“Thank you,” the boy said with a sigh of relief and a look in his eyes that was somewhat daunting.
It appeared perilously close to admiration, though why King could not fathom.
“Here, Livvy, these are for you.” Charlie threw a parcel across the room to Livvy and grinned at her. “I think you’ll find the timing apt.”
King caught the parcel before it hit the ground, as Livvy had made no move to do so. In fact, she’d gone stiff as a board, all but vibrating with tension. King handed her the gift, which she took, though she looked none too pleased about it. How strange. Surely everyone enjoyed being given presents?
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked, curious.
She stared at the parcel for a long moment, as though someone had handed her a dead mouse. He heard her sigh before she opened the paper, and he noticed her hands did not seem entirely steady. Inside was a beautiful pair of silk dancing slippers. They were a deep green, embroidered with gold thread, and King would have laid money on them pleasing any female of his acquaintance. Not Miss Penrose, however. Her jaw was set and she looked positively murderous.
“I believe it is the custom to say thank you,” he murmured, relishing the opportunity to criticise her behaviour for once. It made him feel slightly less of a monster to know she was hardly perfect.
She turned her head and looked him in the eye. “They won’t notice if I throw them directly on the fire. It’s the buying of them they enjoy.”
With that, she stood and stalked out of the room.
King turned, wondering if he ought to make an excuse on her behalf but, sure enough, no one had noticed her leave. Charlie and his lady were all smiles as they passed another gift to one of their children. Too curious to leave well alone, King stood, pausing for a moment until the room stopped spinning, and then followed after Livvy. He found her easily enough, standing by an open door at the back of the house, staring out at the gardens beyond.
“You have a penchant for fresh air that will see you with pneumonia one of these days,” he remarked, noticing the slippers and the wrapping paper thrown down on a nearby chair.
“I’ve never been ill a day in my life,” she retorted, though there was none of the usual acid in her tone. She sounded tired, wistful even, as though the idea of being ill and going to bed was one she longed for.
“You do not care for dancing?”
She gave a huff of laughter and gestured to the wilderness beyond the door, which must once have been a pretty garden. “Shall I cavort with the fairies, my lord?”
“I wouldn’t bat an eyelid if you did. I’ve seen enough goblins these past days not to dismiss the idea. I might even join you.”
He got a smile for that. A proper one. Well, naturally if he discussed his own shortcomings, she would be pleased, the wretch.
Encouraged, he pressed on. “Surely there are assemblies and the like even in the backend of beyond, like… where the devil are we, anyway?”
“About three miles from Bude, and yes, certainly there are, though they are few and far between.”
He knew better than to poke at her with a stick. She always came back fighting, yet the urge to rile her was undeniable, plus the fact that he wanted to know. “Then why not thank your brother graciously for the thoughtful gift? Why were you so furious your hands were trembling?”
“Are you blind?” she demanded, swinging around to face him. “Have you spent so long in a haze of alcohol and debauchery that you see nothing beyond your own nose? Or do you simply not care?”
“Mostly, I don’t care,” King shot back as irritation got the better of him.
She looked him up and down, an encompassing sweep of those vibrant blue eyes that dismissed him as being good for nothing and made him feel like an awkward youth, a sensation even his father could no longer provoke.
“You astonish me,” she replied in disgust. “And whilst I’m about it, I ought to tell you that you’ll find no liquor in the house, nor wine in the cellar, so don’t bother searching for it. Charlie has never been much of a drinker, and we sold most of the wine years ago. I told him we must remove temptation whilst you remain here. You’ll not find so much of a drop of sherry, so don’t bother looking. It’s all hidden away in a smuggler’s hole and, if the Revenue never found it, you certainly won’t.”
After that lovely bit of information, she turned on her heel.
Furious at her words, and at being dismissed in such a manner, King reached for the shoes.
“Miss Penrose,” he called. She set her shoulders but stopped, turning to face him again. “You forgot your gift.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
“Why don’t you eat them?” she snapped inexplicably.
King watched her go, wondering what the devil she’d meant by that.
Chapter Four
7th December 1818.
A valet returned, too many apologies, dented pride, and the lure of wickedness.
