“And that Casriel,” Mrs. Whitling replied, fanning herself with her program, “is no longer a boy.”
Casriel was a gentleman. A true, honest, kind gentleman, and Beatitude must stop thinking about him or she’d go mad.
She left off pretending to study the bouquet on the piano as the earl solicitously assisted Miss Drusilla Arbuckle into her chair. Beatitude hadn’t meant to see that, hadn’t meant to catch the earl’s eye, but his companions were the last of the guests to be seated.
Casriel winked at her—subtly, discreetly—but Beatitude caught that too.
“The situation isn’t awful,” Jonathan Tresham said, passing Grey a sheet of figures. “You’re solvent, treading water as they say.”
Tresham was a duke’s heir and a genius with figures. The latter capability had defined him entirely until recently, when marriage to Theodosia Haviland had brought a more balanced focus to Tresham’s outlook.
Grey considered Tresham a close acquaintance, not quite a friend. But then, even close acquaintances didn’t generally audit a man’s books for him, much less at no fee.
“Treading water won’t do,” Grey replied. “With Willow married, I still have five younger brothers who are also treading water. They need a start in life, and I’m the one who is supposed to provide it to them. Treading water won’t do when a landlord is responsible for every repair and improvement made to his tenant holdings. Treading water won’t serve when I’m to take a bride, and my finances will soon be dissected by that lady’s family.”
Tresham leaned back in his chair. “Have you chosen your countess? You were seen paying particular attention to the Arbuckle twins last night.”
“They wanted for company, and Sycamore likes them.” Not quite true. They wanted for husbands.
“They want for tutelage in ladylike deportment,” Tresham replied. “Theo says they gossip with each other like magpies. Your finances would pass muster with such as them.”
“Because of the title. I begin to understand my father more clearly.”
Tresham rearranged the papers. “One of the blessings of maturity, I suppose, is to gain insight into one’s father’s situation. Yours was a botanist, I believe.”
Botanist kindly skirted less charitable terms—eccentric, for example. “Papa named his children Grey Birch, Willow, Jacaranda, Ash, Oak, Hawthorne, Valerian, Sycamore, and Daisy. If he wasn’t a botanist, he was daft.”
Tresham set the figures on the desk. “Was he both?” Tresham’s father had been a rogue, indulging in every vice permitted to a duke’s spare, and a few forbidden to even those idle creatures.
“At the end, he was more daft than botanist, but you try raising nine children on the proceeds from one glorified sheep farm and see what’s left of your sanity.” Grey’s step-mother had certainly parted with her composure somewhere between sons number three and four.
“Nine is a lot of children.” Tresham’s observation bore an air of curiosity, but then, he was newly married and doubtless fascinated by the privileges attendant to that station.
“Nine is too many. Ye gods, what if I had more than two sisters? Do you know what an earl’s daughter requires in the way of a dowry these days?” Grey knew—he’d done that calculation many times—and he hadn’t half those funds at his disposal though they’d doubtless be needed.
Tresham rose. He was exquisitely attired, while Grey was in shirt-sleeves, his cuffs turned back, his waistcoat a plain blue affair chosen for comfort rather than style. All of his waistcoats were blue, because simple gold accessories went well with blue, and yet, he had favorites among the lot.
“I am acquainting myself with what’s required for a duke’s daughter,” Tresham said. “Diana will be raised as if she were my own, and Seraphina will soon make her come out.” The new Mrs. Tresham had brought a daughter and a younger sister to the union, and Tresham, naturally, had taken on the expenses incurred by both.
Naturally for him.
He wandered around the estate office, pausing to admire a painting of Durdle Door. “Who is the artist? This is not the typical seascape.”
“I painted it. My brother Oak is the real talent, though.” Oak had never tried his hand at the peculiar formation on the Dorset coast that looked as if a dragon were drinking from the sea. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do to improve your finances?”
Tresham moved on to the landscape of Dorning Hall, with the abbey ruins crumbling in the distance.
