Chapter Seven
“But how does one conduct such a liaison without starting talk?” Grey asked. “My last venture into an intimate arrangement had unintended consequences, not the least of which was years of gossip.”
Tresham was trying to teach a very large dog to roll over. The beast—Comus by name—was trying to teach Tresham to surrender bits of cheese for no more effort than a raised paw or thump of the tail.
Grey’s money—if he’d had any to spare—would have been on the dog.
“What sort of consequences?” Tresham asked, making a gesture with his hand. “Sit, Comus.”
Comus woofed encouragingly.
“The sort of consequences that go off to finishing school and then make a quiet come out without being presented at court.”
Tabitha was approaching adulthood at the speed of a galloping horse, or Grey might never have gone fortune hunting. One of his sisters, Jacaranda, had married well enough to assist with Tabitha’s introduction to Society, but Jacaranda had her hands full with her own family.
More to the point, she hadn’t offered to help and she bided in London less and less.
“You have a by-blow?” Tresham asked. “Sit, Comus.”
“I have a daughter born outside of wedlock. The term by-blow sits ill with me. At the time, I intended to marry her mother and live happily ever after.” The words of a naïve and randy youth.
“What did her mother intend?”
“To live happily on a lifetime of lordly largesse, kicking her heels with whichever local lads caught her fancy, apparently. She ran off with a tinker before Tabitha could walk. I’ve been sending her parents a quarterly sum to compensate them for the loss of their daughter’s labor at the posting inn, but that’s hardly restitution for the mischief I caused.”
Comus was enjoying himself thoroughly, from all appearances, swishing a plumy tail and propping on his back legs.
“Casriel, do you honestly think a tavern wench several years your senior took you for her first lover?”
Grey moved a small porcelain figure taken from Botticelli’s Venus Anadyomene, complete with clamshell. He set her on the mantel out of tail-swishing range, and though she was pretty enough, Lady Canmore had more generous breasts, sturdier shoulders, and altogether lovelier eyes.
Her ladyship also had a fine sense of the absurd and wasn’t shy about letting a man know he was desired.
“Whether Tabitha’s mother chose me as her first or her fortieth is hardly a relevant or gentlemanly inquiry. I chose her, and my choice had consequences.”
“A liaison could have consequences. This is the most dunderheaded canine ever to chase a rabbit.”
The notion of a child with Lady Canmore troubled Grey, not because more progeny would be inconvenient and expensive—all family was inconvenient and expensive, also dear—but because Beatitude would be a wonderful mother. He would never try to entrap her into marriage, nonetheless…
A man could still dream, apparently, all practicalities to the contrary. “If you have no useful advice to impart, I’ll be on my way. Please don’t forget to give Mrs. Tresham her parasol.”
“I have advice,” Tresham said. “Don’t marry for money, or not only for money. Marry for friendship, attraction, and joy.”
“None of which will rebuild my dower house, pay for my daughter’s come out, or put new roofs on my tenant cottages, all of which are pressing. How is Sycamore managing at The Coventry Club?”
Tresham shoved the dog’s hindquarters to the carpet. “Sit, damn you.”
“Woof.” Pant-pant-pant, while the dog resumed capering about.
“Why don’t you ask your baby brother, if you’re curious about his fledgling efforts to manage a club?”
“A gaming hell, you mean. I don’t ask because Sycamore’s pride is delicate, and one doesn’t want to pry.” One feared to pry, because Sycamore might view a casual question as an opening to ask for a “small loan.” When made to Cam, those loans never, ever seemed to be repaid.
And yet, Grey recalled too well the years of being a young fellow without means, one who was expected to comport himself about Town as a well-dressed, sociable sprig.
“I don’t pry either,” Tresham said, waving a piece of cheese before the dog’s nose. “Sycamore must run the club as he sees fit, without unsolicited meddling from me.”
The dog’s great head wagged back and forth, attention fixed on the cheese like Sycamore fixed on a pretty woman.
“So you have no idea how he’s doing? You still own The Coventry, don’t you?”
