What the Devil was she talking about? he wondered.
Or, more precisely, whom?
Harold must have caught the crease of the duke's expression, for he hastened to explain. "Our lawyers had naturally advised the firm handling Uncle Aubrey's affairs to reject the other, er, claim out of hand. However, the upstart has apparently refused to take no for an answer. Grandmama just received a letter from our lawyers in London informing us that he is planning on arriving at Highwood Manor any day now, in order to present the so-called proof of his being next in line for the title and lands."
"You cannot imagine how extremely vexing it is!" sniffed Lady Farrington. "And extremely awkward. Especially at this particular time."
"And why is that?" inquired the duke, though he had a sneaking suspicion he was going to be sorry he asked.
"Oh, well, as to that..." She exchanged an uneasy glance with her grandson before pasting on a bright smile. "Knowing the sort of company and activities a gentleman of your refined tastes is used to in Town, we feared you might find it much too dull here in the country. Alas, Highwood Manor is too small to play host to a proper house party. So, I took the liberty of writing to one of your close acquaintances, who happens to own a large estate close by, suggesting that a gathering of your friends might be a welcome distraction. After all, the Season is almost at an end."
"Which friend?"
Her smile became more pronounced. "Lord Ellesmore."
Prestwick's fingers tightened upon the glass. Good Lord, this journey was fast becoming more hideous than a descent through Dante's twelve circles of hell.
His relative was always looking to further her own consequence, and that of her grandson, by using the family connection to a duke to gain admittance into the highest circles of the ton. But this was outside of enough. He had not imagined even she would have the audacity to try to ingratiate herself with such a notorious high stickler as the Marquess of Ellesmore.
Apparently he had underestimated her gall, he thought to himself. It was clear that she had gotten wind of the ondits flying about Town linking him with the eldest daughter and was looking to squeeze whatever advantage from it she could.
"You really should not have gone to the trouble," he said through gritted teeth.
"Oh, no trouble at all, Prestwick," assured Harold, missing the thinly veiled sarcasm in the duke's voice. He gave a knowing wink. "No doubt you would not wish to be away from the lovely Lady Catherine for too long a time, eh?"
Prestwick's features hardened at the show of unwelcome familiarity. He put down his drink and straightened to his full height before fixing the young man with his most freezing look. "I cannot imagine why you presume that, cousin."
"I-I thought... this is, I was under the impression..." stuttered the young man, his expression becoming far less certain under the duke's cold gaze. "Er, perhaps I was mistaken."
Without answering, Prestwick made a show of adjusting the set of his freshly starched cuff. His great aunt's mistake, he vowed to himself, was in thinking he could be twisted around her little finger like a piece of limp linen. In the past, he had tolerated the encroaching behavior of his relatives out of a sense of duty—and, if truth be told, because it had been easier to allow himself to be manipulated into allowing the occasional favor than to face an unpleasant scene. However, it suddenly bothered him greatly that they assumed he was too much of a coward to resist their machinations.
His fingers then moved to the single fob hanging from his watch chain, deliberately lingering over the ducal crest engraved upon its surface. "I applaud your discretion in putting off any sort of party here at Highwood, Aunt Hermione," he said softly. "At least until the legalities have been sorted out."
"B—but surely you cannot think we are in any danger of losing this all to a mere nobody?" Lady Farrington's voice was shrill enough to set the Staffordshire figurines on the side table to rattling.
"We shall just have to wait and see, won't we?"
* * *
"Straighten your jacket, Nonny." Zara ran a critical eye over her brothers. "And Perry, wipe the smudge of dirt from your cheek."
There was little she could do about the threadbare state of their attire, or the battered appearance of the hired cart that was slowly wending its way up the curved drive. However, she could ensure that the three of them approached the coming meeting with their chins up. Not, she reminded herself as she smoothed a crease from her faded muslin skirts, that first impressions would matter much. They were hardly going to be afforded a warm welcome—unless one counted the rather pointed hints contained in the last letter that suggested the three of them go straight to Hell.
