Seducing Mr. Heywood

by Jo Manning

  “Whatever you do, Tom,” he said between mouthfuls of salty Yorkshire ham, “do try, I beg you, to be more diplomatic. The lady is in charge here, and you should respect her status as chatelaine of the manor.”

  Dunhaven was too busy shoveling eggs and sausages into his mouth to respond. Brent frowned and began to pick away at his breakfast. The food was excellent, but he seemed to have lost his usual hearty appetite.

  Chapter Eight

  Take a Hundred of Asparagus, put the Greatest part of them with two Lettuces into Three Quarts of Water—Boil them till they are tender enough to pulp thro’ a Cullender, add the remainder of the Asparagus, put some Cream and flour to make it a Sufficient thickness, and add pepper and Salt, to your taste—The Asparagus you put in last are to Swim in the Soup.

  —From a recipe book, Erddig, North Wales, circa 1765

  Mrs. Mathew was in high alt, directing her kitchen staff much as a well-organized general directs seasoned troops. She was Hannibal crossing the Alps, Julius Caesar conquering the barbarians, Attila the Hun bringing Europe to its knees. The mistress had left the dinner menu in her capable hands, as usual, and she was preparing asparagus soup, trout in red wine, ragout of cucumber, rabbit fricassee, potato pudding, and chocolate cream for dessert. She was displaying her skills for the Earl of Dunhaven, Lord Brent, and, of course, the vicar. The young lads had already been served their supper in the nursery.

  The Hall’s cook and the vicar’s housekeeper were bosom bows and also fierce competitors in the culinary arts. Mrs. Chipcheese, alas, did not have the resources at the vicarage that were available to Mrs. Mathew at Rowley Hall. It was a point Mrs. C. invariably made when Mrs. Mathew boasted of her elaborate dinners, which was often and at length.

  Her broad face flushed with the kitchen’s heat and her nervous concern that all must be perfect for Lady Sophia’s guests, Mrs. Mathew clapped her pudgy hands, “Lizzie!” She called the maid of all help. “Inform Mr. Bromley that dinner is ready to be served.”

  As they stood in the drawing room waiting to dine, drinks in hand, Charles did not know what to make of the Earl of Dunhaven. He was a handsome man, with the striking coloring shared by Sophia and her children, the same pale blond hair, those unusual cerulean eyes. There was, however, something not right about him. Even if Charles had not known that the baron had sent a Bow Street Runner to investigate the earl, he would have felt similar twinges of unease. Charles trusted his instincts and his instincts told him that Sophia’s father was not a good man. The Bow Street Runner’s report had also made that clear.

  Though Charles, armed with the knowledge of that report and what he saw with his own eyes, did not want to be uncharitable, Dunhaven was a man lacking nobility and without a modicum of aristocratic bearing. It distressed the vicar to come to such a quick, harsh opinion about another human being, but the man was coarse at the edges; his face bore the ravages of heavy drinking. Charles knew individuals who had succumbed to drink, and their faces were similar in appearance. There was a blurring of features, a looseness that betrayed their vice.

  The earl possessed a drink-ravaged face. And something more, something worse. By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, Charles murmured to himself. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up; he tried to shake off the distressing feeling. It made him distinctly uncomfortable.

  Charles turned his attention to Sophia, who was in good looks. She wore a silk frock in a dazzling shade of peach, a color that complemented her eyes and hair and creamy complexion. Her magnificent chest was set off by the low-cut, clinging design of the gown and an unusually intricate articulated necklace of cut steel. It was comprised of links of shiny, faceted cut metal, riveted onto a setting that supported a dozen larger steel drops.

  The shimmering, glowing light from the many candles in the room reflected upon the necklace like many mirrors, mocking the brilliance of diamonds, and drew the eye to Sophia’s lovely bosom. Charles unwillingly remembered her naked breasts, full and round, tipped with rosy— Heat flooded his torso and he wished that they could be alone in the drawing room. The space was too crowded, with the earl and his friend—especially the friend, Lord Brent.

