His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  Kendall, the first footman, appeared in the parlor door holding a laden silver tray.

  “Kendall, if you’d set the tea before me?” Hessian gestured to the low table flanking the sofa.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “Penelope will pour out. Set the tray before her.”

  Kendall, who hailed from Martinique by way of Lisbon, maintained an impassive expression— and possession of the tray.

  “I shall pour for my guests,” Hessian said, “and please get the door on the way out, Kendall.”

  The footman bowed and withdrew, closing the door silently. Pray God that Bronwyn and Daisy didn’t shriek the house down upon catching sight of each other.

  Hessian made a good, long production out of serving the ladies tea, while he wrestled with the question of what role Mrs. Braithwaite ought to play in Daisy’s life. He’d been preoccupied with managing Daisy herself and had frankly put off the question of what to do about the girl’s aunt.

  He was a widower with little experience with children, but then, Mrs. Braithwaite apparently had no experience with children.

  She watched Hessian maneuver around the silver service as if China black, sugar, and milk were some arcane test of social acceptability, and she the judge qualified to eliminate those who failed the examination.

  “You may speak freely before Miss Smythe,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “She is entirely in my confidence.”

  She is not in mine. “That is good to know, Mrs. Braithwaite. However, your visit today takes me by surprise. Had you written, I might have been better prepared to discuss Amy Marguerite’s situation with you, but your suggestion will require considerable thought. Amy Marguerite has endured a great loss, and I take seriously my responsibility to provide her with a safe, stable home where she can recover from the blow grief has dealt her. Do have some cake. Cook prides herself on a light hand with the sweets.”

  Miss Smythe sat through this balderdash, gaze fixed on the window as if she were posing for a cameo.

  Mrs. Braithwaite set her cup and saucer on the tray. “My household would be a perfect haven for a grieving child. Surely you must see that, my lord. I live the quiet life of a widow, barely socializing, while you maintain a peer’s bachelor establishment. I can raise Amy Marguerite in gentility and propriety, surrounding her with the love of a blood relation and sparing you the bother of a small child underfoot.”

  Hessian for the most part ignored his title. When the Earl of Grampion was announced, part of him still expected his father to strut forth, though Papa hadn’t been much for pomp and ceremony either.

  Hessian also rarely went to the bother of voting his seat, avoided London, and, for cards and socializing, preferred a humble club favored by Border families.

  But sometimes, being the earl was necessary and useful.

  He topped up Miss Smythe’s tea cup—leaving Mrs. Braithwaite’s empty—and set the silver pot on the tray.

  “Mrs. Braithwaite, forgive my lack of delicacy, but do you imply that I, Lord and Lady Evers’s closest neighbor, who am in fact Amy Marguerite’s godfather, who has known her since birth, and was a frequent guest in her parents’ home, am somehow less capable of providing a haven for the girl than is an aunt whom she might not even recall?”

  Mrs. Braithwaite sat very tall. “I am her only adult relation, my lord. Of course, she’ll recall me.”

  “You visited your sister about four years ago, if I remember aright. Amy Marguerite would have been three. How often have you written to her since then?”

  “One does not write to an illiterate child.”

  “Perhaps you sent a gift on her birthday or at Yuletide?”

  Mrs. Braithwaite maintained an affronted silence.

  “Do you even know when her birthday falls?”

  “What matters the date of a child’s birth, my lord, when she can’t be with family to celebrate the occasion?”

  Lily Ferguson would know what to say to that. Hessian’s responses begged for a dusting of profanity, lest this presuming creature mistake his meaning.

  “Your devotion to your niece does you credit, Mrs. Braithwaite,” Hessian said, rising. “I will consider your request, but Amy Marguerite was entrusted to my care, and Lord and Lady Evers’s final arrangements made no provision for turning the child over to you for rearing. You are asking me disregard the wishes of the child’s parents and shirk my duty, and that I am unlikely to do. For the present, the girl needs stability, not upheaval, so I will thank you to respect my wishes.”

  Miss Smythe scooted to the edge of the sofa, but did not rise until Mrs. Braithwaite was on her feet.

  “My lord, Amy Marguerite is a female. Surely when Lady Evers assented to naming you as guardian, she did so anticipating that your household would include your own lady wife. Until such time as you can offer at least that much female guidance to the child, my household is the more appropriate home for her.”

  Hessian opened the door and stood by it. “I was widowed by the time Amy Marguerite was born, and her parents well knew my circumstances. I’ll wish you good day, Mrs. Braithwaite, and thank you for your interest in your niece. Feel free to send her a note of condolence, or some small token of her mother’s memory, if any you have. Miss Smythe, a pleasure to meet you.”

  Mrs. Braithwaite drew in such a long breath, Hessian thought she might pop a nacre button off her bodice. She tried subjecting him to a sniffy, up-and-down perusal, but he was a northern earl, and her indignation was nothing compared to the tempers and feuds his tenants and neighbors could get up to over imagined slights.