The much-folded paper crackled in her pocket. Her relatives had made it clear through their solicitors that they would rather see her and her brothers go to the Devil than allow them to set foot on the disputed estate. However, after much prodding, her father's solicitor had admitted that Nonny had just as much right as they did to take up residence there until the dispute over the legitimacy of her father and mother's marriage lines had been settled. Mr. Behan had, however, gone on to advise her against such confrontation. Indeed, he had hinted that her only hope of ending up with so much as a penny was to accept the offer of a compromise.
Ha! And Hell might freeze over! She and her brothers had come too far and endured too many hardships to be intimidated by power and privilege. If their rightful expectations were to be sunk upon the treacherous shoals of Society's intrigue and innuendo, she was determined not go down without putting up a good fight.
"Here you be." The driver was already urging the horse into a shuffling walk as she and her brothers scrambled down from the cart.
Zara paused no more than a fraction before marching up the steps and taking hold of the polished brass knocker.
The echoing raps died away into a lengthy silence.
"Er, perhaps no one is at home," said Nonny, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"Oh, they are home." She hammered out another flurry of knocks.
"What if they won't open the door?" Perry was staring at the thick oak paneling with some trepidation.
Seeing the uncertainty in their eyes caused her to push aside her own inner doubts. Her family had been adrift for far too long. Come Hell or high water, she refused to be denied the safe harbor that was theirs by all rights. "Then we shall go in by the windows," she said loudly. "Like we did on Genoa, when the innkeeper tried to lock us out of the room we had paid for."
"Right." Bucked up by her show of spirit, Nonny straightened his sagging shoulders. "That vine of wisteria looks able to hold my weight—"
Resorting to such extreme measures proved unnecessary as the hinges swung open with a sharp grating of metal on metal.
"Yes?" The butler's voice was just as rough-edged.
"The new Baron Kenworth has arrived."
Before the man could recover from his obvious shock, she elbowed her way past him.
"B-but..."
Zara put down the weathered canvas bag of her belongings with what she hoped was a show of nonchalance and began removing her tattered gloves. "Kindly have one of the maids take our things upstairs. Any of the bedchambers will do for tonight. On the morrow, we can choose our permanent quarters. Hot water for baths would be welcome as well." Ignoring the butler's feeble attempt to speak up, she gave an airy wave. "And please have tea brought around right away. It has been a long journey and we are quite famished."
"B-but, miss." Confusion caused the man's normally stoic features to crumple in dismay. "The new baron is already in residence."
"Like Hell he is," she whispered under her breath.
The butler's face spasmed.
"We shall wait in here," she continued, choosing the first room on her left. It was a spacious sitting room, with a large sofa and several upholstered chairs set around a hearth of carved limestone. The furnishings were a bit spartan, the dark colors and fabrics suited to a masculine taste. And yet, even though the
empty grate looked as though it had not seen a fire in ages and the telltale scatterings of dust revealed a haphazard sort of housekeeping, Zara immediately felt... at home.
"Er, yes, miss." Tugging at the high fold of his collar, the butler turned and hastily retreated down the hallway.
Her lips gave a wry twitch on spotting the bag left abandoned on the slate tiles. "I do hope he remembers the tea," she murmured to her brothers. "Otherwise, Nonny, you may have to consider hiring new staff."
Perry grinned and made a choking sound as he drew a finger across his neck. "Off with his head! That's how a noble Spartan would handle a disobedient servant."
"The laws of classical Greece are somewhat different from those of modern England," grinned Nonny. "I expect I shall only be allowed to lop off an ear."
Zara smiled as well, relieved to see their plucky spirits remained undaunted. She wished, however, that her own show of blithe humor was not merely a mask for deeper misgivings. Despite her earlier air of assurance, she was not quite as sure of herself as she appeared. Though she had tried not to dwell overly on it, she imagined her actions could conceivably result in a number of unpleasant consequences—from being bodily ejected from the premises to having the local magistrate lock them up in the gaol them for trespassing.
