but her father came out of his room just then, and the earl excused himself to start down the stairs ahead of them.
“Ah, getting to know the fellow already,” her father said, rubbing his white-gloved hands together. Now that he was dressed for the evening, anyone looking at him, Ruby thought, would see a prosperous gentleman. His blue coat and knee breeches were of an older style but of fine material, his linen was a dazzling white and a sapphire winked from the fold of his cravat. They wouldn’t know where he’d come from, how hard he’d worked to rise to the enviable position of jeweler to the ton.
The earl must know. An aristocrat would certainly want to be sure of the family he was considering uniting with his own. Yet why would he invite the daughter of a jeweler to stay? Was he pockets to let, like the viscount her father had offered up?
Either way, Ruby could not encourage her father’s tendency to matchmaking. “I have no reason to get to know our host further,” she told him. “I have little interest in the Earl of Danning.”
He grinned. “A little is at least a start. Come on, my girl. Let’s show them how it’s done.”
With a shake of her head, Ruby accepted his arm, and they descended the stairs.
So her father would not change his mind. She considered appealing to the earl about her enforced stay at his lodge instead. If he was sincere in not wanting to propose, perhaps she could convince him to rescind his invitation. Whatever his reasons for inviting her, surely now that they’d met, he’d seen that they would not suit. She was far from being the sort of exquisite beauty whose genteel manners and biddable nature might make her low birth forgivable. They could have little in common, nothing on which to base a true marriage. But when she and her father entered the withdrawing room, she found the earl missing. Instead, others were waiting, five in all, arranged in two groupings.
Indeed, two groupings was about all the manly space would afford. The withdrawing room at Fern Lodge seemed designed to dominate. The warm wood paneling was set in precise squares. Each painting celebrated capture, from grouse to fish to bear. The polished brass wall sconces ended in spikes like spears. The stags in the relief over the massive gray stone fireplace at one end of the room looked ready to leap from the wall and dash away to safety.
So did at least one of the women in the room. Two had claimed the sofa before the fire, and by the similarities in the lines of the patrician faces, Ruby guessed that they were mother and daughter. The daughter had hair the color of platinum, perfectly coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, and a figure just as perfect, as if carved from marble. The drape of her silk gown said it cost as much as one of Ruby’s father’s Blue John ornaments. Every angle of nose and cheek shouted aristocrat—just as every facet of her expression showed her wish to flee.
The other group, positioned on chairs by the glass-paned doors overlooking the veranda, appeared to comprise a mother and father in staid but costly evening wear. The young woman standing beside them was likely their daughter, though she didn’t resemble them with her dark hair worn back from an alabaster face. She had an enviable figure in a lustring gown the color of amethysts. Her movements were sharp and precise, as if each was calculated for effect.
Why were they here? If the earl truly meant to propose to Ruby as the invitation implied, could these be his relatives or close friends? But if they were family, surely they’d stand closer, perhaps reminisce? If friends, why were they mostly women?
“Evening, all!” her father announced, strolling into the room and pulling Ruby with him. “Let’s call the ceiling our host and get to know each other better.”
As Ruby dropped his arm in embarrassment, he went to the ladies on the sofa and stuck out his hand. “Mortimer Hollingsford and my daughter, Ruby.”
The mother eyed his hand as if he had thrust out a dagger. “Lady Wesworth,” she said without physically acknowledging his gesture. “And my daughter Lady Amelia.”
Wesworth? Ruby knew the name and fervently wished her father wouldn’t reveal the connection. Somehow she didn’t think the Marchioness of Wesworth would want the rest of the guests to know that her husband had recently exchanged the diamonds at her throat with paste copies.
But her father was too much the businessman to ever betray a client. “Your ladyship,” he said with a bow. “News of your daughter’s beauty and charm has spread far, but I see that the gossips neglected to mention how much she takes after you.”
The marchioness visibly thawed, her double chins relaxing, her impressive chest settling. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard any stories of you, Mr. Hollingsford,” she said in a voice that managed to be polished and commanding at the same time. “Are you related to Lord Danning?”
If she asked the question, she couldn’t be related either. Ruby wandered closer to hear the conversation. The matter apparently interested the others, for they rose and joined the group by the sofa, as well.
“Not me,” her father promised. “Not at the moment, leastwise.” He winked broadly at Ruby.
The other man held out his hand to her father. “Winston Stokely-Trent,” he intoned as if the name should have meaning for all present. “My wife and my daughter. Did I understand you to say you hope to soon be related to the Earl of Danning?”
“You did not,” Ruby said, threading her arm through her father’s and giving it a squeeze in warning.
“Certainly not,” Lady Wesworth said, nose in the air. “I understand he has set his sights elsewhere.”
Her daughter blushed.
Mrs. Stokely-Trent smiled at her own daughter. “So I understand, as well.”
Ruby glanced from Lady Amelia, who had bowed her head in humility, to Miss Stokely-Trent, who had raised hers in pride. Had the earl really implied marriage in his invitations to the two of them as well as Ruby? How arrogant and how like an aristocrat!
Well, she wouldn’t stand for it. As soon as Ruby could, she drew her father away from the others, leading him to the doors overlooking the veranda. Twilight was falling, and a mist seemed to be rising from the river. But she could not afford to appreciate the view.
“This is a farce,” she whispered, mindful of the other guests. “Let’s make our regrets and go.”
“Now, then, you can’t be cowed by these girls,” her father insisted with a glance at the other two candidates for the earl’s hand. “Lady Amelia is a stunner, but she obviously lacks backbone. And I’ve heard Miss Henrietta Stokely-Trent is too clever for her own good. No, my girl, I’d cheer for you any day.”
“Then you’d be disappointed,” Ruby said. “I’ll have no part in this business. You know how I feel about these nobs.”
“Once a nob, always a snob,” her father agreed. “But they’re not all so bad.”
“Most of the ones I’ve met have been,” Ruby countered.
Just then another man strolled into the room. Like their host the earl, he was tall, blond and handsome. But his features were softer, as if he were the resin mold rather than the finished statue. His clothes were of cheaper material, lesser cut. Ruby recognized the signs immediately. So did her father.
“The poor relation,” he murmured as the man came forward.
Poor relation or fortune