As if the bloody earl hadn’t caused her enough aggravation, it was compounded the next afternoon by the arrival of his blasted valet. To be fair, Mr Walsh seemed a decent sort. It had taken him all this time to track down the earl and follow him, with the man’s belongings in tow. He appeared fiercely loyal to his master, which spoke well of his nature, if not his intelligence. At least the man would see to his master’s clothes. That was something, but it was another mouth to feed. Livvy spent the rest of the day staring down at the household accounts with a knot in her belly. At least she was too miserable to eat, which meant there was more for the children.
She told herself to stop it. They wouldn’t starve. Things were tight, yes, but not desperate. They had a home, a roof over their heads—mostly—and there was enough in the larder to see them through another three months, plus they had the piglets and the lambs, chickens too. The garden was producing reasonably well, and then there was her mad plan to save them all, which would likely do nothing of the sort. All of which was fine and dandy if there were no debts. If Charlie hadn’t done something unbelievably stupid. Stupider.
He would never let her look at his accounts. It was one of the few times he put his foot down as head of the household, except she suspected it wasn’t pride that stopped him from allowing her, but fear. For if she knew how bad things were… no. She would not think that of him. Charlie wouldn’t do that to her. He loved her. He was foolish beyond measure, but he would not ruin them all beyond saving. He would not ruin her with his idiocy. The investments he had made had been ill-advised—what an understatement—but with careful management they could all manage well enough. Livvy put her head in her hands, drew in a deep breath and tried not to remember Christmases past, which had been full of lavish gifts, good food, guests, and parties. Then their parents had died in a boating accident when Charlie was sixteen and she was eight. Though it had been a devastating loss, the presence of their indomitable grandfather had lessened the blow. Gramps had been a huge figure in her childhood, strong as an ox, good-hearted and principled. Everyone had loved and respected him. Losing him when she was fourteen had hit her far harder than the loss of her parents.
It had hurt Charlie, too, and he had been forced to take over the running of the household long before he was ready. Even Livvy had known he was immature for his years. He’d run away with Ceci and married her the moment he was out of mourning, and Livvy knew Grandpa would not have allowed it. Ceci was sweet but frivolous and silly, and only encouraged Charlie in his own foolishness. She’d been due to marry a duke, and her family had disowned her for eloping with Charlie and withheld her dowry. Everyone knew it was a disastrous move, but Livvy had been too young to make her brother see it, and there was no one else to gainsay him without Grandpa there to talk sense. Charlie had tried to make the household a happy one, but Ceci and Livvy were chalk and cheese, and Charlie had made so many disastrous decisions—things that had made Livvy wild—but she was only his sister and could not keep him from folly. He was the man of the house and foolish
or not, he never let her forget it.
Livvy groaned and curled her fingers into her hair, tugging at the roots. Was this to be her life, forever scrimping and saving and worrying over each blasted penny, while Ceci and Charlie were oblivious? Well, she could always marry the odious Mr Skewes. A shudder ran down her spine at the idea. He was a wealthy landowner who lived a little over five miles from Boscawen. It was hardly a secret that he wanted to marry her. He’d been very clear on that matter. Mr Skewes was thirty years old, fit and eligible, and easy enough on the eye. He was polite to his neighbours, did his bit for charity, never drank to excess and never raised his hand in anger, and yet… and yet there was cruelty in his eyes. He had a way of saying things without really saying them that made Livvy uneasy. She knew he had his eye on Boscawen’s estate, and suspected he saw his way in via her. She neither liked nor trusted him, and instinct told her that putting herself in his hands would be akin to putting her head in a noose.
No.
No, she’d work her fingers to the bone before she allowed a man like that to own her. Though what would that mean for Susan and Lydia, Rebecca and Jane and poor little Birdie? There would be no dowry for them. How would they ever marry and leave home without a season, or at the very least new frocks for the local assemblies? Tears pricked at her eyes and she scolded herself. Stop that now, Olivia Penrose. You’re getting maudlin for no good reason.
