Vane waited impatiently for the housekeeper to open the front door. He had become a regular visitor at the Thorne residence, but it was beginning to annoy him that he was not their only caller. He scowled as Mrs. Allen opened the door and another gentleman departed the house. Vane did not recognize him; nor did he care to discourage the gent from leaving.
The gentleman caller met Vane’s stern gaze, nodded warily, and then scurried off. Vane was rather pleased with himself until he noticed that the housekeeper had witnessed the silent exchange.
“Do not bother telling me that Miss Thorne and Miss Delia are not at home.” He motioned with his head at the hastily retreating figure of the sisters’ last caller.
“Miss Delia is not at home,” Mrs. Allen said tartly. “However, Miss Thorne is in the study. If you will wait here, I will see if she is receiving visitors.”
“That will not be necessary, Mrs. Allen,” Isabel said from the doorway. “Lord Vanewright, will you join me?”
Vane did not need a second invitation. He followed Isabel into the study and shut the door. A minute later, the housekeeper opened the door. She did not openly threaten him, but the look she gave him told him that she would make him suffer if he laid a hand on Isabel.
Isabel seemed to be oblivious to his silent exchange with her housekeeper. She had picked up an open book on the satinwood secretaire, and whatever she had glimpsed on the pages made her sad.
“Did you receive some troubling news?” he asked, discarding his hat and gloves on the nearest side table.
Her forehead wrinkled. “Troubling?” she asked, the pain and confusion clearing from her expression. “No. Why do you ask?”
It was a calculated risk, but instead of keeping his distance, Vane crossed the room until he had reached her side. “First, the stranger that departed your house upon my arrival.”
The shy smile that brightened her face was as potent as brandy. “Mr. Fawson was hardly a stranger. I have been corresponding with him for more than a year,” she said, shutting the book and hugging it to her chest.
Jealousy was a ridiculous, petty emotion. It crawled up his spine, its venomous claws digging into his throat. Vane wanted to know why this Fawson fellow was writing Isabel, but he held his tongue. He had no right to ask. She was simply his friend, nothing more. He tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat. “And second.” He tapped the leather-bound book with his finger. “You looked sad when I entered the room, and I believe this book is responsible.”
Isabel turned back to the secretaire. “Should I ring Mrs. Allen for some tea?”
“Equivocating will not work with me,” Vane said, gently shifting her until he was almost embracing her. “You can confide in me. Was Fawson a creditor?”
He immediately dismissed the notion at her surprise.
“What made you think—oh,” she said softly, gazing morosely at a worn rug beneath her feet. “No, Mr. Fawson called on me for an entirely different reason.”
Vane gritted his teeth in frustration. If he thought Isabel would permit him to use his resources to settle with her London creditors, he would have made the offer weeks ago.
“Pray tell, Mr. Fawson is not the mysterious suitor that you are almost betrothed to, my lady?”
She blushed at his teasing remark. “Oh, no, Mr. Fawson isn’t … he was here to make an offer on this journal.”
“Why would Fawson be interested in an old journal?”
Isabel handed him the book. “It belonged to my father. He was a natural philosopher and inventor. He was always scribbling his thoughts and experiments in one of his journals, or on any piece of paper he could find. It’s all I have left of him.”
Vane thumbed through the journal, his own intellectual curiosity heightening as he admired detailed sketches and paragraphs of speculation and the results of experiments.
“My mother mentioned that your father was killed in an accident,” he murmured, not taking his gaze from the page, though he sensed that she nodded.
“I was thirteen years old when my father died. There was an explosion in his private laboratory. Fortunately, he worked in one of the outbuildings a short distance from our cottage. Otherwise we might have all perished in the fire.”
Vane’s gaze sought hers. Although she was standing next to him, he needed assurance that she was unharmed. “Who is Fawson?”
“He represents a gentleman who is an inventor and natural philosopher like my father.” Her brown eyes were eloquent with emotion as she gazed at the journal in his hands. “Much of Father’s work was destroyed in the fire. However, seven of his journals and numerous papers were spared because he had stored them in his study.”
“A fine legacy for his daughters.” Vane shut the journal with a decisive snap as it suddenly occurred to him how valuable it would be in certain scientific circles. “Good God, Isabel, you could be sitting on a small fortune.” He handed the book back to her.
Her look was unreadable as she accepted the volume, then slid it back onto the bookshelf. She closed glass doors made up of complex wooden cross-bandings and locked each one with a small key.
“I am not a fool, Vane,” she said tersely. “When my father died, numerous gentlemen called on my mother to inquire about my father’s work. Initially my mother was so distraught, she turned them all away. A few months later, one of them returned and offered to pay her handsomely for any writings that existed on the carriage steering mechanism my father had dabbled with when they had corresponded. When I was older, I came across a brief article in a newspaper about an innovative steering mechanism for carriages. The inventor was the same man who had visited my mother years earlier and bought my father’s papers. No credit was given to my father.”
Vane did not have to ask Isabel her feelings on the matter.
