The Baron's Honourable Daughter

by Lynn Morris

  “And so he invested my mother’s twenty thousand pounds, and my own eleven thousand that had accumulated,” Valeria said. “And—theoretically, at least, those funds are still intact, correct?”

  “Ye-es, but unfortunately they belong to the Earl of Maledon,” Mr. Stanhope said reluctantly.

  “But what about the two thousand pounds I’ve received every year since my mother’s marriage?” Valeria demanded. “That would be another fourteen thousand pounds that I should have!”

  “Yes, that is correct, and there are two complex legal and bookkeeping procedures that—no, I shall say it plainly. Lord Maledon managed to maneuver so that he had complete control of the funds from your trust, madam. The first step was to become the sole trustee of your annuity. Mr. Broadbill did draw up articles of trusteeship, and there was so much Latin and legal verbiage that I could hardly decipher it myself,” Mr. Stanhope said with righteous indignation. “It was absurdly complicated, so I’m certain your mother—or any other layman, for that matter—could hardly have known what it meant. But what it meant was, to put it crudely, that your money became Lord Maledon’s money to do with as he chose; there was not a single clause or even wording in it that obliged him to use the funds, or conserve them in any way, with consideration for your future welfare. And so he took the money each year, and although I have not yet completed my investigation, it seems he spent the two thousand pounds on specific items. One year he bought a neighboring farm; one year he expanded the stables, and bought new brood mares and stallions; one year he bought three carriages.”

  Valeria stared at him, appalled. “You mean—I don’t actually have any money, at all? That I have nothing, nothing left from my father?”

  Mr. Stanhope said with some chagrin, “On paper, and in the strictest legal sense, Miss Segrave, but—”

  Alastair interrupted him. “But that is pure rubbish, Miss Segrave, and Stanhope agrees with me. Maledon’s estate must make reparations to you, and it can be done legally.”

  Valeria stared at him, then at Mr. Stanhope; and her face was stark white, and her eyes sparked dark fire. Then she leaped out of her chair and stalked to the end of the room, where she circled the refectory desk; then she paced back and forth by the fireplace; then she paced some more, around the desk again.

  His face a study in shocked amazement, Mr. Stanhope jumped out of his chair. Rolling his eyes, Alastair stood up slowly. “Miss Segrave is prone to do this, Mr. Stanhope. Don’t be alarmed.”

  “But—is she leaving?” the solicitor asked helplessly.

  “I can’t tell,” Alastair rasped. “I suspect no one can.”

  After a while Valeria returned and threw herself back into her chair, apparently without noticing the two men standing awkwardly. With some hesitation Mr. Stanhope and Alastair sat back down. Valeria said, “And so you’re telling me that I can just—just—behave like my stepfather, and take whatever I feel I’m entitled to away from my brother’s estate? No! No, no, no, I won’t.”

  “But Miss Segrave, your own money has substantially added to this estate. It’s not simply a matter of legality, it’s a moral issue,” Mr. Stanhope said in a pleading voice. “I’m not saying that you should demand the sum of your annuity since the time your father died, which, if it had been properly looked after, would be more than twenty-five thousand pounds. But certainly you could claim ownership of some of the investments. Or an annuity could be set up, whereby a certain sum is paid to you from the estate.”

  Tightly Valeria asked, “My annuity from my father, when is that paid?”

  “Each January fifth, for the previous year.”

  “And I assume, since my stepfather is dead, and I am of the age of majority, that it will come directly to me this January?”

  “Yes, madam, that is correct.”

  “Then that is what I shall have as my income. I repeat, I will not take money from my brother,” Valeria said stubbornly.

  Alastair said evenly, “Miss Segrave, I must remind you that I am a trustee of your brother’s estate, which means that I represent him, and to the best of my ability, I follow what I believe would be his wishes, until such time as he is able to dictate those for himself. I believe that it would be your brother’s wish to make this right with you. In fact, even though he is now just a child, I think he would agree, with full mental capacity, that it be so.”

