“Newburn has never been so well off.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
Honestly, Nick hadn’t given much thought to the offhand remarks he’d made years ago when Paul had first acquired Newburn. The estate included a manor house, as well as thousands of acres of farmlands and plots leased to tenants. His uncle had complained of poor crop yields and land that seemed to have been worked to death. Nick had merely remembered reading something about crop rotation practices and the uses of turnips and made mention of it.
“I was surprised to even remember what I had studied because it had been so long since … well, Father didn’t seem inclined to offer me what he’d so readily given to my brothers, so …”
Paul leaned closer, his expression becoming serious as he looked Nick in the eye. “Now, imagine what you could do if you actually tried.”
Nick furrowed his brow, uncertain he liked the feeling that welled up in him at those words. He wasn’t a little boy anymore, though he did still value the thoughts and opinions of his uncle. But, he no longer needed anyone’s approval, nor did he relish begging his father to give him a chance to show himself capable. Those years had long passed.
“He’d never give me the opportunity, and I won’t go to him with my hand out. Never again.”
“I understand. I am not suggesting you ask Wil for anything. But, I am getting on in years, and such a realization has driven me to consider what I am leaving behind. As a second son without a title or a penny to his name that didn’t come from my father or brother, I never thought to have to consider it at all. Not until I acquired Newburn.”
The dread Nick had experienced earlier was back, and he once again took stock of the changes in Paul.
“Are you insinuating what I think you are?”
Paul sighed, his stare breaking from Nick’s as he gazed unseeingly across the room. “I’ve been privileged to live a long and mostly happy life. At times I regret that I never married or sired children of my own, but I was privileged to be close to my nieces and nephews … especially you. We are kindred spirits, I think, which is why you always felt like a son to me.”
Nick’s throat constricted, and for one frightful moment he felt as if he might actually shed tears. His eyes stung and his chest ached as he realized this was more than an old man musing over his own mortality. There was clear evidence of frailty in Paul, who had always been ridiculously healthy and active.
“Uncle Paul …”
He swallowed and blinked, doing his best to remain composed. Beyond the terrace doors were his father and brothers, and his mother or sister could return at any moment. He didn’t want any of them to see him fall apart.
“Are you ill?”
Paul sighed and gave a slow nod, his own eyes becoming watery. “I am told I have only months if I am fortunate. I’ve been poked, prodded, and bled by every physician from here to Scotland and all have given the same dire prediction. I am dying, Nicky.”
Nick shot to his feet hands shaking and insides roiling as he grappled with the dreadful news. “No. No, I don’t accept that.”
His uncle grimaced. “We have no choice but to accept it. I denied it long enough for the both of us. There is nothing else to be done.”
Male voices reached out to them through the terrace doors, and Nick glared in the direction of his father and brothers. “They all know, don’t they? Everyone else knew already.”
“Don’t be angry with them for following my wishes. I asked them to keep it quiet until I could tell you myself.”
Nick took a deep breath, but could not seem to calm the acute grief swirling in his gut. He’d always thought of Paul as invincible and ageless. The man had only begun going gray in the past few years, and had seemed healthier than most men of half his years.
“Surely it can’t be true that nothing can be done. You have to try, there must be a way—”
“I’ve spent the past year trying, and I am tired. But, it’s all right. I’ve accepted what will happen and that has made it easier for me to speak of it, think of it, and plan for what will happen once I am gone.”
Nick pressed the tips of his fingers against his eyes, finding that they came away damp. He felt as if someone had just dropped a boulder on him, the crushing weight of this news too heavy to bear.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul whispered. “I could think of no way to soften the blow. But, now we must talk about your inheritance.”
His head jerked up at that, eyes growing wide with shock. “My what?”
His uncle gave him a teasing smile. “You didn’t think I’d leave everything to Julius, did you? He gets the earldom and needs no help from me. Besides, I’ve always known who my heir would be. I thought of telling you many times, but I never wanted you to be content with knowing you had it to look forward to. If you didn’t realize it was coming, you’d find your own way to survive and flourish, and you’ve done just that. Now, I know I can trust you with Newburn.”
Horror washed over him, and Nick shook his head. “I would destroy Newburn, and you know it.”
“Would you? I’m not so certain.”
“I am.”
“That’s because you have the same opinion of yourself as everyone else. You’ve been told you’re a wastrel, so you’ve come to believe it. I think it’s time someone helped you make something else of yourself, don’t you? A gentleman farmer with more wealth than he could spend in one lifetime … yes, I think I like that for you better than ‘shameless, gambling rake.’”
Tangled up with his disbelief and shock was a visceral aversion to what his uncle was offering him. Was he supposed to delight in profiting from another man’s death?
“I don’t want it.”
“You not wanting it doesn’t change that I’m going to die. It also doesn’t change the contents of my will, which have been recently finalized to name you the sole recipient of everything that is mine.”
Nick ran a hand over his face, swiping away the last of the dampness that had leaked from the corners of his eyes. He hardly knew how to absorb this—his uncle announcing he was dying and leaving Nick everything he had, as if it were some kind of gift. He had been in desperate need of steady income for years, but would never have traded the person he admired most in the world to have it.
