Loretta Chase

by The Lion's Daughter

  Then he saw, all of it. He leaned against the door frame.

  Don’t tell me the poor child’s breeding already.

  “God forgive me,” he breathed. “Oh, Esme, what have I done?”

  Children. If God is generous…

  He closed his eyes against the shattering grief. He’d been away from her not even three days and he was lost, sick with loneliness, but that was nothing to this. He’d no one else to blame. He’d shaped and carved this day for himself these past ten years. Now at last, when he’d learned to love, when he wanted to love and look after one brave, beautiful girl and give her children they might love and care for together…now the Devil laughed and demanded payment. Now Lord Edenmont understood that fire and brimstone were not wanted, nor even death. Hell was regret.

  It was tomorrow.

  And Varian pressed his face to his arm and wept.

  The room Lady Brentmor called “the counting house” was originally the master’s study. All the world knew her late husband, however, had never been master of anything. His wife was the brains behind the Brentmor fortune. It was she who’d hauled her spouse up from a middling tradesman to a titled man of property.

  Immediately upon his death, all pretense of his mastery was abandoned. The dowager banished his cozy masculine bric-a-brac to the attics, painted the walls a brooding maroon, and lined them with stern shelves for her massive ledgers. The furniture at present comprised a few exceedingly hard chairs and the large desk behind which she sat, intimidating bankers, brokers, and lawyers alike while she singlehandedly ruled her formidable financial empire.

  It was to this room she took her grandchildren four days after Lord Edenmont’s departure and less than ten minutes after Percival’s arrival.

  Percival and Esme sat upon two rocklike chairs watching Lady Brentmor peruse the letter Percival’s tutor had delivered along with the boy.

  “An explosion.” She looked up from the closely written sheets. “Who do you think you are—Guy Fawkes?”

  “No, Grandmother,” Percival answered meekly.

  “Blew up the hen coop, he says. I suppose it’s too much to hope the hens weren’t in it?”

  “I’m afraid they were.”

  “That’ll cost me. Lud, you always cost me.”

  “They were sick, Grandmama.” Percival’s green eyes flashed with indignation. “One of the boys told me that’s why we were forever getting chicken soup. They weren’t laying hens, I promise you. I never saw an egg all the weeks I was there. But there was a good deal of soup, with the most disagreeable odor.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll pay for diseased fowls.” She gave him a piercing look. “Are you sure they were sick?”

  “Oh, yes, Grandmama.” Percival’s face brightened. “I dissected one, and I’ve got the intestines in a jar. I can fetch it for you if you’d like to examine it yourself.”

  “No, thank you.” Her gaze grew sharper still. “I’d like to know what’s to be done with you. Your pa told me you was to be shipped to that school in Bombay the instant you kicked up one of your larks.”

  Esme reached for her cousin’s hand and glared at her grandmother. “You will do no such thing,” she said. “If the fowls were sick, then it is the schoolmaster who should be sent to Bombay. To poison little boys with diseased animals—Y’Allah, they should be poisoned themselves.”

  “I didn’t ask you, did I?” Lady Brentmor snapped. “And none of that heathen talk, if you please.”

  “ ‘Y’Allah’ only means ‘dear God,’ Grandmama,” Percival pointed out.

  “Then why don’t she say what she means?”

  “I said it plain enough.” Esme met her grandmother’s stare fearlessly. “You shall not send him away. God knows such a course is monstrously unjust, even if you do not. But you wish to frighten him—as though the boy has not suffered enough.”

  “I know what he’s ‘suffered’ and what he’s done. And I aim to make it clear there’ll be no more of it. I won’t have children poking their noses in their elders’ affairs.”

  A small box lay upon the desk to her right. She opened the box, took out the object that lay within, and placed it on the desk. It was a chess piece. A queen, to be precise.

  “Oh, dear,” said Percival.

  “I collect you know what it is,” the dowager said to Esme.

  “I have seen chess pieces before. The game is not unknown in my country.” Esme did not so much as glance at Percival.

