Chapter Three
“FORTY-ODD CARRIAGES, SIR.” Canford delivered this fact with a sad shake of his head, as if French spies had been spotted in the Welsh countryside. “Haverford is having a house party.”
“An astute deduction,” Lucas Sherbourne replied, without looking up from the column of figures on the page before him. He delighted in his ledgers, and Canford’s conclusion wasn’t exactly the work of a genius. “You’re blocking the light, my good fellow.”
Canford hopped to the left. “Beg pardon, Sherbourne. Not extending an invitation to you is the height of bad form. The very height, and there’s not a man in the shire who’d say differently.”
Of course there wasn’t, at least not among the lot who owed Sherbourne money, including Jeptha Canford. The unfortunate squire had three daughters, each of whom had required at least one London season. The youngest, a plain-faced lisper whose laugh brought to mind a donkey in extremis, had required three seasons.
The young ladies were well situated now, but Canford’s finances had fallen into dire straits before the first grandchild had come along.
Sherbourne rose, his back pleasantly stiff from sitting too long among his accounts. “We can’t expect our local duke to socialize with mere neighbors when he can instead get drunk of an evening with half the peerage. Perhaps the neighbors will be asked to fill up the ballroom before the festivities are concluded.”
“Mrs. Canford would like that.”
Mrs. Canford was doubtless quivering for a chance to flounce about in the ballroom at Haverford Castle. His Grace, like his predecessors from time immemorial, opened the castle to all and sundry on Boxing Day, and did a fine little punch and cakes drill for the locals. At planting and harvest Haverford Castle hosted picnics that left many a yeoman with a very sore head, and St. David’s day was another occasion for ducal largesse.
If a grand ball figured on the house party schedule, the surrounding gentry would be invited. Sherbourne might have admired all this hospitality, except Haverford could afford none of it. Such a pity, when a fine old family ran afoul of financial realities.
Such an opportunity too.
“Let’s away to the dining room, Canford, and you can tell me how the grandchildren fare. You must be up to a dozen by now.”
“Only five, with a sixth on the way.” Bashful pride colored Canford’s words, though all of those children would require feeding, clothing, and educating. What manner of stupidity failed to grasp that the consequence of being fruitful and multiplying was an increase in expenses? Surely the old fellow who’d penned that bit of Scripture had known he was writing a recipe for penury where the gentry were concerned?
“You’re blessed in your family,” Sherbourne said, leading his guest down a carpeted corridor. Landscapes graced the walls, interspersed with brightly burning sconces and antique Sèvres porcelain. Sherbourne liked to look at these exquisite treasures, but he liked even better the effect they had on guests, servants, and all who beheld them.
“I do envy you those children and grandchildren,” Sherbourne went on, which was only a small lie. He had yet to acquire even a wife, an oversight he’d soon remedy. Wives cost money—that couldn’t be helped—but they could also add cachet to a man’s name that opened all manner of doors.
Canford paused to let Sherbourne precede him into the dining room, an elegant chamber that sat thirty when all the leaves were added to the table. The staff had set two places, one at the head with another to the immediate right.
“I always begin my meals with a toast to dear Grandpapa,” Sherbourne said, taking his place at the head and gesturing to the footman stationed by the sideboard. “I have him to thank for so much.”
When jilted by his St. David bride nearly at the altar, Grandpapa had accepted his fate with calm practicality and flattered his way into the good graces of the loneliest heiress London had to offer. She’d been a brewer’s granddaughter and a banker’s daughter—also keenly astute in business matters—and her money had launched a financial empire that would allow Sherbourne to redress the wrong done his family.
The first step in that process had been to fit out Sherbourne Hall in a style worthy of a duchess, which Grandpapa had considerately seen to. The second had been to ensure that the St. David family was deeply indebted to the Sherbournes. That honor had fallen to Papa. The final step toward establishing the Sherbournes as one of the foremost dynasties in the realm required that blue blood be added to their venerable and hardworking lineage.
That happy task fell to Lucas, and the Haverford house party might well see him achieve his goal.