  Sipping the late baron’s fine sherry and willing his treacherous body to cool down, Charles acknowledged that Brent was extremely handsome. He was the type of gentleman Sophia was no doubt used to, large, muscular, good looking and well-dressed. He wore his hair a trifle long, but it was thick and dark, and his brown eyes missed nothing. Right now, those smoldering dark eyes were fixed on Lady Sophia. Charles bristled with annoyance, his hand gripping the stem of the wineglass tightly.

  The boys had told him when they were fishing in the brook earlier in the day, that Lord Brent had gone riding with them, and that he was a bruising rider. They admired his stallion, a large gray, and he had let them ride the horse. As they were mad about horses, Brent had swiftly ingratiated himself with them, Charles thought. Had he charmed their mother, as well?

  “Cook told me that she is poaching the trout you and the boys caught today for our dinner, Mr. Heywood.” Lady Sophia intruded into Charles’s thoughts. He was quiet this evening, seeming uncomfortable with her father and his friend. Sophia granted that her father would make most decent people uncomfortable, but she wondered what it was about Lord Brent that made the vicar uneasy.

  “We…uh…managed to land a few fat ones, my lady,” Charles replied, stammering slightly. Sophia smiled. Although it had exasperated her at first, the vicar’s hesitancy and occasional stutter were now endearing, part of his sweet and unique personality. She was cross about the way he had behaved in the rose garden, but that story was still to be continued. Her seduction had suffered a temporary setback only; she was not through with the handsome clergyman. She smiled at him, her eyes half-hooded, and delighted in the flush that covered his cheekbones.

  “I vow,” she said, her voice a bit husky, “that the boys enjoy Greek as much as they do fishing. John was repeating the speech by Achilles, his argument with King Agamemnon that he had recited for us several nights ago. He was asking if his pronunciation was correct. The piece concerning the slave girl, you remember?”

  She spoke in flawless Greek. “How can the generous Argives give you prizes now? I know of no piles of treasure, piled, lying idle, anywhere. Whatever we dragged from towns we plundered, all’s been portioned out. But collect it, call it back from the rank and file? That would be the disgrace. So, return the girl to the god, at least for now. We Achaeans will pay you back, three, four times over, if Zeus grants us the gift to raze Troy’s massive ramparts to the ground!”

  Charles was astonished. She did understand Greek! How on earth?

  The earl broke into Charles’s thoughts, his tone irritable. “God’s blood, Sophia, do you still remember that nonsense from your governess? That bluestocking! Filling your mind with such faradiddle.”

  Brent interrupted his friend, ignoring the profanity. “My lady, you speak as well as my tutor at Jesus College,” he remarked. “A Grecian could do no better, I vow.”

  Dunhaven snorted, then seemed to think better of the situation, stifling his comments into an incoherent mumble.

  Charles leaped into the breach. “You shame me, my lady. My own efforts pale beside yours. I congratulate you.” The lady never ceased to surprise him. She was so much more than she appeared to the world at large, the shallow world of the beau monde.

  Lady Sophia peered into her wineglass as if calling up an old memory from its dark ruby depths. “I had a governess named Clarissa Bane, the daughter of a country vicar. Her father taught her Greek and she taught it to me.” She raised her eyes. “She left when I was scarce sixteen, Mr. Heywood, and I have always regretted that loss.”

  Charles registered the pain and grief in Sophia’s glance. He had a sharp desire to embrace her, notwithstanding the presence of her father and Brent, a feeling cut short by Bromley’s announcement that dinner was served. Moving to offer her his arm, Charles found th
at Lord Brent was too fast for him. Instead, he found himself walking in to dinner with the earl, who seemed more than a little foxed from his pre-dinner imbibing of spirits.

  Dunhaven, the vicar noted, had an odd look on his face. Was he annoyed, or was it something more? It was a furtive, guilty look. Did the man now think he’d been foolish to denigrate his daughter’s education, seeing that Brent admired her facility with Greek? Charles suspected something else was afoot. Dunhaven’s remark about the governess had been telling, but what exactly did it say? There was an inference there.…Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him, but he felt ill at ease.

