A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  Sherbourne’s manner had been colder lately. Preoccupied, quiet, reserved—worried, very likely.

  “My feet are tired,” Sherbourne said, leaning his head back against the cushions. “Shall we to bed?”

  “Soon. Have you had a look at Debrett’s?” Charlotte had suggested that exercise over breakfast yesterday.

  “I have, and can tell you that Brantford is the eighth earl of that title, the viscountcy having been raised to an earldom by Charles II. The present earl is married to the former Miss Veronica Carruthers, of the Carruthers family of East Anglia, and her father is a baron. No children have yet graced Brantford’s nursery, which means I had less to memorize.”

  “No children will be gracing our nursery yet either.” Heat flooded Charlotte’s cheeks as soon as she’d made that announcement.

  Sherbourne regarded her for a stern moment, then his brows rose. “The inevitable inconvenience troubles you?”

  She peeled off his stockings. “These things happen in the ordinary course.” Though how did couples discuss them?

  “Shall I sleep elsewhere?”

  “You needn’t.” Sherbourne often began the night stretched out on his side of the bed, staring at the canopy, arms crossed behind his head. When Charlotte woke in the middle of the night, she was invariably wrapped in his embrace.

  And he in hers.

  “You’re sure?” he asked. “It wouldn’t be any bother.”

  Charlotte had a nagging suspicion her husband would rather sleep elsewhere, but that for him to establish his own quarters on some higher floor of the house was the wrong direction to go at this point in their marriage.

  “I’d miss you, Mr. Sherbourne. You are a lovely bedfellow.”

  A week ago, he might have returned that compliment. Now the fire hissed and popped at Charlotte’s back, and the silence grew.

  She rubbed his feet, taking time to learn more of him, and casting around for a topic that did not involve the mine, the Earl of Brantford, or immediate family.

  “Does your ankle ever pain you?”

  “The memory of sprawling on my face before the entire dining hall of boys pains me.”

  “Was that mishap courtesy of the same helpful soul who broke your nose?” His nose had been broken at public school, though it had healed almost undetectably.

  “One of his loyal henchman, and a different one broke my arm. They ran around in a pack, laughed at one another’s jokes, got drunk together. Typical younger sons and lordlings. That feels good.”

  She’d ventured to the thick muscles of his calf. “With whom did you run around and get drunk?”

  “Nobody, and I learned not to excel at my studies, either.”

  “But you’re quite bright.”

  A smile quirked and was gone. “Coming from you, that’s high praise. At school, if I did poorly, I was an ignorant mushroom, trying to get above my station. If I did well, I was a presuming upstart who needed to be put in his place. I was beaten for mumbling, for a disrespectful tone of voice, for not reciting quickly enough, for rushing through my recitations, for failing to respect my betters when the other boys made up all manner of lies about me. My father laughed and told me I was getting exactly the education I needed.”

  Charlotte hugged his feet. “Is that the education you envision for our sons?” An education in prejudice, isolation, brutality, and snobbery?

  “We haven’t any sons yet and apparently none on the way.”

  Charlotte was tempted to shove his feet off her lap, storm out, and lock the bedroom door. She didn’t, because in casual admissions and pensive silences, she was coming to understand how much courage Sherbourne had displayed when he’d married her.

  Those young fools breaking his bones for sport had been from “the best” families. The instructors and headmasters seizing on any pretext to beat him had been beholden to those same families. Brantford, who expected a handsome return on his investment, acted as if he were doing Sherbourne a favor by adding to Sherbourne’s burdens.

  The very neighbors who’d boxed Sherbourne into turning a profit from an exorbitantly expensive new venture were titled aristocrats held in high regard throughout the realm—and thanks to Charlotte, they were also Sherbourne’s family.

  She was his wife. He’d have her loyal support, and others could learn from her example.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Charlotte said, “you send a cheerful note over to Haverford Castle, welcoming Brantford to the neighborhood. You inform him that your lady wife is eager to entertain him as the first official guest following our nuptials, and that all at the colliery is in readiness for a tour on the first available fine day.”

