Chapter Twenty-Two
“Now is your chance,” Arabella said, as the guests sorted themselves into groups for the final stroll about the lake. “Please, Benny. Make the daft boy see reason.”
To Benedict Andover, one of the pleasures of being old was being ignored. Arabella could make her plea—or issue her orders—without any fear of being overheard.
And Benedict could kiss her cheek without any risk of being chastised for it, even by her. The novelty of that, of having secured permission to court a woman he’d admired for decades, put a spring in his step.
“I’ll give it a go, Bella, but you said it yourself. Young people are foolish.”
She patted his cheek. “Why should we have all the fun? Be off with you, and I’ll expect a complete report when we reach the garden.”
Andover quickened his pace and caught up with the only duke in the realm nobody sought to walk with.
“Do you mind keeping an old man company, Haverford? I’ve been informed my escort is unneeded by the lady I’d most like to share the journey with.”
Haverford’s gaze as he considered the lake was too peaceful for a duke in the midst of ruin. “I’m glad for the company.”
And that seemed to amuse him.
“For three weeks, you’ve wished the lot of us to perdition, and now you’re glad for company? Odd, isn’t it, how life serves us these turns. Your father often said life was stranger than any tale ever published in a book.”
Haverford’s pace was just above a saunter, and exactly matched that of Elizabeth Windham, who’d chosen a place closer to the head of the group.
“I can’t believe my father noticed much beyond his books, and Mama, of course.”
Benedict’s objective was to wheedle permission from the duke to sell off a few of the treasures gathering dust in the castle, which meant he had less than an hour to change the mind of a St. David duke. That Arabella believed he could rather invigorated an old man’s blood.
“Why would you think your father noticed only his books?”
“Because that is where he spent his time and our coin—almost all of both.”
Two swans glided by several yards from shore, one honking raucously at the other, who ignored the noise. A mated pair, would be Benedict’s guess, out having their own Sunday constitutional.
“I’ve always wondered why such a lovely bird was given such an unattractive voice,” Benedict said. “But it’s the only voice they have, and they manage with it. Your father was the same way.”
“He read a fine fairy tale, regardless of his voice.”
That was the reply of a man only half-present to the conversation. Was Haverford musing on his impending ruin, or on the sway of Elizabeth Windham’s skirts?
“I refer not to the late duke’s voice, Haverford. I refer to his penchant for books. Things were different in our day. A duke did not own commercial ventures, not if he was a Duke of Haverford. The heathen to the north and east might abandon the land, but the Welsh duke had greater respect for tradition.”
Haverford gestured to a bench situated to provide a magnificent view of the castle across the lake.
Benedict felt better than he had in years, but perhaps Haverford was tired. Young people had so little stamina for what mattered.
“A respite to enjoy the view would be welcome,” Benedict said, taking a seat. “Your father had no head for business. He had no shipping interests, and he abhorred the mines, mostly because his father abhorred the mines. Alcestus St. David invested in books.”
Haverford settled on the bench as other guests strolled by. Rather than try to catch the duke’s notice, they spared him furtive glances that ranged from pitying to gloating. Both Haldale and Windstruther offered slight bows, to their credit, and they’d all but cut Sherbourne.
“Books were not an investment for Papa,” Haverford said when the last guest had strolled by. “They were a passion, an obsession. They made him blind and deaf to all else, and yet, what can one do with a pile of books? Read them or use them to keep the fires going in winter when one can no longer afford bedamned coal. Fortunately, there’s an old peat field on Griffin’s farm. The books are safe as long as we can cut peat.”
Oh, dear. Oh, damn. Arabella had been right. Benedict suspected she would frequently be right.
“Have you considered selling any of the tinder cluttering up your library shelves?”
Haverford closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. “The solicitors were very clear that selling the books will unravel all that’s remaining of my finances, and besides, who’d want them? Most of the nabobs and cits who buy books by the box dwell closer to Town, and books are heavy. Shipping them costs money. Papa never sold a single volume—not one.”
The swans were quiet, tooling about on the lake as if doing their bit to enhance the scenery for the guests on shore.
“Besides,” Haverford went on more quietly, “they are all I have of my father and grandfather. When I was tempted to sell off another farm, when I faced yet another season in Town arguing politics that would endear me to no one, I’d go into the library and the books would mock me out of my self-pity. Perhaps ruin is turning me daft.”
Good God, what a tangle, equal parts love and disappointment, loyalty and bad advice.
