Hearing the commotion within, his valet, who had just arrived and was on the point of knocking, hastily entered the room to find his lordship groaning with exasperation and pain. Bibury took in the situation at a glance and carefully schooled his face to show not the least trace of amusement at the ridiculous scene.
“Don’t just stand there gawking,” Alvescot snapped. “Help me out of this stupid chair.” When the valet had assisted him to his feet, Alvescot disgustedly regarded the ruins of the painted chair, using all his willpower to restrain himself from kicking at it, which doubtless would only result in a broken toe for his effort.
“I don’t know why people insist on having such flimsy furniture,” he grumbled. “As though it weren’t bad enough to be put in the smallest possible bedchamber, she has to try to kill me with chairs that disintegrate under a normal-sized man.”
Bibury was rapidly gathering up the remains of the chair, which he calmly pushed out into the hall during Alvescot’s monologue. “Shall I have a look at that scratch, milord?” he asked when he returned.
“What scratch?” There was a mirror behind him, and Alvescot swung around to see the reddening scrape across half of his forehead. The earl was not particularly vain about his looks, since he didn’t think them anything out of the ordinary, but he considered the garish red abrasion disturbingly uncouth. He could not recall any instance to mind, save during the war in the Peninsula, when any gentleman of his acquaintance had appeared in public with such a mark upon his physiognomy. A long, soulful sigh escaped his lips and he met Bibury’s eyes in the mirror. “It doesn’t need any attention,” he admitted, “but my wrist is aching damnably. Have you something to wrap it?”
The little valet nodded and disappeared from the room. Alvescot cautiously seated himself on the delicate bench before the mirror, drawing his uninjured hand through his straight brown hair. He was considering how long it would take the minor wound to heal, and he paid no attention to his own image. His hazel eyes mournfully assessed the brushburn, knowing it would take several days for its traces to entirely disappear. Which wouldn’t be so awful, except that he was sure someone was bound to ask him how he had sustained it, since it hadn’t been there after the curricle accident.
Well, he would simply ignore their questions, he decided, since he had no intention of detailing his downfall, so to speak. Alvescot felt sure he could turn away any impertinent questions with the simple expedient of a raised brow. Hadn’t Frederick teased him often enough about his haughty demeanor? Not that the earl believed for a moment that it was anything more than a joke. He was accustomed to thinking of himself as being unfailingly polite and rather mild-natured in his dealings with his fellow man . . . and woman.
When Bibury returned with the tape to wrap his wrist, he patiently submitted to the valet’s ministrations, thanking him when the procedure was finished and asking for a pair of his own breeches. With Bibury’s assistance, he was soon returned to some semblance of sartorial acceptability and he went in search of his hostess.
Chapter Two
Alvescot knew his way around Cutsdean without bothering any of the servants. His room was in the West Wing and he unerringly made his way to the Grand Staircase where paintings on the walls followed the slope of the stairs. These paintings did not seem to have changed much since his last visit, though his memory of them was not totally to be relied upon. Certainly they were of the same high caliber as always. Alvescot let himself into the Saloon.
The room was one of Robert Adam’s most impressive achievements, a double twenty-five-foot cube with an enormous Venetian window and four great wall mirrors. Here there had definitely been a change, though perhaps a minor one. The furniture, which ordinarily was all placed back against the walls, had been arranged in groups about the immense room, where it obviously stood permanently, rather than being pulled forward only for gatherings. It made the room look less overpowering and austere, but it was certainly not the fashion of the day. Alvescot decided to reserve judgment in the matter.
Mrs. Hortense Damery, his aunt and Frederick’s mother, was seated in a rather imposing satin-covered chair near the window. His entry into the room did not gain her attention, as she was speaking with another woman, and he came to a halt only a few feet in front of her before she deigned to recognize him. She had been a beauty in her youth, but rather than fading, her looks had sharpened to almost a caricature of herself. The eyes were sharp, the nose sharp, the cheekbones sharp; he had no doubt the tongue was sharp as well. Alvescot bowed to this straight-backed, dour-looking woman who was his aunt.
“James.” Her acknowledgment of his greeting was minimal, and she made no attempt to ascertain his well-being after the curricle accident. Instead, she turned to the woman beside her and said, “This is my sister, Mabel Curtiss.”
Before Alvescot could speak, Mrs. Curtiss belied her aging but elegant looks by snapping, “You should have a care how you drive, Lord Alvescot. You could have done serious injury to my son.”
“Your son, Mrs. Curtiss, should not have been driving his horses at such a pace around the corner of a building,” he said stiffly. “I believe it was he who put both our lives in jeopardy.”
“Poppycock! I saw it happen and say what she will, Vanessa is only trying to get on the right side of you by saying you were not at fault. After all, Edward is an accomplished whip and he is accustomed to driving the curricle at Cutsdean. As he says, it was the merest bad fortune you should have been there. We very seldom have visitors here at Cutsdean.”
Knowing from experience that it is useless to argue with a prejudiced mind, Alvescot turned back to his aunt. “I hope I fine you well, Aunt Damery.”
