Margaret Moore (3 page)

The memory of her father’s unexpected death was fresh enough to put urgency into Arabella’s tone. “My lord, please! I am sure a nap will refresh you.”

“If he were any more refreshed, he would probably draw that ancient sword of his and attack me,” Neville noted, strolling across the room.

“Then you should be glad he is not,” she snapped. She turned back to the earl and took
his arm. “Come, my lord, I am sure—”

The old man shook off her hand. “This is his grandfather’s sword!”

Leaning his weight on one long, lean leg, Neville merely crossed his arms and smiled.

“You go and rest, Arabella,” the earl commanded imperiously, “if you can find a suitable bedchamber in the whole of this house.”

“At present, the only room suitably prepared for a lady is my bedchamber,” Neville remarked. “She is most welcome to avail herself of whatever hospitality it affords.”

“Will you keep such vile comments to yourself?” his father snarled.

“Please, my lord, don’t upset yourself,” Arabella urged gently.

She gave Neville a sidelong glance intended to let him know she was not going to be agitated by his rude impertinence. Regrettably, she could not tell from his mocking smile or his inscrutable eyes if she had succeeded or not.

She turned her attention back to the earl. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I am certain there is a chamber I can make suitable for you. If so, will you rest, for my sake?”

“Oh, very well,” the old man muttered.

She smiled at her success, until Neville spoke. “Since Puritans are industrious people, I don’t doubt she can scrub and clean with the best of them.” He sauntered to the door to
open it for her. “Jarvis will take you upstairs. You will find him in the hall, listening to every word we say.”

“What—?” his father cried.

“I’faith, sir, as the lady so desperately suggests, calm yourself,” Neville said. “I would not have your death of apoplexy cast at my feet along with the multitude of my other sins.”

Arabella curtsied to the earl, gave Neville a scornful, sidelong glance, then hurried out of the room.

“Has every courtier in London taken to talking like a whoremonger—or just you?” the earl demanded the moment the door closed behind Arabella.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You could not have been more rude to her if you had believed her to be a harlot.”

“Of course I could have.”

“You—”

“Disgusting, lascivious scoundrel. Spare me a repetition of my faults, if you please. I will not contradict you.”

“Have you no shame?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then I shall indeed have no remorse for what I am about to do.”

Neville regarded his father with a bemused expression. “Are you intending to attack me with my grandfather’s sword after all?” His expression
hardened. “I will defend myself.”

“I can well believe you would, but what I will do has far more serious consequences, especially for one of your proclivities.”

“Go on. I am all ears.”

His father sat in the chair nearest the hearth, regarding Neville like St. Peter facing an unrepentant sinner at the gates of heaven. “It has grown increasingly clear to me that you are unwilling or incapable of taking your responsibilities and duties as my son and heir seriously. You waste your days and nights at Whitehall with the courtiers or in other idle pursuits. If and when you choose to marry, you will probably select some creature unworthy of our family who has managed to ensnare you by base or lustful means.”

“As long as I enjoy the means, what harm in that?”

“Have you no sense of the honor of our family? Our name?”

“You would tell me to select a woman worthy of us, is that it?”

“You are incapable of that.”

Neville’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps I should attempt to win the hand of the fair Arabella.”

His father sniffed derisively. “She is too intelligent a girl to be swayed by one of your ilk. Nor would I allow it. I have something else in mind. Arabella—”

Neville gasped as a sudden idea assailed
him, filling him with shock and rage and something else.
“You
wish to marry her!”

“Fool!” his father cried, truly aghast. “I will never marry again! I have done with that.

“But Arabella is another matter. I have watched her well and known her long. Unlike the majority of her sex, she is a clever, rational, moral woman. She will be a fine wife for the husband who deserves her—for the husband I will select for her.

“Therefore, when she marries, it is my intention to make her and her spouse the heirs to the bulk of my estate.”

Neville stared at him, unbelieving.

