“What is wrong with Stonemoor?” Andres repeated.
Lord Dobbins lowered his arm. “I haven’t an idea what it even looks like. The property has been in my family for a generation or two. It means nothing to me other than an account on my ledgers. But it could mean everything to you. Especially since it would be yours. There is no entailment, no lien.”
His.
Andres let himself believe. He couldn’t stop himself from doing so. He was a dreamer. It was his nature to wish the impossible. Had it not served him well before?
He didn’t care where Northumberland was. He’d already traveled to the ends of the earth in pursuit of his dream—and he did have the mare he shared with Holburn. Destinada was her name. The perfect name for the horse upon which he would build his reputation. And now here he was, being offered stables, land … a home.
Of course it was a trick. It had to be. Dobbins owed him no goodwill.
But did it matter? He was a man with nothing. Land could be molded into whatever he wished. If it was marshy, he’d drain it. Dry and arid? He’d build a canal to the sea if need be.
He reached for the document, but Lord Dobbins snatched it back. “One requirement.”
Of course. “Yes?”
“You must depart London immediately.”
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow?”
Andres laughed. “You are jesting.”
“Very well then, three days and then you are gone. Out of London. And you will not return. If you do, if you step foot in this city again, and I most certainly can monitor that, then the deed reverts back to me. It’s mine.”
Never return to London again—in exchange for land, and stables? For a home?
“I will agree to that,” Andres said.
“Good,” Lord Dobbins answered. He slipped the deed back into the portfolio. “My man of business is Harold Deeter, Esquire. His offices are on Atherington Street. Meet me there tomorrow at half past eleven and we shall go over the formalities and sign papers.” He laughed lightly. “I can see by your expression, Ramigio, you don’t quite trust me. If I were a man like yourself, one who has worn many hats, I would feel the same. However, the offer is good. The property will be yours.” He reached up and rapped on the roof of the coach, a signal to the driver to stop. “You don’t mind if I drop you here, do you, Ramigio? I have another engagement.”
Andres shrugged, still stunned by the turn of events. Two hundred acres. A house. Stables.
The coach rolled to a halt.
“Until tomorrow,” Dobbins said.
“Yes, tomorrow.” Andres searched his lordship’s face in the coach light and did not read subterfuge. Either Dobbins was an unusually adept card player, or he meant exactly what he said.
Andres opened the door and climbed out. The coach rolled away. He watched it until it turned a corner and was out of sight.
Two hundred acres.
He then took stock of his surroundings. He was not in a bad section of town. There was a park across the street and the roads were wide and modern. He thought he might be in Mayfair. He couldn’t see a street sign, but he knew that if he walked, he’d find one.
The night was cold and clouds were moving across the moon. He’d not worn a coat, and he now regretted it … except that he was going to own a piece of property—in Northumberland.
Stonemoor. He liked the sound of it. He began walking, not caring where he was going, his mind working feverishly enough for him to forget everything, even the cold, as he began accepting and planning for Stonemoor. He would be Andres Ramigio Peiró, lord of Stonemoor.
His mother, his father’s lover, had always promised him that he was destined for great things. She’d whispered that a village crone with a gift for sight had told her so on the eve of his birth. She’d died when he was seven and that is when the barón had taken him into his house.
Andres had believed then that going to live with his father had been the fulfillment of the crone’s prophecy. Yet the years had not proven it true.
But this must be what she’d meant.With Stonemoor and the mare Andres had at Holburn’s country stables, he could rebuild a dynasty. The mare was already breeding. Holburn had covered her with his best stallion, a leggy Thoroughbred known for speed. If Andres had the money, he could purchase more mares and breed an even more spectacular stallion of his own….
Money. Estates needed money, especially to build what he had in mind. He saw stables of the sort that his father had had. A cobbled stable yard. Grooms to see to the horses’ every need.
He’d have to ask Dobbins if the house was furnished or if there were wagons and equipment. The list of what he needed expanded in the space of a few steps.
Andres stopped. Two gentlemen wrapped up in heavy greatcoats were approaching him from the opposite direction. They cast him curious glances as they walked past. He was just standing there, but little did they know that his mind was flying.
He needed money. He could borrow it, but then he’d be beholden to whoever lent it. Andres wanted Stonemoor for himself.
And then he remembered Miss Montross’s conversation in the library.
She had money. Her own money. Money not connected with the dowry or any inheritance from her father.
Money that came to her upon marriage.
He knew she wasn’t completely fond of him. In fact, she might be the only woman in the world who wasn’t attracted to him.
But if he could win her over, he could have his every dream. He had to believe his path had crossed hers for a reason. Certainly, now, he understood that moment of connection in the library. Fate was trying to capture his attention.
Andres started walking. Abby Montross was not going to be one of his usual conquests. She was smarter, wiser … and truly in love with another man.
But he’d think of a way around her.
And he was looking forward to the challenge.
Chapter Five
Abby Montross was never, ever going to marry. She made that vow silently over luncheon. Her father had invited Lord Villier to dine. It was supposed to have been a spontaneous idea brought on by the night before. However, Abby caught on quickly that this meal had been planned for at least a week.