  “Never mind trying to protect him. It don’t take a prophet to work this matter out.” Lady Brentmor bent a black look upon her grandson. “You hid your bag of rocks in your room that day you come with your pa, which was a fool thing to do. Don’t you know we always turn your things inside out? You’re forever leaving corpses behind. Last time it was a reptile. The time before, a rodent. You was told time and again not to dissect your creatures in the house, but you never listen.”

  “Yes, Grandmama, I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  “Never mind sorry. I know what you done. You stole this chess piece. You guessed your pa would offer a reward, didn’t you? And you used that to lure Edenmont to Albania. Very clever, Percival. Now your cousin’s wed to the blackguard, and it’s all your fault.”

  “Varian is not a blackguard!” Esme cried. “And nothing is my cousin’s fault. He brought Varian to me, and for that I am grateful, and shall be so, all my days.”

  “You ain’t half started your days, my gel. I daresay there’ll come a time not too far ahead when you’ll eat them words, and they won’t go down so easy, either. Left without so much as a fare-thee-well, didn’t he?”

  “He left a note. A very kind note. You understand nothing about him.”

  “I know a bad bargain when I see one, and I know more about him than I want.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, the dowager leaned forward. “He’s been in money scrapes since he was eighteen years old, and his father was forever digging him out. By the time Edenmont came into the title, he’d already pissed away half the family fortune. It took him less than five years to run through the rest.”

  “Varian is extravagant. I know that,” Esme said. She didn’t want to hear more.

  “He let his estate go to pieces,” Lady Brentmor went on. “He made paupers of his two brothers. In a few years he destroyed what it took generations to build. Thanks to his softhearted pa, he’d never had to face the consequences, and so he never learned to think of ‘em. Never thought of anybody but himself. So he goes to the Devil—which is fair enough—only it ain’t fair he takes his kin with him.”

  Esme’s head jerked back as though her grandmother had slapped her. She’d simply thought of Varian as a penniless pleasure lover. Flawed, yes, deeply flawed. She loved him, but she wasn’t blind. She hadn’t thought, however, of the damage he’d done. Unintentionally—but that only showed his thoughtlessness. This was his great crime in her grandmother’s eyes: Varian was not simply a libertine and wastrel, but a destructive man. This was why she’d taken Esme in—to protect her from him.

  The dowager was watching her. Esme straightened her posture but said nothing. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I suppose you think I was too hard on him, just like you think I was too hard on your pa. Percival thinks so, too, don’t you, Master Ignoramus?”

  “Well…y-yes…rather…that is—”

  “Because you don’t know a blessed thing. Because you’re both ignorant babies.” She fixed her scowl on Esme. “The path Edenmont took was the same I’d seen your father starting on. Lots of men go that way, and take their families with ‘em. I could have fixed your father’s mess easy enough, and I can fix Edenmont’s—though that’s a good deal worse. But I won’t do for him what I wouldn’t do for my own son. I won’t lift a finger, not when it’ll only help him make paupers of us all.”

  “But, Grandmama,” Percival began.

  “He got himself in, now let him dig himself out,” Lady Brentmor said grimly. “If he cares as much for Esme as he claims�
��and if he’s got any self-respect—he’ll try at least.” As she tamed back to Esme, her stern countenance softened a fraction. “But I must tell you fair and straight I don’t think he’s got it in him. Best face it now, I say.”

  “You mean he is not coming back,” Esme said. She folded her hands. “I am not amazed. There is no welcome for him here, and he cannot take me with him. I am only a burden. I can do nothing for him.”

  She met her grandmother’s gaze. “I understand your reasons, Grandmother. Still, he saved my life, more than once. He is not evil. He has tried to be kind to me, in his way. He even warned me against him, many times. I shall not try to change your mind, but I ask you to reflect upon these things. And pray for him, if nothing else.”

  Percival, who’d been fidgeting upon the unforgiving chair through this exchange, darted his grandmother an anxious glance. “But, Grandmama, you must give her the dowry.”

