Tight Laced (2 page)

Oh, if only they all knew the truth. Everything the countess did was a calculated performance.

“You heard me!” repeated the widow, the crepe in her dress crinkling as loudly as the knots in the firewood which burned brightly before them.

The woman’s eyes narrowed and lighted on Lacy’s hand. “What is that you are fondling?” She thrust out her palm.

Lacy closed her hand around the locket. It contained a wisp of her mother’s blond hair, and she was not about to give it up.

Just then Kent entered the room. Clearing his throat, he bid, “M’lady, Duke Darlington Moore of Blantyre Highmeadow has arrived.”

Lady Bloomsbury pivoted round. “Oh goodness! The problem with stopped time is that it catches one unawares. We are not ready to receive him properly. Stall him in the library, Kent. And fetch my maid immediately.”

Kent, Lord Bloomsbury’s long time valet, clearly in mourning himself, managed a weak, “Yes, m’lady.”

“What? I did not hear you!”

“Yes, m’lady,” Kent offered, more forcefully this time.

The poor man, thought Lacy. Even though he was a servant, she was certain Kent had been her father’s best friend and confidante for decades. It was he who’d discovered his master in his quarters after the fatal attack of apoplexy. It was he who’d rung the death bell, while having to conceal his own trauma.

“And you!” barked the countess, snapping her fingers near Lacy’s ear, “there will be no weeping and wailing in front of the duke. In fact, you may take supper in your quarters lest we risk upsetting the man who has come all this way to pay his respects.”

Lacilia rose. She would not make a scene in front of Kent, but, duke or no duke, she was not going to pretend to be jolly and bury her grief, either. “We are in mourning,” she offered, forcing calm up her throat. “Nobody would expect dry eyes so soon.”

“Proper grief is one thing, Lala. Sobbing like an infant without any thought to decorum is quite another. At any rate, I have business with the duke. Business that is none of
your
business.”

Lacy recoiled at the name
Lala
– her stepmother knew she hated that. Sarah Jane couldn’t pronounce her name for some years, so Lala became a familiar refrain. Only her father had respected her request to correct Sarah Jane. Lady Bloomsbury, of course, indulged her only true daughter. Despite the covering up of mirrors, she seemed to have no trouble conducting business. “Why, you buried your husband less than one month ago. Have you no heart?”

This, Lacilia knew, was quite out of line, so she was not surprised when her stepmother struck her hard on the cheek.

“M’lady!” gasped Kent, his footsteps quick across the room to intercede.

“It’s alright, Kent,” Lacy managed, her cheek stinging with the slap. “We are not ourselves.”

The countess turned to face the valet, the backs of her hands motioning for him to take his leave. “Do not keep our good guest waiting.”

There was certainly a lot of kerfuffle in the adjoining room, Darlington mused. Particularly given that they’d recently laid poor Lord Bloomsbury to rest. One would expect a more staid and phlegmatic aura under the circumstances. Instead, there was the sound of raised voices. Women’s voices.

Had Darlington not been in a somber mood – Lord Bloomsbury had been an eager and kind supporter of the duke’s ventures – he might have chuckled aloud. Having been raised as the only boy in a house full of sisters, the cackling of “hens” was quite a familiar sound. One he missed, truth be told, now that the girls had all married off.

“Darling Darlington,” they teased him at the occasional ducal dinners, “too dashing for a duchess, too demanding for a queen. What woman will ever be able to tame our little brother?”

The duke gave in to his reminiscence and chuckled, despite his sad state. Levity had always been his saving grace, and he might do well to grab hold of a cheerful, light mood. Perhaps Lady Bloomsbury would appreciate a bit of mirth?

This was tricky business, paying condolences whilst attending the delicate subject of money.

Darlington looked about the room nervously. They were keeping him waiting. Was that a tactic?

His gaze fell on the well-stocked library and then moved on to take in a curio filled with Bavarian crystal. And then, portraits of the earl and his second wife (his first had died tragically, but Darlington could not quite remember how). On the adjoining wall hung two photographs featuring children. Girls. He stepped closer to better examine them.

One girl, the younger, he surmised, had the petulant look of a whiny brat. Much like his eldest sister, Mathilde, who’d grown sourer over the years, and was now married off to a portly banker, a new child in the pram each year.

This girl in the portrait was done up to look prettier than she was. An expensive fur muff covering her hands. Pink color on the cheeks added to the tintype for enhancement. Oh, he could spot that a hectare off. This child had a bulbous forehead and bug eyes made less homely with an expensive topper from a custom milliner. Pity that Lord Bloomsbury would need to marry off such a girl.

Oh, wait, the man was dead.

Darlington sighed.

The other portrait, a smaller one, featured a daughter far more comely. That daughter was no doubt a rascal, given what he discerned as scraped knees and an impish smirk.

Though her hair was partially concealed by a bonnet, he surmised that it was silken. The tresses of a princess, really, the way they cascaded over her shoulder and down to her waist. And the girl’s eyes: almond-shaped. Hazel, perhaps. Or even a pewter – a lustrous grey-silver. Though it was difficult to tell from the photograph.