  “When he is of an age to understand and comprehend this—this stupid situation himself, then perhaps I will speak to him. Until then, I refuse to contemplate explaining to him what a—what a—what his father was. And I will not subject my mother to what would surely be a crushing sense of guilt if I made these demands. No, I shall be perfectly content to have a settlement of two thousand pounds a year. That will be more than sufficient for my needs.”

  Alastair argued, “Miss Segrave, you’re quite wrong about that. I know that you’re young, and so far have not learned much about society, but you must think of marriage. It would not truly be representative of your wealth, of what should be your wealth, for it to be thought that you have only two thousand pounds a year. It’s ridiculous.”

  Valeria rounded on him with absolute rage. “Ridiculous! How dare you, sir, tell me that if I am only worth two thousand pounds a year, I am ridiculous! Here and now let me tell you that I could not possibly care less about ensnaring a husband! Why should I? To me it seems that a woman who marries has three obligations: first, to give her husband all of her money; second, to ornament his drawing room; and third, to dutifully present him with an heir while ignoring his mistresses.

  “Well, let me assure you, sir, that I will never give any man one ha’pence I own; and I will always attempt to ornament any drawing room I happen to be in, without a husband’s assistance; and lastly, if I were such a fool as to marry a man who kept a mistress there would never be the least chance I’d present him with an heir!”

  “Oh, dear,” Mr. Stanhope mumbled.

  But Valeria relentlessly continued, “And so, Lord Hylton, here I am, with my humble two thousand pounds, and I beg that you will make all of your acquaintance aware of it, so that no unsuspecting would-be suitor may fall into my poverty-stricken trap!”

  “I’m afraid, Miss Segrave,” Alastair said distantly, “that the only person who is falling into a trap here is you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  VALERIA SAID, “LET ME THINK…yes. Today I shall wear the black, Joan.”

  The maid giggled. “Yes, ma’am. Would that be the black, or the other black?”

  “No, I meant the black.” In truth, Valeria was depressed by having to wear mourning. The code of mourning for women dictated that their dresses must be made of material with no sheen; only flat matte black was acceptable. The dresses that Valeria and Regina had ordered were of black crape, a dull thick silk, and bombazine, a silk-and-wool blend. Although the black dresses and bonnets might be trimmed, absolutely nothing shiny was to be worn, such as satin ribbons, and particularly not jewelry. The only acceptable ornament was beads of jet, a dull black stone made from coal. Valeria had no jet jewelry, and so her only ornament for her hair was black grosgrain ribbon.

  As she dressed, she reflected that always wearing grim black wasn’t the only thing that made her despondent. The truth was that she felt like the worst hypocrite. She didn’t mourn for the Earl of Maledon; she couldn’t. With every passing day since he died, it seemed that she had been faced with more and more evidence of his corruption and betrayals of his family, and herself. Trying to forgive him was no longer even a question. Trying not to hate him took all her spiritual energy.

  Anyway, I’m wearing mourning for Mamma and St. John, not for him, she told herself.

  The morning was cold and dreary; rain spattered on the windows. Joan said as she worked on Valeria’s hair, “It’s right cold in here, isn’t it, ma’am? I’ll have to tell Mr. Trueman we need to bring up more kindling and coal of the mornings.”

  Valeria had noted that Joan, along with the other serva
nts, even Trueman, had started to address her with the more respectful ma’am or madam, instead of the juvenile miss. She asked, “How are the servants coping, Joan?”

  “Oh, we was all shocked, of course. We none of us knew he was so sick, although Mrs. Banyard did allow a long time ago she thought he’d gone lunatic. Mr. Trueman took it hard, he’s always been that loyal to his lordship. We all were, as is right for servants, but some of us had come to have hard feelings, you might say. Pertick’ly over the last some years, it was hard for us to see her ladyship…well, you know. And then there’s that Mr. Thrale, he’s been the bane of the servants’ hall ever since he came. We’re right glad he’s going, ma’am, even if we’re sorry it’s because his lordship died.”

  “What about Thrale?” Valeria demanded.

  Joan’s mouth tightened. “He’s lazy, he takes advantage, like he made Ned and Royce iron his lordship’s neckcloths and wash his smallclothes. He even made Ned shine his lordship’s boots, which is meant to be a valet’s pride, the sheen of his master’s boots, and there! Didn’t he always tell his lordship that it was his own secret polish that made his boots look so fine?