“As well as can be expected at my age. One does not recover quickly from such disasters as have been my lot.” Hortense took a dainty bit of lacy handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes, though they showed not the least sign of distress above the hawk-like nose.
“Indeed,” the earl agreed, waiting patiently for her to inquire after his own mother. When she didn’t, he told her that the dowager was in excellent health and even better spirits, a bit of information which appeared to offend his aunt unduly.
“She never did take anything seriously,” Hortense accused. “To Lady Alvescot her whole life has been like a magic lantern show, ever a delight, and ever illusory.”
Since Hortense barely knew his mother, Alvescot strove not to allow her to wrench a rejoinder from him. Some people considered that age conferred a privilege on them whereby they could be as rude as possible without suffering the consequences, but his aunt Damery was not precisely one of those people. She had always been rude, though in the intervening years since he’d seen her he had almost managed to forget how impossible she was. Under the guise of being “straightforward” she said precisely what she wished, without regard for propriety or for anyone else’s feelings. He managed to chat with her for a few minutes, though she never waved him to a chair, before inquiring of Mrs. Vanessa Damery’s whereabouts.
Hortense gave a sniff. “She’ll be with the children. I don’t see what use it is to have a nursemaid if you’re going to spend all your time with them yourself. Be sure it’s no fit way to raise a child with all that pampering. They should be toughened up to meet with life’s adversities, not coddled like a pair of sickly lambs. But she won’t listen to me. She has never listened to me. One would think her mother-in-law deserved some deference, but no, she goes about her daily business as though I had never been mistress of Cutsdean, and has all the servants so they refer me to her if I make a suggestion. We never had uppity servants here before she came, I promise you. In the end she’ll be sorry.”
Undoubtedly she would have continued to catalog her complaints, but an elderly man of military bearing stomped into the room. He halted abruptly when he spied Alvescot standing by Hortense’s chair, and surveyed him with a critical eye.
“My brother, Captain Lawrence,” Hortense informed the earl. “Perhaps you remember
his name from the battle of Trafalgar.”
Alvescot had no recollection of ever hearing the name before, but he was willing to concede that with the passing of twelve years the name might have slipped his memory. Nevertheless, the gentleman seemed rather old to have served a mere twelve years ago, surely being beyond sixty.
“You served with Wellington, I hear,” the captain growled. “You’d have done better to have chosen a naval career, sir. A much more exacting and professional responsibility.”
“But the action was largely on land for some years,” Alvescot replied, unwilling to let yet another of these unamiable people annoy him.
“The blockade! You forget how essential the blockade was.”
Mabel Curtiss interjected a word presumably culled from her son. “Boring. The blockade was nothing but a bore. All the young men said so.”
Captain Lawrence turned on her. “These young puppies don’t have the guts to withstand the least discomfort. All the sailors were forever getting sick. Not once did I succumb to a disease on board ship. This generation is a bunch of cossetted ingrates and lily-livered idiots. You didn’t find that kind of behavior in my day.”
Without waiting for anyone to invite him to sit, the captain did so, and continued to express his opinions of the current youth of England. Alvescot tolerated this for several minutes before excusing himself to find his hostess. She was, a footman informed him, on the nursery floor, but he would be glad to find out if she would see the earl when she was finished there. Alvescot found the assumption that she would come at her leisure a rather unique one in his experience. He was accustomed to immediate attention on account of his rank.
But he refused to feel offended, since that would only somehow put him in league with his sharp-tongued aunt, and he had no desire to share any niche with her. When the footman returned to advise him that Mrs. Damery would meet him in the Library at four, he thanked the man and, not being willing to return to the Saloon, wandered about the ground floor to familiarize himself with any changes that might have been made since his last visit.
* * * *
Vanessa reached the Library several minutes before their appointed time. Waiting for his arrival that morning had caused her to miss being with the children and she had insisted on keeping to her schedule of being with them in the afternoon. He had, after all, invited himself to Cutsdean. Vanessa had chosen the Library with its bookshelves built into the walls and its flood of sunlight coming though the bay windows because it was seldom visited by her household, and because it contained her ledgers for the estate, being her office as well. Lord Alvescot, as co-trustee of the estate, had the right to examine her household and estate books if he so desired.
The old pedestal desk dated from the 1720s and Vanessa found it expedient to keep the drawers locked against any unwanted inspection of her records. The heavy mahogany piece was five feet wide with a kneehole flanked by carved corner pilasters so grandiose as to make her feel slightly ridiculous when she sat at it. Despite her unusual height, the desk dwarfed her, making her appear young and vulnerable. Not exactly the impression she wished to give Lord Alvescot, so she pulled a book at random from the shelves and seated herself in one of the red velvet winged chairs which surrounded the room.
At precisely four o’clock the earl appeared in the open door, located her with a quick glance, and stepped into the room.
“You’d best close the door if you don’t want everyone to overhear our conversation,” she warned him. “I’m not saying any of them would be so crass as to eavesdrop, mind you, but they might just happen to be wandering through the Drawing Room and find a sudden desire to study the portrait right inside the door.”
