Ethan: Lord of Scandals (8 page)

“Gentlemen.” Ethan kept his voice quiet. “If you would kindly shut the hell up for one moment, I will tender my apologies.”

Joshua cocked his head. “Huh?”

“Papa is going to apologize,” Jeremiah said. “I think.”

“He is,” Ethan said, “for not warning you Argus sometimes kicks out when schooling piaffe in hand, and for putting you on double. Has no one taught you how to fall off?”

The boys exchanged glances when Miller appeared with a long lead line.

“No, sir,” Jeremiah said. “I thought one didn’t want to fall.”

“Sometimes one does,” Ethan countered. “For example, if Argus bolted with me and was heading for a low branch or a cliff, I might want to part company with him. Or if by chance I should become unseated and a fall is inevitable, then one wants to fall as safely as possible. I will demonstrate.”

“You’re going to fall off Argus?” Joshua goggled. “On purpose?”

“I am, but perhaps my waistcoat need not participate.” He shrugged out of it, removed the surcingle from around the horse’s belly, passed the saddle to Miller, grabbed a hank of mane, and swung up.

“How’d he do that?” Joshua asked Jeremiah. “Argus is tall, and Papa didn’t use a mounting block or stirrups or
anything
.”

Miller stood in the center of the arena, the horse circling him on the long lead, while Ethan got his seat at the trot bareback.

“All right, you lot.” Ethan kept his eyes front, settling into the rhythm of the trot. “Spook him.”

Miller nodded at the boys. “You heard your papa. Spook that big golden devil, and unseat your papa.”

“How?” Jeremiah asked as Joshua bolted past him.

“Pismire pony!”
Joshua bellowed, waving his arms and charging right at the horse. Argus, true to his delicate sensibilities, shied mightily, giving Ethan the pretext he needed to slide gracefully over the horse’s shoulder. Argus came to an immediate halt, allowing Ethan to swing back on.

“Again.” Ethan nodded at Miller. “And put some effort into it, gentlemen. Argus will go to sleep otherwise, and so shall I.”

It took a few more tries before Jeremiah got into the spirit of the game, but Argus got into it too, spooking horrifically, only to stand stock still as soon as Ethan had decamped. Ethan demonstrated both an emergency dismount, which ideally left the rider on his feet, and the less graceful variations thereon.

Ethan beat at the dust on his once-pristine shirt. “I think we can commend Argus on a job well done and turn our attention to your ponies.” The boys turned to see grooms holding both ponies, and neither pony sporting a saddle.

“Up you go.” Ethan hoisted Joshua onto his pony, then Jeremiah.

“I don’t want to do this,” Jeremiah said, staring sullenly at his pony’s mane. Ethan considered his older son and those few brave words.

“C’mon, Jeremiah,” Joshua said. “We’ll get dirty, and we can scream like girls.”

“He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” Ethan said. “My intention was to have you practice only at the halt, and if you felt up to it, at the walk.”

“It’s stupid,” Jeremiah declared, defiant eyes raised to his father’s. “Why would you fall off on purpose if falling off is how you get hurt?”

“Am I hurt?” Ethan asked, holding his son’s gaze.

“No,” Jeremiah admitted. “But if Argus stepped on your head or your guts, you could be dead.”

Death. Again.

Ethan wanted to shake the boy but kept his voice calm. “Do you think I would do anything to intentionally put you in harm’s way?”

Jeremiah mumbled something then looked away.

“I beg your pardon?” Ethan’s patience was strained, but Miller had led Joshua out of earshot and was letting the boy get used to a bareback ride.

“You hired Mr. Harold,” Jeremiah said. “He was harmful. Langstrom wasn’t much better.”

“Mr. Harold caned Joshua. I know that, but it—”

“More than once,” Jeremiah interrupted. “He caned him lots, and he made me watch, and he would make Joshua try to do things that were too hard just so he could cane him. He called us names and said we were the shame of the neighborhood.”

“Ye gods…” Ethan’s physical balance wavered, as if he’d sustained a roundhouse punch or had too much cheap liquor. “What else did he say?”

“A lot of things.” Jeremiah sighed. “Mean things. I didn’t understand all of them. He called Joshua a slutterswipe…”

“Guttersnipe,” Ethan supplied, hauling back hard on his temper—for at whom ought he to be most angry but himself?