“I’m not a farmer, Casriel, and your situation is mostly agrarian. Some people advise selling off acres, but in your case, those acres produce income. Others advise borrowing to invest. As a peer, you cannot be jailed for unpaid debt, so the strategy isn’t particularly risky, but you are honorable, which means you would never walk out on a commercial venture simply because it proved costly.”
If Jonathan Tresham had no idea how to improve the earldom’s finances, then the conundrum could not be solved.
“You don’t mention marrying for money.”
Tresham’s next distraction was a set of shepherd’s pipes made for Grey when he’d been a boy. “One doesn’t want to state the obvious, Casriel. You have a title, you are solvent, you have no direct heir, and you’re in London for the Season.”
Grey hadn’t lasted the whole Season the previous spring. He’d grown too damned homesick and had lacked the fortitude to face the house parties. The mere stink of London—horse droppings, coal, and mud—had brought all of last year’s failure rushing back.
I am turning into my father. “I watched while the title-hunters and matchmakers tried to ensnare you,” Grey said, rising to take the pipes from Tresham’s grasp. “I found a reason to be grateful that I’m a mere earl, not a duke’s heir or a marquess. These are fragile, and they have sentimental value.”
Tresham’s gaze fell on the pile of figures in the center of Grey’s blotter. “You don’t have to marry at all. If ever an earl had abundant spares, it was your late father.”
“Who wanted nothing more than to spend his life communing with trees.”
“What happened?”
“I happened.” The plain truth, and not even that unusual a truth among British aristocracy or courting couples regardless of station. Except that Mama and Papa hadn’t been courting.
Tresham was at a loss for words, which should have been a small victory for earls everywhere, but a tap on the door interrupted the moment.
“Enter.”
The butler stepped into the room and bowed. “A lady to see you, my lord. She’s brought a harp.”
Grey rolled down his sleeves. “If she has wings and a halo, tell her I’m not at home.”
Tresham snorted. “His lordship is hunting for a countess and cannot be distracted by celestial intercessors.”
Crevey had served the Dorning family since he’d been a boot-boy back in Dorset. He was doubtless withholding the woman’s name out of discretion.
“I’ll show her to the family parlor, my lord, and tell the kitchen to send up a nice tray. You won’t want to keep her waiting.”
“Is she pretty?” Tresham asked that ungentlemanly question.
“None of your business.” Grey slipped plain gold sleeve buttons into his cuffs, though he couldn’t help but hope the Countess of Canmore had come to call. He liked her, though he must not court her and must not mislead her.
“Why not the formal parlor?” Tresham asked.
Crevey sent Grey a look, bowed, and withdrew.
“The formal parlor faces the street.” Grey shrugged into his morning coat. “If a lady calls on me, I’d like the option of keeping the visit private, rather than advertise my guest’s identity to any passerby.”
Tresham batted Grey’s hands aside and began doing up his coat buttons. “You’re going about this marriage business all wrong.”
“How many weeks have you been married?”
“I’ve been a ducal heir since childhood. You should marry the lady whom you can’t imagine spending the rest
of your life without. If she’s marrying you on the same terms, all will be well.”
“I recall a certain gentleman who approached the business with a list and with an advisor from among the widows. He had criteria, a schedule, an objective, and a complete disregard for matches based upon sentiment.”
Tresham stepped back and held his arms wide. “And look at that fellow now. In charity with life, devoted to wife and family, a friend to mankind.”
“And so bloody humble about his undeserved good fortune,” Grey muttered, examining his reflection in the cheval mirror.
“That is a disgraceful waistcoat, by the way,” Tresham said. “I can give you the name of my tailor.”
But not the means to pay the man. “The blue goes well with my eyes. Thank you for your efforts, Tresham, and give mankind a great big friendly kiss on the cheek for me.”
Grey saw Tresham off at the front door and turned his steps to the family parlor, where—he hoped—her ladyship might have brought him another harp to be restrung. He’d chosen his oldest blue waistcoat for comfort, and also because it reminded him of her ladyship’s eyes.