First, there was Cook’s menu. Luncheon was usually a light meal, some cold chicken, bread, perhaps a soup. This day, it was a Portuguese ham, a round of beef, hot chicken, seven different side dishes, and Cook’s almond cake. Her father even ordered his finest wine to be uncorked, a wine he’d boasted he was saving for a special occasion.
Her father had also ordered up the full complement of servants—a footman behind every chair.
Abby wouldn’t have minded all the fuss if Lord Villier had turned out to be a different person from the one he was.
She didn’t think she was picky. After all, if she couldn’t marry the man she loved, what did it matter? At least that had been her attitude toward Mr. Lynsted. However, Mr. Lynsted had been a gentleman of refined tastes, quiet, dignified, and rather shy.
Lord Villier was as wide as he was tall and walked with vigorous arm movement, as if he pumped himself forward. He had a balding pate with tufts of graying brown hair over each ear and the most narrow-set, watery blue eyes Abby had ever seen. She hoped he hadn’t passed on such an unfortunate trait to any of his thirteen offspring.
He also had a tendency to belch.
The first time he did it, he held a fist to his mouth and handled the matter rather politely … considering what it was.
But by the time Cook’s cake was served, he was so mellowed by good food and good wine that he burped aloud.
Abby caught her mother’s eye. She looked as offended, and worried, as Abby felt herself.
Her father seemed not to notice, signaling instead for the dessert wine to be poured.
Indeed, her father gave every impression of admiring Lord Villier.
Abby discovered why when the conversation turned to money. Lord Villier’s interest, his life,revolved around i
nvestments. In his position at the Treasury, he received a great deal of information the common man would not know. A man such as her father could make good use of this knowledge.
That Lord Villier was interested in her was plain to see. The more he drank, the more he leered in her direction. By the time lunch was finished, he was talking to her bosom more than he was talking to her.
This her father did notice.
He hurried his lordship out the door.
Returning to the dining room, where Abby and her mother still stood, their heads together to share their grave reservations, he immediately burst out, “I know, I know. He’s not ideal. However, he does have very good contacts. And he liked Abigail.” He said the last in a rush of words as if in fear of their reaction.
“Heath, certainly we can do better,” Abby’s mother protested.
Her father looked pointedly at the servants, who were clearing the table while listening to every word. “That will be all for now,” he told them.
The footmen dutifully left the room.
Once Abby was alone with her parents, her father repeated, “He likes her. The man is powerful. Now that he has decided she would make a good Lady Villier, I don’t know many who would challenge him for her.”
“A good third Lady Villier,” Abby pointed out. “I don’t think I can do this, Father. I can’t marry that man. If he belches in public, what does he do in private?”
Both her parents gave a shudder.
Her father wasn’t ready to let it go, though. “Abigail, you would have a good life. I don’t want you married to just any man. I want one who has a fortune and won’t be reliant on yours. Do you want someone younger, more attractive—”
“Better personal habits,” her mother interjected.
“Fewer children,” Abby added in agreement.
“Stop that,” her father said. “This is a serious subject.”
“We are being serious,” her mother answered.
“Catherine, we discussed this last night,” her father said. “You agreed that if I could find a man willing to marry Abigail for her money, there was a risk he’d forget her as soon as he had it in hand.” He looked to Abby. “Those sorts of men are philanderers, gamblers, scoundrels. I want much more for my only daughter. I want security for you.”
“I want the same, Father. Can you not trust me to make my own choice?”
“No.”
His answer stunned her.
“I’ve spent years watching you moon over Freddie Sherwin,” he said. “And while you were thinking him so heroic and marvelous, I was thinking him a proper idiot. He can’t make up his mind about anything. A real man sets his sights on a goal and goes after it with the intensity of a dog after a bone.”
“Are you comparing me to a bone, Father?” Abby asked, knowing such a deliberate misunderstanding would annoy him, and it did.
“None of your games, Missy. I’m well aware that you’ve a shrewd mind … although why you dream of Sherwin is a mystery to me. I’m protecting you for your own sake—and your mother agrees.”
Abby rounded on her, wanting the truth of it from her.
Her mother’s lips parted, as if she’d been caught in surprise before she admitted, “I did agree. We want you well taken care of.”
“And did you marry Father for security, Mother?”
“It was a different day and age,” her mother hedged. “Everything now is so push, push, push. I know what the poets say, but the truth is, Abby, falling in love is a ticklish prospect. As we’ve said to you before, your father and I were most fortunate. And I do think Freddie loves you. But he’s not courageous. Your father was, and perhaps that is the big difference between them. Love calls for courage.”
“There must be someone else,” Abby insisted. “I can’t sleep in the same bed with Lord Villier. I won’t.”
Both of her parents were rather reserved. Her words brought color to her mother’s cheeks.
However, her father surprised her. He muttered something under his breath and then said with steely resolution, “You might not have to put up with him very often. He has enough children as it is. But if it comes to that, daughter, and it must, because a marriage has to be consummated to be valid, then I expect you to carry on smartly. Let him do his diddling while you think on other things. I can’t imagine it will take a man like him more than a minute or two.”
