Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Her heart’s desire. If only the baroness knew what that meant.

Guilt assailed Amanda. How could she accept such a kindness? She reached back to undo the clasp and return this undeserved gift. But Lady Finch stopped her, closing her fingers over Amanda’s hands.

“Please humor an old lady and wear them,” she said softly. “I haven’t a daughter to see into society, nor a son who is inclined to go out and find a wife. Indulge me this one pleasure—to see the diamonds worn as they ought.”

Amanda’s eyes began to well up. Lady Finch had done more for her in the last forty-eight hours than her own mother had done in a lifetime. And how was she about to repay the baroness? By sneaking away and breaking the bargain that the Finches held so dear.

“Lady Finch, I-I-I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness.”

“There is no need to thank me. You’ve done more than you already know.” The lady patted her on the shoulders then dabbed at her own moist eyes with a lacy bit. “Now, now, no more tears. You’ll have me going on like a watering pot, and that wretched Lady Mitton will spend the rest of the Season telling the entire ton that I’ve reached my dotage.”

Amanda laughed, then wiped away her own tears and wondered if the lady would regret her generosity when the midnight announcement came and Amanda had long since fled Finch Manor and the only real home she’d ever known.

Addison’s usually strong voice was growing hoarse as he continued to announce the guests, while Lord and Lady Finch greeted old friend and new alike.

Jemmy couldn’t remember another time when Finch Manor had entertained so many people. He’d been kicked out of the gatehouse so Lord Worledge and his wretched entourage of family and friends and hangers-on would have lodging, while the main house was bursting to the seams. Their neighbor, Lady Kirkwood, had generously opened her doors to any number of guests for the night, for it seemed nearly every member of the ton had taken the long drive from London to Bramley Hollow for Lady Finch’s unprecedented ball.

On Esme’s advice, Amanda was not part of the receiving line. The wily matchmaker wanted her to remain unseen so that speculation and anticipation would run rife.

Much to Jemmy’s chagrin, the woman’s plan was working. With all the mystery surrounding the bride, the house was also crawling with every fortune hunter and lordling with pockets to let, as well as a few cits hoping to improve their social standing through Lady Finch’s good favor.

He’d have a hell of a time getting Amanda out of their greedy grasps once she was announced, but do it he would. He was only too glad she was stowed away in the music room, behind the door on which he lounged, guarding it with single-minded determination—especially given the company milling about.

“Say there, Reyburn,” an old acquaintance called out.

Jemmy racked his brain to remember the man’s name.

Bemley? No, Denley. Bother, that wasn’t it either.

If he hadn’t been particularly fond of the fellow before, the man’s next questions didn’t do much to make him anxious to renew the acquaintance.

“Where is this gel to be matched?” The fellow turned his head right and left as he scanned the crowd with an assessing eye. “Hear tell she’s an heiress.” He nudged Jemmy in the ribs. “Is she a worthy filly? A fine bit? Knowing my luck, my mother’s badgered me down here for another one of these cit’s nags—all teeth and no bite, if my name isn’t Fently.”

Fently! That was it. And heir to an earldom if Jemmy remembered correctly. Oh, his mother had been busy inviting the “right sort.”

The pompous fellow had his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat. “I’ll dance with her, mind you, but only because Mother expects it. Then I’m off to find some sport—that is, unless this bride is worth the effort.”

Jemmy straightened. Had he been so shallow and crude?

No, better not to answer that question. If there was any relief to be had, it was that Amanda had never known him in his London days. Now he was ashamed of how he’d treated the poor debutantes standing in the wings of Almack’s.

But there was one good thing about his dashing days, he knew how to answer the fellow in his own language and what words would send the reluctant bachelor packing.

He wagged his finger at Fently to lure him a little closer. Nothing like the appearance of a confidential conversation to garner every gossip’s attention. As Fently struck a nonchalant pose— so as not to attract too much attention, but acting quite the opposite, like a magnet for the curious—Jemmy shook his head as mournfully as possible and then leaned closer. “I told Mother not to go to all this trouble, but when do they ever listen?”

“That bad, eh?” Fently’s staged whisper drew three more potential grooms into their fold—best of all, the trio was as gossipy as his mother. “You’d best hear this,” he told the newcomers.

Ah, yes, Jemmy thought. This will do the trick. He glanced around, making a great show of trying to preserve the confidential nature of their conversation. “On the other side of this door”—he jerked his thumb behind him—“is a gel as cowhanded as they come,” he said loud enough to catch the attention of two other young gentlemen, who immediately stopped and joined the growing crowd. “Now don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he told his curious audience, “but I ’spect this is the only way they could find to marry the gel off.” He shot them a knowing look, and they all nodded in understanding. “In my opinion, by midnight there won’t be a fellow left in the manor, ’less he’s so far into his cups he’d be inclined to marry my father’s three-legged foxhound.” He shook his head. “I for one will be long gone by then. Can’t stand listening to the wailing and tears—in which I understand this one is rather inclined to partake—mostly ’cause she hasn’t a farthing to her name.”

“Poor chit,” one soft-hearted fellow said.

“Poor chit? Poor us,” a Corinthian in the back complained. “Been lured down here on false pretenses. An heiress, indeed!”

“In truth, if there is anyone who should be pitied, pity me,” Jemmy told them, adding another long mournful sigh to his act. “I’ve got to dance the first set with her. The dancing master left this morning nursing a broken foot, and I’ve only got one good one left.” He tapped his boot with his walking stick.

At th

is, his companions laughed.