“It wasn’t thievery,” she said, examining the small key in her hand. “After all, the gentleman had paid for those papers, and my mother gave them freely. It’s just—” She heaved a weary sigh. “My father, Morgan Thorne, was a remarkable man. I always thought I might be able to get his papers published so he could be honored for his work. However, this has proven to be a difficult task. Mr. Fawson and the gentlemen he represents would rather purchase my father’s notes and sketches and put their name on his work than assist me in honoring a dead man who has already been forgotten.”
Not by you, Vane thought. “I could make some inquiries on your behalf,” he said measuring his words. Isabel could be awfully prickly when it came to accepting anyone’s help.
Her expression grew wistful. “You are too kind. However, it is more complicated than it appears.” She walked around him to the center of the study and opened her arms. She slowly pivoted on her heel as her gesture encompassed the dingy interior of the study. “It breaks my heart to part with any of my father’s work.”
Vane moved to her. “Then don’t.”
Isabel impulsively reached out and lightly touched his face. Her next words stopped him from leaning in and kissing her. “Only a man who has never wanted for anything could stand by his convictions. Regrettably, I have not been as noble. I have to balance a daughter’s love for her father with practicality. Each paper I sell provides a roof over my family’s head and food on our table. His work has given Delia the season in London that she deserves. My father would have wanted to see her happy.”
What about you, Isabel?
He already knew the answer. Much like his mother, Isabel worried about her family. She rarely spoke of her mother, but Vane had already deduced that Mrs. Thorne had depended on Isabel to manage their household after her husband’s death.
“Forgive me, I am being selfish, boring you with my troubles.” She gestured for him to sit on the settee. “I did not expect to see you this afternoon. I hope you are not too disappointed that Delia is not at home.”
Vane studied Isabel’s elegant profile as she explained why her sister had left the house without her. If the lady could read his thoughts, she would be dismayed.
Chapter Sixteen
“Father, you should have called one of the servants to help you,” Vane scolded as he caught sight of his eighty-year-old father, his arms full of pots overflowing with lush greenery.
“Christopher,” the marquess said. His low, raspy voice held a hint of surprise and breathlessness from his exertion. “Was your mother expecting you?”
“No.” Without asking permission, Vane gathered up the four small pots and nodded toward the open door. “Were you heading outdoors?”
Lord Netherley brushed the soil from his gloved hands. “Yes. Yes, of course, but there is no need for you to do that. I was perfectly capable—”
“Where do you want them?” Vane asked, cutting him off. As long as he could remember, the conservatory and the gardens had been his father’s favorite mistresses. He often wondered if his sire bedded down on one of the benches at night; it was rare to see both of his parents in the same room.
“I was taking the pots to the east wall,” his father explained, the slight hitch in his breath, causing Vane to slow his pace as they stepped outside into the sunshine. “You can place them on the bench. I’ll go get the others.”
The muscle along Vane’s jaw tightened. Damn stubborn man, he thought. “Leave them. I’ll collect them for you.” As he leaned over to place the pots on the bench, he belatedly noticed that his coat was smeared with dirt. He had been so distracted by his father, Vane had forgotten to remove the garment. “Do you need anything else? Should I call Squires?”
The marquess squinted at him from under the straw hat he had slapped on his head. His blue eyes were clouded with cataracts, but his gaze was still sharp. “Squires is not as young as he used to be. He’s probably napping in the butler’s pantry.”
“Squires is twenty years younger than you,” Vane said drily, and the marquess chuckled, his sun-weathered face creasing with humor. His father had been teasing the family butler over his need for an afternoon nap for years. “I’ll get the rest of the pots.”
However, his father had already turned away and was inspecting the pots on the bench. He was probably worried that his son had bruised the fragile vines. Shaking his head, Vane shrugged out of his ruined frock coat as he headed for the conservatory.
He had not planned on visiting his parents’ town house. With Susan and her destructive little monkeys wreaking havoc, Vane was content to keep his distance. Nevertheless, his time with Isabel had put him in a contemplative mood. He had called on the Thorne residence in the hope of breaking down those invisible walls the distrustful young woman had erected. His goals had hardly been noble. Even if Delia had been at home, Vane had intended to find a way to corner Isabel and perhaps steal a few kisses. Instead, he had spent part of the afternoon with a lady who was heartbroken because she had to part with her father’s work to pay her creditors.
Vane had discovered something about himself this afternoon. He was not the thoroughly selfish bastard he knew he was capable of being. Frost, and possibly Saint, would certainly have manipulated Isabel to gain what they wanted. He was not proud of his actions, but he had done the same. For some reason, though, that had changed: He could no longer treat Isabel in a callous manner.
When he returned to his father, he had discarded his coat and waistcoat. There was nothing that could be done about his shirt. If he had been alone, he might have untied his cravat and removed his shirt. When he was more lad than man, however, his mother had forbidden him from stripping down and overwhelming the female staff with his physique. Ah, those were the days. He recalled with fondness that there was a time or two when he had managed to get the maids to remove their clothing as well.
“Sun already getting to you, Christopher?” the marquess asked, leaning on the shovel he was gripping. “You have an odd expression on your face.”
“I’m fine, Father.” Vane walked by his father and put down the pots. “What are you planting?”
