David Lord of Honor (The Lonely Lords) (23 page)

“Came to London from where?” Douglas asked, fastening the bridle straps. “Raised the daughter of whom, whose living was provided how, and to what extent was she truly dishonored, or was she guilty of breach of promise? Or promiscuity? And where is the evil curate now? Wasn’t it you who told me good decisions are based on good information? How can you decide your next steps when you have so few facts to predicate your future upon?”

David petted his mare when he wanted to launch himself fists first at his best friend. “How does Gwen tolerate being married to a man who has an abacus where his heart should be?”

“She loves me,” Douglas said without a hint of arrogance, “and that abacus is part of what will make this property prosperous, eventually. Guinevere claims I’m also quite the passionate fellow under appropriate circumstances, though the woman is given to occasional flights on certain topics.”

“Of course you are, and Gwen is a very appropriate circumstance, which is why a blessed event is in the offing, less than nine months after the wedding.”

Douglas didn’t exactly smile, but the humor in his eyes was smug as he swung up onto his horse.

As they rode out through the muddy, greening fields, Douglas’s words stuck with David. What did he
know
of Letty? Douglas prattled on about the land, about Gwen’s plans to run it jointly with the adjacent property, Enfield, which was owned by Greymoor.

“What do we hear about Rose’s grandpapa?” David asked as they turned back toward the stables.

“That His Grace was damned lucky,” Douglas replied. “Moreland is tough, but from what Lord Valentine told Guinevere, the duke had been bled nearly dry by those quacks attending him. He’s still recovering, albeit slowly. The duchess is insistent that he give up riding to hounds, and he’s adamant that he won’t.”

Oh, to be able to insist on anything with Letty. “If Westhaven sells the hunting box, then the question is all but moot.”

“The duke has any number of cronies owing him favors, in Parliament and otherwise. He can cadge a mount for a week in the shires,” Douglas replied. “And I almost wish he would. Guinevere purely hates him for trying to keep us apart. I can’t say I blame her.”

“How did you manage it, Douglas? When you thought there was no hope at all—what sustained you?”

Douglas leaned low over his horse’s neck to duck beneath a branch of oak just leafing out. “What sustained me when I feared losing the love of my life? I struggle to answer you. I suppose on one level it’s a kind of religious conviction, a sense that a just God would not permit any other outcome than the one I felt myself born for. Guinevere was meant for me, and I for her. I could not accept any other reality, and would not even try.”

“So it was stubbornness?”

“In part,” Douglas allowed, pausing while David ducked the same sturdy branch. “A stubborn belief that we were meant to be together, not so much because that was the easy option, but because I would not survive any other. I suppose one might term it sheer animal desperation.”

And how typical of Douglas, that he could discuss such a notion calmly.

“That concept has the ring of authenticity. When Letty turns me down, citing the need for my viscountess to have a spotless reputation, then what I feel is sheer animal desperation to convince her otherwise.”

Douglas halted his horse outside the stable and remained in the saddle rather than dismount.

“You have finally fallen, my friend,” he said gently, “and as Guinevere has predicted, you have fallen very hard indeed. So it might interest you to know that the housekeeper we hired from Mrs. Banks’s household has received at least three letters while in our employ, and every one has been posted from a place called Little Weldon, Oxfordshire.”

Had they not been mounted, David would have hugged his friend. “Douglas, you are a prince among abacuses. Now, shall we go up to the house so that I might flirt with Rose, annoy Gwen, and admire her great, gravid dimensions?”

Douglas swung off his horse. “My wife is a sylph, Fairly. A wraith, a delicate creature whose husband will blacken your eyes if you so much as mention words like gravid in her presence.”

David slung an arm across Douglas’s shoulders. “Getting cranky, is she? Can’t stand to lie on her back for even five minutes? Ducking out to use the chamber pot every time you turn around?”

“And sending me murderous glares all the while,” Douglas said. “Heathgate claims it will all settle down in the last month, but we have a way to go yet before I can test his theory.”

