A Noble Dilemma

PROLOGUE

Not only was the July day excessively warm, but so was the parson’s son. Warm, not in temperature, but in his attentions to young Miss Hasbrouck. He--

Bethany! Where are you? I need you, a querulous voice called out from the next room.

Bethany Branford sighed. Coming, Great Aunt Cordelia. With great reluctance, she set aside her goose-quill pen and paper, along with the parson’s son’s intentions toward young Miss Hasbrouck.

Although Bethany’s novel wasn’t intended to be autobiographical, she could admit the character of the parson’s son was patterned after Mr. Jarvis, the local blacksmith from the nearby village of Bamburgh, Northumberland. Mr. Jarvis was, of course, a good man to know when one’s horse threw a shoe. However he did exhibit a tendency to linger his sooty fingers against one’s worn, but clean gloves.

At least he did to Bethany’s gloves when she had business at the blacksmith’s.

Bethany!

Again came the summons. She quickly pushed away from the writing desk, smoothed the wrinkles on her faded sprigged muslin gown, and hurried into her great aunt’s bedchamber. Technically, Lady Cordelia wasn’t her great aunt. When Bethany was ten years old, her widower father, Adam Branford, had married Lady Cordelia’s niece. He and his second wife experienced six years of happiness before both succumbed to ague, leaving Bethany an orphan with a very small dowry.

Here I am, Great Aunt Cordelia, Bethany said as brightly as she could despite inhaling the acrid fumes of camphor imprisoned within the sickroom walls. How are you feeling? May I bring you something?

Over the years, Lady Cordelia had made a career out of her ill health, but now the Grim Reaper was truly taking her to task. Folds of skin hung heavy on a body that no longer enjoyed eating. Her penetrating blue eyes had lost their luster. A complexion that had once been the toast of the Beau Monde--at least according to Lady Cordelia--was now yellowed and bilious.

A cup of tea, my gel. The old woman appeared shrunken in size and lost amidst the pillows as she sat hunched over in her massive bed. I could use a spot of nice hot tea to loosen the bowels.

Even after five years of tending to Lady Cordelia, Bethany still blushed at such plain speaking about bodily functions.

Souchong tea, if you please, Lady Cordelia requested as if she hadn’t asked for the same kind a million times before. And make yourself a cup, too.

Souchong was one of the most expensive China teas available. With its deep, unmistakably smoky aroma, it wasn’t for the faint-of-heart. Indeed, in this post-war gloomy economy, the cost of about twelve shillings for a pound of tea wasn’t for the financially unsound, either.

Bethany leaned over and kissed Lady Cordelia’s withered cheek. Thank you, Aunt. I shall. Would you care for anything to eat? Crumpets? Scones?

Lady Cordelia never did, but there was always a first time.

The old lady wet her lips as if hungry, but shook her head. Only gruel-like food passed her lips nowadays.

Bethany’s heart went out to her.

When she returned with the silver tea service, she carefully poured a cup for her great aunt.

Lady Cordelia loudly sipped at her refreshment. Ahh, delicious. Simple pleasures are the best, aren’t they, my dear child? As she placed the cup back into its saucer, her hand shook. Bother! The body fails. Soon, yes, very soon, I shall pass onto my Maker. Then you shall be free. Free to find a worthy partner and marry.

A shiver ran through Bethany. She sat her own teacup down. It felt almost as if she were already walking on her great aunt’s grave. Five years seemed like forever to a girl of sixteen. Now she was a woman of one and twenty, serving as a companion and nurse for all that time. Such a time-consuming job meant few spare moments, whether to pursue her own interests or to meet eligible gentlemen.

The small village boasted of few bachelors, Mr. Jarvis notwithstanding. By the same token, her dowry of only fifty pounds was not a substantial draw, either. So it seemed she would never have the felicity of knowing the wedded state.

Ah well. She shrugged. Better off being on her own than submitting to some unknown, no doubt self-centered man, at any event.

However, she did need an income, and for this she had a plan. She dreamed of supporting herself through her novel writing. She dreamed of becoming an author.

Of course conventional thinking stated a lady only dabbled in the art of writing; a lady wrote for personal fulfillment. One never wrote for the money.

Bethany withheld a secret chuckle. Fie on conventional thinking!

A low groan from the bed captured her attention. As she glanced at Lady Cordelia’s long-suffering face, a stab of worry lanced through Bethany again. She feared her relation had the right of it: the Great Leveler would soon knock at the door for her great aunt, bringing with him blessed relief from pain... and then oblivion.

Bethany reached over to gently squeeze Lady Cordelia’s hand. The woman had lived a long and happy life. Never married, she’d taken Bethany in when no one else wanted the responsibility of caring for an orphan.

She blinked back tears. Dear Lady Cordelia Greyle was going to her greater reward.

But that left the practical matter of what would then happen to Bethany? Where would she live? And how would she live until she got established?

Without permission, a tear trickled down her cheek--a hot, salty tear for both Lady Cordelia and for herself.

