The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

Emily reached for her teacup. “Stacie was reared quite strictly by modern ton standards. As far as the ton saw, while with Lavinia, she lived a structured, tightly controlled, and utterly blameless life. And since Lavinia’s death, she’s lived rather quietly under her half brother Ryder’s, and of course that means Mary’s, wing.”

“Which is to say,” his mother declared, “that despite her advanced age and her years living with Lavinia, Stacie enjoys an utterly unblemished reputation within the ton.”

“Indeed.” Emily nodded decisively. “So one can safely state that despite anything you might hear regarding her mother’s indiscretions, Stacie herself is considered by all as above reproach.”

Frederick studied the ladies’ faces, then slowly nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Well!” His mother folded her arms, leaned them on the table, and looked at him expectantly. “Now we have that settled, and we’ve all agreed that Stacie is the perfec

t bride for you, when is the engagement ball to be?”

He stared at her, then, thinking furiously, refolded The Times and set it aside. “As you might guess, our announcement was…brought forward by circumstance. Neither Stacie nor I have had time to decide what we wish to do regarding such things—our inclination, at this point, is to proceed slowly.”

“Slowly?” His mother sat up. “But you’re already thirty-two!”

“Precisely my point.” Frederick edged back his chair and rose. “We are both beyond the age of impetuosity, and I won’t have Stacie harassed. There is to be no talk of engagement balls or any similar event until we’ve had a chance to decide what we wish.”

With a brief nod to his mother and another to Emily, he beat a hasty retreat and took refuge in his study.

After tossing the newspaper on his desk, he dropped into the chair behind it. “An engagement ball—good Lord!”

He stared unseeing across the room while he reviewed all his mother and Emily had revealed of Stacie’s life. Nothing in anything he’d heard to that point answered the question of why his supposed-bride-to-be was so set against marrying.

He couldn’t ignore the increasing compulsion to view learning the truth as a personal challenge—a gauntlet she had unwittingly flung at his feet. He was determined to learn what she had against marriage and, once he had, if she still featured as the perfect wife for him, to persuade her to change her mind.

By eleven o’clock on the morning following her first musical evening, Stacie was deeply regretting not having asked Pemberly to stay behind; poor Hettie wasn’t up to the task of repelling the horde of determined ladies who had started to ply the knocker and present their cards shortly after ten-thirty.

And when one breached their defenses, the others followed.

Even with Ernestine assisting as best she could, Stacie felt she was slowly sinking beneath the tide of eager and often-arch questions. All the ladies were keen to learn every detail regarding her unheralded engagement to a gentleman who, Stacie now realized, featured as one of the ton’s greatest enigmas.

For these ladies, the pinnacle of her musical evening’s success had been the announcement of her and Frederick’s engagement.

“So terribly romantic,” old Lady Culpepper declared.

“You can rest assured, my dear,” Lady Holbrook said, “that all those who were not present will be kicking themselves.”

“I, for one,” Mrs. Wyshwilson stated, “will never forget the evening. The music—so sublime!—and then the announcement!”

Lady Moreton, a music lover, assured Stacie, “The entire ton will be talking of your musical evening, which will, at least, ensure that your next musical event will be as well attended as you might wish.”

There was that, Stacie supposed—a single hint of silver lining in what was otherwise stormy gray.

While she dealt with the countless queries as to the engagement, determinedly turning aside the many that bordered on the impertinent, she felt her face setting into a strained smile. And then there were the inevitable comparisons to her mother, and the repeated refrain of how very proud Lavinia would have been had she lived to see her only daughter snaffle a marquess, just as she had.

Despite the way those comments grated on her nerves, Stacie had to admit they were true. Had she been alive, her mother would have been in her element, manipulating and orchestrating the entire event to her own benefit.

Thankfully, her mother was dead.

Ernestine was visibly flagging and Stacie was wilting when, at a quarter to twelve, Hettie walked into the drawing room with a genuinely bright smile on her face and announced, “The Marchioness of Raventhorne, my lady. Mrs. Randolph Cavanaugh and Mrs. Christopher Cavanaugh.”

“Thank God,” Stacie breathed. Reinforcements had arrived.

Mary walked in, surveyed the room, took note of Stacie’s harried state, and smiled. “Ladies. In the circumstances, I’m sure you understand that I and Lady Eustacia’s sisters-in-law have much to discuss with Lady Eustacia and Mrs. Thwaites.”

“Oh, of course, my dear Lady Mary.”

“Perfectly understandable.”