“Here’s my difficulty,” Ethan said. “I am sorry you ever had to deal with Mr. Harold. I wish I could thrash him silly. Bloody damned silly, in fact, and don’t you tattle regarding my language, Jeremiah Grey. But Harold isn’t here, and I want you to be safe when you’re riding. Knowing how to fall is part of being safe. I didn’t keep you safe from Mr. Harold, and I hate that, but I want desperately to keep you safe from a bad fall.”

“I’ll stop riding,” Jeremiah decided, giving his pony’s neck a wistful pat.

Ethan’s heart began to beat in a slow, hard rhythm in his chest. “You love to ride, and you’re very good at it. And then Joshua would have no one to ride with except me, and I’ll wager I am not half the fun you are.”

Jeremiah eyed his brother. “He gallops everywhere. You’re better at swearing.”

Ethan waited, heart thumping almost painfully, because the mysterious juvenile cogs in his son’s brain were clearly still turning.

“I fell before,” Jeremiah said. “It hurt, but Lightning didn’t do it on purpose. There was a rabbit.”

“Pesky beasts, rabbits. Always darting out and looking so cute while they do.” Ethan’s heart beat so hard he could feel it working… like a rabbit’s.

“Tell me,” Jeremiah said, fiddling with his reins, “
if
I were going to practice falling, how would I practice it?”

“Carefully,” Ethan said, his heart slowing a little, “and with people around who mean you only the best. You do it slowly, Jeremiah, in stages you can understand, and if you need to take a break, you insist on a break.
If
you were going to, that is.”

“How would I start?”

“You relax,” Ethan said, finding he needed to swallow a few times before going on. “You let your body relax, and you don’t fight the fall. If you’re traveling at speed, give up the reins, or you’ll just jerk your horse’s mouth before you lose them anyway. Try to slip down the horse’s side, but tuck up to protect your head. Your horse will never try to step on you, so don’t even consider it a risk.” He went on, his voice gradually becoming more even and his breathing easing up.

“I’m ready,” Jeremiah said, clutching the reins desperately and sending his pony in a plodding circle at the walk.

“All right.” Ethan stepped away, making sure to keep his own body and tone of voice relaxed. “When I say ‘pismire pony,’ you relax, let go of the reins, and curl down along Lightning’s side. He’ll probably stop and give you a puzzled look.”

Jeremiah nodded, his expression suggesting he contemplated the mental equivalent of a severe birching.

“Steady on.” Ethan took another step back. “One, two, three… pismire pony.”

He’d nearly whispered the last two words, and Jeremiah tipped, slipped, and tumbled off his pony’s back. The pony halted, swished his tail, and sniffed at the little boy in the dirt. Ethan crouched down and met Jeremiah’s eyes.

“You did it. I’m proud of you.” He wanted to damn cry he was so proud.

“I did it.” Jeremiah sat up and was promptly pulled into his father’s arms. Wordlessly, Ethan hugged him—really, really hugged him. This wasn’t a sneaky hint of a hug in the midst of a picnic hubbub. It wasn’t a surreptitious, teasing hug while choosing from the breakfast buffet. This couldn’t be construed as anything but a hug, plain, heartfelt, and sincere.

“I did it.” Jeremiah said again, closing his eyes and laying his head on his father’s shoulder. “I fell off.”

“Splendidly,” Ethan assured him. The pony spoiled the moment, pony fashion, by butting Ethan’s shoulder, nearly pushing man and boy onto their arses in the dirt.

“Wretched beast,” Ethan murmured, still holding his son. “Shall we see how your brother fares?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jeremiah said as Ethan set him on his feet. “He’s little.”

“I know what you mean. He seems to bounce through life.”

“Is that bad?” Jeremiah watched as, at the halt, Joshua slid off his pony.

“No,” Ethan said, thinking of another little brother who seemed to bounce through life. “But he didn’t bounce just then, did he?”

“No.” Jeremiah grinned. “You don’t bounce either.”

“And neither do you, Jeremiah.” Ethan smiled back. “But you fall beautifully.”

***

Ethan sent his sons up to the house, and off they went at a dead run. He turned toward the stables, intent on retrieving his waistcoat, knowing that hours of ledgers and correspondence awaited him in the library.