Things might not be as bad as they seemed, and Susan was only thirteen. They had a good few years yet, and anything might happen in that time. Just because the girls wouldn’t have the chance to go to town and marry fine, wealthy gentlemen didn’t mean they would not marry good men who could keep them and their families in comfort. They’d just have to lower their sights.
Livvy swallowed down her anxiety and her misery and closed the book of accounts. No amount of worry and staring at the figures would change them, but perhaps some fresh air would clear her head.
“You can stop grinning at me, like that. It’ll go to me head if you keep on.”
King snorted from his position slouched on the bed, watching as Walsh put away the last of his clothes. “Nonsense. You’ve not a conceited bone in your body, and I was never more pleased to see anyone in my life.”
“Aye, well, I might say the same. Truth be tol’ I reckoned you was dead for a while there.”
There was a despairing note to his valet’s words that King heard with a heavy heart. He did not know why Walsh bore with him. The man could easily find a better position, one that actually paid him a decent wage, and with a master who wasn’t a pathetic sot. Guilt and disgust rose inside him like bile.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Walsh shook his head. “The drink had a grip on ye. Dragging you down, it were. I’ve seen it afore, but I never saw anyone turnabout like you have. Boscawen saved your skin, I reckon, my lord.”
King frowned. It was an odd sensation, knowing one would be dead in some filthy corner of London if not for an old friend taking pity. He was pitiable too; he knew it and it made him burn with shame. Worse was knowing that, if someone put a bottle of brandy in front of him right now, he didn’t know if he could stop himself from drinking it and starting the whole spiral downwards off again. He couldn’t even remember when it had become so bad, when escaping boredom and sorrow had become a descent into hell. He looked up as a shadow fell over him to see Walsh watching him with concern. He was getting on in years now, his faithful valet must be sixty at least. Walsh had been with King since he was twelve years old, and had been more a father to him than King had any right to expect. It had been Walsh who’d comforted him as a boy, when he’d been on the receiving end of one of his father’s furious rants for crimes he’d never understood. Walsh who’d taught him the value of good manners and decency, though he seemed to have forgotten those lessons of late. Walsh was a good man. God knew he’d have to be not to have given up on King two decades ago.
“Don’t do it again, lad, I beg you.”
King blinked hard. He’d never asked Walsh to my lord, him—indeed, he’d begged him to call him King as everyone else did—but the man was stubborn. Yet, every now and again he’d crack and address him as he might a son, usually when King had done something so dreadful he’d frightened the poor devil half to death.
“I’ll try,” King replied. “I will, I promise. I’ll do my best.”
He looked up and saw the fear in Walsh’s eyes and guilt bloomed in his heart. No one else had ever given a damn for him. Oh, he’d been indulged by his parents and given every advantage, but it was the title that had mattered to them, not him. His parents had never listened to him, never given his hopes any credence, never allowed him the freedom to choose anything for himself. It had been stifling, and he’d rebelled against it as hard as he could, not that it had ever done him a damned bit of good.
“This is the best place for you for a spell. Couldn’t get farther from society if you tried, I reckon.” Walsh sounded altogether too pleased about that.
King snorted, trying to find some humour in the situation before he wept with shame. “Fine, I’ll just die of boredom.”
Walsh shook his head. “You’ll get your arse out of doors and some fresh air, get strong again. I’ve never seen you so grey and worn to a thread, and that’s the truth. You need feeding up, though I reckon I’d best slip the cook some coin to help out. Won’t do to insult Lord Boscawen, but he can barely feed his own brood, if you ask me.”
“What?” King sat up, startled by this information.
Walsh rolled his eyes at him. “Surely you’ve seen it? The children’s clothes are all wash-worn, cuffs and collars turned about more than once, I reckon. This place is falling down around their ears and no repairs in sight. Boscawen’s got pockets to let.”
“Why don’t you eat them, my lord!”
Livvy’s sharp words returned to him with unpleasant clarity. That’s why she had been so furious, so overset that her hands had trembled as she unwrapped her feckless brother’s gift. She knew they couldn’t afford such things, but her brother had spent the money anyway.
“Are you blind? Have you spent so long in a haze of alcohol and debauchery that you see nothing beyond your own nose? Or do you simply not care?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t see it,” King admitted.