Douglas was not one to worry needlessly, and yet, he was worried. “Honestly, Douglas, how is Gwen? Are her feet or ankles swollen? Can she eat and drink normally? Is she inordinately vertiginous, has she fainted?”

Douglas’s steps slowed, as if what awaited him at the house was not entirely a cheering prospect. “Physically, Guinevere seems hale, but she is frightened, and while the fellows you recommended are reassuring and competent, they are two hours away, and they are not you.”

“I deserved that,” David said as they gained the back terrace. Pots of daffodils lent a note of cheer, though they thrived only because the location was sheltered.

Douglas snapped off a single bloom, then a second, very likely one for Rose and one for Gwen. “Guinevere trusts me, you, Greymoor, and Heathgate, but the idea of having some strange fellow attend her has no appeal. She dreads the thought of giving birth.” Douglas stopped outside the back door. “I would do it for her if I could.”

This was Douglas’s version of love, of being in love, and to David, who’d brought children into the world—and seen some of them leave shortly thereafter—it was true love, indeed. “Wait to make that offer until you see what the ordeal consists of.”

“I remember my mother,” Douglas said, looking haunted, “screaming for hours when Henry was born. My father went to his club, and Herbert and I were left in the nursery to manage as best we could.”

“I’ll talk to Gwen,” David said slowly. “I’m not promising anything, but I will talk to her. You and Gwen and Rose are…”

And abruptly, he couldn’t form words as a lump rose in his throat and the wind got in his eyes.

“I know,” Douglas said, opening the door and leading the way through. “To us, you are too, and if we have Letty Banks to thank for your willingness to consider using your medical knowledge again, then she is too.”

***

Letty spotted Fanny Newcomb wending her way up the walk toward their favorite tea shop off The Strand. If a new walking dress and a cheery smile were any indication, Fanny was enjoying her position as housekeeper for Viscount Amery’s little-used town residence.

“Oh, my dear.” Fanny took both of Letty’s hands in hers. “How I have missed you this age. You are entirely too thin, Letty, and you have no color at all.”

“I’m a bit tired, but it’s good to see you. I can’t stay long, though. A war was brewing among the chefs in the kitchen when I left.”

“Men,” Fanny scoffed as they were led to a table. “They must make everything a battle. What a body was thinking to hire not one but three men for the same kitchen is beyond me. You be careful, my dear, lest you be caught up in the affray.”

“I am careful. I have no authority regarding the business of the kitchen. I am merely a diplomatic presence.” And that was thanks only to a vicarage upbringing, oddly enough.

Fanny tugged off a pair of crocheted gloves—also new—the same shade as her green walking dress. “Your viscount should be the one knocking heads and enforcing order, though he doesn’t seem the kind to get his hands dirty.”

Letty saw an image of David’s hand, covered with Portia’s blood.

“He isn’t my viscount, Fanny, but you’re right: he enforces order by lifting an eyebrow or making a joke.”

Fanny peered at her over the menu. “Do I detect a note of admiration in your voice?”

And was that a new bonnet to go with the new dress and new gloves? Amery must believe in paying his help well, which notion pleased Letty. “I admire whoever is paying my salary, Fanny, particularly when I’m allowed to keep my clothes on into the bargain.”

“Hush, my dear. You may be beyond shame, but I am not.”

“My apologies,” Letty replied in a sheepish whisper. As they placed and then received their orders, the topic shifted to pleasantries, the weather, and the magnificence of London’s parks in the spring. Not for the first time, Letty wondered why she continued to keep these weekly appointments with somebody whom she no longer had anything in common with.

What would the Viscountess Amery say about her housekeeper taking tea with a madam? Did Fanny care so little for the goodwill of her employer?

“How much longer do you think you will hold your current position?” Fanny asked, swishing the dregs about in her cup.