“Being the damned duke has turned you daft, Haverford. I’m sure the solicitors were giving you the best guidance they could, but lawyers and book lovers are two very different species. Fortunately for you, I—a rarity among men—qualify as both. Of the two, you’re better off listening to a book lover now.”
Haverford checked his watch and muttered something about “twelve hundred minutes.”
The first group of hikers were halfway around the lake, and Benedict still hadn’t made his point. Arabella would tolerate nothing less than a decisive victory, so he tried again.
“What difference will unraveling your finances make at this point, Haverford? Sherbourne is like your papa. The late duke understood rare and antique books, and thus he invested his time and means in books. Sherbourne understands commerce, and he will have his mine, over your ruined reputation if need be. We can’t fault either of them any more than we can fault the swans for their voices.”
Haverford hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, a weary, almost defeated pose.
“Andover, how can a man—any man, much less a duke—not understand that the trades must be paid? The cottages repaired? Glenys must be dowered?”
“Your father understood all of that, and he’d be grateful to you for having taken on the very challenges that bested him. Do you expect Sherbourne to know how to be charitable? Of course not. Nobody’s taught him how to go about it, though I suspect he’s teachable. You have done an excellent job under very trying circumstances, and your father would be proud of you.”
Haverford stared at the castle, at the red dragon pennant flapping from the parapets. The sun had struck the angle that caused the rainbow to blossom over the fountain, and from across the lake, the gryphon appeared to be smiling.
Such a lovely castle, and such a bewildered duke.
“How could my father be proud of a bankrupt?” Haverford asked.
Being old gave one insight and the courage to use it. “More to the point, how can a son be proud of the father who wasted the family’s resources?”
The swans got into another spat, honking and flapping, then returning to their serene gliding amid the ripples they’d caused. Definitely a married pair.
“How to respect the late duke has been something of a puzzle,” Haverford said.
A conundrum that could ruin a man’s life more surely than debtor’s prison. “The answer to that puzzle is buried in your library, Julian. Your father had no grasp of farming and his stewards were a lazy bunch. His title meant the military, church, and diplomacy were beyond his reach. His own father was dead set against mining. Alcestus had few options and fewer allies. When I say he invested in the books, I use the word advisedly.”
Haverford withdrew a small cloth bag from a pocket and tossed some of the contents upon the water. The swans about-faced and paddled at speed toward the bread crusts floating on the lake’s surface.
“Do you know what matters to me now?” Haverford said. “Not the budgets and market forecasts, not the estimates or promissory notes. Not my father’s mistakes or his father’s wrong turns. They did the best they could. I’ve done the best I could. I don’t even care if Sherbourne is made whole because he’s earned so much interest off the St. Davids, that he ought to be first in line to prevent my ruin. What matters…”
Haverford’s gaze was on Elizabeth Windham, who’d gone far enough along the path to be circling back toward the gardens.
“If she is what matters to you, Haverford, if her good opinion is the first and last chapter of your story, then you need to listen to what I have to say. Despite what a clutch of cork-brained lawyers told you, your father did not leave you penniless.”
Haverford threw the rest of the bread to the swans. “She is what matters. She is all that matters, and for that reason, I will listen to whatever insight you care to share.”
Bella would be so proud of the boy, and of her intended too. “Let’s leave this infernal bench. When you get old, you lose what padding the good Lord imbued you with as a younger man. Benches are the very devil.”
Haverford laughed and rose. “When you’re young, you lack the sense to enjoy a beautiful view with a lovely woman. Benches are never on hand when you need one.”
“Just so,” Andover said, springing to his feet, and taking the duke’s arm. “Just so. Now about your books. If you give me leave, I’d like to contact a few people I know and make a handful of discreet inquiries…”
Haverford listened, the swans glided, the gardens came closer, and Benedict called upon all of his persuasive powers—both the lawyer’s and the book lover’s—to convince the duke that the time had come to part with a few treasures.
Among which, Benedict might find a morning gift for his darling bride.
* * *
The walking excursion, a procession around the lake to be followed by tea and cakes in the garden, was progressing at the pace of a dowager with bad knees. Elizabeth daundered along with her aunt, while ahead of them, Radnor walked with Glenys.
Benedict Andover had made the entire journey around the lake at Haverford’s side. Was nobody else willing to walk with the duke now that Sherbourne had decided to ruin him?
Elizabeth was unhappy with the other guests; she was furious with Haverford.
She had finally, finally found a man she could esteem, desire, and enjoy, a man she respected deeply, and he was tossing her aside out of some misguided surfeit of honor.