“I own the property and fixtures, but my posture is that of landlord. I’ve asked the staff not to involve me beyond that role, and they have respected my wishes. Theodosia has set notions about gambling establishments, and I have set notions about keeping my wife happy.”
“I wish you better success with that endeavor than you’re having as a trainer of dogs.”
Grey’s brother Willow was a trainer of dogs, and a damned good one. Will had imparted enough knowledge that Grey had to take pity on the poor dog, who was being patient beyond anything Tresham deserved.
Grey plucked the cheese from Tresham’s grasp. “Comus, sit.”
Comus cocked his head, then sat.
“Good boy,” Grey said, hunkering to put the cheese at carpet level. “Down, Comus.”
Comus went down on all fours. Now came the delicate part. Grey moved his hand as if about to rub the beast’s belly, and Comus obligingly rolled to his back. A slight temptation with the cheese and the roll continued to complete a side-to-side half circle of very large dog.
“You rolled over.” He gave the dog the cheese and a pat on the head. “Excellent work, Comus. Good boy for rolling over.”
Tresham scowled thunderously, while Comus adopted the hopeful look of patient dogs the world over.
“If you conduct a liaison,” Tresham said, “with as much confidence and dispatch you show when handling that mastiff, the object of your affections is a very lucky woman indeed.”
“I’m rather hoping she will go about the business with confidence and dispatch, while I do the tail wagging and panting. I’ll see myself out.”
Tresham resumed being trained by the dog, while Grey counted the visit a general waste of time. He’d returned Mrs. Tresham’s parasol, learned nothing of Sycamore’s financial situation, and gleaned even less about—
He stopped on the landing of Tresham’s stairs, for a lady had come to call and was removing her bonnet.
“Lady Canmore, good day.”
She beamed at him, and his heart sped up. Stupid, stupid, stupid, but there it was. If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging hard enough to topple furniture.
“My lord, this is a pleasure. I had intended to call upon Mrs. Tresham.”
He descended step by step when he wanted to leap the distance or slide down the bannister. “I believe Mrs. Tresham is from home. Might I escort you to your next destination?”
The butler remained discreetly silent, holding her ladyship’s bonnet. Perhaps Mrs. Tresham was out. More likely, a ducal butler had more sense than Grey’s servants.
Which was a problem when a discreet liaison sat at the top of a man’s list of immediate priorities.
Her ladyship took the bonnet back from the butler. “Thank you, my lord. Today is half day for my servants, and I’m sure my footman would rather while away the afternoon with a pint at the pub than indulge my social schedule.”
That was for the benefit of the butler, surely. Grey accepted his hat and cane, escorted Lady Canmore to the walkway, and waited while she dismissed a sizable fellow in livery. The footman gave Grey a dubious look, bowed, and marched off as ordered.
“Is it half day at your abode?” Grey asked, when he should have been inquiring about the lady’s health or the weather or some damned pleasantry.
God, she smelled lovely. All flowery and wonderful, like Papa’s scent garden on a still summer day.
“Today is ha
lf day for all but one kitchen maid, my lord, and she does not move about above stairs unless specifically summoned.”
Grey offered his arm. “Beatitude?”
She sauntered along, her arm entwined with his. “Perhaps you’d like to come in for a cup of tea, or share a plate of sandwiches?”
“Most kind of you. As it happens, my schedule allows me that pleasure.”
She slanted a glance at him under the brim of her bonnet, and Grey sent up a prayer that he could escort her to her doorstep without breaking into a dead run.
“We should tell Grey.” Ash Dorning tossed a pencil onto the blotter and stared at the stack of calculations before him. Neither he, Oak, Valerian, or Hawthorne had taken the seat behind the desk. At Dorning Hall, they gathered in the earl’s study out of habit. They yielded Papa’s chair to Grey out of an instinct for self-preservation.
He who occupied the earl’s chair carried many burdens.