  “Don’t tell me what I must. I don’t take orders from ignorant children.”

  Esme sighed. “Oh, cousin. Do not vex our grandmother. I understand that she does what she believes is best. There will be nothing for Varian.” She started to rise.

  “But there is. Mama left you the chess set, for your dowry. It’s worth a great deal. Five thousand, at least. Twice that, if you find the right buyer.”

  “Five thousand?” Esme repeated. “My dowry?”

  Her grandmother stiffened. “You mean to say you didn’t know?”

  “I’m sorry,” Percival said to Esme. “But I was afraid to tell you, in case Papa—”

  The old woman swore at the room at large, then sank back wearily in her chair. “Devil take me for a fool. Talk myself hoarse—and all the while you’d no idea. Now we’re in for it, and it’s all my own curst fault.”

  ***

  “Twelve thousand pounds,” Varian repeated. He appeared to be studying the document his solicitor had given him. In fact, his lordship saw only a blur of lines.

  “But of course you knew about your great-aunt’s will, my lord. I sent you a letter while you were in Spain.” Mr. Willoughby took up another piece of paper. “I have your answer here. In it you indicated—”

  “I remember. But there was a time limit, was there not? Twelve thousand pounds, if I were wed within—what was it, three years? Surely it’s been longer than that.”

  “Three years from the date of her death. She passed on late in December of ‘15. You were wed this past November, according to your documents—which are fully in order, I’m happy to say.” Mr. Willoughby essayed a thin smile. “Therefore, you are now twelve thousand pounds to the good.”

  “That depends on one’s point of view.” Varian put down the copy of the will. “What is the sum of my debts?”

  “I cannot name the precise figure at present. What with interest and Fortier’s bankruptcy and other such variables—”

  “An approximation will do.” Varian’s heart was pounding furiously.

  “Something in the vicinity of twelve thousand pounds, my lord.”

  The pounding stopped dead, as though an immense weight had fallen upon it, then recommenced, slow as a funeral drumbeat.

  “What an amusing coincidence,” Varian murmured.

  “I am sorry, my lord. Still, it might be worse. The estate is in no danger, as I explained.”

  “I’ve recently viewed the…remains. I collect the reason it’s in no danger is that no creditor would be fool enough to want it.”

  “Perhaps not. Still, I flatter myself I have placed sufficient obstacles to discourage even the most daring of speculators.”

  “I thank you for that, Willoughby.” Varian looked toward the grimy window. “I suppose you think I ought to use this windfall to pay my creditors.”

  “So I would advise, yes.” Mr. Willoughby carefully lined up a small pile of documents and moved them a few inches to his left.

  “That would leave me with nothing.”

  The solicitor cleared his throat. “We may be able to preserve a small sum. As I mentioned, I should want some time—a few weeks—to ascertain the precise amount. However, if you owe a man twelve hundred pounds, I may be able to satisfy him with eleven hundred, or even one thousand. Admittedly, they don’t like to settle in that way, since it disallows any future action for the remainder. On the other hand, legal actions are costly and, when undertaken against members of the peerage, so often disappointing.”

  “Disappointed creditors can make one’s life exceedingly disagreeable all the same,” Varian said. “I should not wish my wife to be annoyed.”

  “Naturally not, my lord. I quite understand. That is why I suggest you clear the slate, so to speak. And I should undertake to preserve a small sum. With that, and her ladyship’s dowry—”

  “Her ladyship has no dowry.”

  Mr. Willoughby blinked. “Does she not? How very odd. I was led to understand—”

  “Nothing,” Varian told him firmly. “Not a shilling.”

  “If you say so, my lord. Yet, if you will not object, I should wish to pursue certain inquiries.”

  “I should not like, particularly if you intend to question her family. They hold me in the greatest dislike. Even if her father managed to set something aside for her—which is highly improbable—they’ll make certain I can’t so much as look at it.” Varian shrugged. “One can hardly blame them.”