Drawing in a deep breath, she tried not to flinch at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Her Ladyship will be with you shortly." It was only a young maid, her lowered lashes not quite hiding a gleam of curiosity over the new arrivals as she delivered the terse message.
A low rumble sounded in Zara's stomach on noting that words were the only thing the servant was delivering. Swallowing a pang of hunger, she forced her mind from thoughts of fragrant oolong to careful consideration of the oblique reference.
To which "Ladyship" was the maid referring?
With a quirk of her lips, Zara realized as her eyes strayed around the room that she knew precious little about her father's branch of the family tree.
Nonny seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Is that Father's cousin?" he asked, his gaze coming to rest on a portrait above the mahogany desk. There was a certain limpid slackness about the gentleman's mouth and eyes that hinted at a tendency toward dissolute behavior, but the smile was friendly and long lines of the face and crook of the aquiline nose had a poignant familiarity to them.
"I imagine so," she answered, then moved closer to inspect the inscription on the gilt frame. "Yes, it is Aubrey Greeley. He bears a striking resemblance to—"
A whoosh of silks interrupted her words. "Do not touch the canvas, if you please!" The implication seemed to be that Zara was about to grab it from the wall and stuff it down her bosom. "It is a very valuable painting."
"I do not doubt it." Zara somehow managed to answer with a cool composure. "Gainsborough is certainly considered one of the preeminent portrait painters of the past century." She tilted her head and pretended to study the work a moment longer. "This is a fine example of his later brushwork. Though I must confess, I tend to prefer his landscapes."
There was a sharp intake of breath, then a tight-lipped silence as the speaker seemed unsure as to how to reply.
Zara turned to meet the glowering gaze of an older lady whose short stature and wide girth immediately brought to mind a barrel of McTavish's Bruichladdich brew. It was obvious that great deal of effort had been put into denying the realities of the mirror—the greying hair was done up in an elaborate style more befitting a Diamond of the First Water, and the expensive silk gown, with its tiered flounces and overskirt of fine sarcenet, seemed an overly fussy choice for a country afternoon.
Still, all the finery could not disguise the unfortunate resemblance to a hogshead.
The first impression was only reinforced by a closer study of the scowling face. Layers of rouge and powder could not cover up the hardened squint of the brown eyes or the perpetual frown lines that were etched around the corners of her thinned mouth.
Zara gave an inward sigh. Though she suspected as much from the letter in her pocket, it appeared the lady before her was truly as wooden and unyielding as an iron-banded cask of oak.
"Hmmph." With a moue of distaste, her adversary settled herself into one of the chairs. "Who do you think you are, gel?" she demanded without preamble. "Storming into this house unannounced and uninvited?"
Zara quirked a small smile. "Did the butler not inform you of our identity? We shall have to see that the staff receives better training. In the meantime, allow me to introduce the new Baron Kenworth." She gave a wave of her hand at Nonny who, to his credit, inclined a polite bow. "I am his sister, and Master Perseus is our younger brother. And you are?"
The other lady was so taken aback by the question that she didn't think to demur. "I am Lady Farrington," she said stiffly. "Great aunt to the duke. And I assure you, he will, as a concerned relative, use his considerable power to see that all this nonsense is quickly resolved."
Good Lord, not another dratted duke to trouble their lives!
Pushing such disquieting thoughts aside, Zara went on. "As to our arrival, I was unaware that the baron needed an invitation to enter his own home." After a fraction of a pause, she couldn't resist adding, "Speaking of which, who invited you here?"
The sputtering took several moments to get under control. "Invited me! Why, you... you..." Lady Farrington's face was now purpling with outrage, making Zara wonder whether she should ring for a maid and some vinaigrette. "It is my grandson, and not some ragamuffin come lately to these shores, who has legitimate claim to the title and lands," she cried. "Why, I have a good mind to have you and your scheming siblings tossed out on your ear."