  The past few days had seen a flurry of busyness at the works, with string pegged out to mark the houses atop the hill, the first of the tram tracks laid, and laborers from both the Haverford and Radnor holdings swelling the ranks of the masons.

  “I’m to be cheerful?” Sherbourne lifted his feet from Charlotte’s lap and pulled on a stocking. “Perhaps you ought to send this note. Cheerfulness eludes me lately.”

  She picked up the other stocking. “I can draft the note, but it must be written in your hand. Where is Debrett’s?”

  “You don’t have it memorized?”

  Charlotte balled up the stocking and pitched it at Sherbourne’s head. “Written correspondence requires different forms of address than greetings offered in person. What is Brantford’s Christian name?”

  Sherbourne donned the second stocking and rose. “Quinton, the family name is Bramley, if I recall his signature. Charlotte, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know a Harold Porter, from rural Brecknockshire?”

  Sherbourne stood above her, looking tall, tired, and unreadable by the firelight.

  Charlotte rose and kissed him while her mind whirled. “An old, old friend. I went to school with his sister.”

  “Young ladies do not correspond with single gentlemen,” Sherbourne said. “I may not have taken any firsts at university or spent much time with my nose in Debrett’s, but I know that much.”

  “Mr. Porter is married, as am I.” And Heulwen was in for a severe talking to, for Charlotte had asked that the letter to Mr. Porter be taken directly to the posting inn. “Are you reading my correspondence now, Mr. Sherbourne?”

  He looped his arms around Charlotte’s shoulders. “I need for this mine to succeed, Charlotte.”

  What did that have to do with letters to old friends and Mrs. Wesleys? “Then I need for it to succeed as well.”

  They would have remained thus, touching but not exactly embracing before the fire, except Charlotte took the initiative and stepped closer, resting her cheek against Sherbourne’s chest. They had not had a pleasant evening together, though neither had it been unpleasant.

  Charlotte mentally began composing a note to his lordship, Quinton, Earl of Brantford—a cheerful note—though it puzzled her that an eighth earl would be named Quinton. A fifth earl might have such a name, while an eighth would more likely be Octavius.

  She fell asleep beside Sherbourne an hour later and dreamed of calligraphy written in twine, his lordship’s initials all tangled up with the colliery, the tram tracks, and Sherbourne’s stockings. When she woke in the middle of the night, she was not entwined with her husband.

  He was not, in fact, even in the bed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’m reduced to delivering notes,” Radnor said, passing along Haverford’s epistle to Sherbourne. “If you ever sought revenge on Haverford for past slights, he’s suffering mightily now.”

  Sherbourne broke the seal and read what Radnor probably already knew:

  Sherbourne,

  Brantford will join you for a tour of the works tomorrow at three of the clock, rain or shine. If you were to invite him to dinner thereafter, my duchess would be ever in your debt.

  As would I.

  Haverford

  PS: Her Grace expects to be struck down—e
ven bedridden—by a terrible megrim no later than sundown tomorrow. She will, alas, decline any invitation to join your household for supper. I will remain loyally by my duchess’s side, offering what comfort I can.

  Brantford had spent three days underfoot at Haverford Castle, three days during which Sherbourne had rehearsed optimistic speeches, refined detailed estimates, and watched the rain dribble down the library window panes.

  “His lordship is not good company?” Sherbourne asked.

  “Unlike you, Haverford has probably been troubling himself to be a decent host.” Radnor lifted a glass from the tray on the sideboard. “May I?”

  “Of course, but the noon hour has passed. I was about to ask if you’d prefer tea or a tray before the fire.”

  Sherbourne hadn’t been about to ask any such thing. Failing to offer a guest libation was a gross oversight, and he could not afford to be making gross oversights. Making more gross oversights.

  “I am a bit peckish,” Radnor said. “You aren’t joining your lady wife for a midday meal?”

  “Mrs. Sherbourne is off to the vicarage.” Or avoiding her husband. “She and Miss MacPherson are hatching up some plot or other involving the widows of the parish.”