He grimaced and retreated to draw the heavy door tightly closed behind himself. Before sitting down opposite her he made a quick survey of the room. “What are you reading?” he asked as he disposed himself comfortably, crossing one long leg over the other.
“It was just to make me look busy,” she admitted disarmingly. “I don’t know quite what it is, but I think it’s something my mother wouldn’t approve of.” She laughed and set the book on a table between them, bringing her attention fully back to him, but making no mention of the scrape on his forehead. “I’m sorry for the disaster on your arrival. Of course, I will assume responsibility for the rebuilding of your curricle, though you may not wish to entrust it to our local carriage-builders. Frederick always found their workmanship quite satisfactory.”
Alvescot shrugged. “I’ll have my coachman check them out. Please don’t concern yourself with the matter. It’s hardly your responsibility.”
“It is, though. I knew how wretchedly Edward drove in the curricle. It makes my blood run cold to think what might have happened.”
His brows rose. “I hadn’t gained the impression anyone here cared in the least whether I was maimed or killed in the accident.”
“I wasn’t speaking of you,” she said absently, then her eyes widened at his startled expression. “I beg your pardon! Of course we are concerned for your safety, Lord Alvescot. But you sustained little damage, or so you say. I had a mental image at the time of one of the children trampled by the horses. Knowing how Edward rides and drives, I don’t let them out of my sight when I have them out of doors, but . . .”
“Yes, well, I believe mothers are prone to visions of disaster.”
It sounded so odiously condescending that Vanessa found it necessary to bite down a sharp retort. Instead, she studied him with cool gray-brown eyes, taking in his artfully windswept brown locks, the deep-set hazel eyes, the disapproving set of his mouth. His coat sat well on his broad shoulders, and he wore a plain waistcoat, unlike the florid style Edward adopted, but Vanessa considered him only passable in looks. There was something too rugged about his face, too unyielding, for the tribute of handsomeness.
In addition, she decided with satisfaction, his countenance clearly indicated that he was neither good-natured nor open. Why this should have pleased her, she didn’t know, since it was imperative that the two of them should rub along tolerably well as co-trustees of Frederick’s estate.
Her perusal was accompanied by a silence which Alvescot made no attempt to break. In fact, several minutes passed with neither of them saying anything, though his eyes narrowed slightly as the time lengthened. Vanessa was aware that he expected her to provide some sort of social chatter, or to query him on his trip, if not his purpose in being there, but she refused as steadfastly as he to be the one to speak first. Eventually, with an exasperated sigh, he said, “I presume Frederick’s children are well.”
“Very well, thank you.”
“I would like to see them.”
“Would you? They would be in the nursery at this time of day. Did you want to see them now?”
“No, not immediately. First I think we should discuss the matter that brought me here.”
Vanessa acknowledged this straightforwardness with a gentle inclination of her head.
“I have, as you know,” he began pompously, “agreed to all the expenses you’ve recommended during the two years since Frederick’s death. Though unaware that he had appointed me a co-trustee in case of his death, I was willing enough to accept the position, since he was my cousin and a dear friend of mine. The responsibility for seeing that his estate comes intact to his son is one I regard as a family duty and intend to pursue with . . .” Here he paused to regard her with a quelling gaze. “. . . resolution.”
“Admirable,” she murmured, meeting his gaze steadily.
“I have, to this point, been amenable to the large expenses you’ve entailed on behalf of the estate out of consideration for your bereavement and your position as the mother of the heir to it.”
Vanessa interrupted him to say dryly, “You have, to this point, agreed to the expenses because you weren’t paying any attention to them, Lord Alvescot. May I ask what drew your notice?”
His lips pursed with irritation. “My solicitor questioned me about them,” he admitt
ed. Absently picking up the volume she had laid on the table, he glanced at its title and his eyes widened.
“I told you I chose it at random to look busy. Have no fear that it’s my usual reading material, though I must admit,” she said, her eyes crinkling with mirth, “that I found the few paragraphs I happened upon most enlightening. I wonder what it is doing in the Library.”
Alvescot flipped to the flyleaf of the book and was seized by a fit of coughing. His attempt to conceal the book during his digression was unsuccessful, as Vanessa reached out an imperative hand for it and he reluctantly released it to her.
On the flyleaf was written, in a schoolboy’s hand, James Montague Damery, 1801. “Such bravado,” Vanessa remarked, referring to the scribbled notation below: Very warm but very interesting! “Would you like it back, Lord Alvescot? I would prefer it not fall into John’s hands until he is at least . . . what? Sixteen?”
“I would have been fifteen at the time,” he muttered, pushing the volume down in the chair beside him.
“Precocious, probably. Frederick said . . . Well, never mind. We were discussing the exorbitant expenses I’ve incurred for the estate.”
Trying to recapture the upper hand, Alvescot insisted, “They are exorbitant, Mrs. Damery. My solicitors pointed out to me that a family of three and the associated servants could not possibly incur the expenses you have.”
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