  “But the worst of it is that he’s such a bother to the maids. Won’t keep his hands to himself. And poor silly little Callie and Marcia, he’s got them so swoggled they’re at each other’s throats all the time, trying to get his attention. It’s sickening.” Callie was the fourth housemaid, and Marcia was the second kitchen maid.

  In a hard voice Valeria asked, “And Trueman allows this?”

  Joan shrugged. “Mr. Thrale just thumbs his nose at Mr. Trueman. You know, ma’am, the valet isn’t like the other servants, just as the lady’s maid is different. They’re really under the lord and lady, not the butler or housekeeper. His lordship wouldn’t never listen to anything about Mr. Thrale, I think Mr. Trueman only tried the one time. After that we all knew it was useless.”

  “Has he ever bothered you?”

  “Oh, he tried, once, when he first came, five years ago, and I was the fourth housemaid, just out of the scullery,” she replied with a satisfied cat’s smile. “But he found that I’m not so foolish as to fall for his guff. And my brothers were that angry with him. They couldn’t do much, you know, but Mr. Thrale did find he had wet coal, cold tea, and burnt toast for weeks. Once Royce even greased the bottom of his boots, and he almost slid down the stairs on his—well, you know, ma’am.”

  “I had no idea, and I know my mother didn’t either,” Valeria said wrathfully. “Every single day something happens that makes me wonder if I shouldn’t take the veil, so I wouldn’t ever have to see another man again as long as I live!”

  “Now, ma’am,” Joan said soothingly, “There are good men, like your father. Miss Platt’s told us all about him. And there’s your brother, and my brothers, and my father, and my uncles, and my cousins. And there’s Lord Hylton, all of us think he’s just fine. And us girls think he’s maybe the handsomest man that ever was!”

  “Lord Hylton, just fine!” Valeria cried. “I think he’s proud and cold and arrogant. He looks down his nose at all of us mere mortals, with our foibles and follies!”

  “Well, it is such a fine nose. Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, maybe it’s just that we don’t know his lordship, of course, we’re just the servants and we’ve barely set eyes on him. Except for Ned,” she added carefully, “and he says his lordship’s right kind and grateful, and he was careful to ask if valeting him isn’t adding too much work on Ned. Unusual, that, if you ask me.”

  Valeria frowned. Here was proof of Alastair Hylton’s character that utterly disputed her own view of him. But then again, she did see that he truly was good to her mother, and he even troubled to take time with St. John. It was his attitude toward her that was confusing. He seemed to continually view her with a critical eye, and she always fell short.

  To add to her perturbation, Valeria did wholeheartedly agree with Joan: she thought that Alastair Hylton was an incredibly handsome man. She admired everything about him: his fine physique, his classical features, his aura of physical power. Part of her was strongly physically attracted to him, while another part of her was repelled by his cold detachment. When Valeria was with him her thoughts were always in turmoil.

  As Joan finished arranging the ribbon in Valeria’s hair she said thoughtfully, “You know, ma’am…maybe if you would ask his lordship—Lord Hylton, I mean—to speak to Mr. Thrale, it might put a stop to his shenanigans.”

  “Ask Lord Hylton—no, that’s impossible! Besides, Thrale is leaving very soon.”

  “Mm, would you know, exactly, how soon, ma’am? Because it appears to all of us that he’s settled in, like, and won’t be going anywhere for a while,” Joan said disdainfully. “He lays about in his room all morning, then comes down to the servants’ hall in the afternoons so’s he can torment poor Laurie and Callie. He’s said he’s set for now, that Lady Maledon—and he calls her ladyship that, too, the toad—said he can stay as long as he wants, until he finds a gentleman that suits him, so he says he’s not obliged to be in any hurry, at all.”

  “What! Why, that lying, sneaking cad,” Valeria said with gritted teeth.

  “In my mind that’s too much of a compliment for him,” Joan asserted. “I know some words that a lady like you never heard, ma’am, and I wouldn’t never say them out loud, but no one can stop me thinking them.”