  “But if anything is owing to you—”

  “Whatever might be owing to me, I can’t possibly collect. Would you have me spend my windfall in a Chancery suit? I’d stand a better chance at the faro tables. There, at least, one has a chance of doubling one’s winnings. Or tripling them.” Varian frowned.

  Mr. Willoughby uttered a small sigh but said nothing.

  “I cannot restore Mount Eden if I pay my creditors,”

  Varian said stiffly. “I must have something, Willoughby.”

  “I do understand, my lord. Still, I might be able to preserve as much as a thousand pounds.”

  “I might make twelve thousand into twenty-four this very night.”

  Willoughby said nothing. His face had lost color in the last few minutes, and the expression in his eyes had grown bleak. He appeared some decades older than the fortyish man who had greeted Varian a short while before.

  Varian rose. “If there is nothing else, I’d best be on my way.”

  “Yes, my lord. I imagine you would wish an advance on the sum, since the paperwork will take some time. Will a hundred do for the present?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After leaving the solicitor’s office, Varian proceeded unhurriedly toward Oxford Street. At this early hour, he stood little risk of encountering any of his acquaintances. Glancing down at his threadbare cuffs, he thought ruefully that his friends wouldn’t recognize him anyway.

  His appearance, however, could be quickly amended, now that he’d a few pounds in his pocket. One of his favorite tailors would surely have something on hand. With a few alterations, Lord Edenmont would be presentable by nightfall. He’d take his brothers to dinner, and perhaps they’d look in at Brooks’ club. Then he’d try a hand or two at the card tables, just to make sure he still knew what he was about.

  His mind busy with plans for transforming his windfall into a vast fortune, Varian turned a corner, then stopped.

  An elegant bow window jutted over the sidewalk. Within it stood a gathering of tiny mannequins dressed in the latest modes. One miniature lady, garbed in a walking dress, caught his eye. Her white muslin petticoat boasted four rows of ruffles round the bottom. Over it she wore a richly worked open robe. A green spencer tightly encased her upper torso. Matching green shoes and a plumed headdress completed the ensemble. The green was very much like the color of Esme’s eyes.

  As he studied the other figures, Varian could easily picture Esme dressed in a sumptuous ball gown, whirling to the lush strains of a waltz. He imagined as well an elegant carriage lined in green velvet, and his lady wife upon the seat, smiling up at him as they rolled dow
n the Champs Elysees, Paris. They could run away and live like royalty on his inheritance. For years, perhaps.

  He had no sooner closed his eyes to savor the glorious image than it dissolved into numbers: £12,000 per annum, a thousand a month. He could spend as much in minutes at rouge et noir. But no. He’d double his windfall, triple it. Yet his mind’s eye offered only heaps of IOUs and small stacks of coins upon a green baize gaming table. Meanwhile, his brain tolled out that ghastly cliche” about lucky at cards…

  “But I must have something,” he muttered as he opened his eyes again.

  Children. If God is generous…

  Twelve thousand pounds today. But tomorrow?

  As he looked down again at the tiny lady in green, Varian’s expression softened.

  He strolled into the shop and asked the modiste for a piece of paper and a pen. His sensually indolent countenance did the rest.

  Varian had only to smile—which he did, rather shyly—and Madame would have burned down her shop if he asked her to. Without a word she got the materials he requested. Then she stood, her fingers unconsciously covering the racing pulse at her throat, and stared at his face in a sort of delirium while he wrote.

  It took not a minute. Varian folded the note and placed a coin on the counter beside the pen.

  “I’m much obliged,” he said. “It couldn’t wait, you see.”

  ‘“Non, m’lord. Certainment, m’lord,” she said breathlessly. She was about to offer to carry the message for him—to China, if he wished—when she recollected some fragment of her dignity and offered to send one of her assistants with it instead.

  The note was put into Mr. Willoughby’s hands not fifteen minutes later.

  “Pay them,” read the slashing black script. Beneath sprawled a large, hasty, “E.”