Walsh shrugged. “Well, you’ve had your own troubles.”
“Do we have any coin left?” King demanded, horrified to realise he had no idea.
Since his father had cut him off, he’d been living off his winnings at cards…winnings which had dwindled with his ability to concentrate as his drinking got heavier.
Walsh shifted, looking a little uneasy. “We do. Not a vast amount, but enough for a few months, if we go careful.”
King stared at him, realising Walsh must have taken the money and hidden it so King couldn’t piss it all up the wall like he’d done with the rest.
“I hope you took your wages out first,” King said gruffly.
God, he was a sorry excuse for a man. His father was a brute and his mother was an icicle, but he was an adult now, not a snivelling boy. So what if his father hated him, so what if the man took a malicious joy in destroying everything King tried to build for himself. He’d been born to privilege, he had education and brain in his head, surely he could have done better. Allowing himself to sink to such depths was pathetic and vile. How had it happened? At what point had he gone from wanting a drink to needing one? He knew the difference between right and wrong—though he often ignored the distinction—but he knew the difference between a good decision and a bad one, too. He had no one to blame but himself for this wretched state of affairs, and now he’d landed his miserable carcass on a family who could hardly look after themselves. What pitiful mess had Boscawen created for them? The man had never had the sense he was born with. It had been no surprise the bullies tormented him so mercilessly. No wonder either that Miss Penrose had been so revolted by King landing in her lap. It was a wonder she had
n’t tossed him out on his arse that first night. Likely she’d tried, but her foolish brother had not allowed it. She had certainly inherited the brains and fortitude her sibling was missing.
The unnerving realisation that he owed Miss Penrose an apology was not a pleasant one, and it nagged at him. In normal circumstances he’d just have a drink and indulge his baser nature until such inconvenient pangs of conscience were drowned out. The desire to do so was tantalising but he could not go back to being that man. He’d become a disgusting, pathetic creature, someone he did not recognise and could only hold in contempt. It was little wonder Miss Penrose agreed with him on that. Worse was the awareness that he needed to stay here. Walsh was right. He needed to keep clear of society if he was to have any hope of keeping himself sober, of kicking this pernicious addiction that had taken a hold of him. Livvy—Miss Penrose—had hidden all the drinks in the house to help him do that.
He supposed he ought to thank her, but he wasn’t feeling quite that charitable yet. He gritted his teeth and made himself remember the devils, demons, and goblins that had hounded him through those terrifying hours when he thought he’d died and gone to hell. Livvy had stayed with him and he’d not deserved her kindness. She certainly did not deserve his loathsome presence in her house. She might be prickly and aggravating but he’d merited little else from her. Very well, he’d thank her and mean it too. Damn her eyes.
As much as the woman infuriated him with her waspish nature, she had dragged him out of the darkness, chased away the devils and the goblins, and she was strong enough to keep him from falling back into the pit. He needed to stay here, with her, until he was recovered and could stand on his own two feet again. It was a lowering realisation. He was a pathetic mess of a man and he had earned her disgust, but he would rally. He would stand tall again, and she would see that he was better than that. Why he felt the need to prove himself to her, he had no idea. Well, no, he had a fine idea. No young woman had ever spoken to him with such contempt. In general, they swooned, they simpered, or they flirted. If they didn’t, he’d been too drunk to notice before now in any case. Being reviled was a new experience, and one he did not enjoy in the least. No. He would show Miss Penrose who he really was, who he had been once, and then she would sing a different song entirely. He had enough self-awareness of his own pride and stubborn nature to know he would be far less likely to fail with her keen blue gaze trained upon him, waiting for him to put a foot wrong. She would expect him to return to his boozing and debauchery at the first opportunity, and she would be smug with disgust when he did. So he wouldn’t. That the idea of failing made him tremble with fear was something he would not think about. He could not fail, could not go back to being that… that… No, he would not fall again and if he needed to use Miss Penrose and her disgust of him as a crutch then so be it. He’d show the starched little madam, and then she’d owe him an apology. What for, he wasn’t entirely certain, but he didn’t doubt he’d think of something.
The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel Page 4