mr. Simpson, but not on me,” she chided, her initial delight at what she knew about Miss Overby replaced with annoyance. Her brother’s mood was rubbing off on her, and she didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Then... then why do you defend her?”

  Tempted to tell him what she knew about Laura Overby—that the young lady was this very moment ensconced in the Wellingham townhouse completing a portrait of Emma Wellingham—Hannah spitefully decided to withhold the information in favor of giving him the facts as they might appear in a copy of DeBrett’s.

  “Miss Overby is Lily Overby’s daughter.”

  Henry allowed a shrug. “Who is Lily Overby? I know Mother mentioned something about her over breakfast, but I cannot say I paid much mind.”

  Sighing her disbelief at hearing his query, Hannah explained, “Lily Overby is the Earl of Trenton’s illegitimate sister. She married William Overby, who was at one time Thomas Wellingham’s caddy at Wellingham Imports.” When he didn’t say anything to interrupt, she added, “He’s a broker there now. Miss Overby is one of their five children. The oldest, I’m quite sure.”

  A look of confusion passed over Henry’s face. “If the Earl of Trenton recognized Lily as his sister, why would her daughter need to work as a painter for her living?”

  Hannah shrugged, tempted to share with him what she knew from Preston. Keeping the secret was so much more fun, though. “Perhaps it’s not a vocation as much as it’s an avocation. Or perhaps she simply enjoys painting. I suppose you would have to ask Miss Overby to know for certain,” she suggested, her brows waggling.

  She knew Henry would never pay a call at the Overby townhouse, so she thought to tease him with more of what she knew. “I do believe Lady Overby was a lady’s maid at one point.” Her eyes widened. “To Emma’s half-sister, Lady Samantha. Before she married the Marquess of Plymouth,” Hannah added as excitement increased in her voice. “Before Trenton found her and acknowledged her as his sister,” she added happily.

  Henry regarded his sister with a look of chagrin. “You are entirely too excited by the oddest of circumstances,” he accused.

  “I am, and I am not about to apologize for it.” She sighed, realizing he still wasn’t convinced as to the importance of the painting. “Please sit for the painting, Henry. If not for me, do it for our Mother. Our last one is over thirty years old.”

  Wincing—Henry hated when Hannah played the Mother card—he rolled his eyes. “I shall like to think on it for a time,” he replied.

  “Well, don’t ruminate too terribly long. I rather imagine Mother has already scheduled our sitting.”

  Meanwhile

  Sophia Simpson hadn’t only arranged the times for her family to sit for Miss Overby, she had also determined exactly where in the Simpson townhouse she wanted them to sit. She had even encouraged the young artist to join her for a quick trip across the street so that she could show Miss Overby the first floor parlor.

  “In front of the fireplace,” she said when Laura Overby asked where in the room she had in mind for a backdrop.

  “But, your parlor will smell of oils. Mineral spirits,” Laura argued. “Although the odor doesn’t linger long.”

  “Oh, it will be fine,” Sophia replied. “I rarely host visitors in here these days.” She motioned to a couple of chairs, and they moved to stand before them.

  Laura furrowed a blonde brow. “Well, if you’re sure. The marble mantel does provide an elegant background, and the morning sun from the two windows will cast you in a favorable light.” She waited for Sophia to settle into a brightly patterned upholstered chair, noting how it could have been a throne given how the duke’s sister positioned herself.

  “At my age, any light is favorable,” Sophia replied with a look of delight. She motioned for Laura to take a seat.

  Giving the older woman an impish grin, Laura sighed and glanced around the rest of the parlor. “You’ve decorated it perfectly, my lady,” she murmured as she took the proffered chair. She had to resist the urge to audibly sigh at how comfortable it was. “I so wish for the day I might have such a parlor.”

  “Why, don’t you have one already, my dear?”

  Laura gave a start. “I still live with my parents in Curzon Street,” she argued. “I’ve not yet married.”

  Sophia’s eyes lit with mischief. “I know I have asked you before, but have you had any suitors? Since I last asked?”

  Her eyes widening with humor—it had been but a fortnight since Lady Simpson had asked her the first time—Laura said, “I have not. Although I am old enough, I... I haven’t exactly had a come-out.”

  “Because?” Sophia prompted, her back straightening as if she intended to pounce.