A cheering thought intruded: he and Alice had never quite gotten around to a discussion of the boys’ curriculum.

And then the cheering thought was interrupted by the sight of a groom who had Joshua’s pony, Thunder, trailing on a lead behind him. Thunder was rearing and propping, and for good cause. The groom was using the end of the leather lead shank to whack at the pony’s neck and shoulders.

“Step on me, will ye?” the man shouted. “I’ll show ye who ye can step on, ye hairy little shite. No damned manners, and getting fussed all day has ye spoilt rotten. The knacker would love to take a knife to yer tough little hide.”

“Hold,” Ethan said quite loudly as he approached the man, “and I do mean now.”

The man nodded. “G’day to ye, guv. Little monster thought to stomp me good.”

The little monster was still kiting around on the end of his lead line, eyes rolling at the potential new threat Ethan posed.

“Give him to me.” Ethan held out a hand for the lead shank, keeping his voice quiet. “When did he attempt this violence?”

The man gestured to the stables, fifty yards distant. “In the barn. Just up and tromped on me boot.”

Sturdy, if worn, heavy boots, Ethan noted. And the groom himself had the thick, muscular physique and dusty, worn attire of a typical plowboy.

Thunder, by contrast, was a Welsh pony, an elegant little equine standing about twelve hands. He was small enough to work the mines, about as small as a riding mount could be, even for a child.

“So you thought to discipline him here.” Ethan stroked a hand down the pony’s coarse mane. “To impress upon him the error of his ways, what, a quarter mile and ten minutes after the crime?”

“He’s stubborn, that one.” The groom eyed the pony balefully. “Takes a firm hand.”

Miller came puffing out from the stables, just as Ethan would have bellowed for him.

“Problem, Mr. Grey?” Miller asked, using deferential address before an inferior.

“Did Thunder act up in the barn? Perhaps misbehave in hand or take advantage of Mr. Thatcher here?”

“Thunder?” Miller snorted and glanced at the now-quiet pony. “That beast doesn’t know how to misbehave, unless it’s to snitch a mouthful of grass. He dodged a little when a cat jumped up the ladder beside him, but it weren’t mischief.”

“A misunderstanding then,” Ethan said. “Easily explained. Miller, you will see Thunder to his paddock, please?” Ethan gave the pony a final pat and passed the lead shank to Miller.

Thunder—a good boy of the equine persuasion—followed docilely.

“Mr. Thatcher.” Ethan eyed the man coolly. “I trust Miller’s judgment more than my own when it comes to horses. What have you to say for yourself?”

“Miller weren’t leading the damned pony.” Thatcher’s chest heaved with indignation. “Them’s dangerous, ponies are. Them’s quick and mean and belongs in the mines with both eyes put out.”

“How did you come to work in the stables?”

“Came to help with the last harvest in the fall,” Thatcher said. “Miller took sick in the winter. I stayed on.”

And Ethan had trusted Miller to sort out the bad apples that had come in with the harvest.

“Stay away from the ponies, Thatcher. Another such misunderstanding, and I will turn you off. Ponies can easily be made mean, but that pony belongs to my son and is none of yours to make mistakes with. Do we understand each other?”

Clearly, Ethan was making an enemy. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression closed, and his gaze went to where Miller was turning the pony out with Lightning, who bucked and cantered up to his mate in welcome.

“I understand ye clear enough.” In a cavalier display of rudeness, Thatcher spat his words, turned his back on his employer, and stomped off. Which confirmed to Ethan he should have fired the man, plain and simple. He’d have Miller find a pretext for doing same, but leave it in his stable master’s hands. Some of the joy of the morning was tarnished, but not all.

He could find Alice and interrogate her regarding Latin primers and whatever else she’d been prosing on about before more important matters had come under discussion.

He smiled as he turned back toward the house, but paused before the peach tree, not intending to grab a snack but merely to assess the ripening crop. As he stood in the tree’s shade, he spied Alice walking hand in hand with a tall, dark-haired man in riding attire. It wasn’t anybody Ethan recognized, and Alice was a fair distance from the house. As he debated intruding—a gentleman did not spy—Alice stopped and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him in a fiercely close embrace.

Ethan left his chambers for the lower floors of the house, his toilet repaired sufficiently for the noonday meal.