His hopes were doomed, as it turned out. The harp was a disaster and Lady Canmore nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Fredericka Beauchamp—her ladyship’s Aunt Freddy—had taken Grey’s favorite reading chair and demolished half the tea tray by the time he joined her.
“Casriel,” she said, half a biscuit in her hand. “Have a seat. This one’s in bad condition, but I’ve every confidence you can put it to rights. These biscuits are too dry. Pour a tired old woman a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you all about my friend here.”
Casriel wanted to return to Tresham’s figures, to visit his horse, to sit down to a meal of more than biscuits and sandwiches. He instead took the place across from Mrs. Beauchamp.
“Ma’am, a pleasure to see you. Tell me about that little beauty, for I’m sure it’s a tale worth sharing.”
Mrs. Beauchamp finished her biscuit, took a sip of tea, and launched into a recitation that took up the next hour of Grey’s afternoon.
Chapter Two
“Casriel’s really not that bad,” Drusilla said, “and he is an earl.”
Anastasia paused in the corridor before the mirror hanging across from their bedroom door and made her Thoughtful Expression. “His lordship knows something about music. We must allow that to be a gentlemanly attribute.”
“Don’t arch your eyebrows,” Drusilla suggested. “You want a pensive quality rather than skepticism.”
“Like this?” Anastasia tried again, pursing her lips, gaze downward, eyes serious.
“Exactly like that. Contemplative, as if measuring your words before deigning to share them with the gentleman.”
Anastasia pulled her over to the mirror. “You do it.”
They spent a few minutes perfecting the Thoughtful Expression. Anastasia set great store by her arsenal of expressions and glances, while Drusilla was the expert on the languages of the fan, gloves, and parasol. Both sisters considered a hearty luncheon important, because Mama and Papa took the midday meal together, one of few times they were in the same room for any length of time.
“You didn’t need your reproachful look last evening,” Drusilla observed. “Lord Casriel has fine manners.”
“I suppose we must account that a gentlemanly accomplishment too. He also has a half-dozen brothers, all in good health. One needn’t provide him a spare.”
“But one ought to, unless one wants to become an Object of Pity.”
Anastasia shuddered. “The very mention of such a fate will upset my digestion, but then the notion of the wedding night…” She wore her Honestly Uneasy Expression, not something a lady had to practice where Casriel was concerned. He was a great strapping specimen of earlhood, and that was fine for when a lady needed assistance into a phaeton, but not so fine when the lady was married to that specimen.
“Mama says the wedding night is quickly over,” Drusilla murmured. “Do we know anybody who has visited at the family seat in Dorset?”
“We do not, but Dru, Mama says twins run in families.”
“And we know what twins can do to a lady’s figure.” Mama expounded at great length on that topic. Drusilla paused by the mirror outside the breakfast parlor. “We are in good looks today. Well rested after passing an agreeable evening.”
“Agreeable is putting too fine a point on it, Dru.”
“Is it? I thought Casriel acquitted himself well enough. He can discuss music, he knew something about Lady Fogerty’s landscapes, and his brother is a flirt.”
“We aren’t supposed to enjoy the company of flirts, sister dearest. You know Where That Can Lead.”
Drusilla fluffed her bangs with her smallest finger while she peered at her reflection to check for emerging freckles. She rubbed her skin with a raw potato religiously to ensure freckles did not become a problem.
“Flirtation leads straight to Ruin,” Drusilla said. “I suspect Ruin is a village outside of Bath or some other spa town.”
They were still smiling over that notion when the footman seated them on either side of their mama, who had donned her usual Serene Expression, while Papa was for once not taking his meal from behind The London Gazette.
“I hear my darling daughters shared their evening with an earl,” Papa said. “Well done, my dears.”
Anastasia waited until the footman had withdrawn, for the meal was taken en famille. “I thought you said Lord Casriel was beneath our notice, Papa.”