CHAPTER ONE

What do you think, Davy? Lady Petunia twirled around the library as a spinning top might after just being launched. I must know your decision.

David Greyle, the fourth Earl of Ingraham, looked up from his overcrowded desk to regard his sister’s trim and fashionable form. He had just returned from Paris, visiting for the better part of six months. Enjoyable, of course, to finally be able to fraternize with the French. The blasted war was over--well over a year now, thank the heavens. But catching up with all the business correspondence waiting for him at home was, most assuredly, going to be the very devil.

He frowned. What had Petunia been talking about? He took a stab at the obvious. You look a rare sight, Pet. You always do. Marriage agrees with you.

She was a delightful girl, her coloring as light as his was dark. Dressed to perfection in a half-mourning jaconet round gown over a pale grey sarsnet slip, she looked as fine as fivepence... and she knew it.

For a brief moment, he wondered who had died, but quickly dismissed the thought as inconsequential.

He continued his perusal. Petunia’s honey blonde hair swept atop her head in a mass of appealing curls that threatened to tumble down about her slim shoulders at the slightest shake. Her locks wisely stayed put however, for her personal maid would have, no doubt, been dismissed otherwise.

The new Viscountess Weatherhaven spoiled this vision of loveliness by pouting and stamping her small slippered foot. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?

Such a termagant! Lord Weatherhaven certainly had his hands full. David pushed away from his big, oppressive desk, and stood. Moving quicker than Petunia could register, he reached over and tugged on one of her curls.

He could not help but grin. She was still so easy to tease. Being a big brother did have its privileges. Nearly seven years separated them, and he intended to take full advantage of that fact.

The sound of a squeal louder than pigs at a slaughterhouse filled the somber library. David Petruchio Greyle! Stop that. You stop this instant.

Ouch. Leave it to Petunia to dredge up his detested middle name.

Fearing she might remove one of his first edition books from the library bookcases and hurl it at him, he curved his arm around her waist, and then led her to a straight-backed chair. Sit. Let us cry peace, shall we? I must confess, I was woolgathering whilst you spoke.

He sat on the edge of his desk in front of her. You have my full attention now. Satisfied?

She folded her arms across her chest and said mulishly, I see visiting the continent hasn’t improved your manners, Davy. Don’t you serve refreshments to your guests?

You are not a guest but a pest.

He prudently held his tongue. Discretion was the better part of valor. Now that he had Petunia in a good humor, it would not do to spoil it.

He strode to the door, leaned out into the corridor and instructed Stevens the butler to take care of this trifling detail. With that task out of the way, David returned to the edge of the desk Now, my patience runs thin. What, exactly, did you come to my townhouse for?

You do know our Great Aunt Cordelia passed away around a fortnight ago?

The Greyle family tree was very large. Although he had only one sibling, there were cousins galore, aunts and uncles, and on and on. Not to mention his mother’s side of the family. But the name did ring a bell.

Lady Cordelia Greyle. Did she live in the wilds of Northumberland, near the Scottish border?

Petunia beamed. The very same. I hardly knew her, of course, but I must say, ‘twas a very grand funeral, worthy of the Greyle name. So many relations came to pay their respects, and also offer me best wishes on my marriage. She made a little sigh. ‘Tis a pity you could not attend.

He kept his own counsel on the matter. Given the choice between a village funeral and Parisian entertainment, he most definitely preferred the latter.

Stevens entered with refreshments, including sweet apple fritters, one of Petunia’s favorite desserts from her childhood. After the butler left, her gaze fastened onto the fried dough as if she was inwardly warring whether to grab a few. Greedy gobbling might be appropriate behavior for a six-year-old, but certainly not for a young matron of three and twenty.

Restraint won out. She performed her hostessing duties instead, inquiring whether David wanted cream and sugar in his coffee.

He took it black as always. After a solid gulp, he set his cup down. So tell me, what does Great Aunt Cordelia’s passing have to do with me?

Petunia daintily sipped her coffee and fluttered her long lashes at him. You do remember Lady Cordelia was our father’s dearest aunt? I would like to honor her memory by taking care of her companion. Well, more like nurse, really. Invite the girl to London, introduce her around. Perhaps she can find an eligible parti.

Good luck with that. Matchmaking was none of his business. At the mature age of nine and twenty, almost thirty really, he had eluded the parson’s mousetrap entirely. God willing he had a few more years of freedom left before he would need to get leg-shackled.

Petunia finally succumbed to temptation. She picked up an apple fritter, then gently bit off the end. Apple chunks, thick with cinnamon sauce, gushed out onto her hand.

Oh! I forgot how messy this is.

Smiling, David reached into his tailcoat, removed a linen handkerchief, then leaned over to give it to her. Would the Viscountess Weatherhaven ever grow up?

He returned to the edge of his desk, confident that he had adequately handled whatever concerns his sister had wished to place on his plate.

He was wrong.

Davy, I cannot sponsor the girl. Weatherhaven insists he and I must travel to Paris before the winter sets in. ‘Tis your duty--

My duty? What is this companion to me? Do you see this? He swept his hand across the length