“Shall we share a table?” Charlotte asked, coming up on Elizabeth’s right.
“Thank you, Charl, but I don’t need a pity escort.”
“Perhaps I need a pity escort. You tried to warn me about Sherbourne. He’s likely to offer me pleasantries and then I’d have to kill him. For the sake of my self-restraint, you are stuck with me. S-t-u-c-k.”
“It isn’t necessary to spell, Charlotte. We can restrain each other from doing Mr. Sherbourne an injury.”
“At least the house party is over. There’s some consolation.”
God save me from well-intended sisters. “If that’s your idea of consolation, then you might find yourself walking back to Kent tomorrow.”
The party had finished its circuit of the lake and was dispersing into the gardens at a tired meander. Aunt Arabella took a bench near the rose trellis, and Mr. Andover gestured in the direction of the buffet.
“You should elope,” Charlotte said. “Disappear in the dead of night with the handsome duke, and Lady Glenys’s house party will become famous.”
“And have our private army of cousins come after the would-be bride, sabers drawn? Thank you, no.” The guests were choosing tables, and Elizabeth’s belly rebelled at the thought of one more glass of punch, one more slice of cake. “Charlotte, I can’t do this.”
“You are a Windham in love, Bethan. You are within your rights to ignore both common sense and overwhelming odds. What I don’t understand is why you plan to get into the coach tomorrow. So Haverford is ruined. You won’t have to throw house parties, bother with the season, or put up with a ceremony at St. George’s in Hanover Square. Ruined does not look so very awful to me, if you can share it with the only man to distract you from your infernal books.”
“He doesn’t see it like that.” Elizabeth had spent most of the previous night arguing herself out of another trip to Julian’s bedroom. She would not beg, plead, or exhort him to change his blasted plan.
The Deity himself was probably incapable of inspiring Haverford to abandon his plans.
“His Grace is coming this way,” Charlotte said, “and he looks determined.”
“Determination has ever been his to command. Perhaps I’ll share Mr. Sherbourne’s table.”
“Your Grace.” Charlotte curtsied. “You’ve arranged lovely weather again, and I neglected to bring my shawl. Elizabeth, perhaps you’ll be good enough to retrieve it for me?”
Damn you, Charlotte, and bless you. “Your Grace.” Elizabeth dipped at the knees—barely. She was angry with the man she loved, which was a new and difficult experience. No handy quote came to mind, no witty passage from some classic tome. Not the Bard, Mrs. Burney, Mr. Burns, or even Old Scratch ruling over perdition had words adequate for the moment.
“Miss Windham.” Haverford bowed and offered his arm. “I’ll happily accompany you back to the castle, and perhaps you’ll select that book I owe you? If you leave the choice until tomorrow, you might forget.”
Elizabeth took his arm, and barely refrained from dragging him along the walk. She held her tongue only until Charlotte had sauntered off in the direction of the cake.
“I will never forget you.”
Haverford’s hand closed over her fingers. “You sound less than pleased to make that admission. Would you be comforted to know that the condition is mutual?”
How ducal he could be, and yet, Elizabeth knew him, knew his body, and knew that beneath his civil tones, he was vibrating with emotions that would shock the guests watching from every corner of the garden.
They reached the library, and when Haverford would have left the door open, she pushed it shut.
“Elizabeth, this is not wise.”
“For us to part is sheer folly, Haverford. I will not find your like again, ever, and you will not find mine. I have waited years—half my life—to meet you, and they have been lonely, trying years. Now your great nobility of soul consigns me to the worse purgatory of knowing that I should be at your side, though you deny me that privilege.”
Elizabeth stalked across the library, skirts swishing. “I’ve been here three weeks, Haverford, and you’ve shown me literary treasures beyond compare, shelf after shelf, but they are nothing, nothing, next to the wonders we share on a lumpy chaise during a stolen hour.”
She rounded a bust of Plato and marched back to the dunderhead who would break her heart. “You can tell me where every item in every collection is, but tell me this instead: Why have I never seen you reading these beautiful books, Haverford? The only bound volumes I’ve seen in your hands are ledgers. The only words you see on pages are in your blasted correspondence. What good are these books if they bring you no joy?”
Haverford stood beneath the portrait over the mantel, his expression as severe as if Elizabeth had ruined him all over again, and yet, she could not stop until she’d made him see the foolishness of giving up.