* * *
“I’ll lay you odds that Mrs. St. David is already abed with somebody other than her husband,” Radnor said. “Possibly more than one somebody.”
“One doesn’t speak ill of a lady,” Julian replied. “Shall I pour you a drink?” He could still offer good brandy to a guest, though he’d take none for himself.
“I’m attempting some moderation. Three weeks from now, I’ll doubtless be in a state of constant inebriation, and you’re right, I ought not to castigate Delphine for doing at a house party exactly what bored, married persons discreetly do at a well-run house party.”
The ledgers sat on Julian’s desk. He moved them aside, when he’d rather have pitched them down the nearest garderobe. Alas, the Haverford moat had been drained two centuries ago.
“The gathering is off to a pleasant start,” he said, “which is the apex of my ambitions at this point.” That, and scraping together more funds to dower Glenys.
Radnor wandered to the study’s antique telescope and peered into the eyepiece. “You truly have no intention of choosing a bride from among the ladies?”
“I’m not that old, and I have cousins. There’s no need to be precipitous about starting a family.”
There was every need.
“Beautiful night,” Radnor said, adjusting the focus. “You’re not that young either, and if you want to be on hand to raise your own offspring, time is flying.”
Julian took the seat behind the estate desk, though the last thing he wanted to do was sit. When people referred to Parliament sitting, they spoke literally. A man who voted his seat sat for hours listening to speeches, sat in committee meetings, sat at political dinners, and sat yet more through interminable lunches intended to sway his vote.
At Haverford, the sitting shifted to meetings with stewards, secretaries, men of business, factors, tenants, and socially inclined neighbors.
“My nature is temperate,” Julian said. “Unlike my father and grandfather, who were plagued by immoderation in many regards, I plan to be available to my children for a good long while after they arrive. Will you be offended if I go up to bed? The day has been long, and you’re entirely right that the next three weeks will be challenging.”
Radnor left off pretending to peer at the stars. He was no sort of astronomer, though his botany was encyclopedic and he was a fine amateur architect.
“Miss Windham made you smile, Julian. The duration of your smile was less than two seconds, but I know what I saw. I also know you haven’t truly smiled since I came off my horse in Hyde Park last March.”
Even the memory amused—Radnor cursing virtuosically in Welsh, while a fractious gelding cursed right back at him in equine. Just when Radnor had been congratulating himself on gaining the upper hand, the horse had tossed him to the ground like a load of wrinkled cravats.
“Anybody would have come off that beast,” Julian said, “and you soon had him going like a gentleman.”
“Soon is a relative term. You need to marry soon.”
Julian needed to get up to bed much sooner. “I have Glenys to provide lectures on that topic, thank you very much. She’s far more proficient at it than you could ever be.”
Radnor propped a hip on the corner of Julian’s desk. He didn’t even look fatigued. He looked handsome, exquisitely attired, and in need of a stout blow to his middle. Radnor had so far refrained from pointing out that Griffin was Julian’s heir, and saddling the boy with a dukedom would be the outside of cruel.
Should Griffin inherit the title, the ducal finances would teeter from precarious to ruined. Radnor would mitigate the damage as best he could, but the Chancery court would get involved, scandal would ensue, and creditors would pick the bones of the St. David fortune clean within a year.
“Miss Elizabeth Windham made you smile,” Radnor said. “What’s more, you made her smile. I’m tempted to ask the young lady’s sister how frequently that miracle occurs.”
Julian rose. The padding on his chair needed restuffing, but he’d had it restuffed five years ago, and the damned thing had been lumpy since.
“I suspect,” Julian retorted, “that Miss Windham, being a well-bred lady of sensible years, even smiled at you. Besides, I’m the host. I’m supposed to make the ladies smile.”
“Except you rarely do, not like that. They smile at you, not with you. They simper, they wave their fans, they smooth out their gloves ever so gently, which is supposed to mean something, but I can never recall exactly what. They aim the same weaponry at me. I’m telling you, Haverford, you and Elizabeth Windham had a moment.”
I wish I were with you. That’s what a slow smoothing out of the gloves meant.