  One sneaky corner of Valeria’s mind wondered what those words were, but she made herself concentrate on this thorny problem. What should she do? What could she do? She thought, I could just send him packing, but should I? It’s true that Maledon’s death was so sudden that it did leave Thrale in a terrible position. I know it must take time to find a position as a valet…but how much time? To be fair, his behavior is atrocious, but he’s no different from any other man who abuses his position, and that’s because my stepfather allowed it! But how am I to know…should I make him leave now? If I don’t make him leave, however am I to stop him bothering the maids?

  Valeria was not only confused in trying to understand the fair and just manner to deal with Thrale, she felt pure revulsion in contemplating talking to him about his lecherous behavior. Merely thinking of it disgusted her, and she could see no possible way she could look Thrale straight in the face and speak of it.

  With dismay she realized that here, indeed, was a situation that demanded a man’s management. She would have to talk to Alastair Hylton after all.

  This caused her much consternation as she went down to breakfast. She had such a strong aversion to demonstrating any dependence on Lord Hylton that she considered simply allowing the Thrale situation to play itself out. But she knew she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t fair to the servants, and in truth, it would be shirking her responsibility to represent the best interests of her mother and brother. Thrale was their employee, and so he was, in effect, their responsibility, but Valeria was now taking on all accountability for St. John’s decisions, and it was impossible to think of her mother’s having to confront Thrale. It was even more unthinkable for Regina to be forced to take notice of such sordid behavior than it was for Valeria to do so. And that left…Alastair, Lord Hylton.

  Everyone else was already assembled at breakfast. Valeria looked with secret envy at Elyse’s pretty cream-colored morning dress and pink shawl, and at Lady Hylton’s delicate white lace fichu. Lord and Lady Lydgate, and Lady Hylton, did not dress in mourning garb, for it would have been rather ostentatious since they were such distant relations. Lord Hylton wore a black armband, mainly because, Valeria thought, he had a connection that no one else had, that of nearest male blood kin to Lord Maledon, aside from St. John.

  Regina was still a wan shadow of her former glowing beauty, but each day she seemed to be a little better. Valeria saw with satisfaction that she was eating with more appetite, having filled her plate with toast with marmalade and bacon. Lord Lydgate was saying to Alastair, “Can’t possibly go shooting in this foul weather. Birds just huddle up and refuse to
flush, and I can’t say I blame them.”

  “I’m going for a ride anyway,” Alastair said. “I start feeling cramped up when I’m too long indoors.”

  “I’m going out this morning too,” Valeria said. “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Wheeler’s report on the cottages, and I’m going to go see about them.”

  “But surely there’s no need for you to do that, Miss Segrave,” Alastair said. “Wheeler’s report on the needed repairs was quite thorough.”

  “Yes, it was. But I feel that I need to get Mr. Wheeler, and the cottagers, accustomed to my attending to these matters,” Valeria replied. “Surely you can see my reasoning.”

  “Not really, no,” Alastair said. “I think that Wheeler, along with everyone else concerned, understands our positions as trustees very well. And certainly I don’t think it’s wise for you to go wandering all over the estate in a dismal cold rain.”

  “Why is it just fine for you to go riding, but it’s foolish for me?” Valeria argued. “You see, that’s just the sort of attitude I’m speaking of. You can gallop around and take charge of everyone, while I’m just a girl who’s too delicate to get out in the rain.”

  “You’re willfully misunderstanding me,” Alastair said sharply. “All I meant was that it’s really not necessary for you to tour the cottages right now, this morning.”

  Lady Hylton said, “You know, Regina, it never occurred to me that St. John’s trustees would spend their time continually arguing. Perhaps we should have appointed me as a third trustee to keep the other two in check.”

  With mild amusement Regina said, “Valeria, surely you must see that what Lord Hylton says is true. It’s really not such an emergency that you must go out in the rain for hours and subject yourself to the possibility of getting a cold or fever, or both.”

  “But I—yes, Mamma,” Valeria begrudgingly replied, then added under her breath, “but I can’t see why everyone isn’t so worried that Lord Hylton will catch a cold or fever.”