Barbara Metzger Read Free Page A

And Pamela Feswick is always on the lookout for a husband.”
    “Dash it, Vi, the Feswick woman is thirty if she’s a day, and a shrew. Think of poor Franny.”
    “Exactly. Poor. And awkward around strange women.”
    “That Feswick woman is as strange as they come. Remember we’ll have to entertain them now and again. Don’t mean to give up Franny’s friendship.”
    Pamela Feswick was crossed off the list. “Too bad it’s not Blanford looking for a wife. There’d be no trouble there finding any number of acceptable girls.” And her house party would be the most notable success of the year, instead of being a humiliating repairing lease.
    Gordie laughed. “There have been acceptable and not-so-acceptable females throwing themselves at Max’s head since he was out of short pants. He wouldn’t need us to find him a bride, were he looking to get legshackled. Which he ain’t, so don’t get that look in your eye. Max ain’t one to put up with anyone meddling in his personal life.”
    “Still, if he came, we could attract more women for Franny to look over. Max is definitely a prize worth pursuing, even if he doesn’t permit himself to be caught.”
    “Dash it, I hate having my friends put up as bait.”
    “And I hate your making marriage out to be a fate worse than death,” she replied with a scowl.
    Gordie cleared his throat and made a strategic retreat. “Not at all, my dear. Not at all. It’s just that Max will do what he wants to do. Always has. Went and joined the army, didn’t he, even though he was the old earl’s heir? No, you worry about Franny.” His lordship meandered about the sitting room between their bedchambers. “Ah, Vi, it’s late. You can fret about the party tomorrow. Why don’t you, ah, come along to bed now?”
    Viola shooed him off with an absentminded wave of her beringed fingers. “You go on, Gordie. I’m going to write an invitation to Max begging him to come. For Franny’s sake.”
    *
    Viola’s note reached Max about noontime the next day, along with his morning coffee.
    “Are we ready to arise, my lord?” his valet inquired.
    “We are ready for the last rites, Thistlewaite,” Max groaned from the depths of a pounding headache. He was definitely too old for this.
    Thistlewaite left to return with a potent, noxious-smelling brew calculated to cure hangovers, or kill the sufferer. “Drink up, my lord. We’ll feel more the thing after a shave.”
    Only if he could hold the razor to Thistlewaite’s throat, Max thought, but he drank while the valet bustled about with hot water and lather. Thistlewaite had been in the family forever, like the suits of armor in the hall. The man was about as companionable as those clanking hulks, but Max could no more get rid of the servant than he could sell off the family plate. He’d tried. Thistlewaite wouldn’t go, looking after the Earls of Blanford being his God-given mission in life, according to Thistlewaite. At least he gave a good shave.
    While dabbing warm lather on the earl’s face, Thistlewaite asked, “Shall we be exercising at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon this afternoon, my lord?”
    “ I shall be going a few rounds with the Gentleman himself. You shall start packing.” He indicated the invitation he’d set aside as the valet approached with the razor. “I am thinking of joining Lord and Lady Halbersham at their Bedfordshire property.”
    Making firm, even strokes, Thistlewaite commented, “Very good, my lord. Lord Podell will be relieved. He called earlier this morning to discuss the invitation.”
    “And what did you tell him?”
    “That we hadn’t decided yet, but it was an excellent idea.”
    “What, getting him out of Town?”
    Thistlewaite was applying the damp towel now. “No, finding him a wealthy bride. When a gentleman reaches a certain age, he owes it to his lineage to—”
    “Please, Thistlewaite, no lectures this morning.”
    “Very good, my lord.” The valet replaced the towel and