  Radnor tossed back a nip of excellent French brandy. “Will you order us lunch, or will it appear with a lift of your eyebrow?”

  Sherbourne went to the door and gave the footman instructions. “If you’d also like to dictate the specific menu, Radnor, I’ll send for the housekeeper, who will relay your wishes to Cook. Did Haverford have anything else to say regarding Brantford?”

  And would it have been too much to ask that the ducal fundament grace a saddle to pay a call on nearby family to convey that information in person?

  “His Grace had much to say.” Radnor poured another glass of spirits and brought it to Sherbourne. “None of it fit for polite ears. He’s a newlywed, and yet he takes his duties as a host seriously. I expect the duchess has had to ambush him in the conservatory a time or two.”

  Sherbourne accepted the drink and set it aside. “His Grace is not newly wed, Radnor. He’s recently married, relatively. The only gentleman in this valley who is yet enjoying his honey month is myself.”

  Radnor took a sip of his brandy, smallest finger extended. “You have a point, as usual. How is married life?”

  “Married life is lovely.” The problem was, married life with Charlotte truly could be lovely. She was both a well-bred lady and a restless mind that enjoyed challenges unbefitting of her station.

  Such as being married to Sherbourne, for example.

  “Your tone leaves me to question your veracity, Sherbourne. Early days can be trying.”

  Though Sherbourne rarely partook of strong spirits during daylight hours, he allowed himself to sample the brandy.

  “You are such a lord, Radnor. You’ve been married only a handful of weeks yourself, and you’re already an expert on the institution. You must point out to me that Haverford too is newly married when I attended the ceremony myself. You come bearing a note that tells me little, except that I’ve incurred a debt to Haverford, and I’m supposed to thank you for the courtesy. Why are you really here?”

  Radnor set his glass on the mantel. “If you exhibit such faultless hospitality to Brantford, he’ll withdraw his funds from the mine before Monday next. Is that what you want?”

  Maybe. “If he withdraws, I’ll be hard pressed to move forward at all. Is that what you want?”

  “You’ll abandon the project you fought for years to bring into this valley?”

  Sherbourne could not abandon the mine, not if he expected to support his wife and eventual children in the style they deserved.

  “I’m part owner of a bank,” Sherbourne said. “The bank has recently come into some difficulties.”

  “A bank in difficulties is not good.”

  “Your lordly acumen is raining down like manna from heaven today.” While outside, the sun was attempting to pierce the clouds. For Charlotte’s sake, Sherbourne was happy to see some decent weather. For his own sake, the longer he could put Brantford off, the better.

  Radnor stalked away from the mantel to stick his nose in Sherbourne’s face. “Permit me to visit upon you a short history lesson. I am a marquess.”

  “My condolences on your misfortune.”

  “The marquessate of Radnor, like most marquessates, was established to honor the contribution of a lord of the marches, one granted many privileges beyond those given to mere earls and barons.”

  “Long-windedness among those privileges, obviously.”

  “The marquesses of Radnor keep the peace,” Radnor said, jabbing a finger at Sherbourne’s chest. “I want your damned mine to succeed, you idiot, just as I want Haverford’s flocks and farms to flourish. Why is your bank failing?”

  “The bank is not failing,” Sherbourne said. “It’s in difficulties. Five years ago, the other directors insisted on lending money to a canal scheme. I was against it.”

  “Why? Canals can be quite profitable.”

  “We have enough canals, and steam power will soon connect what few canals need connecting. The mines have already started using steam to haul ore from the collieries to the iron works, and that trend will only continue.”

  Radnor smoothed his fingers over Sherbourne’s cravat and stepped away. “Is that why you’re so hell-bent on this damned mine? You want to see our horses put to pasture by steam locomotives? Nasty odoriferous things, if you ask me.”

  Sherbourne hadn’t asked Radnor. “Your horse’s fragrance is unfailingly delightful? Perhaps he’s an equine marquess.”

  Radnor fetched his glass. “I sold off my last canal shares when Wellington got Boney buttoned up. Steam interests me. Can’t deny that. I gather it doesn’t interest your bank.”