“Your mother has persuaded me to reconsider my opinion of the man, and you know how convincing your mother can be.”
Mama placidly sipped her tea. “Casriel has thousands of acres and is said to be a conscientious landlord, not like some who leave the poor tenants to struggle with overgrown hedges and leaking roofs.”
Papa sawed away at his ham. “The Dornings are an old and respected family. One of the sisters married a Kettering, another old and respected family. The Dorning spare married a Haddonfield. Lord Casriel’s connections are above reproach.”
Beyond all things, Papa treasured good connections, and he’d apparently been researching Casriel’s—or Mama had.
“The earl has lovely eyes,” Mama said. “The Dornings are legendary for those beautiful eyes.”
Mama cared nothing for a man’s eyes, but she very much wanted her daughters to marry well.
“He’s a fortune hunter,” Drusilla said, lest Mama wax admiring about his cravat, which had been plain to a fault.
“You said we weren’t to consider him,” Anastasia added, though last night Mama had bade them accept his lordship’s invitation to sit with him and his brother. On the way home, she’d made comments about a lady being at pains to ensure no gentleman felt excluded from a gathering, graciousness to the less well situated, and other nonsense.
This morning, Lord Casriel had lovely eyes and good connections.
“Fortune hunter is such a vulgar term.” Mama poured herself more tea, then passed Drusilla the pot. “Let’s first determine if his nature is agreeable before we pry into his finances. I want my girls to be happy.”
And happiness, as was known to all, depended on being well situated. Ladies married to titled men were Very Well Situated. Papa had no title, which left a daughter with something to puzzle over.
Papa had a fortune, though, as a result of his own antecedents having invested in shipping ventures during the reign of George II. The Arbuckles weren’t old money, in other words, but they were eminently respectable and quite well-to-do.
Grandpapa Arbuckle had purchased not one but three country manors, two of which were slated to become dower properties for the twins. To further advance the family’s standing in the world, the Arbuckles needed to acquire a connection to a title. Drusilla and Anastasia had learned that lesson before they’d been taught to remember Good King George in their prayers every night.
“Pass the pot, Dru,” Anastasia said. “How do we determine if a man’s nature is agreeabl
e?”
“You spend time with him,” Mama said as Papa picked up the paper. “You converse, you dance, you enjoy a supper waltz if you can. I’ve been considering your invitations and have decided to make a few changes.”
Mama considered the invitations with more focus than Wellington had likely brought to his quartermaster’s reports.
“Are we to attend the Hendershots’ card party tonight?” Drusilla rather fancied Mr. Xerxes Anderson, even if he had been sent down from university again.
“Possibly,” Mama said. “For a certainty you will attend the Bowlers’ ball tomorrow night. They are not the best company a young lady could find, but they are decent, and their fortunes are said to be improving.”
They were richer than Papa, in other words. More to the point, Lord Casriel was likely to be there.
Drusilla affixed her Cheerfully Agreeable Expression to her features, while Anastasia adopted the same look.
“I love a ball,” Drusilla said.
“Who doesn’t?” Anastasia added with a bright smile. She picked up her knife and fork and went after the slab of meat on her plate.
Drusilla did likewise, though, really, balls were growing tedious, titled men were growing tedious, and making stupid faces designed to convey false emotions was growing very tedious indeed.
Grey was back in the estate office, coat off, slipping his sleeve buttons free, when the butler intruded again.
“A lady to see you, my lord. Your luncheon tray was on the way up from the kitchen. I sent it back and told Cook you’ll need more tea and cakes.”
The thought of yet more tea and cakes made Grey bilious. “Thank you,” he said, shrugging back into his coat. “Did the lady give you a card?”
“She did not.”
Does she have lovely blue eyes that seem to peer straight into your soul? “After this call, I will not be home to visitors for the rest of the afternoon. My correspondence won’t answer itself.”
“Very good, my lord.” Crevey withdrew, his step obnoxiously sprightly.
A Truly Perfect Gentleman Page 2