“I love books, but I love lending libraries more,” she went on, snatching a book some careless guest had left on the mantel. “Books that merely sit on the shelf, generation after generation, are like children nobody loves. A tragic waste, a reproach. And yet, you are more concerned with housing and dusting these thousands of unread books than you are with your own happiness.” She used the book to point at him. “I cannot allow that to happen, Haverford.”
“You cannot allow—?” he said softly.
“I cannot.” Elizabeth dashed the back of her free hand against her cheek. “You’d throw away love, just as your father threw away security. I would throw away every blessed book in this castle before I’d let them come between us, Julian. I don’t care about ruin, or penury, or a lot of bloody books. I care about you.”
Three weeks ago, Elizabeth could not have spoken the word bloody aloud. She could not have cried before another. She could not have ignored thirty thousand bound volumes, though now she was entirely concerned with one man who was too honorable for his own good.
Haverford held out a white handkerchief but came no closer to her. “I’ve asked Sherbourne to meet me within the hour that we might discuss a modest mining operation, and I’m hopeful, determined even, that renegotiation of the various notes and loans will free me to make an offer that, at this point, I cannot make.”
Elizabeth paused between blotting her left eye and her right. “You’d consider a mine in this valley?”
Haverford studied her, which was ungentlemanly when her nose was probably red and her eyes doubtless puffy.
He pivoted on his heel and opened a window. “You reminded me that part of my antipathy toward mining was because Griffin came to harm twenty years ago. That has colored my outlook—and doubtless colored my father’s outlook—though the state of Welsh mining districts is also not to be dismissed. Sherbourne is apparently willing to bargain—or he was—and so am I.”
Elizabeth did not care one tattered Radcliffe novel for what Sherbourne was willing or unwilling to do.
“What of your plan, Julian? The plan that has run and ruined your life? The plan that says if you live to be eighty-seven years and five months old, you might enjoy seventy-two hours of wedded bliss.”
He stood by the window, hands behind his back. “Plans can be modified. A budget, a schedule, a series of estimates are all well and good, but they should serve to support a goal, not dictate every particular. The ‘best laid plans’ of mice, dukes, presuming neighbors, the lot of us…can benefit from rethinking. Some plans should be chucked over the castle wall, because they make no provision for love.”
Elizabeth balled up the handkerchief and stuffed it in a pocket, for Haverford would never get it back. Plans could be modified, and hearts could change.
“If every one of these books went up in flames, Julian, I would rejoice, provided your burden was lighter. Negotiate with Sherbourne if you must, but I’ll follow Charlotte’s example in this and knock his arrow from the sky. If he insists on ruining you, then I will see to his ruin as well.”
Haverford’s smile was unlike any previous versions Elizabeth had seen—all diabolical dash and élan.
“You’d ruin him?” he asked.
“I can and I will. I may appear to be a managing bluestocking firmly on the shelf, but the blood of duchesses runs in my veins.”
Ducal brows rose, but before Haverford could reply, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him as a conquering army plunders underdefended countryside, kissed him with all the passion and desire in her, and kissed him with a new and slightly violent sense of hope.
If she ruined Sherbourne, her own reputation would doubtless go up in flames as well, and maybe then, her stubborn, handsome, well-planned duke would propose to her.
Elizabeth patted Haverford’s cheek, tossed the volume of poetry at his chest—Mr. Burns, as luck would have it—and would have made a grand exit from the library, except Lucas Sherbourne met her right at the door.
“You,” she snapped.
Sherbourne offered her a bow.
He was big, male, and standing in the way of her happiness. Elizabeth walloped him across the cheek, the sound reverberating amid the books.
“His Grace is doing you the courtesy,” she said, “of allowing you to apologize for your disgraceful behavior at Friday’s ball. Fail to appreciate his generosity, Mr. Sherbourne, and every one of the letters I’ve written to the various dukes, marquesses, earls, and viscounts to whom I’m connected will be in tomorrow’s post. Each epistle describes your rudeness and arrogance in detail, and that is just the first volley from my cannon. Please stand aside.”
He scurried to the right like a chastened puppy. Elizabeth curtsied to Haverford with more dignity than a queen would show her king, then swept into the corridor without sparing Sherbourne even a glance.
* * *
“I fancy that look on you,” Julian said. “One cheek bright red, your shrewd blue eyes for once dazed and uncertain. Do come in, and please close the door.”
Sherbourne cradled his left cheek with his palm. “I believe Miss Windham has taken me into dislike.”