Just then, the door swung open to admit Charity, who gave him a pitying look when she noticed the residual tears clinging to his eyelashes. Nick dashed them away with a sniffle. His uncle and sister exchanged loaded glances as Nick dropped into the nearest chair and slouched, working to keep his face free of the signs of his devastation.
“The children are all sleeping soundly, thank God,” Charity said as she took a seat near him and kicked off her slippers. “Meanwhile, the maids are still searching for and cleaning up stray peas in the dining room.”
She seemed content to overlook the scene she’d walked in on, and steer the conversation toward lighter matters. Nick was grateful for the distraction. He would take the time later to wallow in his feelings, when he could be alone. Just now, he wanted to forget Paul had ever told him.
“If Cook doesn’t want us wasting peas, she shouldn’t serve them,” Nick quipped. “Everyone knows the best use of them is as projectiles, and why anyone would want to consume them is beyond me.”
“I want my children to eat their vegetables, not use them as weapons.”
Nick scoffed. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Paul laughed, while Charity gave him an exasperated look. Then, his sister curled her legs beneath her and raised her eyebrows at him.
“What did you want to speak to me about?”
In the wake of his uncle’s revelation, Nick had forgotten all about Calliope. He was glad to have something else to turn his attention to just now, and latched onto Charity’s lifeline with relish.
“I’ve recently made the acquaintance of a lady and had hoped you could tell me more about her.”
Charity perked up at that, her face taking on an expression akin to a
startled doe. “A lady?”
“Oh my,” Paul murmured. “Charity, I fear we may face the end of the world as we know it. Your brother is thinking of pursuing an actual lady.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “It isn’t like that.”
“When is it never ‘not like that’ when it comes to you and women?” Charity countered.
“Would you just tell me what you know about Miss Calliope Barrington?”
Anything that would help him with his new keeper would be welcome. She seemed a bit repressed to him, closed off in a way that would make coming to know her difficult. And, the better he knew her, the easier it would be to convince Martin Lewes and the entire ton that he was courting her.
“Miss Barrington,” Charity murmured, squinting as if deep in thought. “We are not friends, but we have been introduced. I’ve come in contact with her on occasion. She is a well-known patroness of a charitable committee in London. Oh, what’s it called, again? There are so many of them these days … something to do with foundling children, I believe.”
Of course. The woman was prim, proper, and a prude, so it stood to reason she was also a saint who spent her spare time ensuring the welfare of orphans.
“And where does she get the funds for such a thing?” Nick asked, though what he really wanted to know was how she was flush enough to afford him.
“She recently reached her majority, and as she is not wed became the recipient of an inheritance—though no one is certain just how much. Her father is one of those nabobs, you know … went to India in his youth to make his fortune.”
“Her father wouldn’t happen to be Viscount Barrington?” Paul asked.
“The very man,” Charity confirmed. “Though he became the viscount unexpectedly after the death of both his elder brother and the man’s infant son. The babe was the heir to the title, but with his death, the current Viscount Barrington was next in the line of succession. Well, imagine everyone’s surprise when this man they had given no thought to until his brother’s death, turned out to be an officer for the East India Company stationed a world away in Bengal.”
“I remember the scandal that was caused by his ascension to the viscountcy,” Paul remarked. “Barrington had gone native while in India, adopting the customs and clothing of the people there.”
“I heard he even converted to Hinduism in order to court and marry the daughter of a Bengali nobleman. Apparently, his efforts to ingratiate himself into that society worked, for he returned with a legitimate, half-Bengali daughter.”
That would explain the bronze cast of her skin, as well as the alluring shape of her eyes. He’d never heard of this scandal his sister and uncle seemed to know so much about, but then, Nick never paid attention to such matters. Viscount Barrington wasn’t the first man to sire a child on a foreign wife or mistress and bring his offspring back to England, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“What of the mother?” Nick asked, his curiosity stronger than ever.
“Dead,” Charity said with a frown. “The poor woman perished giving birth to their second child—who also did not survive. When Viscount Barrington returned to take his place in society, it was with young Miss Barrington and a collection of servants from India. Rumors swirled for years that he continued dressing as a native while at home—in flowing robes and turbans, and some even said he had a shrine dedicated to heathen gods hidden away in his home. His neighbors called on him every day hoping to get a glimpse of him in his scandalous attire.”
Nick shook his head with a derisive snort. “The man was grieving his dead wife, for God’s sake. The ton has no couth.”
“None at all,” Paul agreed. “I seem to remember thinking that the talk must be the reason for his hasty second marriage. Less than a year after his return, he was wed to the viscountess and appearing in society dressed at the height of English fashion and looking every bit the viscount.”
“Yes, though the second wife died five years ago, I believe. They had a daughter, as well … she is now the Countess of Hastings. Despite having no male heir, Viscount Barrington never wed again. I always believed he never recovered from the loss of his first wife. The second was a necessity for the sake of appearances. One can hardly blame him for not wanting to go through it all a third time.”