  The trout was served from two cunningly designed porcelain tureens, their covers realistically painted fish that appeared ready to leap off the table in a showy arc. The handles resembled twisted green seaweed resting on the long, fish-shaped bowls, which were in turn set on round platters decorated with painted scallop shells and sea grasses. Brent remarked on the fine pottery.

  “It is from a dinner service commissioned by George’s mother from the Derby pottery, my lord. She had an eye for lovely dinnerware; we have many examples of Bow, Derby, Chelsea, and Spode at Rowley Hall, enough to serve a houseful of guests.”

  “Your late husband was not much of a party-giver, if I recollect, Sophia,” Dunhaven commented.

  Sophia toyed with her fork. “No, that is true. George preferred a more solitary life.”

  “He was not an antisocial man,” Charles hastened to defend his deceased patron. “But, as he aged, it was a strain on him to entertain large groups. He did have many visitors, nonetheless, who dropped in to inquire after his health and well-being.”

  “I gather you were rather thick with the old boy,” Dunhaven remarked.

  Charles recalled the last time he’d sat at dinner with the baron. It seemed so long ago, though it was only a few months. “We became friends, yes,” he replied.

  “I’m glad you were here for him, Mr. Heywood.” Sophia’s voice was barely above a whisper. She took a quick sip from her wineglass.

  Her father frowned; talk of the late Baron Rowley was not his favorite subject of conversation.

  The boys had told Charles, when they were fishing, that their mother and grandfather did not seem to be on the best of terms. They’d learned from a footman that there had been an argument in the drawing room the night before. Bless those lads! Charles chuckled to himself. Like their father, they were on easy terms with the servants. There was nothing the staff would not do for the boys, including supplying the latest gossip.

  Sophia was wary. She had noted the change that seemed to come over her father. He was making an effort to be pleasant, attempting to stifle his own unpleasant comments, making small talk, even paying her a charming compliment or two, and he’d not drunk any more wine. His behavior was as transparent as the clear crystal glasses on her table; he was up to something.

  She sighed. She wanted to be rid of him and his friend, but she could not forcibly evict them from her home. If he would not voluntarily go to the Cock and Bull in Roslyn, she could not make him do so. He was her father and the boys’ grandfather. Much as she disliked doing so, much as his presence made her uncomfortable, she felt she must endure his visit as graciously as possible. There were no warm father-daughter feelings between them, and she sensed he had little interest in his only grandchildren, but the rest of the world did not need to know those details.

  The earl’s vicious taunts on the evening he arrived had driven her to throw sherry in his face, but now, if she could take that impulsive action back, she would. Regrets were useless, however; uncontrolled emotion was ever her downfall.

  “Wine, Father?” Sophia asked, motioning the footman to pour for her guests. “As St. Paul says, ‘Take a little wine, for thy stomach’s sake’.” She slanted a glance at Charles and winked. He almost spilled his wine in surprise at the Biblical quotation and the irreverent wink of her eye.

  “No, child, thank you. Perhaps later.” Dunhaven smiled somewhat absently. He had upended his wineglasses on the tablecloth.

  Sophia’s blood froze. Tom Eliot, continuing to refuse wine? He was surely up to no good.

  In the kitchen, downstairs, the servants were gossiping as they sorted, stacked, and prepared dirty dishes for washing. Events upstairs had given them food for thought. It was evident that there was bad blood between the mistress and her father. For the first time, sympathy was swinging in favor of Lady Sophia; the Earl of Dunhaven was a bad lot. Lizzie had complained that he’d pinched her bottom, and another of the maids said he’d pushed her up against a door and attempted to fondle her.

  Such behavior was unheard of at Rowley Hall. The old master, Lord Rowley, did not stand for such nonsense. Guests who trifled with his servants were summarily given their hats and asked to leave, unlike the case in other great houses in the county. The baron had brooked no trifling with his servants and they adored him for it.

  Even Bromley—the servants whispered, recollecting the butler’s pallor the previous night. One of the eavesdropping footmen said the mistress had thrown a glass of wine in her father’s face! Bromley, he said, had near fainted. There was trouble brewing upstairs that was for certain.