“She hates you,” Julian said, cheerfully. “While I pity you. Have a seat.” What a relief, what a joy, to sincerely pity Sherbourne.
He closed the door and took four steps into the room.
“Be seated,” Julian said, gesturing with the volume of poetry Elizabeth had pitched at him. “Now, if you please.”
Sherbourne flipped out his tails and took the chair by the hearth. “I’m meeting with you as a courtesy, Haverford. Say your bit and then—”
“The courtesy is all mine, Sherbourne. I cannot tell Elizabeth Windham what to do when she’s determined that a man is in need of ruining, but I can suggest that one small, local mine, run according to model standards of safety, and employing no small children, might be acceptable to me provided you meet certain conditions.”
Sherbourne shot his cuffs and sat back, then turned a signet ring on his left smallest finger. He was fidgeting, rearranging emotions and objectives, and that meant he was listening.
“You are not in a position to dictate, Haverford. I’ve shown your family years of tolerance on notes long past due. For my pains, I’m the ogre of the valley, while you use my money to endear yourself to every yeoman and goatherd in Wales.”
That Sherbourne grasped the extent to which the locals resented him, and that he cared about their opinions, boded well.
“Poor lad,” Julian said. “You’ve made a profit off me that approaches usury, and now you want pity for your misfortune. The plan has changed, Sherbourne, and you either bargain with me in good faith, or suffer my continued opposition regarding your mine.”
Sherbourne took out a gold watch, flipped it open, then tucked it away—as if the clock on the mantel or the clock on the sideboard weren’t visible to him.
“What of your duchess-to-be? Will she pardon me as well?”
“I cannot speak for Elizabeth, but should you and I come to terms, I’ll attempt to intercede on your behalf with her. She is very angry, Sherbourne, and very well connected.”
Sherbourne tipped his head back and stared at the strawberry-leaf molding twenty feet overhead. “You are willing to support a mine. This admission had not caused the sky to fall, so please do go on.”
“You will incur a loss if you call in my notes,” Julian said. “I make every payment to the penny, year after year. Call in the notes, and you will have ruined me, disgraced yourself without any aid from Elizabeth, and lost money as well. Not a sound plan, Sherbourne, which is why I give you an opportunity to revise it.”
Sherbourne crossed both his ankles and his arms. “What can Elizabeth Windham do to me?”
“Whatever she jolly well pleases. Her uncle is a duke, one sister married a duke, another married a ducal heir. Among her cousins and cousins-by-marriage I count two marquesses, four earls, a viscount, several—”
Sherbourne yawned behind a manicured hand. “Hardly the circles I travel in.”
Julian set the volume of poetry on the mantel. “What do you dream about, Sherbourne? I conclude that, despite all conduct to the contrary, you are simply a man who seeks to be respected by his peers, to make a meaningful contribution, and to raise your children amid peace and plenty with a good woman at your side. Your dreams aren’t that different from mine or Griffin’s.”
Sherbourne rose and picked up the volume of poetry. “Your brilliance will blind me, Haverford, though you forgot the part about how I’d like to enjoy good health for as long as the Creator allows.”
“So build a model mine. My willingness to stand aside while you undertake that experiment—for it will be a modest, model mine—will cost you reinstatement of my father’s promissory notes on the schedule we’ve adhered to for years.”
Sherbourne ran a finger down the page. “I can build a colliery without any assistance from you, Haverford.”
He was holding the book upside down. Julian righted it for him. “You likely can, though you’ll tear this valley in two if you try to build that colliery with myself, Radnor, Hugh St. David, and many others standing against it. So far, you’ve shown an unwillingness to do that.”
Sherbourne set the book aside. “I can’t build a mine if all you do is remain silently brooding in your castle. Your cronies in the Lords will tut-tut and tsk-tsk and come up with some bill that affects only collieries in this valley, all but sabotaging my works without you lifting a be-ringed finger. I want your support.”
He wanted that support badly, and Julian would never have noticed, but for Elizabeth storming the castle. “You’ll reinstate my notes and desist from whispering in Griffin’s ear about a mortgage.”
Sherbourne began a circuit of the room, peering out each window, studying random shelves of books.
“I’d rather not reinstate your notes. You won’t have them paid off for nearly a decade, and anything can happen in ten years’ time. I can make more money developing a mine than I can waiting for you to dig yourself out of debt.”