“Do you know why Miss Barrington remains unwed?” he asked. “It seems odd when she is so … comely.”
Comely seemed far too simple a word to describe Calliope, but Charity already thought he had honorable intentions toward this woman—which was worse than her thinking he had dishonorable ones.
“She is, and a very lovely person, besides,” Charity said. “I honestly cannot fathom why she is unwed. Not only is she a stunning beauty, she is a dear and kind person. Any man would be fortunate to have her.”
Those had been Nick’s thoughts, but he did not share them. All that mattered was that he figure out why Lewes hadn’t yet staked his claim and then do what he could to change that. Pretending to court her would help matters, but Nick thought taking a more active approach would prove more effective. Besides, the sooner he was finished with Calliope Barrington, the sooner he could turn his attention toward Paul. It seemed he had very little time left with his uncle, and wanted to make the best of it—even if he still wasn’t ready to accept his impending loss. There was also the matter of this inheritance to grapple with. Whether he liked it or not, it seemed that very shortly, his life would be forever changed.
Chapter 4
“Last evening marked the Covington’s annual summer ball. I would be remiss if I did not mention the appearance of a certain gentleman—and I do use that word loosely. The youngest son of the Earl of W, he is more frequently seen in the gaming hells than any ballroom, which leads me to wonder if the shameless rake finally intends to settle down and find a wife. Of greater interest is whether any respectable woman will have him.”
The London Gossip, 24 August, 1819
Two days after her meeting with Dominick Burke, Calliope stood in the Covington’s ballroom awaiting his arrival. The place was stifling, and though the doors had been thrown open, they only let in more of the hot summer air. This particular affair had turned out to be an epic crush, which made it the perfect opportunity for her and her hired courtesan to stage a meeting. She had arrived with Diana and Hastings over an hour ago, on time as always. The dance floor overflowed with couples dancing a Scotch reel, while the doors of the card room hung open to show dozens of men engrossed in their games. Much to her annoyance, Mr. Burke had yet to make an appearance.
Craning her neck to scan the crowd, she found several brown-haired men dancing, talking, or strolling the perimeter of the ballroom with young ladies. Mr. Burke was not among them, and though the space was filled from wall to wall, she felt as if she’d recognize him anywhere. The man was the sort who drew attention, and he didn’t seem averse to making a spectacle of himself. He would stand out in a crowd like the most vibrant of peacocks.
“Ah, Miss Barrington. I had hoped to see you here tonight.”
Calliope’s breath hitched as she turned in the direction of the familiar voice. Martin Lewes stood before her, his waistcoat a deep shade of navy blue that accentuated the hue of his eyes. His blond hair rippled with neatly brushed waves, his smooth jaw drawing her gaze down to the perfect pout of his mouth.
“M-Mr. Lewes,” she said as her belly performed a harrowing somersault. “How lovely it is to see you again.”
He took her hand and raised it toward his lips, though his mouth never made contact. Disappointment swirled through her, though she did not let it show. She simply gave him a smile as he straightened from gracing the air above her knuckles with his affection.
“Are you promised for the next dance?”
“I am not.”
“Then may I request the honor?”
“Of course, Mr. Lewes.”
He smiled, and Calliope became boneless. The man was truly beautiful when he smiled.
“Excellent. May I g
et you something to drink while we wait?”
“I would like that, thank you.”
“I will return shortly,” he promised, before shouldering his way through the crowd.
Calliope flicked her fan and tried not to stare after him like a besotted fool, only … she was besotted. However, it wouldn’t do for her to let it show—not until Mr. Lewes had indicated his own interest. The last thing she needed was for someone to see her as a grasping, loose woman with no shame chasing after a future viscount. Such whispers had made the rounds about her mother, and lived on so many years later. Calliope had worked hard to cultivate a good reputation, and would not ruin that now.
A commotion on the other side of the cavernous room had her swiveling in the direction of the grand staircase. The murmur of voices rose to a dull roar in reaction to the name that had just been announced. The sight of the late arrival seemed to throw the guests into pandemonium, and one would think they were witnessing the second coming of Christ.
It was only Mr. Burke, however, though Calliope understood that he was a rare sight at such occasions. His reputation called to mind seedy taverns, brothels, and gaming hells as the sorts of places a man like him frequented. However, she realized with a small measure of surprise that he looked as much at home in this ballroom as he had in her drawing room. Just as she suspected, he drew every eye when he descended into their midst, his hair arranged in a dashing tousle, and his lips curved into the sort of half-smile that felt at once mocking and playful—as if he were in on a joke the rest of them knew nothing about. His gaze swept the room for a moment before landing on her, and the same agitation she’d felt before reared its ugly head. Annoyance flared as he raised an eyebrow at her before disappearing into the crowd.
She released a little snort in reaction to his tardiness as well as his goading. Now that he had arrived, he would make her dangle a bit before coming to her. She realized it was the smart thing to do if they wanted to appear authentic, but just now it felt as if he did this simply because he could—and if ever a man had struck her as one who did things only because he was able, it was Dominick Burke.
Making of a Scandal (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 3) Page 8