His mood, however, was not in good repair at all. He caught the eye of the footman at the end of the corridor. Tall, blond, handsome—like Nick, of course. “It’s Davey, isn’t it?”

The fellow smiled, revealing surprisingly good teeth. “That would be me, Mr. Grey.”

“Be warned. The boys like you.” Ethan hurried off, stomach growling, mood deteriorating apace. If Alice Portman had a gentleman caller, she would in nowise be hanging about Tydings for even her probationary period. No woman in her right mind chose governessing over matrimony.

Where was Ethan supposed to find another governess, and how was he supposed to explain it to the boys?

“Mr. Grey?” Mrs. Buxton stopped him at the foot of the steps. “We’ve set lunch in the dining room. Miss Portman said there’s to be a gentleman for company. She’s in the family parlor with the gentleman, and she asked the boys to join the adults at table.”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose, as this was presumption upon presumption. “She did?”

“She certainly did,” Mrs. Buxton nodded, sails filling with righteousness.

“Then she must have had good reasons,” Ethan said before the housekeeper could launch her first volley. “You will tell the kitchen I’m sure lunch will be exemplary, particularly the vegetable dishes.”

“Aye, sir.” Mrs. Buxton looked confused, but bobbed her curtsy and disappeared, no doubt to inform the kitchen they were in Ethan’s crosshairs.

His mood sank further when he heard genuine, hearty laughter as he approached the family parlor. Alice’s suitor was apparently a charming bastard, making Ethan realize he hadn’t heard her laugh yet—not like that. Alice Portman was overstepping, and—to take a maliciously appropriate leaf from her own book—she could have done Ethan the courtesy of asking.

He swept into the family parlor without knocking, as it was his goddamned house, and Alice was practically sitting in the man’s lap.

“Miss Portman.” Ethan barely nodded. “I see you have an unanticipated guest.”

“Grey.” The man rose, and Ethan saw his face for the first time. “A pleasure to see you again. My sister has said only nice things about you, so I know you’re hiding something.”

God above. Ethan stuck out his hand on reflex, as he did indeed know the man.

“Alice is your
sister
?” Ethan managed, mental gears whizzing. If Benjamin Hazlit was Alice Portman’s brother, then why weren’t their last names the same? By God, if Alice were married. His mood halted mid-plunge and reversed itself: she might be
widowed
…

“My younger sister.” Hazlit’s smile was faintly mocking. “I am reporting for inspection, because we haven’t seen each other for some weeks. My apologies for not sending word in advance, but I was in the neighborhood. You have a lovely estate, at least what I’ve seen of it, and Alice says the house is just as pretty.”

“My thanks,” Ethan said, recovering a few of his wits. “Has Al—Miss Portman offered you something to drink?”

Alice smiled at him, and this Alice—who laughed, who welcomed a brother much respected in Polite Society—bore little resemblance to the woman who’d clung to Ethan beneath the maple tree.

“We were waiting for you, Mr. Grey,” she said. “I apologize for not warning you, but Benjamin tends to show up for an unannounced call whenever I change positions. It’s always a pleasant surprise to see him.”

There was a plea in her smile, for forbearance, maybe. She hadn’t invited her brother here and probably wasn’t entirely glad to see the man. And for Alice—Ethan knew this about her—there would always be something unpleasant about any surprise.

“Family should always be welcome,” Ethan said. “Let me ring for drinks. Something chilled might do. Lemonade?”

He could be a creditable host, and he slipped into the role by dint of will. Lunch passed pleasantly, with Hazlit quizzing the boys as if Alice were the charge and they the supervisors.

Joshua grinned at his governess. “If you forget our story, Miss Portman, we’ll make you go to bed without supper.”

“If you send her to bed without supper,” Hazlit said, “she might be cranky the next day. Out of sorts, grouchy—you know what I mean?”

“Miss Portman is never out of sorts,” Jeremiah said, all seriousness. “She says moods and vapors do not become a lady whose task is as important as hers.”

“And that important task would be?” Ethan gestured to the footman to top off everyone’s glass of lemonade.

“Keeping us out of trouble,” Joshua said. “It’s a lot of work, Papa.”

“I can imagine. Shall we take our drinks to the terrace so the kitchen can get to the work of tidying up?”

