Lady Eve's Indiscretion (17 page)

Anthony's expression was thoughtful. “What about his motives?”

“In what sense?” While it was good to have a sounding board, Deene could not like the direction of Anthony's thoughts.

“He's married to a Windham, and there are at least two of those yet available for marriage. If he's not in favor of your courting his countess's sisters, he'll want to discredit you—all's fair in love and war, right?”

Eve had brought up the same point. “I served with him in Spain, Anthony, and as far as I can see, the man would simply tell me to take my business elsewhere. He does not lack for courage or suffer an excess of delicate sensibilities. Moreover, it makes no sense he'd start a number of rumors and then be the first to inform me of them. I say we're back to Dolan.”

Anthony winced and rearranged his cutlery on his empty plate. “What's his motive?”

“Spite. The same motive he has for keeping Georgina from us.”

When there was no reply, Deene lifted the pot to refresh their tea, only to find it empty.

“What aren't you saying, Anthony?”

“I, of all men, have a reason to hate Dolan. Marie and I…” Anthony looked away, out the windows toward the pastures rolling beyond the gardens. “That is ancient history, but I cannot help but wonder from time to time about what might have been. I should know better, but memory is not always the slave of common sense.”

This was tricky ground. Deene did not interrupt.

“But even I, who cannot stand to hear Dolan's name, am not entirely comfortable ascribing this behavior to him. For one thing, if there is a scandal to be brewed regarding unsound health or finances, the scandal will eventually devolve to Georgina's discredit. Whatever else he is, Dolan is not stupid.”

Valid point—an aggravatingly valid point, and yet Deene did not want to acquit Dolan of mischief he'd clearly delight in.

“Dolan is cunning, I'll grant you, but he's an upstart. He will not know that ten years is nothing when it comes to Polite Society's recall of scandal and gossip. He might very well think he can topple my expectations now, and when Georgie makes her come out, there will be no association between my ruin and her fortunes. It makes one worry for the girl.”

“Worry for the girl will not redress the reality that insufficient worry was devoted to her mother, though to the extent that I can, Deene, I appreciate your sentiments regarding Georgina's welfare.”

On that sad note, Anthony took his leave while Deene remained at the table for another half hour, staring at the empty pot.

***

Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, was looking adorable. Her husband of more than thirty years closed the door to his private study and took a moment to appreciate the privilege of seeing her thus.

She was curled on the end of the sofa closest to the windows, her feet tucked under her, a lurid novel in her hand, and a pair of His Grace's reading spectacles on her elegant nose. As the door clicked shut behind him, she looked up and smiled at her spouse.

When he'd suffered a heart seizure two years past, His Grace had lain amid all the ducal splendor of his household, praying with abject fervor to be allowed to live for a just few more years—even a few more months—basking in the warmth of that smile.

“Percival Windham, you shouldn't have.”

He glanced down at the yellow tulips in his hand. “I spared the roses, and it's my own damned garden. I can pick a few posies for a pretty girl when I jolly well please to.”

He crossed to the sideboard, poured some water in a glass, and stuck the flowers on the windowsill. His wife would pass by the bouquet, move a couple of blooms about and rearrange the greenery, and instead of looking ridiculous in a ducal study, the flowers would look exactly right.

He adored this about her as well.

She set her novel aside—reading one by daylight was a sure sign none of the children were in residence—and patted the place beside her on the sofa. “What's the occasion?”

“Does love need an occasion?”

She cocked her head and studied him. “Give me a hint.”

“It is the anniversary of our third kiss.”

The smile blossomed again, a trifle naughtier to a doting husband's eye.

“The Scorcher.”

She had named many of their earliest romantic encounters.

The Scorcher. The Ambush. The Ravishment of My Reason. The Obliteration of My Resistance.

He particularly enjoyed recalling that last one and thought she did too. Nothing had pleased a young husband more than to hear a catalogue of his wooing as categorized in Her Grace's intimate lexicon.

“Yes, the Scorcher.” He took a seat beside her, and when he reached for her hand, she was already reaching for his. “Such an occasion is not to pass without a token of my esteem.”

“And we have the day to ourselves.”

“My love, though I know you enjoy my company without reservation, you do not sound particularly happy to find us home alone without a single child underfoot.”

She blew out a breath, her expression suggesting His Grace's marital intuition had scored a lucky hit. “I worry about the girls.”

She worried about all the children, their spouses, the grandchildren.
Her
husband.

“They'll look after one another. How much trouble can they get into with the entire Morelands staff ready to peach on them should they get up to mischief, and Kesmore close at hand?”

“Peaching is all well and good, but better yet they should be prevented from getting up to mischief in the first place.”

His Grace did not entirely agree with his wife on this point. Children needed to err and stumble and right themselves early and often, in theory. In practice, he knew he had the luxury of assuming such a posture—for it was a posture—only because Her Grace was indulging a rare spate of fretting.

They took turns at it, truth be known.

“You are concerned for our Evie,” His Grace observed. “Or am I mistaken?”

“Mostly for her. The Season hasn't even started, and the proposals have already begun, haven't they?”

How
did
she know these things? “Trottenham asked for a private audience last week. I'm hearing noises at the club from some other directions as well.”

“Trottenham.” Her Grace heaved out a sigh that spoke volumes of maternal frustration. “Percy, she's begun the year riding with the third flight. What if one of them takes advantage? Another mishap would be her undoing.”

The third flight. An apt term referring to the riders at the back of the hunt, the cautious, the unskilled, or—in His Grace's experience—the ones too drunk and uncaring of the sport to keep up with the real hunting.

As for Her Grace's reference to Eve's
mishap
… It must go unremarked. “Evie has acquired wisdom since her come out, my love. I have faith in her.”

