“As I recall, Uncle Reggie gave you an estate.”
Otis waved his hand. “If I’m to live in the manner to which I aspire, I need a fortune. A large one. I likely won’t find the right woman for years. Father will simply have to accept that.”
In short, the heiress was a patent excuse for avoiding marriage for the next decade. Devin couldn’t blame his cousin. He wasn’t looking forward to it himself. But he’d promised himself two years ago that the next time a duke’s daughter came on the market, he’d get the business over with.
“I do think it’ll be better if I move here,” Otis said. “In a few weeks, after I fix things up with the bishop.”
“Will the bishop be surprised?”
“My expectation is that he’ll be as eager to kick me out the door as I am to leave. Hopefully, I’ll be out of the vicarage in time to supervise your courtship,” Otis said. “I already have some advice as regards your marital ambitions.”
“What?”
“You’ll have some competition for the Wilde girl.”
Wynter doubted that very much. He hadn’t been to a ball in years, but the last time he attended one, it reminded him of a Scottish stream when the trout were running. Young ladies playing the role of shining, wriggling trout.
“I’ve got the title and money, I’m not lame or scarred, I don’t drink to excess.”
“Viscount Greywick is looking for a wife,” Otis said. “He’ll be a duke someday. Word is he almost landed the last Wilde, so I suspect he’ll be on the lookout again. He’s younger than you, and to be brutally honest, he’s handsome to boot.”
As Devin understood it, there were an infinite number of Wilde offspring. Greywick could wait another year or two if need be. He shrugged.
“You might want to try to appear less . . . ducal,” Otis suggested.
Devin knew exactly what he was talking about, but his expressionless demeanor had saved his life many a time as a youth caught in the path of his father’s rage, and it was too late to try to imitate Otis’s cheerful smile.
“Lady Joan won’t marry me for who I am,” he pointed out. “She’ll marry me because the duchy of Wynter is older and wealthier than Greywick’s duchy.”
Otis laughed. “Perhaps Hazel has a shot at Greywick.”
“I wish her the best of luck,” Devin said politely.
Chapter Four
The next day
Viola didn’t sleep more than a few hours that night, and by breakfast she had come up with a three-part plan to win Mr. Marlowe’s hand and heart. She had to prove that she was worthy of his attention, bring him to London when the family moved there for the Season, and conquer her shyness.
That afternoon, the Pettigrews and Mr. Marlowe joined the duchess—whom they hadn’t met the previous day—for tea.
Viola was trying to figure out how to prove her worthiness when Barty fluttered down from his perch, stopped at her foot, and let out a gentle caw. He could manage short flights, as long as he didn’t overtax his wings.
“Oh, goodness me!” Miss Pettigrew squealed.
“This is Barty,” Viola said, slipping her hand under the crow’s round tummy and bringing him up to her knee. “He fell from the nest as a baby and now he lives with us.”
Barty cocked his head and looked at Miss Pettigrew. He opened his wings and cawed again.
“He is wishing you good afternoon,” Viola said.
Miss Pettigrew was clearly horrified. “I do not believe in animals sharing human habitation.”
“Insalubrious,” her mother confirmed, frowning at Barty.
Barty fluttered to the ground, picked up a piece of bright red paper that had escaped the maids’ notice, and hopped to Miss Pettigrew. He spread his wings again, bent his head, and laid it next to her slipper.
“It’s a present,” Viola explained.
“More likely payment. He tends to offer a gift before he pecks off a button, and yours are shiny,” Joan said, with a jaundiced air.
“Get that creature away from me,” Miss Pettigrew cried, shrinking back and slapping her hands over her bosom to protect her brass buttons. Her mother snatched up her saucer and held it like a shield.
Prism had been standing to the side supervising the dispersal of lemon cake. He stepped forward. “I shall take Master Barty,” he said. The butler was one of Barty’s favorite people, since Prism had spent hours feeding him as a baby, and he readily hopped to his arm.
“Thank you,” Viola said, as Prism walked away, his arm held high at a right angle, as if he were dancing a minuet.
“I never!” Miss Pettigrew said, dropping her hands from her bosom.
Aunt Knowe stepped in before Miss Pettigrew could elaborate on an opinion that was likely to prove universally unpopular.
“How are your plans for the parish progressing?” she asked Mr. Marlowe.
“I have suggestions about how you might encourage parishioners to attend services,” Viola said brightly.
Mrs. Pettigrew cast her a narrow glance. “Such matters are best left to the vicar.”
But Mr. Marlowe was more polite, and for the next five minutes, they had a lively exchange about ways to bring people to the church, ranging from a harvest dinner—“expensive and unnecessary,” sniffed Mrs. Pettigrew—to a Sunday school.
Mr. Marlowe was as delightful on closer acquaintance as he had appeared the day before. He was deeply kind and interested in the welfare of everyone in the parish. He listened respectfully to Viola’s ideas, which was refreshing after Father Duddleston’s invariable refusal to consider anything new.
“Our friend Lady Caitlin Paget began a Sunday school in St. Wilfrid’s parish in London,” Viola told him. “At first she had a hard time convincing mothers to send their children. Now she has a schoolmaster in the afternoons as well.”
“I know Lady Caitlin, since I was a curate at St. Wilfrid’s,” Mr. Marlowe said, a smile lighting his eyes. “She is a remarkable young lady.”
As Mrs. Pettigrew launched into a monologue about the poor’s need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, Viola began musing over her second problem. She couldn’t leave Mr. Marlowe in Cheshire while she went to London. The Season began in April, but the family would leave for London in early February; it would take at least two months for modistes to create a wardrobe proper for Viola’s and Joan’s debuts.
Mr. Marlowe was planning to marry Miss Pettigrew in only eight months. How would he ever choose Viola over Miss Pettigrew if they didn’t become better acquainted? He must come to London and be provided with opportunities for comparison.
Her shyness was a problem too. She couldn’t be a true partner to Mr. Marlowe if she trembled every time she encountered a male parishioner.
That night she recruited Joan to help with her shyness, using their upcoming debut as an excuse.
“Aunt Knowe says that once you’ve met enough young gentlemen, you’ll realize that they are mostly hopeless duffers, and not to be feared,” Joan reminded her.
Viola had heard this bit of wisdom many times. “What goes through your head when you meet someone for the first time?”