Sheri Cobb South by The Weaver Takes a Wife Read Free Book Online Page A

better to have wed a nice girl of his own class—someone, in fact, very much like herself.
    Sukey, while in complete agreement with Annie’s sentiments, took instant exception to that damsel’s proposing herself as a suitable bride for the master. Indeed, so violent was her opposition that the two girls might have come to blows, had it not been for the timely intervention of Mrs. Givens, the housekeeper.
    “What is going on here?” she demanded, arms akimbo in a belligerent stance as she glared at the quarreling maids. “Stop this yammering at once!”
    “ ‘Twas she who started it!”
    “Not I! You was the one saying as how Mr. Brundy should have married you!”
    “Foolish girls!” chided Mrs. Givens, interrupting before hostilities could be resumed. “As Mr. Brundy is already married, neither of your opinions can say anything to the purpose!”
    “Yes, but it could be annulled. It’s un—uncommiserated,” Sukey confided to her superior, and had the satisfaction of finding herself the center of that exalted woman’s attention. “When I come to clean the grate just now, there was the door closed and a chair shoved under the knob, big as life. Locked him out, she did, sure as I’m standing here.”
    “Mark my words, Sukey, you’ll not be standing here much longer if you don’t learn to keep a still tongue in your head! Back to work, both of you, and no more gossiping about your betters, do you hear? If you’ve got something that needs saying, you come to me!”
    Thus chastised, the two girls returned to their respective duties with heads hung low. Mrs. Givens waited until they were out of sight, then sought out the butler in his pantry.
    “Mr. Evers, have you a moment?” she asked. “I’ve just heard the most astonishing tale!”
    * * * *
    While Sukey’s tidbit made its way through the downstairs grapevine, the news that Lady Helen Radney, daughter of His Grace, the Duke of Reddington, had been married to Mr. Ethan Brundy of Manchester the previous day in a small, private ceremony was delivered to an astonished ton with their breakfast trays via a discreet announcement in The Morning Post. The predictable result was that a crush of carriages choked Grosvenor Square as the curious flocked to gawk at the happy couple under the guise of paying their respects.
    The visitors were received in the Egyptian drawing room, where Lady Helen sat (or rather, stood) for her portrait. She wore the same white and silver gown she had worn that night at Covent Garden, with one addition: about her neck was clasped the magnificent collar of diamonds her husband had given her as a wedding gift. It had been his particular request that she wear the ensemble, and since Lady Helen professed the matter to be one of supreme indifference to her, she had conceded to his wishes in this regard.
    At that moment, the couple’s well-wishers included the bride’s brother, Viscount Tisdale, inspired no doubt by some vague notion of supporting his sister through the ordeal; Lady Randall, who had not forgotten Lord David’s misgivings concerning the marriage; and sundry other denizens of the ton inspired by varying degrees of goodwill, curiosity, or outright malice. Among these former was the spinster Miss Maplethorpe, a lady of indeterminate age who had brought a gift for the bride. This, when opened, proved to be a packet of embroidered handkerchiefs bearing, not the crest of some noble house, but a simple letter “B” entwined with roses. However pure her intentions might have been, Miss Maplethorpe could not have selected anything more symbolic of Lady Helen’s fall in Society’s eyes.
    “Oh!” exclaimed Lady Helen in feigned delight, too proud to show her humiliation. “You really shouldn’t have, Miss Maplethorpe.”
    “ ‘Twas nothing,” replied the spinster modestly, blissfully unaware of the strong emotions warring within Lady Helen’s breast. “I always like to do whatever I can for a new bride. I must say, Lady