“I intend to entwine the honeysuckles and virgin’s bower so it grows into a lovely tangle and provides shade for the alcove.” He placed a trembling hand on one of the pots and chuckled hoarsely. “Though I shouldn’t have to explain a virgin’s bower to a Lord of Vice, eh?”
Vane’s gave him a sheepish shrug and glanced away. It was fortunate he did not share Isabel’s propensity for blushing, but he felt his face burn under his father’s knowing perusal.
“I do not have your enthusiasm for gardening, Father,” Vane said. “I don’t have the patience for it.”
“True enough,” the marquess said genially, straightening as he prepared to use the shovel.
Vane stepped forward and reached for it. “You should let someone help you. If not someone from the staff, then hire some jobbers for the manual labor.”
His father surrendered the shovel easily. “I ask for help when I need it.” He slowly lowered himself onto the bench and began removing his gloves. “If I don’t, I have to deal with your mother. The woman likes to make a fuss.”
“On that, we can agree.” Vane gestured at the ground. Someone had already cleared the section of withered vines and rocks. “How much space do you want between each hole?”
“This will suffice,” the marquess said, measuring the distance with his hands.
Silence settled between father and son as Vane stabbed the earth with the blade of the shovel. Neither one of them ever had much to say to the other. There were many reasons. No common interests, different temperaments, even his father’s advanced age. Lord Netherley had been fifty-one years old when Vane had been born. All reasonable excuses, Vane silently mused, but they only scratched the surface of their complicated relationship.
The real problem was … he was never supposed to be Lord Vanewright. The title had belonged to William, his father’s true heir. A brother he had never met, but one he had come to secretly despise. William, the perfect son. At twenty-five, he had been a lieutenant colonel in the Fifteenth Light Dragoons and by all accounts was loved and respected by all. On April 24, 1794, his heroic older brother was slain in the Battle of Villers-en-Cauchies. His lady mother was already pregnant with Vane when she learned of the death of her firstborn. When he was a boy, one of the servants had told him that his mother had been so grief-stricken by her loss that there were concerns she might miscarry the child in her womb.
On September 1, his mother delivered a healthy son to replace the one she lost. Even then, he was a superfluous addition to the family. It was Arthur who had been burdened with taking William’s place—an unenviable position, to be certain. Vane paused for a second and wiped the moisture collecting on his brow. How old had Arthur been? Seven, perhaps, or thereabouts. He had grown up watching his father mold Arthur into a young man worthy to replace the heroic William. Unlike Vane, Arthur never seemed bothered by the expectations placed on him.
Then again, he never lived long enough to enjoy his eighteenth birthday. He died a hero. Just like William.
His father had taken one look at his remaining son and found him lacking. The marquess retreated to the conservatory, and Vane was sent away to school. It was an arrangement that both of them were content with.
“Was there a particular reason why you decided to honor us with a visit?”
Vane’s thoughts flickered to Isabel. Her sadness had filled the gloomy study when she spoke of her father. He had wanted to offer her more than a sympathetic ear, but Isabel had too much pride to accept anything more. He grimaced. “Not particularly.”
“Well, I am pleased we have a private moment to speak,” the marquess said gruffly. “You and I have a few things to discuss.”
Vane stilled. “Business?”
The marquess gestured broadly with his hand. “After a fashion.” He placed his palm on the seat of the bench to help him stand. When Vane moved to assist him, his father waved him away. “I’m fine. Just a bit of stiffness that will fade once I get moving. No, I wish to discuss your upco
ming marriage.”
It was a jest. Then again, Vane never credited his father with much of a sense of humor. He slammed the blade of the shovel into the earth and rested his hands atop the handle. “What marriage?”
“The one your mother assures me will be taking place soon.” The marquess turned away to pick up one of the pots, missing his son’s expression of unadulterated fury at his mother. He carefully schooled his features into something more acceptable.
“And did my mother give you the name of my soon-to-be bride?”
His father was not fooled by Vane’s calm demeanor. He knelt down and gently tapped the side of the pot to free the plant from its confines. Vane did not offer to help.
“It’s time, Christopher.”
A chill settled in his spine. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to explain to your wife that I prefer to select my own bride,” he said coldly.
His father did not look up from his task, and the slight only infuriated Vane further. “Is that what you are doing? Selecting a bride? Yes, Christopher, your legendary reputation has reached even my old ears. I am well aware that you’ve been happily sampling every willing miss within reach. I also am aware that you have no intention of marrying any of them.”
“And what business is it of yours?”
The marquess might have been on his knees, but he was not cowering. He gave Vane a withering glance. “By God, you are my heir! Every decision you make is my business. Now, about this search for a bride—”
“Are you even listening? I am not searching for a bride. Mother is—although she has had little success since I refuse to cooperate.”
“Then you will start cooperating.”
“No.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten that I am your father.”
“No, my lord, that particular fact is one I can never overlook.”
“Good. Then heed me, my boy, when I tell you that your wild ways have reached their zenith. You have duties to me and this family, and by damn you will fulfill them even if I have to take that shovel from you and beat some sense into that thick skull of yours.”
Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Page 10