  Laura dipped her head. “My mother has offered—several times—but I fear a young man might assume her ties to the Earl of Trenton mean I possess a larger dowry than I do. I shouldn’t wish to unintentionally trick a young man.”

  Understanding replaced Sophia’s initial look of delight. “It is awkward, is it not, to be so closely related to a peer and yet be a commoner?”

  Her brows furrowing, Laura regarded the older woman a moment before she said, “I don’t know that it’s awkward so much as it’s far more common than I had any reason to believe.”

  Sophia blinked. “Common?”

  Laura nodded. “Why, Mrs. Wellingham’s uncle is a viscount,” she said, referring to Lord Chamberlain. “Mr. Wellingham is a cousin to my...” She paused to consider the relationships. “Uncle Gabriel, the earl. You have told me you are the daughter and the aunt of a duke, and your daughter is a baroness. Your son, no doubt, has connections as well.”

  Rather enjoying Laura’s argument, Sophia grinned as she leaned in her direction and said, “His cousin is a duke, but Henry is quite satisfied with his status as a commoner. He is gainfully employed at the Bank of England, owns his own townhouse which he claims is undergoing renovations, and he shall inherit this house upon his father’s death.”

  Laura winced at the mention of death.

  “Death is inevitable,” Sophia murmured with a shrug. “But I have warned my husband that he cannot die until after I have, since I have every intention of becoming a Merry Widow if he does.” She grinned in delight at seeing Laura’s face blush a bright red.

  “My lady!” Laura scolded. She couldn’t maintain her look of shock, though, when she saw Sophia’s expression. Then a maid appeared with a tea tray, and their conversation ceased for a moment as the young woman poured tea and then took her leave of the parlor.

  Sophia sobered as she reached for the cups, added lumps of sugar to both, and offered one to Laura. “My James has never warned me that he would take a lover upon my death, but I would never wish to deny him his need to be... needed. To be loved by another. He was in service as a younger man, you see, and it’s been his mission in life to continue in that vein.”

  “In service?” Laura repeated. “He was a...?” She stopped, afraid to guess whatever level of servant James Simpson had been at one time.

  “A butler. A very good butler,” Sophia said.

  Laura was almost relieved at hearing this news. She hadn’t yet met the man, but she had seen him on the street, when he was taking his leave of his townhouse whilst she watched from the Wellingham’s residence.

  Mr. Simpson always appeared the epitome of refinement, his clothes perfectly tailored and his posture befitting a man of means. And yet she never had the impression he put on airs.

  Sophia’s gaze darted to the painting of the family that had been done when the twins were but four years
of age. “He looked much like that back then.”

  “He’s quite handsome,” Laura remarked. “As are your children. And you don’t seem to have aged at all.”

  Sophia scoffed. “That painting was done three decades ago.”

  “Thirty years?” The sound of disbelief was apparent in Laura’s voice. She immediately attempted to calculate the children’s ages in her head based on the age she thought they might have been in the painting.

  “Two-and-thirty years, actually, given the twins’ current ages,” Sophia replied, her gaze settling on the image of Henry “I always thought Henry would be wed by now, but...” She sighed and gave her head a shake. “I almost wonder if he’s decided to remain unmarried because he feels as if he cannot on account of my James and me.”

  Laura furrowed a brow. “Perhaps he simply hasn’t met the right woman,” she suggested.

  Sophia’s eyes darted in her guest’s direction, and she allowed a grin. “Perhaps.”

  The two enjoyed their cups of tea as Sophia secretly plotted an introduction for her son and the painter. Although Henry might consider courting the young lady on his own, Sophia was fairly sure he would need a push in the artist’s direction.

  And Miss Laura Overby would have to be prepared for a collision.

  Chapter 16

  An Invitation Arrives

  Saturday afternoon, Harrington House breakfast parlor

  “My lady, a Fairmont Park footman delivered this for you,” Potter said as he held out a silver salver.

  Seated at the breakfast table, Hannah regarded the bright white missive with a look of surprise. She had already begun eating her luncheon, using the time alone to review the invitations Edward had brought with him from school.

  Once again, she boggled at the sheer number he had accepted for the coming week. There were several balls, two soirées, a garden party, and a musicale.

  “He said he’s to wait for a response,” the butler added as he dipped his head.