  Sophia and her guests were consuming the last bit of chocolate cream, the finishing touch to an exquisite meal. “Bromley, my compliments to Mrs. Mathew,” Sophia declared.

  The butler blinked. Not only had Lady Rowley called him by his correct name, but she’d remembered the name of her cook, also. Recovering his usual aplomb, he nodded solemnly. “Very good, my lady, I shall carry your compliments to Mrs. Mathew.”

  Lady Sophia had more to say. “And the rest of the servants, also. The service at Rowley Hall is exemplary. I have been to many country homes, and I know whereof I speak. My compliments to the entire staff, and to you for your good training of them.”

  For once, Bromley was speechless.

  Charles stifled a grin. He had been working with John and William to devise ways of letting their mother know that the servants liked to be complimented. Lord Rowley believed that those of every station in life delighted in being appreciated, and that they preferred to be addressed by their name. Evidently the lads had succeeded. Lady Sophia, he knew, wanted very much to be in her boys’ good graces, even if that meant learning the names of Rowley Hall’s many retainers. Satisfied servants made for a happy, efficiently run household; it had been so in his own home.

  Now the next step was to rally the servants in support of Sophia. Her absence during the baron’s last illness and failure to arrive for his funeral did not sit well with them. Nor did the fact that she had been an absentee mother to her sons, the Rowley heirs. She had a good deal to atone for, if she chose to do so.

  Sophia rose smiling from the table, the folds of her silk gown gracefully fluttering. Her smile, Charles thought, intensified the light in any room. The candles seemed to glow brighter, as if encouraged to do their best. He harked back to The Iliad, and Queen Helen, whose lovely face had launched a thousand ships. She could have been no more beautiful than this latter-day goddess.

  Once more, he wished they were alone. There was much he wanted to say to her, much to explain. His heart was full, nearly bursting in his chest.

  “Shall we take a stroll in the rose garden?” Sophia asked. “The moon is large and bright, the evening warm. The blossoms will be in full scent.”

  Brent spoke for all of them, leaping to the fore, Charles noted with annoyance.

  “My lady, the roses will pale in comparison to your beauty,” he declared, offering her his arm before the vicar could do so.

  Charles fumed inwardly. The rose garden! That was their special place, was it not? Or was he merely a besotted fool? He had no claim on her or her prized flowers, but still it rankled. How could she?

  Brent led her out. Charles remained behind with Dunhaven, who offered him snuff from an elaborately painted china box. Charles declined; he did not enjoy the vile substance that made him sneeze viole
ntly and set his brain abuzz. As he politely refused, however, his head swiveled back for a closer look. That box! Charles had never seen such lewdness depicted on delicately molded porcelain.

  “Josiah Spode’s factory makes more than tea and dinner services for genteel ladies to collect and display, Vicar,” Dunhaven smirked. “This is a prime piece, don’t you think?” He twirled the box in his hand, making certain Charles saw every bit of the clever, hand-painted design.

  Despite his revulsion at the scene depicted, Charles was fascinated. He’d not thought such coupling was possible between a man and a woman; they must be boneless to achieve such feats of contortion. He cleared his throat. “I hope, sir, you keep that out of sight of ladies,” he admonished the earl.

  Dunhaven quirked a fine blond eyebrow. “Some women, Mr. Heywood, relish such rarities as this. You would be surprised, sir.”

  “No doubt.” Charles’s lips thinned in disapproval. The earl laughed coarsely.

  “Well, then, shall we join my lovely daughter in the garden? Or shall we—” Dunhaven fashioned a lewd gesture, making his left thumb and index finger into a circle and inserting his right index finger inside. In-out, went the quick motion, crude and obvious. “Or shall we give Brent a bit more time?” he snickered.

  Charles’s heart missed a beat, even as his bile rose at Dunhaven’s coarseness. Sophia was in the garden with Brent, who was no doubt a practiced womanizer! Brent, no fool, no lobcock, but a man who would know precisely what to do with a warm, willing woman in a moonlit garden. He rushed for the French doors leading outside.