“Maybe Sycamore will have the needed funds,” Oak ventured. “He’s good with figures and works his skinny arse off when he’s motivated.” Oak was the natural administrator of the group, able to see how a project ought to go, step by step. He didn’t begin an endeavor until that path was clear before him. He painted in the same fashion, staring into space for hours or days before embarking on the simplest landscape, which invariably turned out to have details and subtleties that revealed themselves only upon careful study.
“Sycamore larks the day and night away when he’s not motivated,” Valerian replied from a worn chair before the desk. “He was last motivated months ago, when the issue was leaving university for the blandishments of Town.”
“Cam is new to managing The Coventry,” Ash said. “He won’t have the sum needed.”
“That leaves us.” Hawthorne was the only one of them taller than Grey and more muscular. He was their plowman, the voice of truth amid a lot of banter and horseplay. Thorne had always been a bit apart, just as Sycamore was always in the thick of things.
“How bad is it?” Oak asked.
“Merely terrible,” Ash replied. “I had hoped we could rebuild on the remaining foundation for the southern wing. The engineer’s report says that wing experienced the worst subsidence of the whole lot. If we rebuild the dower house anywhere, it shouldn’t be on the existing foundation, and that means more expense.”
Dorset was wonderful sheep country, but in places it was also riddled with caves, bogs, and other features that made building large edifices merry hell when those edifices were expected to stand for centuries.
“Doesn’t seem fair,” Valerian remarked, propping his boots on a corner of the desk. Valerian always had the newest boots, though even his were showing a want of polish today. “We have a bloody big pile of bricks, stones, and even timbers, and no place to put up a proper dower house. I had plans for that dower house.”
They were all eager to leave Dorning Hall, all hopeful that soon they’d be able to make their own way in the world rather than linger here. The polite fiction was that they assisted with running the estate. The truth was Grey had scrimped and saved to give his brothers a gentleman’s education, and the lot of them—save Will and now Sycamore—were little more than poor relations making work for the maids.
“We should write to Will,” Oak said, not for the first time. “Will’s sensible, and he’s earning some blunt with his dogs.”
Will had married an earl’s daughter, and her settlements were likely all that stood between him and poverty. Raising and training working dogs, training aristocrats in the management of their kennels, and otherwise working from dawn to midnight was in Will’s nature, provided the work involved canines.
“Will must contemplate supporting a family,” Ash said, taking another turn pacing a hole in the already threadbare carpet. “We can’t expect him to keep doing our thinking for us.”
“We have the cottage,” Thorne pointed out. “Complaisance Cottage has a spectacular view of the valley and the sea, and the roof is mostly sound.”
Ash was learning to hate roofs, foundations, bearing walls, and pipes. He truly hated pipes. “I refuse to pester Grey with all of this when he’s supposed to be courting a bride.”
“Grey won’t thank us for hiding bad news,” Valerian said. “He’s the earl. Is he supposed to bring his bride home to a smoldering ruin for a dower house, leaking cottages, and tenants in revolt?”
“The rain put out the last of the fire.” The rain had also necessitated putting off the haymaking, which meant the crop would not be as nutritious when made.
At least they’d have a crop. Some years…
“How does he do it?” Oak muttered, going to the window. “How does Casriel persist in the face of unending setbacks?”
“Setbacks must become normal after a time,” Valerian said, tipping his chair onto two legs. “I hope Casriel’s having better luck with his courting.”
Thorne shoved away from the bookshelf where he’d been leaning. “We are not dashing off to London to meddle in his courting. Any proper lady will take one look at us and marry the nearest cit rather than give Casriel a chance to pay his addresses.”
“We’re not that bad,” Oak said. “I could take up work as a drawing master. I’ve been meaning to send out inquiries.”
He’d been meaning to send out inquiries for years. Oak was shy, and drawing masters were supposed to be charming rather than talented.
Valerian could have been a tutor, not that he was particularly academic, but after Grey, Valerian was the closest they had to a well-bred gentleman. He had charm, small talk, subtle graces on the dance floor, excellent command of foreign languages, and all manner of talents a young man going up to university needed to know.
