Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “Not another word on this matter, Mummy. I will not let you sully my brief encounter with Lord Westing. Besides, his mother is your friend.”

  Her mother crossed her arms, looking sullen, and Jane felt a moment’s sympathy. Her mother was only trying to get her settled.

  “I certainly hope you enjoy yourself a little because one of us should for all the expense you and Father put into each Season. And you know how I loathe each and every ball.”

  “I liked dancing when I was young,” Lady Chatley said before giving a profound sniff.

  “You secured your husband during your second Season,” Jane pointed out, “and thus could dance or not dance. You chose to dance and had a steady partner.”

  At least, her father, by all accounts, had been steady at the time. Only after the wedding and the begetting of his heir, did he start to wander. She was a little surprised he hadn’t pressed for another boy after their only son died a month following his celebrated birth. Yet Charles Chatley had, by all accounts, abandoned his family for whatever pleasures he could find nearly as soon as Jane was out of the womb, appearing lusty with health and beauty.

  How could her mother not want to take a whip to the Earl of Chatley?

  “You could have had the Earl of Cambrey last year,” her mother continued. “Or was it the year before?”

  “Mummy, John Angsley and I never had feelings for each other. That was entirely in your own head.”

  “Bah! Feelings!” her mother grumbled. “You two made a splendid couple.”

  “We never did. John always had his eyes on Margaret Blackwood and his heart was entirely hers.”

  “Blackwood,” Lady Emily scoffed. “A baron’s daughter.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. Her mother’s generation saw only the ranks of the peers and not the people behind the titles. She could as easily be happy if she fell headlong in love with a banker, tailor, or even a footman. However, since she never spent time with anyone other than the cream of London’s society, that was highly unlikely.

  Moreover, Jane knew it would mean extreme ostracism, even banishment from all she’d ever known. Not to mention how emasculating it would be for a man of the lower classes to marry a woman of the highest level of aristocracy.

  “What if I never marry?” she mused.

  “Jane!”

  “Why is that so terrible, Mummy? You seem to take it as a personal failure should I decide to live the life of a bluestocking or perhaps open an orphanage or a home for wayward girls. Or what if I choose to do absolutely nothing except enjoy my life?”

  Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it. Then, finally, when she could speak, she asked, “How could you enjoy life if you were unmarried?”

  Jane supposed she would keep company with other spinsters or hire a companion so she could freely go to the theatre and concerts and riding. It sounded rather wonderful.

  “How much joy has your marriage brought you?” she asked her mother in return.

  The countess was too self-aware of her own marital disaster to let that barb even touch her.

  “I have you,” her mother said, “thus I enjoy my life very much.”

  “By living it through your hopes for me? Then I should think you wouldn’t want me to marry at all. What would you do with yourself if I marry?”

  “If? What has got into you, Jane? If! You shall, and then you will have lovely children. Hopefully a large brood.”

  “And then I shall find myself sitting at these same awful social events watching my offspring dance and try to snag their own husband or wife. That sounds like perpetual hell.”

  “Jane!”

  “Mummy, what will you do with yourself if—sorry—when I marry?”

  Lady Emily Chatley got a dreamy look on her face, not at all what Jane had expected.

  Hm. Jane couldn’t begin to fathom what that look meant. And then they were home, on Hanover Square. As soon as their butler opened the front door, Jane knew her father had returned for the distinct scent of his pipe filled the air.

  Why this caused anxiety, she couldn’t say, but her stomach tightened. She wanted to love her father, though she certainly did not like him. She knew one flight up, probably with his legs and boots upon the sofa in the drawing room, her father would be stretched out, his once-handsome now ruddy face smiling at whatever private thoughts crossed his mind, a large glass of gin in one hand, and his pipe in the other.

  Glancing back, she saw some inscrutable expression flash across her mother’s face, before the look of acceptance was fixed in place.

  And then, as they climbed the stairs, they heard the booming voice of the Earl of Chatley after being told they were home.

  “Where are my lovely ladies?”

  *

  Christopher couldn’t get Jane Chatley off his mind. He’d seen her differently the night before and wondered why it never occurred to him she was more than a good mind and a pretty face. She had personality to spare.

  And, of course, she had a shapely figure. Most of the girls at the balls did. It wasn’t until after the wedding they began to loosen their corsets and eat more than air. Though he’d seen Jane’s mother, and she hadn’t let herself go. She was still fair of face and svelte, not a big bear of a woman as many of the mothers were.

  Shame about her husband. Even his generation, who generally only whispered and gossiped about one another, knew of the excesses of the countess’s profligate husband, Charles Chatley.

  Since Lady Chatley was attractive, he wondered what drove the earl to stray like an alley cat.

  Undoubtedly seeing a father behave thusly had colored Jane’s view of men. Plainly speaking, she had no tolerance for simply marrying a titled man and hoping for the best. That clearly hadn’t worked for her mother.

