The Honourable Peregrine Nicholls tossed back the contents
of his brandy glass and smiled sympathetically at his
cousin.
"The trouble with you, my dear Ned, is that you are far
too romantic," he said.
Ignoring the withering scowl received in response, he
continued unabashed, "Not that I'm averse to a little
light dalliance meself, as you know, but, if you're set on
finding a wife, you'll need to be a bit more compromising.
That's the third time you've cried off this Season and the
old biddies are starting to mutter behind their fans."
Edward Latimer, late of his Majesty's dragoons, stretched
out his long legs and eased himself into a more
comfortable position.
"Well, I'm damned if I'll choose a wife just to suit the
Patronesses," he said obstinately, a deep frown marring
his otherwise attractive features. "There has to be
someone out there who will see me as something more than
the answer to her dressmaker's bills."
"Fairy tales, dear chap!'chortled Nicholls as he leaned
forward and replenished the two glasses. "You know the
score, Coz. When the time comes to set up your nursery,
you pick a girl from a good family — pretty, too, if
you're lucky, but, above all, conformable. Otherwise you
spend the rest of your life under the cat's paw!"
Latimer shook his head. "I can't accept that,'he said
firmly. "Besides which, if you settle for a featherbrain —
however much of a beauty she might be — what sort of
children could you expect to spawn?" He reached for his
glass and took a hefty swig of its contents. "I want more
than that — someone who can hold a conversation about
something other than the latest fashion. Someone who has a
mind of her own. My mother, you may recall, was such a
woman — read the papers, knew what was going on in the
world and was always willing to argue her case. We used to
have some rip-roaring family debates when I was a
youngster. Father adored her." His eyes softened as he
recalled the close relationship his parents had enjoyed
before his mother's untimely death some five years
previously.
Nicholls nodded. "I know what you mean. Aunt Felicity
might easily have stood for Parliament had she been a
man.'For a moment or two he regarded his cousin in
abstracted silence, then, "What put you off this time?" he
asked diffidently. "The Cornwell chit was the Toast of the
Town and, after two weeks of solid attention, the bets
were all on you. What happened?"
"Just something I chanced to overhear," said Latimer
tersely. "It seems that the lovely Miss Eleanora
Cornwell's heart was engaged elsewhere even before the
Season began but, since her odious parents have apparently
invested their life savings in securing an advantageous
match, the unfortunate girl was being browbeaten into
encouraging my suit. Naturally, I rallied to her cause and
bowed out of the running." 'Naturally," declared Nicholls
in mock gravity. "Cut line, Perry," Latimer returned
hotly. "Shackle myself to an unwilling partner? No, thank
you. I'd sooner stay single."
"Your father might have a word or two to say about that,"
laughed his cousin. "You told me he's been pestering you
ever since you got back from the Continent and, I have to
confess, for once I agree with him.After all, you are
thirty years old and an only son and he, naturally, wants
to secure the succession. As for myself, of course..." he
patted his portly stomach contentedly '...I'm eternally
grateful that my own sire had the foresight to provide
himself with two more replacements so that I don't need to
make any serious venture into petticoat territory."
Latimer sighed. "You're in the right of it, of course,'he
said regretfully. "But you have to agree that the London
Season has become nothing more than a "Marriage Mart".
Personally, I find the whole idea of parents selling their
daughters off to the highest bidder quite repugnant. If
only there were some way I could be certain that the girl
I finally settle on has a tendre for me and not for my
cheque-book."
"Well, they ain't all lambs led to the slaughter,"
Nicholls reasoned. "It's true that some of 'em can't wait
to pull in a good catch, but there must be a few honest
ones amongst them, surely? Though how to spot the
difference is any man's guess. Other than making out
you're a Cit or a flat, that is, and you're too well known
around town to get away with that."
"But I could try it somewhere else," mused Latimer, with a
speculative gleam in his eyes. "Just pack up a few things
and head off to the countryside and become plain Mr
Latimer for a few weeks."
The Honourable Peregrine looked aghast. "You're not
serious, Ned? I mean to say, racking up at some provincial
inn without so much as a valet — please tell me you're
joking!"
Latimer stood up and, making a great play of adjusting his
neckcloth, said good-humouredly, "I think I can manage to
dress myself, Coz. I have been doing it for some years,
you know. Eight years with the military gives a chap a
pretty good grounding in the art of self-sufficiency.
Besides which," he pointed out, "plain Mr Latimer wouldn't
have a manservant. Come to think of it, he'd probably have
lodgings, rather than stay at an inn for weeks — or maybe
he'd rent a cottage for the summer. Yes, by Jove! That's
it!'And, filled with a sudden enthusiasm, he strode over
to the table, picked up The Observer and began perusing
its advertising columns, while Nicholls watched him in a
fascinated silence.
"Yes, look here," indicated Latimer with a satisfied
grin. "Dozens of 'em. Take your pick — Hampshire,
Buckinghamshire — pretty well anywhere you could think of.
Let's see." Quickly, he ran his eyes down the sheet,
stopping every so often, only to shake his head and move
on, until, at last, he let out a whoop of triumph.
"Got it!'he exclaimed. "Compton Lacey — now where have I
heard that name before? — seems to ring a bell. Near the
market town of Dunchurch in Warwickshire. Do we know
anyone in that part of Warwickshire?" he asked his cousin.
Nicholls scratched his head. "Not that I know of — believe
we used to have an aunt in Stratford," he supplied
helpfully. "Can't recall anyone else but, I say, old man,
you ain't really set on doing this?"