“It’s my turn!” Joshua bumped his brother aside with a stout application of a pointy little elbow to a fraternal rib, and stood behind Alice’s chair. She rose and waited while Joshua wrestled the chair back.

When the boys had departed for the next installment of Waterloo, the adults enjoyed the shaded end of the terrace.

“I think I’ll go fetch a hat,” Alice said. “I might want to see this famous battle site, but the sun is quite fierce.” The men stood, and Ethan turned to see Hazlit regarding him with the same speculation Ethan was aiming at his guest.

Ethan arched an eyebrow. “The point of your sortie wasn’t to fawn over your sister, though you get marks for being a good brother. What do you want to know?”

Hazlit saluted with his drink. “You share your brother’s gift for plain speaking, which suits me far better than pettifogging inanities. Alice seems happy here.”

“Provided she looks after my children, there is no reason why she can’t be happy here. But we are not addressing your primary concern, are we?”

“We are not,” Hazlit conceded. “Alice may rejoin us at any time, so let me be blunt.” When Ethan said nothing, Hazlit’s near-smile made another fleeting appearance. “It’s like this, Grey. None of us, save my sister Avis, who rusticates in Cumbria, uses our actual family name. Hazlit and Portman hang somewhere nearby on the family tree, but several branches back.”

“And you resort to this subterfuge, why?” Ethan took a slow sip of his drink, not sure he wanted an honest answer but damned certain he’d extract one.

“My sisters were involved in a scandal some twelve years ago,” Hazlit said. “They were not to blame, and they’ve lived exemplary lives ever since. Avis adjusted by burying herself at the family seat and becoming what Wilhelm and I call an instant spinster, though she was quite young at the time. Alice, who was even younger, adjusted by becoming utterly independent. She will not take one penny of her family money, and believe me, there is ample.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Old scandals were the worst kind. They tended to rise up and sink their teeth into one’s present life, and not let go until a high price had been paid. And yet, it made sense. Alice’s bodily symptoms were evidence of a kind of haunting, and nothing haunted like a brutal scandal.

Hazlit swirled his drink. “I’d like your word, if the details of Alice’s past come out, you won’t cut her loose over it without giving me time to step in.”

A bad scandal indeed. “You assume I would cut her loose. I myself have been on the receiving end of more than one scandal.”

“One doesn’t want to presume,” Hazlit said. “And your most notable scandal involved the woman whom you chose to be the mother of your children.”

Hardly.
“Your tact is appreciated. My wife was a tramp, which is exactly what I should have expected when I married my mistress, isn’t it?”

Hazlit shrugged. “Not if she loved you. Women are complicated. They can be more loyal than Wellington’s foot soldiers, when they choose.”

Society’s most discreet investigator would need tact like that. “She did not choose, and then too, your sister has condescended to find employment in my household, when my antecedents are worse than suspect.”

“Alice is the last person to hold bastardy against anyone.” Hazlit snorted. “Her last charge, Priscilla, was not legitimate. There were rumors that my half brother was not legitimate.”

“And will he be calling upon my governess unannounced as well?”

“Unannounced gives a man clues he wouldn’t have otherwise been able to gather.”

“Such as?”

Hazlit gave his host a measuring glance. “Such as you are too much of gentleman to eavesdrop, and you are enough of a papa to spend a summer morning in the stables with your sons. Beneath your tailored attire, you have the muscles of a yeoman, which suggests you are not prone to gentlemanly idleness. Your children are welcome at your table and even welcome to speak at table. Your staff is competent, your grounds well maintained, and you call my sister Alice, which means she’s given you that honor.”

“It is a rare honor?” Ethan heard himself ask.

“Outside of family? Your brother Nicholas; Matthew Belmont; Thomas, Baron Sutcliffe, by virtue of his relationship as Priscilla’s uncle; and now… you.”

The other three were married. Happily married.

“I will not abuse the privilege,” Ethan said. “Have you more questions for me?”

“What happened to her predecessor?”

An insightful, uncomfortable question. “As to that…” Ethan ran a hand through his hair and turned to survey his back gardens. “I chose poorly, and my sons paid the price. His name was Harold, tall, blond, the epitome of the earnest English scholar, devoted to his calling. I’m not sure what the boys learned from him, except to fear the birch rod, and me.”