  Christopher maintained he and Jane were rather like-minded, despite how she had protested. True, the men at those infernal events of the Season had the power, at least initially. If a man fell for a woman, though, suddenly, she could lead him about by his heartstrings. He’d seen it happen, though not with his friends Burnley and Whitely. Not yet anyway.

  He grinned. That would be something to witness with Burnley, who seemed to fall in love on a weekly basis, though it always turned out to be mere temporary infatuation. As soon as some divinely feminine creature blew her nose too loudly, he was finished with her.

  The next day, to the sound of banging, he went downstairs, following the noise to the basement level and into the kitchens. It looked like a battlefield. In the middle of it, his father stood proudly surveying the workmen around him.

  “What the devil are you doing, old man?” Christopher asked him.

  “The future, my boy.”

  Christopher glanced around. “The future is a wrecked kitchen, is it?”

  “The future is a pristine kitchen without dirty coal.”

  “I see. What is the cook going to use? You do know wood has been scarce since the sixteenth century, Father.” He smiled, wondering if his mother had seen this yet. The Duchess of Westing’s perfectly coifed hair would undoubtedly stand on end.

  “Wood?” his father repeated, then he laughed. “Oh, a joke, I see. Haha, my boy. No, not wood, gas!”

  “As in street lamp gas?” Christopher asked.

  “Exactly. You know my friend Soyer.”

  “The chef at your club, yes.”

  “Smart man. He’s redone his own kitchen over with a gas stove, says it’s quick and clean. Remarkable. I went and saw it myself. Even lit it. Fabulous.”

  Christopher took a closer look at the rubber lines that were in place, lying in trenches, where they’d torn up the floor.

  “And Mother knows about this?”

  “Well,” the duke hesitated. “She knows I’m remodeling a little.”

  Christopher grinned again. “Like when you decided to add a little bathroom upstairs and added two of them with hot-water pipes and separate water closets, or spend a little money to revamp the mews behind the house or—”
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br />   “I take your meaning. But a happy cook is a happy house.”

  “I think that saying applies to a happy wife, Father.”

  Lord Westing shrugged and looked around again. “It will be wonderful.”

  “But no one will even see it,” Christopher pointed out.

  His father frowned. “Of course they will. Just like with the bathing rooms, I’ll take every guest on a tour.”

  Christopher shook his head. “And how are we to eat in the meantime?”

  “Ah, well, I’m going to the Reform Club.”

  “Where Soyer is the chef? Perhaps he suggested this remodeling to get your patronage at the club. Maybe they charge extra for people who’ve destroyed their own perfectly good kitchens.” But he was hungry. “I guess I’ll come with you. What about the rest of the family?”

  “They will go to your aunt’s home. Every morning and evening until this is finished. In fact, I think your mother said something about taking your sister and staying there until…hmm, come to think of it, her words weren’t very friendly, and she has left already.”

  By this time, Christopher couldn’t contain his mirth and was laughing uproariously.

  “You may have gained a gas stove and lost a duchess.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” his father said, but he didn’t sound too sure of himself. “Anyway, let’s go. Are you ready, my boy?”

  “Always, Father.”

  *

  In a short while, Christopher found himself dining at the Reform Club, the political headquarters of the Liberal Party, and a masterpiece of architecture in the Italian palazzo style. Even if it had looked like an ugly hovel, Christopher would have gone to the club for Chef Soyer’s cooking was sublime. If the new gas stove in his family home caused their own cook to turn out dishes anything like the brilliant French chef’s, the nuisance of installation would be worth it.

  While his father was socializing with some of the others, most of them members of Parliament, Christopher sat down to eat. Then, when he realized his father had taken a seat with Sir William Molesworth, one of the club’s esteemed founders, he knew he’d be dining alone.

  It gave him a chance to listen to many conversations at once, as he was interested in both the Whigs and the Radicals who frequented the place. What’s more, he also had time to think, and what he thought about was Jane Chatley. For some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Nor did he want to.

  Why not pursue the sentiment and see where it led? Indeed, why not pursue the lady?

  Lord Darkness coming soon – please subscribe to www.dragonbladepublishing.com for updates

  About the Author

  Sydney Jane Baily writes historical romance set in Victorian England, late 19th-century America, the Middle Ages, the Georgian era, and the Regency period. She believes in happily-ever-after stories for an already-challenging world.

  Born and raised in California, she has traveled the world, spending a lot of exceedingly happy time in the U.K. where her extended family resides, eating fish and chips, drinking shandys, and snacking on Maltesers and Cadbury bars.

  After obtaining degrees in English literature and in history, besides writing novels, she has spent time as a copyeditor, cat snuggler, website designer, book production editor, mother of two, and faithful friend to her dog, among other endeavors both literary and not.

  Sydney currently lives in New England with her family—human, canine, and feline.

  You can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter, and contact her via her website at SydneyJaneBaily.com.

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