For Mrs. Bunbury didn’t exist.
CHAPTER TWO
Garrett Upton turned over the letter and stared at it. Hard. He let out a long breath. It contained what it always did, a bank draft, an inadequate message, a hefty dose of guilt.
“Sir, the coach awaits you.”
Garrett glanced at the butler who stood at attention in the doorway to his study. The two roan spaniels lying on either side of his chair lifted their heads and wagged their tails.
“I’ll be there in a moment, Cartwright.”
Cartwright nodded once.
Garrett’s gaze returned to the desktop and the letter that had occupied his attention this morning. He finished sanding it, sealed it, and stamped it with the heated wax in front of him.
Garrett didn’t have much time. The coach was waiting. He hadn’t got much slept last night either, but that was nothing new. The dreams were always there, the nightmares, haunting him.
Garrett stared at the address.
Mrs. Harold Langford
12 Charles Street
London
Every two weeks Garrett sent a similar letter. He’d sent it like clockwork, ever since he’d been a young man of one and twenty, nearly ten years now. While it always included the same contents, conspicuously, there was no mention of Harold, his friend who had died in the war.
Garrett shook his head and pushed out his chair. The dogs scrambled up from their resting spots. He stood and made his way toward the door, the letter in his hand. He’d worked the last fortnight to catch up with his business matters to ensure he could enjoy the time in the countryside. Today, he was off to his friends’ wedding house party in Surrey. The new Earl of Swifdon, Julian Swift, was finally marrying his bride, Lady Cassandra Monroe. The six months of grieving for the earl’s older brother, Donald, had passed.
The wedding would be grand. The house party before the wedding, more intimate. Garrett’s cousin Lucy would be there with her new husband, the Duke of Claringdon. Cassandra and Swifdon would be there, of course. Miss Jane Lowndes. Garrett rolled his eyes. Miss Lowndes usually exasperated him, argued with him, maddened him, or a combination of all three, but he could stand her company for a sennight, he supposed. Why Lucy insisted on remaining such close friends with that know-it-all bluestocking, he’d never understand.
Cartwright remained standing at attention near the door.
“Ensure this goes out today,” Garrett said pointedly to the servant, handing him the letter.
“As you wish,” the butler replied, taking it.
Garrett crossed back over to the large mahogany desk, pulled his coat from the back of his chair, and shrugged into it. The dogs watched him intently. Then he turned and strode out the door. The dogs followed close on his heels. He made his way past the butler, who fell into step behind him. He marched down the corridor and into the foyer. Cartwright scurried to open the front door for him as Garrett turned to pat each of the dogs on the head. Their tails wiggled vigorously.
“Take good care of them, Cartwright.”
Placing his hat on his head, Garrett strode out into the street, where he climbed into the waiting carriage. He settled into the velvet seat and gazed out the window, taking one last look at his London residence.
It was a fine house. Garrett might be the heir presumptive to the Earl of Upbridge, but the town house in Mayfair and its servants and contents were currently paid for by money his mother had brought to her marriage to the second son of an earl, and an inheritance from his maternal grandfather. Garrett was a wealthy man in his own right.
The coach started with a jerk. Mr. Garrett Upton was off to spend a week at a country house party in Surrey.
CHAPTER THREE
“Young lady, I refuse to allow you to leave this house until you answer these questions to my satisfaction.” Mrs. Hortense Lowndes’s dark hair shivered with the force of her foot stamping against the carpeted floor in Jane’s father’s study.
Jane adjusted her spectacles upon her nose and stared at her mother calmly. Mama was in a high dudgeon today. She hadn’t even mentioned the fact that Jane had arrived dripping wet upon her father’s carpet and then hurried over to place her soggy book by the fire.
“Are you listening to me?” her mother prodded.
Jane glanced at her bespectacled father, who gave her a half-shrug and a sympathetic smile before folding his hands atop his desk and returning his attention to his book. Papa obviously wished this entire debacle was playing out elsewhere instead of interrupting his reading. Jane didn’t blame him. She looked longingly toward her own book. I do hope it dries and the pages aren’t adversely affected. Oh, wait. She should be paying attention to her mother.
“Of course I’m listening, Mama.”
Her mother crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her suspiciously. “Why are you wet?”
Jane pursed her lips. “I thought this was about Mrs. Bunbury.” Distraction. It always worked on Mama. Without taking his eyes off his book, Jane’s father smirked.
“Yes. Mrs. Bunbury,” her mother continued. “That’s exactly right. I have several questions about her.”
Jane took a deep breath. She carefully removed her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve. Stalling. A second tactic that usually worked on her mother.
“Mama, we’ve discussed this. I’m no longer a child. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m a bluestocking, a spinster.” She refrained from pointing out that her mother’s refusal to accept that fact was exactly why she’d had to invent this preposterous Mrs. Bunbury scheme. That would not be received well. Not at all.
“You most certainly are not!” Her mother stamped her foot again. “Why, I cannot believe my ears.” She whirled toward Jane’s father. “Charles, are you listening to this?”
Jane’s father’s head snapped up. He cleared his throat. “Why, yes. Yes, of course. Bluestocking spinster, dear.”
“No!” her mother cried. “Jane is not a bluestocking spinster.”
“No, of course not,” her father agreed before burying his head in his book again.
Hortense turned back to face Jane. She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “We’ve spent a fortune on your clothing and schooling. We’ve ensured you’ve received invitations to all of the best parties, balls, and routs. I do not understand why you cannot find a husband.”
“I don’t want a husband, Mama. I’ve told you time and again.”
“If you’d merely try,” Hortense pleaded.
As usual, her mother refused to listen. Hence, the need for Mrs. Bunbury.
Jane carefully replaced her spectacles. “I’m going to the house party, aren’t I?” Logic. It usually served to placate her mother, if temporarily.
Her mother made a funny little hiccupping sound. “You won’t enjoy yourself. I know you won’t. I think I should come with you and—”
“No.” Jane could only hope she successfully kept the panic from her face. If Mama came to the house party, it would be a disaster. It was bad enough that she would be arriving at the end of the week for the wedding itself. “Of course I won’t enjoy myself, Mama. Not the party part, at least. I’m bringing a great many books and I intend to—”