“How long was he here?”

“Since the first of the year,” Ethan said. “Your sister is a lovely change of approach for them, and though I do trust her, I have no intention of allowing anybody such unbridled control of my children again.”

“That’s all you can do,” Hazlit said, sympathy in his eyes. “You vow to be vigilant and never let it happen again, and you pray until God must go deaf from your ceaseless begging.”

Ethan regarded him at some length. Such an invitation was not to be declined.

“It must have been a very bad scandal,” Ethan said. “Is this how Alice was injured?”

“It is. Her injury doesn’t seem to be bothering her though.”

“Her hip gives out on her if she takes a bad step,” Ethan said, pouring them both more lemonade. “Then it pains her for a while. And the breathing spells? You know she had two while at Belle Maison?”

“She didn’t say,” Hazlit said slowly, new respect in his eyes at this confidence. “Change can bring them on, situations that feel out of control, sudden frights.”

“So she controls children, and thus orders her universe,” Ethan said. It was a sound strategy. Ethan himself controlled businesses, which were probably more predictable than children.

Hazlit looked… disgruntled. “You notice things.”

Alice told him things, too, which he wasn’t about to admit to her brother. “From a man of your calling, this is a fine compliment.”

“It is. This is a kind of compliment too, Mr. Grey: if you cause my sister any substantial distress, by being difficult to work for, by being a sorry excuse for a parent, by so much as looking at her with that well-honed imitation of patrician condescension, I will meet you. Your choice of weapons.”

Despite an affable tone, there was a thread of steel in Hazlit’s dark eyes. Ethan gave him credit for rattling a loud sword.

“She has my children in her care, Hazlit. I will be as demanding, sorry, or condescending as I must be to ensure they are safe with her. I appreciate your protectiveness, but Alice is your grown sister, whereas Jeremiah and Joshua are my little children.”

Hazlit’s half smile bloomed into the complete version, illuminating his face with a startling charm. When he smiled, he looked more like Alice and less like some avenging Saracen warrior masquerading in civilized attire.

“We understand each other, Mr. Grey. Now let’s rehearse our chitchat, because no hat could take this long to tie. How is Wee Nick?”

“Managing,” Ethan said. “He will do a good job by the title, and he’s chosen the right countess, but he dreads all the Parliamentary nonsense.”

“He’ll take to it well enough when he sees his first bill pass,” Hazlit said. “But you’d better get your brother George on a shorter leash. He’s cutting a bit of a left-handed swath.”

“We were hoping he’d take ship, but Nick ignores the problem,” Ethan replied. “Perhaps I should take it on.”

“Somebody should try,” Hazlit said. “George is a good soul, not out to harm anybody, but the parsons get to screaming, and the newspapers want a sensation, and next thing you know, somebody’s harmless brother is swinging for what goes on every day in many a great house, dormitory, or back alley.”

“You needn’t preach to me. I’ll talk to him.”

Hazlit turned, his expression softening. “Here comes my dearest Alice. Sister, I am taking my leave of you. Mr. Grey clearly appreciates your talents and will be a biddable employer. Kiss me now, and write often.”

They didn’t just kiss the air beside each other’s cheeks. Hazlit kissed his sister’s cheeks, and then her forehead, but he held her close even a moment after that, the expression on his face oddly pained.

“Thank you for coming, Ben,” Alice said, and Ethan would have sworn her eyes were getting misty. He wasn’t about to thank Hazlit for leaving him with a teary female, for pity’s sake.

“Be well, Allie. I’m here if you need me.”

She nodded her thanks and let him step back. He bowed slightly to Ethan then retreated, his pace, to Ethan’s eye, a little hasty. Alice stood beside Ethan, silent, until her brother disappeared into the stables. A funny little gulp of breath gave her away.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Ethan spun her gently by the shoulders and wrapped her in an embrace. “He’s only going to London, and you can have him out any time.”

“I m-miss him,” Alice said miserably. “He’s such a good brother, and I pushed him away, and this is all we have, and it’s my fault.”

“Hush. Brothers understand these things, and you have more with your Benjamin than I do with my younger brothers or sisters.”

“I miss Avie too,” Alice watered on. “I miss her so much. I haven’t seen her for five years, and that’s my fault too.”