“My faith in her has never wavered. It's my faith in the company she's keeping that fails to inspire.”

Trottenham was above reproach, but those other fellows… “I think her sisters will chaperone her more effectively than anyone else. They're very protective of our Evie and recruit their husbands in the same cause.”

They all were—now, when it mattered a great deal less than it would have seven years ago.

“Maggie told me something.”

He patted her hand. Her Grace and Maggie had become thick as thieves since Maggie had married the Earl of Hazelton—and about damned time.

“Don't keep me in suspense. Hazelton would never betray the girl's confidences.” Well, hardly ever. Women apparently thought gentlemen's clubs were only for cards, beefsteak, and reading the newspapers.

“She said having her own establishment was the only thing that kept her sane in recent years because of the privacy it afforded, the sense of control over her domain. I think Eve needs that too.”

This was Her Grace, easing into one of her radical notions. Her radical notions had a way of working around to occupying spaces near to common sense by the time she was done with them, but still…

“Evie is far too young to have her own establishment, my love. If we allowed that, it would be like, like… giving up. On her. Or casting her aside. You cannot ask that of me.” The idea of Evie, their baby girl, all alone and growing older without family around her—it was enough to provoke something almost as bad as a heart seizure.

Her Grace patted his hand, which was coming to resemble the calloused paw of an old soldier, while hers remained as pretty as the rest of her.

“I agree. It isn't time, and it may never be time, but I was thinking I might see Lavender Corner put a little more to rights.”

“You are speaking Female on me, Esther. Does this mean you want to double the size of the place or send the servants over to dust?”

“The servants already keep it in good order. I was thinking perhaps I'd make sure the flower gardens were getting proper attention, the linen aired, the sachets kept fresh. A mother sees things a housekeeper cannot.”

He grasped the agenda now. Dense of him not to see it earlier.

“This will require that you jaunt off to Kent posthaste, won't it?”

“The Season hasn't started. There's no time like the present, and I wouldn't be gone long enough for you to miss me.”

She carried off airy unconcern quite credibly. His Grace wasn't fooled, but he also wasn't the only one capable of dissembling in the interests of parental pride.

“I have another idea.” He brought her knuckles to his mouth for a warm kiss. “How about we get a leisurely start tomorrow and break our journey at The Queen's Harebell?”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen and that special smile bloom on her lips.

“Oh, Percy.” She cradled his jaw with her hand and kissed his cheek. “The Queen's Harebell in spring, the scene of no less an occasion than Chocolate at Midnight. That is a splendid idea.”

Yes, it was, if he did say so himself. Esther rested her head on his shoulder, and the moment became one of a countless number His Grace would hoard up in his heart to treasure at his leisure.

Esther's smile became a little satisfied—not smug; Her Grace was never smug—and His Grace recognized that once again, she'd achieved her ends without ever having to ask for them.

That she could—and that he
almost
always spotted it when she did—was just one more thing to adore about her.

***

Being an upstart, bogtrotting, climbing cit of a quarry nabob was hard work, which Jonathan Dolan minded not one bit.

He thrived on it, in fact, or he did when hard work meant long hours at the quarries, the building sites, and the supply yards. When it meant longer hours, haggling at the negotiation table, poring over ledgers, and hanging about in smoke-filled card rooms, the prospect was much less appealing.

Much, much less.

“If you can't get your lazy damned crews to put in a full day's work, that is not my affair. Damages will be assessed per the clause
you
negotiated, Sloane.”

Sloane paced the spacious confines of the Dolan offices, running a hand through thinning sandy hair while Dolan watched from behind a desk free of clutter.

“The damages will put me under, Dolan. I told you, it isn't that the crews
won't
move your stone, it's that they
can't
move your stone. The rain in Dorset this spring has been unbelievable. This is not bad faith. It's commercial impossibility.”

The blather coming out of the idiot's mouth was not to be borne.

“Is that so? The weather is responsible? So we've moved from liquidated damages to the commercial impossibility clause?” Dolan kept his tone thoughtful, though even posturing to that extent was distasteful.

Relief shone in Sloane's squinty brown eyes. “Yes! An act of God, exactly. Torrential rain and no one able to manage. I knew you'd see reason. Hard but fair, that's what they say about you.”

“Pleased to hear it. Do they also say I'm able to read and write in English?”

They
probably speculated to the contrary, but Dolan took satisfaction in seeing Sloane's gaze grow wary. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can read, Mr. Sloane. I'm sure you'll be pleased for my sake to learn I can read in several languages. One of them English, though it's by no means my favorite. And because I own the quarry in Dorset, I also maintain a subscription to the local paper nearest that quarry. Shall I read the weather reports to you?”

Dolan opened a drawer at the side of his desk and pulled out a single folded broadsheet dated about ten days past. “Plowing, planting, and grazing being of central import to much of the shire, the editor is assiduous in his record keeping and prognostication.”

Sloane had sense enough to stop babbling.

“Mr. Sloane, sit down.” Not an invitation, which also should have been a source of satisfaction, considering the man was English to his gloved, uncallused, manicured fingertips.

He dropped into a chair. “I just need a little more time.”

A little more time, a few more potatoes, a little more daylight… The laments were old and sincere, but useless.

“You are late on the deliveries because you do not pay a wage sufficient to attract men who can be relied upon. Because you skimp on wages, your wagons and teams are not properly maintained, and they break down. Knowing you are under scheduling constraints, the smiths, wainwrights, and jobbers take excessive advantage of you when their services are needed on an emergency basis, and once again, to save money, you turn to the most opportunistic and questionably skilled among them.”

He did not add: you are an idiot. He did not need to.

“I have a family.” This was said with quiet desperation, which was probably the very worst aspect of being a quarry nabob. Watching grown men literally sweat while their dignity was sacrificed to their shortsighted greed.