  “If I can make good use at the colliery of current science where steam is concerned, the other directors will get their minds out of the past. A great deal of money is to be made by facing forward, but my directors are almost as bad as Haverford, clinging to—”

  A tap on the door heralded lunch. Three footmen brought in a procession of trays, setting them down on the low table before the sofa. They bowed quite properly and withdrew.

  “The bowing is new,” Sherbourne said. “My wife has taken the staff in hand.” The staff was thriving under the direction of a lady of the house who knew all the rules and when to bend them.

  “Is Mrs. Sherbourne taking you in hand?” Radnor asked, seating himself before a tray. “This is quite a feast. Do sit down. Running the world is hungry work. What will it take to bring your bank right?”

  “Time,” Sherbourne said. “I’m a conservative investor. I choose projects that will yield a sure, steady return. Better than the cent per cents, and unlikely to fail. The mine was supposed to be such a project.”

  “This soup is delicious. Has your mine fallen into difficulties already?”

  “You know about the mudslide.” The beef and vegetable soup was comforting and so, in an odd way, was this discussion with Radnor. He was no fool, despite having Haverford for a best friend.

  “I know of no mudslide,” Radnor said, around a mouthful of buttered bread. “Haverford has heard nothing about a mudslide, and I have it on good authority none of our laborers or masons will mention a mudslide in Lord Brantford’s hearing.”

  Hannibal Jones had been instructed at length on the same topic. “My thanks. You haven’t told me why you’ve graced me with your presence, Radnor.”

  His lordship rose and brought Sherbourne his drink. “My marchioness thought I needed to get out and socialize.”

  “You were driving the poor woman addle-pated.” Sherbourne had likely driven Charlotte addle-pated. “Does your wife correspond with any old friends of the male gender?”

  Radnor dipped his bread in his soup, the same as any yeoman might have. “I should say not. She might tuck a note in with my own correspondence, add a few lines to a letter of mine, that sort of thing. Why?”


  “No reason. What can you tell me about the Caerdenwal woman’s situation?”

  “The who—? Oh, her. Poor creature went into service in Cardiff or Swansea, I forget which. She got with child and that was that. As Griffin so baldly put it, she has a baby but no husband. Is that burgundy in this soup? I do fancy it.”

  How had Charlotte become aware of a fallen woman among Griffin’s tenants, and why would she make a neighborly gesture in that direction before she’d even called on the vicar?

  “The recipe is French,” Sherbourne said. “Mrs. Sherbourne brought many recipes with her, and the kitchen has been in constant readiness for a visit from Lord Brantford.”

  “Does he know about your situation at the bank?”

  “I only found out the day following our little dinner party. The post brought all manner of disappointing news.” Would Mr. Porter write back to Charlotte, and would Sherbourne intercept that letter if he did? When had Charlotte crossed the path of Mrs. Wesley Smythe of East Anglia or Mrs. Wesley Scott in Liverpool?

  “Brantford won’t hear about your bank from me,” Radnor said. “Nobody will.”

  “My thanks.”

  “I doubt you’ll thank me for what I’m about to tell you now.”

  “Another mudslide?” Whatever it was, Radnor had done a good job of keeping his own counsel, while Sherbourne had prattled on about soup recipes and steam.

  “Haverford and I are agreed that Hannibal Jones was negligent in his design of your retaining wall.”

  Charlotte felt the same. “And?”

  “And I did a bit of corresponding with friends, and I think you have a problem on your hands.”

  The soup was no longer hot enough. Sherbourne set his bowl aside and tore a slice of bread in half. “Truly, your insightfulness astounds me, Radnor. I do, indeed, have problems on my hands.” Problems he’d like to discuss with Charlotte, if she ever came home.

  “Hannibal Jones is a very competent engineer.”

  “Considering what I’m paying him, he should be a damned genius, but he apparently forgot that water weighs sixty-two pounds per cubic foot.” An inch of rain falling on a square foot of land weighed slightly more than five pounds, another fact Charlotte had passed along.