The Notorious Lord Havergal (3 page)

Violet emitted another muted squeak, as though to disassociate herself from the charge. Havergal felt like a schoolboy in the schoolmaster’s office. He squared his shoulders and said, “This has nothing to do with gambling debts. It is business, pure and simple. I should think the very least you would do is listen to what I have to say.”

“Does this business opportunity guarantee you more than five percent? Is it backed by the government of England?”

“Of course not! Consols at five percent hardly constitute an
opportunity.
They are for little old ladies who—” She shot him a glare that reduced his confidence to cinders. He came to an embarrassed pause before stumbling on. “For people who are afraid to take a risk.”

“People like guardians, who are not expected to risk their charge’s money. I must refuse—once again. Would you care for a glass of wine before leaving, Lord Havergal?” Lettie congratulated herself on her restraint. Little old ladies, indeed!

His resolution firmed, and he said, “We haven’t got this matter settled yet.”

“On the contrary, it is settled, milord. I will not advance you any money for a venture that might lose the whole.”

“You haven’t even heard what I have to say! This is a marvelous opportunity. A new scientific technique that will revolutionize—”

“If it is so marvelous as that, appeal to your father. He holds the majority of your funds, does he not?”

“Papa is so old-fashioned, he doesn’t realize the world is changing.”

“If your own father is against the investment, you cannot expect me to authorize it.”

For sixty seconds he sat glaring at her in frustration. Violet took pity on him and said, “I shall ring Siddons for the wine.”

While the butler served wine, Havergal assumed an air of concentration, trying to regroup his thoughts and come up with some tale to con this Turk. He sensed that Miss FitzSimmons was already in love with him and might prove an ally. He turned and smiled at her. “This glass of wine is excellent and very welcome after my long drive,” he said. “I hadn’t thought it would take me four hours to come from London.” His eyes darted to Miss Beddoes. If the woman had blood in her veins, and not ice water, she must invite him to dinner at least.

“Four hours! It takes us eight, which is why we never go. You must have flown!” Violet said, vastly impressed and mindless of the fact that she had just painted the ladies of Laurel Hall as deep-dyed provincials. It was only confirmation of what their toilettes had already told him.

“I drove my curricle. My grays make pretty good time,” he said nonchalantly.

“Oh my. I have never been in a sporting carriage. They look very lively when one sees them coursing along the road.”

“I must take you for a spin before I leave.”

“Your horses must be fagged to death,” Violet said, disappointed to lose out on the trip.

“They’ll be fine by morning. I shall put up at the inn in town tonight and return tomorrow morning. Perhaps you can suggest a good place to dine?”

Violet directed a meaningful stare at Lettie, who stared back unmoved. She felt not an iota of pity for Havergal, but she did value the honor of having noble connections and made the expected offer. “Perhaps you would dine with us, Lord Havergal?” she asked coldly.

“That’s very kind of you.” All I had to do was sit up and beg! he thought slyly. “I would be delighted, Miss Beddoes. My valet should be arriving soon with my evening clothes. He is following in my carriage—no room in my curricle for more than my groom.”

She stared in consternation. What was all this about valets and carriages and grooms? Was he planning to make an extended stay? It was wash day, and they were only having ham and bread pudding. She was on pins and needles till the wine was drunk, and Havergal expressed an interest in taking a walk through the park to stretch his legs.

“Could I induce you to accompany me, Miss Beddoes?” he asked, forcing a smile on his handsome face. He hoped that in some romantic setting, away from other eyes, he might try a little flirtation and soften her stiff demeanor. Ladies were becoming desperate by five and thirty. She wasn’t wearing a cap, so she hadn’t despaired of marrying some unfortunate soul.

“I’m afraid I am busy, Lord Havergal.” She’d have to speak to Cook and the upstairs maid to see that the best guest suite was dusted. Havergal would have to change his clothes.

Violet realized the upheaval facing her friend and watched with sad eyes as Havergal left the saloon alone. She would have liked to offer to accompany him.

“Long threatening has come at last,” she said, and smiled fatuously. “I mean Havergal’s discovering you are a lady. Isn’t he handsome, Lettie? I never saw anyone so good-looking, just like a hero in a play or a novel.”