Valerian could spot a card cheat, knew the Code Duello by heart, and sensed how to diffuse awkward moments so that a pair of loaded Mantons were never needed. He was a dead shot, an excellent horseman, and knowledgeable about men’s and ladies’ fashions.
Dorset society had no need for a male finishing governess, though, or even a female one.
Thorne was slipping into the role of over-steward, supervising the house and land stewards, which had been mostly Will’s responsibility.
While Ash’s job—keeping Sycamore alive and out of jail—had become less pressing now that Sycamore was playing at managing a gaming hell.
“We might have to visit London,” Ash said. “Only Grey can make some of these decisions. The land and fixtures are his, and he’ll be the one left to clean up the messes we make.”
As usual. The words remained unspoken, even by Thorne.
“We should write to Will and let him know what we’re up against,” Oak said. “Not to beg money from him, but to ask for suggestions. He knows all the tenancies, knows every field and fen we own, every brindle cow and one-eyed cat. He might have some ideas.”
“Then we write to Sycamore as well,” Thorne said. “At the club, not at the town house where Grey will see the letter and possibly open it. We write to keep him informed, not to beg money. Sycamore is a wily devil, and he listens at the damnedest keyholes.”
Because we taught him that. “I’ll go over the figures again,” Ash said. “But the rain is not only reducing the quality of our hay, it’s affecting the corn crops. We’re not looking at a failed harvest, but we’re not looking at bumper crops either.”
“The growing season is still early,” Thorne said, heading for the door. “Write to Will and Cam, tell Grey all is proceeding as usual here and best of luck with his courting.”
Oak shuffled out after Thorne, leaving Valerian scowling at the empty hearth and Ash scowling at his calculations. All that brick, all that timber and rubble, and nowhere stable to rebuild the dower house? Perhaps that was for the best when there was no money to pay an architect, much less a builder.
“How is the book coming?” Ash asked, because that’s what one asked Valerian. He was compiling an etiquette manual for young gentlemen, which was ironic. Of all the Dorning brothers, Gr
ey alone was fit to write such a volume. Valerian had the manners, turn of phrase, and fashion sense. Grey had the soul of a gentleman.
“The manuscript is coming along nicely.” Valerian’s standard answer.
“I pray to God that Grey’s courting is coming along better than nicely,” Ash said. “I pray he’s sitting at this very minute with a tea cup balanced on his lordly knee, a wealthy heiress simpering at him from every compass point.”
“And their doting mamas beaming at him from across the room. We live in hope.”
They lived in fear. What if Grey could not marry well? What if lightning struck Dorning Hall itself? What if the rain resumed?
“I know something I did not know before,” Ash said.
Valerian peered at him. “Never say you’re considering holy orders. Matters aren’t that dire, are they?”
They hadn’t been before the fire, before the rain, before the subsiding foundation, before leaking roofs…
“I could never, ever be the earl,” Ash said. “I used to wonder… I’m in line behind Will and Grey, but under no circumstances ever, at all, to any degree, do I want the title. I’d go barking mad in a week.”
“Three days,” Valerian said, rising. “If I’d last even that long. Thorne could endure possibly a fortnight. Oak wouldn’t manage a day.”
“We need Grey to find that heiress, the sooner the better. I don’t care if she’s a harpy with horns and a tail, if her money can spare Grey this lot of tribulation, I will be her most devoted servant and say nice things about her too.”
“I’ll dedicate my book to her in a sonnet worthy of the Bard. Is there any brandy left?”
A fine suggestion. “Sycamore’s not here to steal it all. Pour me a tot as well, and we’ll drink to our next countess.”
Now that the moment to embark on the intimate part of this liaison was upon Addy, she was torn between eagerness and something else.
Not caution. As a young bride, she’d benefited from Roger’s experience and learned that lovemaking was supposed to be pleasurable. For a time, it had been. Then Roger had become preoccupied with siring an heir, and Addy had frequently found herself against a wall, sprawled on a desk, or hauled into the servants’ stair. For a time, that too had at least been novel.
A Truly Perfect Gentleman Page 11