"Why not?'retorted Latimer, busily scribbling down the
information he had found. "Bit of an adventure, really —
says it's not far from the main staging route, so that's
convenient."
"You surely don't mean to travel by public conveyance!"
gasped Nicholls weakly.
"Absolutely!" Latimer assured him. "Fits the part, don't
you see? Won't attract attention — plain Mr Latimer taking
a vacation and doing a bit of — what shall we say —
painting? No, too much equipment needed. Sketching, maybe?
I still have all my old sketchbooks and, thanks to all
those years of old Bentley's patient tutoring, I've a fair
hand — or so I'm told. Yes, I'm sure that will serve!
Plain Mr Latimer, itinerant artist."
His cousin regarded him pityingly. "Good God, Ned! If you
weren't my kinsman, I'd say you were touched in the upper
quarters," he offered rudely. "Besides which, thought the
idea was to find the girl of your dreams? Shouldn't think
she's likely to be living in some out-of-the-way village
in the back of beyond!"
"Nonsense, dear boy!" Latimer replied cheerfully. "They
come by their droves into town every week — dozens of
hopeful mamas from the provinces, desperate to offload
their daughters in their first Seasons, so that's
obviously the place to find them before they're spoiled
with too much town bronze. Bound to have assemblies and
suchlike up there, where, who knows, I might meet the most
perfect angel." Grinning, he savoured the thought. "Worth
a try, at any rate, surely?"
"No use asking me," groaned Nicholls. "You're determined
to go ahead anyway, whatever I might think, so I'll just
have to wish you "good luck", dear boy — but promise me
that you won't do anything foolhardy?"
"Would I ever?" replied Latimer with a carefree grin, as
he headed for the door.
By late afternoon on the following Saturday however, as he
climbed wearily down from his bone-shaking journey aboard
the London to Birmingham flyer, his enthusiasm for the
venture had somewhat dimmed. Eight hours crammed between a
very large lady on the one side and the boniest old
individual ever known to man on the other, had reduced his
tolerance to absolute zero, so it was with considerable
annoyance that he discovered that his luggage was amongst
the last to be unloaded.
Positioning himself to one side of the inn's open doorway,
he watched casually as the ostlers unhitched the horses
and poled up the replacements whilst the elderly post-boy
separated the belongings of those passengers who had
alighted at the Dun Cow from those who were to continue
their journey onwards.
As usual, with the arrival of the 'Tally-Ho', there were
plenty of other onlookers, mostly youngsters, fascinated
by the remarkable speed of the changeover and keen to see
if the driver would achieve the current record of seventy-
five seconds.
Latimer frowned as he observed one small boy, apparently
intent upon examining the coach's new braking mechanism,
edging himself closer and closer to the vehicle.
"Rupert — where are you?"
Hearing his name, the boy started and reluctantly turned
away, just as a large portmanteau started to topple from
the coach's roof. The post-boy belatedly yelled out a
warning and Latimer, with an almost superhuman effort,
leapt forward and violently shouldered the child out of
harm's way.
The youngster howled in pain as he hit the cobbles, his
eyes widening in horror as he witnessed the portmanteau
bouncing heavily on the very spot where he had been
standing.
Latimer bent to help the boy up, but found himself thrust
rudely aside by a white-faced and angry young woman.
"Take your hands off him this instance!'she commanded, her
voice shaking with fury. "How dare you treat a small child
so?"
In astonishment, Latimer backed away from the clenched
fists that seemed set to attack him and held up a hand to
keep her at bay.
"Hold hard, madam,'he protested, as he endeavoured to
indicate the badly dented portmanteau behind him. "I
merely sought to remove the lad from certain injury."
The girl's eyes filled with dismay as they travelled from
the fallen object and then quickly back to the child who
had now risen to his feet and was nodding his head
vehemently.
"He's in the right, Sis," he said shakily, scrubbing away
at his tears with the back of his hand. "I heard you call
and I didn't see it falling." He turned to Latimer. "You
were jolly quick, sir — I'm very grateful."
Latimer smiled encouragingly. "Think nothing of it, young
man. I hope you aren't too badly damaged?"
He flashed a penetrating glance at the girl, whose cheeks
were now stained with a delicate rosy hue.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir!" she exclaimed, clearly
horrified at her impetuous misjudgement of the
situation. "A thousand thanks for your prompt action."
"Only too glad to have been of service, ma'am."
He watched in amusement as, head bent, the young woman
fell to examining the muddy grazes on her brother's hands
and vainly attempted to clean them with an ineffectual
wisp of lace. Her cheeks were still faintly suffused with
embarrassment and soft chestnut curls, which had escaped
from beneath her bonnet in her hurried dash to the scene,
were falling about her face. On a sudden whim, Latimer
removed his own handkerchief from his pocket and held it
out.
"You might have more success with this," he suggested,
overwhelmed by a sudden unfathomable eagerness to further
his acquaintance with the girl. "How good of you.'With a
grateful smile she accepted the proffered handkerchief
and, as their eyes met, a strange sense of excitement ran
through him.
"You must think me the most awful —"she began, but
whatever the rest of her sentence might have been was
swept away by the raised voice of the approaching coach
driver, brusquely demanding to know the reason for the
delay.
A small crowd had gathered at the scene and was soon being
entertained by a pithy exchange between driver and post-
boy. Angry passengers who had been obliged to abandon
their hot drinks at the call to board, were now forced to
sit chafing impatiently as the seething driver berated the
guard, rather less for any perceived incompetence or
carelessness on the man's part, it seemed, than for the
hold-up having caused the driver to lose a large bet that
he would beat the change-over record.