“He’s a handsome enough scoundrel,” she admitted reluctantly, “which is not to say he is going to con me into giving him the money to bet on a pig race.”

“You could have listened to what he had to say at least.”

“If his father wouldn’t approve of the scheme, why should I?”

Violet had nothing to say about that. "Imagine, Lettie. We are dining with a viscount. I might almost say ‘The Viscount,’ for I am sure he is the most talked-about man in London.”

“Yes, and we will be serving this highly polished article bread pudding, unless I go and speak to Cook. You see to the bedchamber, and I’ll run down to the kitchen. I hope Cook will let us have a cake and get hold of some fowl—a goose or a couple of chickens—to eke out that ham.” She went belowstairs.

Lettie took a peek through the window later as they rustled about their errands, and in the park, she saw Havergal “stretching his legs” on a rock with his head in his hands. He looked bored to flinders already. He’d rather sit alone staring at the ground than be in this house. How he must despise them—her. It did not seem this day could possibly get any worse, but she was mistaken.

Cook came in and announced with ill-concealed glee, “The washing dolly chewed the lace of your best petticoat. Bess turns the wheel too hard. I told you so.” That would teach them to go ordering up fine dinners on short notice and at such a busy time.

“I’d best go and have a look.”

This was a mere annoyance to Lettie. A greater annoyance was soon added on top of it. While she was belowstairs, Siddons came pelting down with a large brown parcel in his hands and said, “Norton’s here. Another demmed suckling pig, and us with two in the larder already. He’s upstairs waiting for you with Lord Havergal, Miss Beddoes.”

“We should set up a butcher shop,” Cook grumbled, and disposed of the brown package.

Lettie could think of no friend she was more reluctant to introduce to Lord Havergal than Mr. Norton. What could those two possibly have in common? Lord Havergal would place her on a social plateau with the pig farmer, and Norton would be prosing poor Lord Havergal’s ear off with talk of farrowing, breeding, and lard bellies.

“Will Norton be staying to eat, too?” Cook demanded fiercely.

“I shall let you know as soon as I find out.”

She sent off for Violet and went upstairs reluctantly.

“It is all a sham,” Norton’s unpolished tones informed Lord Havergal. Lettie could hear him in the hall, five yards away. It sounded like an accusation. For one frightening moment she thought Norton had strayed from his favorite subject, one might almost say his only subject, but she was mistaken. “I never knew a sow to eat her young,” he continued. “She might roll over on them. That will finish them when the porkers are newborn, still in the farrowing pen. No sir, it is your boars you have to keep a sharp eye on. They are very testy at farrowing time. And who are almost worse are your gilts.”

“Ah yes, the gilts,” Havergal said in a voice of utter bewilderment.

“I have two dozen of them. You must pop over to Norton Knoll—but my wits are gone begging. Norton Knoll is my
hop
farm. I raise hops as well as swine. Perhaps you saw my hop farm as you approached from Ashford? A great Norman heap? My pig farm, my swinery I call it—heh, heh—is further south.”

She dashed quickly in to rescue Lord Havergal. Both gentlemen leapt to their feet. After a polite pretense at pleasure in seeing Norton, she said, “Miss FitzSimmons will be with us shortly.”

While Havergal gave a graceful but casual bow, Norton bent from the waist with a jerk, like a clockwork figure. All Norton’s efforts at being a gentleman were similarly stiff and overdone. His brown hair was plastered with some substance that held it in perfectly immobile waves. His ruddy complexion was incapable of subduing. It glowed, as did his brown eyes. As to the rest of his face, he was not so much ugly as plain. His nose had no real shape, but just sat there as a buffer between eyes and lips. On those rare occasions when his lips were still, they were thin. For calling at Laurel Hall or going to the village, he dressed in the very height of provincial fashion, with tight-fitting jackets, extravagant cravats, and flowery waistcoats. His figure was substantial but not fat, despite the quantity of fresh pork that nourished it.

He said, “Ah, g’day, Miss Lettie. You are looking lovely, as usual.” Then in the blinking of an eye, he was back on his hobbyhorse and trying to get Havergal to join him. “Young Lord Havergal was just telling me he is keen on pigs.”

“How nice,” she said weakly.