Sherbourne brushed a gloved palm across Plato’s crown. “And I never breathed a word to your brother about a mortgage, though I saw him in close discussion with a worried Radnor last week in the churchyard. My experience of Griffin St. David is that when he wants a word explained, he will not desist until he’s satisfied. Stubbornness must be a family trait.”
One mystery explained.
But as for others…Julian studied the man wandering around his library. Sherbourne was a fashion plate, but also out of place in genteel surroundings. He was too restless, too blunt, and too ambitious, and yet, he’d made a valid point: The valley had the best herds in Wales because Sherbourne had not called in notes long overdue.
The castle could employ dozens of people in a variety of roles, because Sherbourne had been patient.
The merchants in the village were thriving, in part because Sherbourne was thriving, and had not—until recently—pressed his neighbor for overdue payments.
Something more was needed here, both because Sherbourne had—in his commercially astute heart—been somewhat reasonable, and because Julian was a duke. Dukes looked out for the less fortunate, and any man who lacked the love of a woman such as Elizabeth Windham was a very unfortunate creature, indeed.
Sunshine slanted through the open windows, while Sherbourne peered at the previous duke’s portrait over by the biographies. A small bird lit on the sill nearest the fireplace, then flew off into the lovely day.
The wood warbler, one of Papa’s favorites.
The something more that was wanted was the courage to go forward with the love Elizabeth Windham had brought to Julian’s life.
“You need a charitable endeavor,” Julian said. “A project that’s visible and genuinely beneficial, not a mere display. Because I am a helpful sort who doesn’t carry a grudge, I have a suggestion.”
Sherbourne studied the signature in the bottom right corner of Papa’s portrait. “Because I am the patient sort, who never tosses out an idea simply because it originated with a long-winded, self-important duke, I will listen.”
Julian reshelved the volume of poetry among its companions and said a prayer that Elizabeth was as fond of long-winded, self-important dukes as he hoped she was.
“I’ll be selling a few of my more valuable books, probably at auction. Andover will help coordinate the sale.”
Sherbourne turned slowly. “You’re selling the famed St. David collection?”
“Not the entire collection. I’ll offer some of the duplicates, rarities, and more historically significant volumes at an exclusive auction some weeks hence. The majority of the proceeds from that sale will be spent getting you disentangled from my finances.”
Sherbourne’s cool indifference slipped. “You have twenty thousand pounds worth of books and you’ve wasted years paying me avoidable interest? Haverford, you’re daft.”
“I had a long talk with Benedict Andover as we walked around the lake. Much to my delight”—much to Julian’s utter, elated confoundment—“I have a modest fortune in literary treasures, while he has the connections to find me buyers for the best of the lot. The books don’t matter to me half so much as Elizabeth Windham does, nor half so much as I matter to her.”
Which was…lovely. That Elizabeth had had to spell this out for Julian was lowering, but he’d make it up to her. He and Sherbourne would make it up to her, rather.
“You’re sitting on a fortune in books, and you instead yoked yourself to debts you might have dispensed with years ago. The aristocracy is not right in the brainbox, Haverford. Simply not right. Was the prestige of having all these books gathering dust in your castle worth the burden of debt you carried? I cannot fathom such financial lunacy.”
Sherbourne wasn’t trying to be rude, he was genuinely bewildered.
“Safeguarding my family’s legacy mattered and still does, but back to your charitable endeavor.”
Sherbourne resumed his seat by the hearth. “I’m not given to charity, Haverford. You’ve surely noticed that much.”
“You’re about to change that lamentably narrow focus, Sherbourne, because the people in this valley do matter to you, because I’ve been assured you can be taught, and because you’ve offended my prospective duchess.”
He sent Julian an exasperated look. “The lady with the earls, marquesses, dukes, and whatnot aiming their pistols at me?”
“The very one. My business affairs with you will sort themselves out soon enough, but when it comes to redeeming yourself in Elizabeth’s eyes, I fear only one thing can save you.”
Sherbourne studied his boots, which gleamed with a military shine in the brilliant Welsh sunlight. “I won’t like this, will I?”
“I don’t like making monthly payments to you. We do what we must to ensure the family name remains unblemished. A charitable endeavor will relieve you of ogre-at-large status, do some honest good, and safeguard you against any stray bullets, political or otherwise, fired by Elizabeth’s large and magnificently influential family.”
“Lunacy must be contagious, because I am yet in this library listening to a man who kept more than twenty thousand pounds worth of books simply for the pleasure of dusting them.”
“Sherbourne, try to focus. Your situation merely calls for a sound plan, and your plan must involve a quantity of lending libraries.”