“You will have the old manor house on the estate and receive an allowance upon which a
sensible
man might live comfortably, both from now on and after my death. Unfortunately, I cannot strip you of the title.”

“You cannot be serious!” Neville gasped at last.

“I assure you, Neville, I have never been more serious in my life. I am determined that the estate of Barrsettshire will not be frittered away on gambling, drinking and whores.”

“I’faith, Father, what have
you
been imbibing?”

“You are the one who imbibes to excess, Neville,” his father retorted.

“Who says so?” Neville demanded, for the
moment forgetting the wine bottles shoved in the ashes.

“I have it on good authority.”

“And is this authority the same source for your belief that I am not worthy of my rightful inheritance?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Who?” Neville asked angrily, all pretext of calm unconcern gone. “Who has convinced you to pass over the son of your body?”

The earl looked away. “That is immaterial.”

“Not to me!” Neville cried. Then his eyes narrowed. “Lady Lippet, I dare say.”

“And others,” the earl declared defiantly. “Would you tell me they are lying? Even you cannot have the gall to deny what so many have said.”

“I fear that I have indeed been remiss in not visiting you at the ancestral home,” Neville said, fighting to regain his composure. “Then I might have realized you were in your dotage.”

“My
dotage
!”

“What else would you call it? Or are you ill?”

“I am in perfect health and my judgment is utterly sound.”

“Sound? How can it be, when you would rob your own son?”

“You would have done well to remember that you are my son, with duties and responsibilities, before now,” the earl replied. “You
are not worthy of your place. This house is nearly falling down from neglect. This room is filthy. You look like a drunken sailor. Add to that all the other things of which I have heard. There is a very multitude of reasons for me to renounce you.”

“And I am my mother’s son,” Neville added grimly, regarding his father steadily.

His father did not answer.

Neville strolled to the chair where his jacket lay. “I confess myself surprised that you would trust a woman with a ha’penny, let alone my inheritance, but then, Lady Arabella is so concerned for you!” He picked up the plain black garment and drew it on. “Tell me, did she promise to look after you in your old age? Did she say that you would always have a home with her and that she would nurse you and fuss over you like a hen with one chick?”

His father scowled. “By your words you again demonstrate both your corruption and your ignorance.”

“Oh, I am at fault again, although I am not bestowing a considerable inheritance upon some country-bred female who is no blood relation and who has done nothing to earn such a reward, while your son is to inherit nothing more than a tide, a pittance and an old house that has been crumbling since Henry the Eighth ascended the throne. Oh, yes, and for all this, the disinherited son is to be grateful.”

“I would rather bestow it on her than see you and your decadent friends waste it! She will put it to good use.
Moral
use.
Virtuous
use.
Christian
use.”

“I dare say one’s opinion of your decision depends upon how one defines waste.”

Neville reached down and swept up his hat. As he placed it on his head, he glared at his father, and for a moment, in their anger, they looked very much alike. “I wonder who first put this ludicrous notion into your head at all? Surely not the moral, virtuous, Christian Arabella Martin. She would not do such a thing. She would not wield winning smiles or pious looks or dedicated prayer, pretending that she didn’t know you were listening.”

“No, she did not!”

Neville spotted his errant boots and grabbed them before picking up his baldric and sword. “My lord, that is the most astonishing thing you have yet said. You would have me believe you thought of this incredible resolution all on your own?”

“You rude, disgusting, impertinent rascal! You are so corrupt you can no longer recognize a virtuous woman when she stands before you. Leave my house!”

“As you might have guessed when I took up my hat, I am doing just that,” Neville said at the door, his boots, baldric and sword held against his chest, his hand on the latch. He
gasped dramatically. “Or are you casting me into the streets forever?”

“Don’t tempt me—and don’t you go near Arabella!”

“If she is as virtuous as you think, she will be impervious to anything I might do. Or am I to assume from this desire to have me gone that you have some doubt of her rectitude? Indeed, Father, given your astonishing announcement, I rather think I have more to fear from her than she from me. Who knows but she might persuade me right out of my clothes?”