“It is something all the world has in common, when you come down to it,” Norton continued. “We of the more fortunate class—” with an encompassing smile he included both listeners in this privileged few— ”like our gammon and ham and pork. The servants take kindly to a pig’s face or a boiled foot. Why, the Krauts even eat the tails. For my own house, Miss Millie figures them good for nothing but making a broth.”

“How is your sister, Mr. Norton?” Lettie interjected hastily, hoping to divert him. Norton lived with his older sister, Millicent. He had no other sister but still denied her the honor of being Miss Norton. She was Miss Millie to all the county, and under his aegis, Miss Beddoes and Miss FitzSimmons were being similarly lowered.

“In fine fettle. She was out straightening the pea sticks when I left,” he said, and returned at once to his subject. “I used to raise lard pigs. They are great, ungainly creatures. Now I am into fresh pork. The carcass is lighter than your lard pig, but not so long and lean as your bacon pig. A good fresh pork carcass is one hundred pounds deadweight.”

“Really!” Havergal exclaimed with simulated interest.

Violet joined them and was complimented on looking “lovely as usual,” before Norton took up his theme again. Havergal made the error of asking what breed he raised and was told in detail.

“Crossbreeding is the thing. I am part of the movement to establish the Berkshire breed. I find your Yorkshire boar makes a dandy sire to an Essex, Large Black, or Cornwall sow. The Cornwall has good mothering qualities. But as to racing pigs, I should think you’d want to stick to your bacon pig for that, Lord Havergal. They are lighter and livelier. Your boar would outrun your sow, of course.”

Havergal shot a guilty peep in Lettie’s direction. She saw that he had brought this lecture on himself and gave up feeling sorry for him. His guilt soon turned to laughter, and he said, “I see by your black frowns you have misunderstood the matter, Miss Beddoes. I am not thinking of racing the bacon boars myself, but raising them as a new breed to make money, as one raises Thoroughbreds.”

Norton was all ears. “Do you think it will catch on at all—in a big way, I mean? I am always looking out for a new wrinkle of this sort. I know of a dandy Chester White that is going up to auction. Their legs are a little longer than most, I think. Mate her with a highbred bacon boar—”

“A nick of the right bloodlines.” Havergal nodded, reverting, in his confusion, to horse-racing terminology. “If you will let me do myself the honor of calling on you, Mr. Norton, we shall discuss this further,” he added with an apologetic glance at his hostess. He noticed that this subject was displeasing to her.

“Heh, heh. You need pay no heed to Miss Lettie,” Norton assured him. “She always looks like a bear with a toothache, but it is just her way. Underneath it all, she is as kind a soul as you will meet.”

Lettie ignored the quizzing smiles Havergal was shooting in her direction and looked instead at the long case clock in the corner. It was nearing six o’clock, their customary dinner hour. Norton, to do him justice, was never slow to take a hint. He was working on his manners and his accent, and his kind nature was a help in the former.

“You are wishing me at Jericho, Miss Lettie,” he said bluntly. “I know when you begin slanting your eyes at the clock and drumming your fingers that you are ready for fork work. No doubt you are famished. You’ll want to run upstairs and change into your finery for Lord Havergal. I shall be off now. I told Miss Millie I might dine at the inn,” he added. This was his way of announcing he was not expected at home.

Lettie was in no mood to oblige him, but if she didn’t, there would be hurt feelings. Violet made the expected offer. “Lord Havergal’s luggage has not arrived, and we are all dining in our afternoon clothes, so you must join us,” she said. He agreed without so much as a murmur of demur.

“You talked me into it. Very kind I’m sure.”

“You may regret it,” Lettie warned him, though her real reason was to let Havergal know she usually set a better table. “We are serving potluck. This is wash day, and the servants have been unusually busy.”

“No need for excuses, lass. The company is the thing,” he said forgivingly, and added, “I can always fill up at home.”

When the expected call came from Siddons, Norton seized Lettie’s arm and hustled her off to the dining room at top speed. Things there were as fine as the prevailing conditions made possible. A bouquet of early blooms culled from the garden formed a centerpiece for the table. The best linen cloth was in place, and the china and silverware were unexceptionable.

“If we had known you were coming, we would have had a fish course,” Violet explained to the guests.

“Everything is very nice,” Havergal assured her. “It is I who should apologize, barging in unannounced.”