Anger at the implied insult to the union of her parents goaded Zara into losing what remained of her temper. Heedless of the consequences, she replied with equal heat. "Ha! By whom? If you are so certain our claim is fraudulent, your highly-paid lackeys would have flaunted the proof of it long ago."
Her challenge caused the other lady to go a bit pale beneath the paint on her cheeks.
Sensing her advantage, Zara pressed on. "It is my understanding that the late baron's man of affairs will be arriving here shortly to go over the will, and sort through the conflicting claims of succession. Until then, you have no right to toss us from this place." She crossed her arms. "Indeed, I have every confidence that the facts will show my brother to be the rightful heir."
"Indeed?" The word, though softly spoken, was heavy with sarcasm.
Zara watched a young man saunter up Lady Farrington's chair. One manicured hand draped negligently atop the striped brocade as the other began to toy with the cluster of fobs dangling from his watch chain.
Her brow furrowed. It was odd—for all the fuss and attention to detail the fastidious Duke of Prestwick devoted to his wardrobe, he had somehow made his appearance seem a picture of understated elegance. On the other hand, the gentleman lounging in a posture of studied ennui, while no doubt sporting the first crack in London fashion, looked utterly absurd. His collar was cut so high that turning his head more than several inches one way or the other was impossible. Perhaps, she thought wryly, it was because the slightest movement might have disturbed the intricate folds of the cravat tied beneath it.
Her eyes then took in the large gold buttons and the nipped waist of the bright blue coat, the cut of which only exaggerated the incipient paunch. The skintight pale cream pantaloons were equally unflattering to his pudgy thighs, putting her in mind of two Bavarian bratwursts. The sausages were thrust into a pair of pointed Hessians, their white tops festooned with an ornate tassel.
She repressed a shudder. The entire effect must have taken hours to achieve. No wonder gentlemen of the ton were so deuced boring! They had little time to spend on aught but preening before a cheval glass.
"So, our self-styled relatives have finally arrived," said the young man.
Her gaze came up from the tips of his boots, just in time to catch his expression. He was looking as though he were rega
rding three mangy mutts who had just run their muddy paws over the expensive oriental carpet.
Zara had to fight down the urge to land a hard right cross to the crinkled nose.
"Do not upset yourself, Grandmama," he drawled. "I daresay Twick will soon see they are sent packing."
"Hmmph." Lady Farrington's eyes took on a brittle sparkle. "I should hope that the duke will see fit to do his duty."
"And what duty is that, Aunt Hermione?"
At the sound of the low baritone voice, Zara whirled around and stared at the tall figure framed in the doorway.
"You!" Her hands clenched into tights fists at her side. "Of all the cursed luck," she muttered. "I should have known we had not seen the last of our Jonah."
"Jonah? Jonah?" Lady Farrington blinked in consternation. "What is the gel nattering on about? Your given name is Deverill."
"Just a little joke between old friends," murmured Prestwick.
"Friends!" Her expression turned to one of alarm. "Surely you don't mean to say you are acquainted with these... people?"
Prestwick smoothed a finger over the notched lapel of his coat. "Oh, let us just say I have covered a lot of ground with Miss Greeley and her brothers."
Chapter 7
The brusque ringing of the silver bell broke the awkward silence.
A moment later, the butler appeared, still looking somewhat befuddled by the recent turn of events. "Yes, Your Grace?" he said, addressing the duke after an uneasy glance at Lady Farrington and her grandson.
"Have tea brought in immediately, along with a cold collation," said Prestwick. His own shock and dismay at discovering his erstwhile companions in the parlor of Highwood Manor had not prevented him from noticing the hollowness of the young lady's cheeks and the bruised shadowing under her eyes.
As soon as the servant had hurried from the room, Lady Farrington fixed him with a sharp glare. "Prestwick! Have you taken leave of your senses—"
He cut off the rebuke in mid-sentence. "No, I have not. Nor have I taken leave of my manners, Aunt Hermione."
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