“I’m for bed,” Julian said. “It’s far too early in the house party for moments, and when they occur, I will be nowhere in their vicinity, unless they are awkward moments. Then I will ease them away as a conscientious host is required to—”
The door opened.
“I beg your pardon.” Elizabeth Windham stood in the doorway, clad in a high-waisted brown day dress, a sky-blue shawl about her shoulders. “I was in search of the library, and my aunt. She’s not abed yet, and the hour grows late.”
“Well, I can assure you she’s not—” Julian began.
“Do come in,” Radnor said. “I saw Lady Pembroke in the library with Mr. Benedict Andover. They were playing piquet and reminiscing about the late king. Or something. One can’t tell with the elders when they get to gossiping.”
“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced the library.” Miss Windham did not budge from the doorway, much less join two single gentlemen behind a closed door late at night.
Sensible to her toes. Not a simper in sight.
“I can show you to the library,” Julian replied. “We have two, not counting the documents stored belowstairs. Your aunt would be in the main library, which will be kept warm and well-lit for my guests.”
Miss Windham’s hair was caught back in a simple bun, accentuating the elegant line of her jaw. Had she chosen that shawl to match the azure hue of her eyes?
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” she replied. “If you give me directions, I can find my way. Haverford isn’t like some castles, all twisted about inside, with narrow passages and unexpected stairways.”
“You should give the lady a tour, Haverford,” Radnor so helpfully suggested. “This castle has its share of priest holes, secret stairways, and hidden passages. As boys, we delighted in exploring them.”
“Until we got lost.” Julian wanted to stuff the Marquess of Matchmaking into a priest hole. “If you proceed along this corridor until the next turning, then go right, the first stairway you come to will take you down to the library corridor. Third door on the left. Has the Welsh dragon carved on the door.”
“Half your doors have that deuced dragon on them,” Radnor said. “You should offer the lady your escort.”
Miss Windham was smiling again, or trying not to. Her smile was more of the eyes than any other feature, a softening of her gaze that enjoyed without mocking. Her mouth was on the full side, but she pursed her lips as if to hold in her amusement. A few strands of hair had come down from her bun, and in shadows cast by the sconces, they put Julian in mind of fairy lights or—
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Abner Jones stood in the corridor behind Miss Windham, hat in hand. He was hopelessly out of place in his yeoman’s attire, and his rheumy eyes held worry.
The lady stepped into the room, allowing Abner to join them as well.
“Good evening, Abner. What’s amiss?”
“It’s Master Griffin, Your Grace. He went out for a ramble earlier this evening and hasn’t come back. He always comes back before dark, but it’s been hours and we’ve seen no sign of him.”
“The moon will soon be up,” Radnor said. “We can rouse the gentlemen and organize a search.”
“What of the dog?” Julian asked. “Has the dog come home without him?” King Henry was ferociously loyal to his owner. If Griffin had been waylaid, the dog would have returned to the cottage—assuming the dog was alive. Every tenant farmer and dairy maid knew that beast, and anybody intent on harming Griffin would dispatch the dog first.
“King Henry’s still out as well,” Abner said. “The young master noticed all the coaches here at the castle and wanted a closer look.”
“Would he have been walking up the hill behind the stables?” Miss Windham asked.
“Aye,” Abner said, circling his hat in his hands. “That he were. He was keen to count the carriages again.”
Damn Griffin’s infernal curiosity. “Did you see him, Miss Windham?” Julian asked.
“I saw a fellow striding up the hill with something shiny in his hand, and an enormous dog at his heels. The dog was brindle or brown—I couldn’t be certain in the fading light. The owner was wearing a hat and from what I could discern, country attire. I concluded he was a neighbor or employed on the estate, because he seemed to know where he was going.”
“That hill is crisscrossed with paths,” Radnor muttered. “Can you draw us a map of his location?”
“Better still,” Julian said, “can you take us to where you saw him?”
Radnor cleared his throat.
The lady was not dressed to hike about the Welsh hills by moonlight, which was just too damned bad. One night in early spring, Griffin had sneaked out with two flasks of brandy. Julian had found him an hour before dawn, snoring peacefully not three yards from the lip of a quarry, King Henry keeping watch at his side. Lung fever had followed within days.