And just like that, Letty was grateful for a sympathetic ear. “I don’t know. I enjoy much about the position—including the generous wages—but it is not decent employment, and I can’t get my mind past that fact.” Then too, his lordship was looking to sell the place, and like livestock conveyed with a rural property, the ladies—and Letty—would likely be considered part of that transaction.

“You should get the viscount into your bed,” Fanny suggested quietly. “He has the coin, and he’s clean. He fancies you, Letty.”

Letty stared at her empty cup and wished she’d stayed home. Fanny might be beyond shame, but she wasn’t above handing out shameful advice.

“He’s a good man, Fanny. A better man than I deserve.”

“So don’t deserve him,” Fanny rejoined, patting Letty’s knuckles. “Take his money and lead him a dance or two.”

“I’m doing well enough for now, better than I was last year at this time, and without leading anybody any dances. I must be getting back, so I’ll leave you until next week.”

Fanny slipped on her new gloves and bonnet, said nothing while Letty paid the bill, and parted from her at the corner.

Fanny had been housekeeper at the vicarage for a few years as Letty had grown up. She was a link with home and a familiar face, but Letty couldn’t help but feel ashamed when Fanny alluded to leading the viscount in a dance or two. And those remarks, encouraging Letty to find a new protector, to prostitute herself again, always made their way into the conversation, even as Fanny chided Letty on small lapses in propriety.

Next
Wednesday, I am going to develop a megrim, and this time I mean it.

Ten

Letty returned to her office through the side entrance off the kitchens, and indeed, pandemonium reigned. Etienne accused Pietro of using his knives, and Manuel insisted that Etienne was poaching on his recipes—as best Letty could tell from the polyglot shouting match that included sufficient quantities of English cursing. Musette’s name popped up a time or two—Etienne’s “angry little Frenchwoman”—as did the names of several other ladies.

Letty wasted the better part of an hour sorting through the details, smoothing ruffled feathers, and ensuring preparations for the evening were under way. Dealing with kitchen politics in a brothel bore a startling resemblance to parish politics in Oxfordshire.

The evening passed easily enough, the moderating weather ensuring that the parlors were more often full and the ladies kept busy. Letty had become so used to mingling with the patrons that she did so by second nature—also like a parish assembly—even as she kept her eye on the ashtrays in the smoking parlor, the clutter of dirty glasses to be cleared, and the dishes on the buffet to be replenished.

“That,” Lord Valentine Windham said, taking a place beside her in the main parlor, “is not an expression of pleasure. My dear, you look positively woebegone.”

His green eyes missed little. Letty tried for a smile anyway. “Hello, your lordship. I am lost in thought, and because the hour grows late, a bit tired.”

Lost in thoughts of David. Again.

Windham fussed the lace at his cuffs. “The hour is not late for you, Letty Banks. And you’ve been looking peaked for the past two weeks, if you ask me. Of course, I am not a physician, am I?” The last question was offered in such bland, conversational tones, that Letty abruptly felt very tired, indeed.

“Was there some significance to that remark?”

“You’re missing your Lord Fairly,” Windham said. “I don’t suppose you’d consider finding solace in my arms, would you?”

His grin said he was teasing, though Letty had the uncomfortable sense that perhaps he wasn’t
merely
teasing.

“Things run more smoothly when he’s here.”
She
ran more smoothly. “I spent much of my afternoon listening to three grown men argue—in several languages—over recipes for hollandaise and the sharpness of their knives. They need to know someone takes them seriously, and they would rather that someone be Lord Fairly.”

“As would you, I gather?”

Valentine Windham was the Duke of Moreland’s son, which might explain why Letty didn’t tell him to take his too insightful questions and go make music with them.

“I manage the patrons well enough, and the ladies are comfortable with me. The account books are gradually getting straightened out, and the various merchants accept me adequately.”

“But?”

“But we all know I’m not Fairly. And he is the owner.” Though David was no more suited to owning a brothel than Letty was to running one.