“Neville!”

“However, I shall not put her to the test. Instead, I shall take my useless, disgusting presence where it will be appreciated. I bid you good day, Father.”

Neville strolled out the door. Then he slammed it hard behind him.

Arabella slowly paced in the dusty, musty upper chamber to which the red-haired Jarvis had reluctantly led her. She did not know if his unwillingness stemmed from his desire to remain where he could hear the earl and his son arguing, or because the earl’s bedchamber was in no fit state for anyone’s occupation.

Thick, heavy draperies, made of what had once been fine and costly brocade, but now seemed to have the dust of ages upon them,
covered the small mullioned windows overlooking the street. The dark oak paneling was likewise dust-covered, as were the table and worn chair and the very large, heavy bed. There was a featherbed upon the bed, but no other coverings of any kind.

Cobwebs hung in the corners, and when Arabella glanced down, she saw that her feet were leaving patterns on the dusty floor. Apparently mice had also been cavorting about the room.

Arabella shivered a little and looked around before laying her cloak over the back of the single chair. She did not fear mice, exactly. Their wiggling little bodies just bothered her a little. Rats, however, were another matter entirely.

Muffled sounds drifted up the chimney from below, for this chamber was directly over the withdrawing room.

The earl and his son were still quarreling.

She sighed softly, glad to be out of the room and dismayed, too.

To think she had come to London with such joyful expectations! For one thing, it was London, where the restored king held court. Where there were balls and parties and masques and theaters. Where there would be color and light and music.

And where Neville Farrington would be.

She should not have been so swift to rationalize the earl’s opinion of his son, thinking that,
as with many critical men, beneath his harsh words was an abiding love for his child. So it had been with her father, who had often found fault with her. Yet she had never doubted his love.

In this case, however, she saw no evidence of anything other than disappointment and anger in the earl’s responses to his son, and a shocking lack of respect and deference and remorse on Neville’s part.

Of course, she had expected Neville to be different. It was seven years since the day her father had brought her to the earl’s estate, and they had both been little more than children. But she hadn’t expected him to have fallen so low.

Unfortunately, what had been sincere, kind and soft-spoken seemed to have disappeared completely, replaced by a cynical, flippant bearing when he was not speaking and looking at her so seductively.

She had attracted men’s notice before, yet every attempt by a man to compel her notice paled beside one glance from Neville Farrington.

She looked into the busy street below. Fine coaches rumbled along the cobblestones. Well-dressed couples strolled arm in arm, the women cloaked against the cool spring air, many of the men wearing the new fashion of
petticoat breeches, which looked like beribboned skirts.

Neville had yet to adopt this somewhat effeminate apparel. He had been wearing tight-fitting breeches that were intended to be tucked into boots. Given that his legs were long and muscular, it could be that he was too vain to conceal them under folds of fabric.

As if to forcefully demonstrate the difference in clothing, a horseman trotted past, his dress a model of fashionable extravagance. His breeches looked so voluminous that they might have utilized enough fabric to make a dress for her. His waist-length jacket was of scarlet velvet trimmed with gold, like the breeches. His broad-brimmed hat had such a large feather, she wondered if it doubled as a quill pen.

As the stranger rode out of sight, she was reminded of something else: no matter what happened between Lord Barrsettshire and his son, she was in London at last. With the earl as her guardian, she could move in the first circle of society. If she was very lucky, she might even see the king!

With that comforting thought, she turned away from the window and again surveyed the room. This could yet be a lovely chamber, with some cleaning. Deciding it would be better to work than muse upon recent, unsettling events, she searched about for anything she might use as a rag.

A door slammed below. Curious as to what that heralded, she hurried to the top of the stairs.

Neville Farrington was at the bottom, his expression an angry scowl, his white-plumed hat perched on his head as he struggled to put on his boots. A leather baldric and sword lay on the floor beside him.