That was merely Griffin’s most recent misadventure.
“I’ll be happy to show you where I saw him,” Miss Windham replied, “though I’ll need to put on my boots.”
“And you’ll need a cloak,” Julian said. “Abner, if you’ll fetch some lanterns, we’ll meet you at the laundry.”
Radnor followed Abner, then stopped two steps into the corridor. “Shall I alert—?”
“Not yet,” Julian said. “We’ll probably find Griffin has nodded off against the wishing oak, none the worse for his wandering. Come along, Miss Windham.”
He took the lady by the arm, intent on escorting her up to her room. She shook free and set a spanking pace for the stairs.
No questions, no sidelong looks, just quick and uncomplaining compliance with what was asked of her. She had the makings of a duke, did Miss Windham.
And she’d keep her mouth shut about this night’s work, which suggested she might also have the makings of a friend.
* * *
Some men tried to protect women from life’s harsher realities.
Many men were more interested in protecting themselves from a woman’s reactions to life’s challenges. Haverford was worried about the missing young man, and Elizabeth suspected His Grace did not worry easily. His manner was that of a man contemplating a mere constitutional about the grounds, except that he’d run his hand through his hair three times as he and Elizabeth had traversed the corridors.
“I’ll be only a moment,” she said, when they reached the door to the bedroom she shared with Charlotte. Aunt Arabella occupied a chamber across the corridor, when she wasn’t indulging in a piquet marathon with some old friend or other.
“Where have you been?” Charlotte murmured from the depths of the bed.
“Searching for Aunt, who has apparently developed a fondness for midnight card games. Go back to sleep.” Elizabeth fetched her cloak and boots and returned to the corridor rather than give Charlotte an opportunity for further questions.
“That was fast,” Haverford said, taking the cloak and swirling it about Elizabeth’s shoulders. “I apologize for imposing on you this way, but the hills can be treacherous at night and time is of the essence.”
He fastened the frogs with the competence of a man used to dressing—and perhaps undressing—women. His fingers brushed Elizabeth’s chin, fleeting warmth to accompany the sense of capability.
“Boots next,” he said, leading Elizabeth to a window seat in an alcove down the corridor.
“I can put on my own boots, Your Grace.”
And stockings.
The duke turned his back rather than observe Elizabeth donning her footwear. The gesture was gentlemanly, also ridiculous. Feet were feet, and hers were not likely to drive any man mad with desire.
“I’m ready,” she said, rising. “Let’s be off.”
“This way.” He turned the opposite direction Elizabeth had thought they’d go, and stopped a few yards farther on beside a door designed to blend in with the paneling. “The stairwell will be dark,” he said, taking Elizabeth by the hand. “Ten steps, a landing, then ten more. We don’t keep the sconces lit, so be careful.”
That was her only warning, before she had nothing but the grasp of Haverford’s hand to orient her.
“We regularly dust the stairwells,” he said, as they were enclosed by stygian darkness. “Don’t envision yourself surrounded by mice, cobwebs, or bats. The steps are immediately before us.”
The sound of their footsteps echoed, indicating that the passage traversed several floors. The duke didn’t hurry Elizabeth, and his grip on her hand was secure.
“The landing,” he said, “and now we go to the left, then ten more steps.”
They passed a window that let in light from torches on some terrace or balcony. The duke was momentarily silhouetted against the panes, then he led Elizabeth down the last four steps.
She bumped into him at the foot of the stairs, a warm, solid wall of cedar-scented man.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace.”
“Finding the latch always takes a moment. The fairies move it, or—ah, here we are.”
They emerged on the outer side of the castle wall, the scent of the breeze placing them downwind of the stables. Lanterns bobbed near the outline of a small building that might be the summer kitchen or the laundry.
“Take a moment,” Haverford said, turning Elizabeth by the shoulders. “That’s Tudor Hill, where you would have spied Griffin earlier if he was intent on counting the coaches. On which path did you see him?”