Victoria supposed there was some truth to it. Thomas had come to them as a tall, gangly, underfed fourteen-year-old clutching a sackcloth of meager possessions. She’d been eleven, pudgy and fearless, yet lonely as an only child.
Thomas had done his best to ignore her, concentrating on excelling in his studies with a desperation she didn’t understand then. His disinterest in her hadn’t mattered. She had been smitten. Thomas had imprinted on her at a precarious time and awakened something inside of her that could never be caged again.
A sudden thought made her heart catch. Did he have a special friend to spend the yuletide holiday with? A lady friend?
“Victoria.” The admonishing way her name was spoken made Victoria look up like a hare hearing the bark of a hunting dog. Had her mother guessed the bent of her thoughts? “We need to discuss your future.”
“Do we?” Nerves sizzled in her stomach.
“Your second season ended without an offer.”
“It did indeed,” Victoria said with trepidation. It was a fact she couldn’t dispute.
“You have many boon companions that come to call, your dance card is always full, yet no gentleman has caught your attention or earned your encouragement.”
“No, I suppose not.” The direction of the conversation felt dire. “Are you growing impatient to have me settled in my own household?”
Her mother’s sigh was more than slightly frustrated. “Don’t you want your own household? Don’t you dream of having children?”
Victoria imagined herself waiting for her husband to return from his ventures while mending his socks. It seemed dreadfully dull. And children? She’d never spent much time in their company, but from her observations while walking in the park, they were loud and usually on the grubby side of cleanliness. Not the stuff of dreams.
However, she couldn’t fault her mother’s line of questioning. It was reasonable considering her age and the amount of money her parents had spent on presenting her to London’s finest citizens. No, the trouble with her mother’s question was Victoria couldn’t picture a husband.
The gentlemen she’d met over the past two seasons had not inspired any sort of passion. In fact, the wide-eyed romanticism instilled by her reading was slowly but surely transforming into a more jaded view of men. The longer she was on the marriage mart, the more she felt like cattle. Instead of a dance card, presenting her breeding credentials and her dowry to the ha’penny would save everyone time.
“Of course I would like to marry and have my own household?” False enthusiasm turned her answer into a question. She should be a better liar, considering her father was an artist in the medium. Something to ponder another time. “To be honest, I haven’t met a gentleman who stirs my senses.”
“Your senses?” Her mother tipped her head and regarded Victoria for a long moment like a scientific experiment gone wrong. “You should not rely on your senses to choose a husband. Your senses will betray you. Marriage is a structure that will provide you and your children security. If you choose wisely.”
“What about love?”
Her mother’s smile held a ghostly sadness that lived in a past Victoria wasn’t privy to. “Love is fleeting. Love won’t keep you warm and fed and comfortable.”
Had her mother’s heart ever skipped a beat and her breath caught when her father entered a room? “Did—do—you and Father love one another?”
“Your father and I rub along well enough.” Her mother rose, and Victoria did the same, leaving them facing off over an audience of kippers. “I want you to become serious about seeking a husband, Victoria. That was my point of this conversation. The Barclay’s house party will be an opportunity for you to make a choice.”
“You want me to pick a husband during a week-long house party?”
“Several suitable men you are already acquainted with will be attending. Lord Crenshaw, for instance. Although he is only a baron, his holdings are respectable, and he has an interest in politics.”
“Lord Crenshaw is an insufferable popinjay who is twenty years older than I. We would never suit.” All the excitement of the house party was being stomped to bits.
Her mother’s gaze dropped to look the kippers in the eye instead of Victoria. “If not him, what about Lord Percival? He’s not much older than you. A third son, but I’ve heard he will receive a generous living.”
“He’s nice enough, I suppose.” Victoria couldn’t imagine facing off with Lord Percival over the breakfast table every morning. He was as bland and boring as a water biscuit. Palatable, but not tempting in any way unless nursing an upset tummy.
“Such a match would offer you a future and protect you. Your father is in agreement.”
“Father wants me gone? He believes I need protection?” Her father had never voiced an opinion on who did or did not court her. In fact, her father rarely accompanied them on social occasions, and when he did, he often departed early. He had hitherto shown no interest in her marriage prospects beyond providing a modest dowry and coin enough for a suitable wardrobe.
Her mother leaned over the table. “You are strong willed and independent.”
“You speak as if those are not admirable traits.”
Her mother’s face could only be described as exasperated. “Gentlemen prefer docile, agreeable wives.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t marry a gentleman then.” Victoria crossed her arms, her mood nearing an all-out sulk. “You aren’t a docile, agreeable wife, and Father doesn’t seem to mind.”
While it wasn’t the nicest of phrasing, it was perfectly truthful. In contrast to her delicate frame, her mother had a stalwart personality and tended to run roughshod over anyone who disagreed with her.
Her mother cleared her throat and tried a smile that did nothing to assuage the dread settling on Victoria’s shoulders like a shawl weaved of maternal expectations and crushed dreams.
“Let’s not argue. We have an appointment to keep. I’ll call for the carriage.” Her mother swept out of the room.
The ticking of the clock was a grim accounting. How much time did she have before her life was at the mercy of a husband she would have little say over choosing? A knife of resentment was at her throat.
Despite her reservations, she promised herself to do whatever it took to help her friend Eleanor attain the happiness that felt out of reach for herself.
Chapter 2
Garrick nodded at the man who slipped out of Sir Hawkins’s study like a wraith. It was the only acknowledgment given or received. Names meant nothing to the agents who came and went. They could be slipped on and off like a hat.
“Garrick,” Sir Hawkins called out.
Garrick pushed himself off the wall and entered the study. Sir Hawkins was seated behind the desk writing a missive. His movements were economical, but Garrick noted an unusual fitfulness in the way he signed his name. Remaining silent, Garrick stood and waited, his hands behind his back.
“I want you to accompany Victoria and Lady Hawkins on their errands this morning.” Sir Hawkins didn’t look up as he blotted his note before folding and sealing it with wax.
“Why?” Garrick narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t asking to be difficult but because something had obviously happened to prompt the unusual request. “You don’t trust Henry and Callum?”