Something inside of Darlington stirred. Silly of him. This was a mere child!

But, perhaps, not currently.

The duke began a calculation in his mind. How old would these daughters be now? As he stood there pondering a sum of years, the valet,
Ken, was it?
reentered the room, clearing his throat as he crossed the span. “Your Grace, I’m afraid the Lady Bloomsbury is, er, detained. Can I see to your tea while you wait?”

The duke imagined that the woman was fetching her husband’s ledger, which was not good news. “I see,” he said, stepping close to the late Lord’s man. “I don’t suppose you could rustle up a skinful? Gin, or absinthe if you have it? Not going to smother the parrot or anything …”

“Right away, Your Grace.”

Darlington was directed to take a seat in the library, and a footman arrived in short order to present him with a small glass of green liquor. The footman bowed, but hardly looked pleased.

“Much obliged,” Darlington offered.

The footman bowed again, and backed out of the room.

The duke sipped.

This room was bleaker than the last, with shrouded mirrors and drawn drapes. Death was such a dour business. The duke drained his glass.

Probably best not to request another.

He tossed his head back and closed his eyes for a little rest. This might take some time.

When he opened his eyes again, there, standing before him, was an angel.

Had he been poisoned? Was there arsenic in the liquor? The duke patted himself about his chest. Yes. He was intact. At least his upper extremities were. Surreptitiously, he clenched his thighs. The old adage: whiskers, wanker, pocket watch flooded his head. All there. Darlington was not dead.

“Duke?” said a lilting, yet, strong voice.

He stood. Bowed. “Lady …?”

The angel tipped her head. Gestured at the empty glass, “Are you Irish?”

“Not presently,” he said. “Maybe in my next life. If I’m lucky.”

“And you’ve come to Highcastle in our most grievous hour to …”

Oh, this angel was quite the minx. Darlington watched her quick mouth. Her lips so plump. Her cheeks, flushed. “Pay my respects. My deep, sincere condolences.”

She considered him through those pearly-silver eyes of hers. Thick lashes framed the almond shape. She breathed in as if about to respond, then thought better of it, and turned her back to him. When she finally did utter words, there was a quiver to her voice.

“I find it poor form to alight on a family in deep mourning. Swilling their liquor like a rogue.”

Darlington was not accustomed to being called out in such a manner. He found it slightly amusing. He needed to find the right words of apology, of course, but his nature was now aroused. A young, nubile lady with her back to him. A lusty thought superseded his impulse toward grace. He pictured this lass bent over on the settee, her hands moving behind her to lift her skirt ever so slightly. Her waist was as tiny as the mid-section of an hourglass – he envisaged the tightly laced corset that no doubt defined her shape.

He pictured her head turned round to look at him. She might even wink at him. Lift the hem a bit higher, exposing what he guessed was a thigh the color of cream. In his mind, he heard her whisper,
Naughty, naughty duke. Now you must fill me with your manhood. You must thrust your cock into my wet, luscious center until I drip with your seed.

“Are you here to offer condolences, Duke, or to swindle my father’s estate?”

Her sober words pierced his fantasy, and the delicious quiver in his trousers subsided.

“Swindle?”

She whipped round. “My mother. My
step
mother, has business to discuss, but make no mistake, my father taught me to be shrewd. You owe us money. That much I know to be true.”

Darlington felt heated, as though invited to duel. How could this comely lass, this girl of what, twenty, twenty-two? How could she possibly know the details writ upon Lord Bloomsbury’s ledger?

“Your father was fair, strong, and gracious,” he said. “I would never sully his name or legacy with an act of swindle.”

Her black dress, high-buttoned as it was, seemed to choke her just then. She sputtered, coughed, and placed a hand upon the back of a chair.

And that’s when Darlington noted, she was coming undone. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, her shoulders convulsing in sobs.

What could he do? She was a damsel in distress, was she not?

His better nature leapt to action, and he withdrew a handkerchief – one embroidered with his people’s dragon rampant. He consoled her, put an arm around her shoulder, and offered her the cloth with which to dab her sorrow.

She reached out to accept the handkerchief with her delicate hand, and just at that very moment a thudding sound interrupted the mood.

Darlington looked up to see two stern women – their black skirts shushing as they strode close. Both ladies had their hair pulled back severely. Both of them, their bulbous foreheads dusted in thick – almost greenish – powder, approached. The elder of the two offered, “Your Grace, please forgive us for the rudeness of this mad lady. Lacilia, take your leave at once.”

Before Darlington could find the words to keep the young lass by his side, she floated out of the room, leaving him to face his destiny.

Whereupon The Earl of Highcastle - or his assigns - agrees to loan Duke Darlington of Blantyre a sum of £50,000 for the purpose of investment in Blantyre’s central coal mining operation, taking as collateral the ducal estate. The duke agrees to the irredeemable disposition of any and all personal property in the event of non-payment of the money at the stipulated term.

~ a sealed contract between The Earl of Highcastle and the Duke of Blantyre Highmeadow, 30
th
of August, 1877