the Standish Stud and, striding purposefully up the steps to the front door, pulled at the bell knob.
He was ushered into what appeared to be a study and was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not confronted with the brash, modern furnishings that he had, for some reason, associated with the nouveau riche. Instead, the room was filled with comfortable, well-worn pieces that he recognised as being of very good quality.
Seated at the large mahogany desk that dominated the room was a rather stout gentleman with a florid complexion. At Richard’s entrance, he rose to his feet and offered his hand.
‘Your lordship,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
Mr Wheatley’s voice, Richard noted, as he took the seat that his host had indicated to him, was nicely modulated and, relieved that the man was exhibiting neither servility towards his rank nor—and what he had dreaded more—the superior air of one who has all the cards at his disposal, he accepted the drink that Mr Wheatley offered him and leaned back in his chair.
‘You will no doubt have some questions that you wish to put to me,’ he ventured slowly. The man’s first impression of him, he knew, would be vital and, since he had made up his mind that, come hell or high water, he would do everything in his power to succeed in this undertaking, he forced his lips into some semblance of a smile.
Mr Wheatley waved his hand dismissively. ‘That will not be necessary, your lordship,’ he replied. ‘I have already made it my business to enquire into your background and find myself more than satisfied with your credentials. Let us proceed.’
Extracting a single piece of paper out of a folder, he placed it down on the desk in front of him and began, ‘In my taking what you might well consider to be this rather extraordinary course of action to find my daughter a suitable husband, you must realise that I have only her best interests at heart. She will be in possession of a considerable fortune when I am gone and I am sure that you will understand why I feel that it is my duty to ensure that she is not taken advantage of by some unscrupulous scoundrel.’
‘Naturally,’ replied Richard smoothly. ‘As her father, I would expect nothing less of you.’
‘I have drawn up this agreement,’ continued Wheatley, nodding to the sheet of paper under his hand. ‘It contains the main qualities that I require in any prospective candidate for my daughter’s hand—you will, no doubt, have heard that you are by no means the first such contender. I myself do not consider that these requirements to be particularly onerous but, for some reason, it appears to be increasingly difficult to find someone who is able to fulfil my expectations.’
Urging Richard to cast his eye over the several clauses therein, he pushed the sheet of paper across the desk. ‘It will save time if you read the thing yourself, my lord,’ he said. ‘If there are any points that you do not understand or on which you are not prepared to agree, we need not waste any more of each other’s time.’
Richard picked up the document and began to peruse it. It appeared to be a contract of sorts—an agreement that was to last for a period of three months, during which time the candidate for Miss Wheatley’s hand would be required to introduce her into his circle of friends—given that her father found them acceptable—acquire the necessary entry and escort her to as many of the Season’s upper-class functions as the time allowed. During this period, all expenses would be met, including that of furnishing the applicant with a suitable wardrobe, should he be in need of such refurbishment.
Whilst it was clear that the proposed schedule was one that might be achieved with very little difficulty on his part, he still could not help feeling that, by entering into such a calculated agreement, he would be in grave danger of signing away the last vestige of his self-respect. There was no question that the cost of the renovations at Markfield Hall had reached a crisis point and to be given another chance to try and re-establish the Standish Stud would be a dream come true but, as the Bible said, ‘For what shall it profit a man to gain the whole world, if he loses his own soul?’
Very gradually, a deep frown began to develop on his forehead as he contemplated the document and he was just in the process of questioning whether he could really bring himself to sign such an ignominious agreement, when an odd sound from across the desk caught his attention. Looking up, he encountered Wheatley’s frozen grimace. The man’s face was sweating profusely and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing; his hands were frantically tearing at his intricately tied neckcloth, in a vain endeavour to loosen the offending article.
At once, Richard leapt to his feet. ‘My dear sir,’ he gasped in dismay, ‘are you ill?’
In answer, Wheatley’s eyes bulged, a weak gurgle issued from his lips and, to his visitor’s consternation, he slumped forwards on to his desk, his outflung hands knocking over the inkstand and scattering his pile of papers in all directions.
Anxiously casting around for the bell-rope, the earl located it on the wall next to the marble fireplace and, having given it two hefty pulls, hurried back to Wheatley’s side where, gently lifting the man’s wrist away from the pool of ink into which it had fallen, he felt for some signs of life.
He was just beginning to discern a faint thready pulse beat when the door opened and a footman entered.
‘You must send at once for a doctor,’ barked the earl, without looking up. ‘Your master appears to have suffered some sort of attack.’
With a horrified gasp, the servant backed out of the room and hurried away to carry out the order.
Richard, meanwhile, was doing his best to make the old gentleman more comfortable. He had managed to untie the knot in Wheatley’s neckcloth and was endeavouring to unwind the linen band when he found himself violently thrust to one side, almost causing him to overbalance.
‘What have you done to him?’ an irate female voice demanded.
‘Hold hard, madam!’ he protested, ruefully rubbing his elbow, which had struck the corner of Wheatley’s high-backed chair in the foregoing scuffle. ‘I must assure you that Mr Wheatley’s collapse was not of my making!’
‘Get out!’ snapped Helena, as she knelt beside her father’s chair trying to get some response from her unconscious parent. ‘I beg of you—just go!’
Biting back the sharp put-down that had been on his lips, the earl, having quickly reached the conclusion that his presence seemed to be causing more of a hindrance than help, turned sharply on his heel and made for the open door. Clicking his fingers at the footman in the hall, he retrieved his hat and gloves and, without waiting to be helped into his greatcoat, left the house without a backward glance.
Chapter Three
‘And she refused to allow you to explain yourself?’ exclaimed
Lady Isobel in amazement, having listened to her grandson’s recital of the afternoon’s extraordinary events.
‘She told me to get out,’ replied Richard curtly. ‘In the circumstances, I could hardly argue with the girl, now could I?’
Striving to hide her disappointment over the fact that her resourceful scheme had gone so badly awry, the dowager pursed her lips. ‘I take it that you were not impressed with the gel? Was she as ill favoured as you had supposed?’
‘I was hardly given the opportunity to study her in depth.’ The earl shrugged. ‘I merely caught