Now it was Abby’s turn for her cheeks to burn.
Her father continued, pressing his case. “Lynsted is a bastard for jilting you, but we can salvage this. Villier is considered a catch by many—”
“None of them under forty, I’d wager,” Abby murmured.
Her frankness earned an amused light in her father’s eye. “It’s a wager I’d not take,” he conceded. He looked to her mother. “This is what happens when I teach my daughter to speak her mind and value her intellect. And I’m not sorry for it, except for times like these, when I must act for your own best interests, Abigail.”
Everything inside Abby wanted to rebel … but there was the small fear he might well be right.
Her father crossed over to her. “You may never understand this until you are much, much older, Abby, my girl, but I am acting in your best interests. I will accept Villier’s offer if he makes one.” He placed a kiss on her forehead and left the room.
A moment later, the front door shut. He was gone, back to his banks, to his investments, his other life.
Her mother broke the silence. “He really does want what is best for you.”
“Thirteen children.” That’s all Abby had to say.
Her mother nodded, understanding.
From down the hall, someone rang the front bell. They had a caller, and Abby thought that both she and her mother were thankful for the intrusion. Abby had to believe things would be better. She wouldn’t marry a man like Lord Villier. She wouldn’t.
Harrison, their butler, rapped on the door her father had left half open when he’d left. “My lady,” he said, speaking to Abby’s mother, “you have a caller. It’s Lady Barnes.”
Both Abby and her mother smiled their delight. Lady Daphne Barnes, or Jonesy, as she expected family to call her based upon nothing more than her whim, was her mother’s oldest sister. She’d been widowed for a decade and was dearly loved by both of them.
“She’s waiting in the sitting room,” Harrison informed them.
“Have the Madeira prepared,” her mother said, knowing what Jonesy liked. “And tea,” she added, following Abby, who was already on her way to throw herself on Jonesy’s common sense and shrewd wit.
“Yes, my lady,” Harrison said.
Jonesy had seated herself in the center of the settee before the fire and was busy unwrapping colorful Indian scarves from around her neck as she made herself comfortable.
The sitting room was one of Abby’s favorite rooms in the house. It was designed for receiving visitors, with guests walking from the front hall through a paneled vestibule into the well-lit spaciousness that spoke louder than words of her father’s wealth. Huge windows draped in gold brocade overlooked the back garden. Thick, patterned carpets in green, blue, and gold covered the floor. Upholstered chairs and settees were positioned in front of two elegantly carved marble fireplaces, one at each end of the room, that provided a friendly warmth against the cold.
“I’m so happy you are here,” Abby said in greeting as she entered the room, her mother at her heels. If there was one person who could sort this all out, it was Jonesy. Always unconventional, always bold, always daring. Abby so wished she was like her.
“I’m happy I’m here as well,” Jonesy said, pointing at a place on her cheek where Abby could place a kiss. She had a deep, almost manly voice. “I have so many questions for you. Of course, I’ve been driving around the block for the past half hour and more waiting for himself to leave.” “Himself” was her favorite pet name for Abby’s father. Jonesy swore that her father had more pride than Banfield, and that was saying quite a bit.
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br /> The doorbell rang again.
“You are going to be busy this afternoon,” Jonesy predicted.
“I wonder why. We rarely have visitors. You know that,” her mother said. A maid entered with a tray of wine, tea, and biscuits. Her mother nodded for the tray to be placed on a side table.
“Your daughter is a participant in the most spectacular goings-on at any ball of the last three years and you wonder why? Really, Catherine. I vow your banker has turned you quite provincial.”
“What are you talking about?” her mother asked.
“Did not our Abigail give London’s most eligible bachelor and Lady Dobbins’s cicisbeo a set down at Banfield’s ball last night, or did my ears hear wrong? I’m so sorry I had to miss it. Tortured, really. I would have adored the scene. And were you there when Lady Dobbins had a complete crisis over her Spanish lover’s attraction to Abigail? They said she tore apart Banfield’s supper room, sobbing hysterically and vowing to throw herself into the Thames if he did not come immediately to her. Of course, he didn’t. The fellow has that much sense. He can glean more out of her and her odd husband by keeping her on pins and needles.”
“Tore apart the supper room?” her mother echoed in disbelief, even as Harrison ushered in Lady Honoria Gilbertson and her daughters Miss Jane and Miss Nanette, who were eighteen and nineteen, respectively. The Montrosses knew them from church but had never received a call from them before.
“Yes,” Lady Gilbertson answered, jumping into the conversation without preamble. “She was knocking over tables and throwing food.”
“And supposedly drinking a barrel of wine at the same time,” Jonesy quipped.
Lady Gilbertson opened her arms. “I had to run over here as soon as I heard. How horrible for you, Lady Catherine.” She used Abby’s mother’s title, as many did. “How unfortunate! How extremely trying! How will you find a husband for your daughter? Oh, Miss Abigail. I didn’t see you sitting there.”
“Bulls balls,” Jonesy replied, and Abby almost dropped the teapot she’d picked up to pour.
“Tea, Lady Gilbertson?” she managed to ask, choking back laughter.
His Christmas Pleasure Page 6