  He accompanied the ladies to the foyer, mostly to ensure they did in fact leave the premises, and waited until the butler had closed the front door behind them.

  “Hochman, I am not at home to Mrs. Braithwaite in future, unless I specifically tell you otherwise.”

  “I’ll inform the footmen, my lord. Miss Ferguson and Miss Bronwyn have arrived, and Miss Daisy has joined them in the library.”

  “Well done. The young ladies might want a tea tray in the garden.”

  “With plenty of biscuits?”

  “Hochman, you are a man of discernment.”

  While Hessian was a man much in need of sensible conversation and a strategy for dealing with Mrs. Braithwaite.

  * * *

  No more embracing, no more yearning, no more kissing.

  Lily’s strategy where Lord Grampion was concerned was simple, also painful. She resigned herself to cordiality—he deserved at least that—and to as much truthfulness as she could afford. She had stolen a memorable kiss, and must content herself with that treasure.

  “Greetings, ladies,” the earl said, bowing over Lily’s hand and then over Bronwyn’s. “I am delighted to see you.”

  “So am I,” Daisy said. She aimed a smile at Bronwyn, who grinned back, and for reasons known only to little girls, this occasioned a cascade of giggles.

  Once upon a time, long, long ago, Lily had giggled like that with Annie, and the sound still had the power to make her smile.

  “What will you be today?” his lordship asked. “Corsairs, Wellington at Waterloo, Good Queen Bess presiding over her court? Perhaps you’ll put the fountain to use re-enacting the Battle of Trafalgar, though the weather’s a bit cool for that entertainment.”

  He aimed the question at the girls, and Lily was assailed by the realization that at some point, this rather serious, titled fellow had been a boy. He had climbed trees, dammed up streams, likely built campfires in the home wood, and gone swimming without benefit of clothing or adult supervision.

  Despite the typical self-absorption of an adolescent, he’d also noticed at least one difficult, younger female child taking the air in Hyde Park.

  “What’s Trafalgar?” Daisy asked.

  “That’s where Lord Nelson died.” Bronwyn said. “Heroes can be dead and still be heroes, but I prefer the ones like my papa and Wellington, who are still alive. Wellington’s horse is Copenhagen. He was sometimes naughty, but
a fine battle mount.”

  Daisy looked fascinated. “Your papa is a hero?”

  “Perhaps you ladies might finish that discussion in the garden?” his lordship suggested.

  “Or in the nursery,” Lily said. “The weather is becoming threatening.”

  “So it is,” the earl said. “We’ll send a tea tray up to the nursery, then. Be off with you, and mind the breakables.”

  Daisy shot him a curious look as Bronwyn snatched her hand and dragged her toward the door.

  Leaving Lily alone with a man whom she must neither encourage nor alienate.

  “I had thought to leave Bronwyn with you for a short time,” she said. “My cousin Oscar was to have accompanied us here, but woke with a megrim. I can return for Bronwyn later, or you can send her home with a nursery maid or footman.”

  Lily should have marched smartly for the door, but his lordship put a hand on her arm. “You walked here, did you not? With rain threatening, I insist on having the coach brought around. Allow me that small courtesy, for I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

  His blue eyes held no guile, no subtle, improper meaning. Had he leered at her, Lily’s decision would have been so much easier.

  “I like to stretch my legs.” In truth, Lily had learned not to take Uncle Walter’s coach when Oscar’s gentlemanly excesses rendered him incapable of moving about on foot during daylight hours.

  “Then perhaps you’ll agree to walk in the park with me and Daisy on Wednesday?”

  Say no … feign another obligation, fabricate some appointment you must keep. Except, feigning and fabrication were the genteel relations of deceit, and Lily had promised herself to be as honest with Grampion as possible.

  “Your lordship’s invitation extends to Bronwyn too, I presume?”

  “I have the sense that every expedition benefits from Captain Bronwyn’s leadership. Shall we sit?”

  No, no, no. He hadn’t yet ordered his team put to. A tea tray was doubtless being prepared for the library in addition to one for the nursery, and Grampion had mentioned a favor. Nobody asked Lily for favors, and she preferred it that way.

  “I cannot stay long, my lord. My companion should have accompanied me in Oscar’s absence, but she is inclined to colds when the weather is changeable.” Miss Fotheringham also detested small children, hence Lily’s choice of Rosecroft for her earlier call on Grampion.

  Grampion patted the back of a wing chair. “You see before you a man wrestling with a dilemma, Miss Ferguson, and you are uniquely positioned to aid me in resolving it. Please, won’t you tarry a moment?”

  He invited, he flattered, he honestly requested. Lily had no defenses against these tactics. Had Grampion been imperious or improper, her arsenal would have been adequate to repel his advances, but he was simply gentlemanly.

  She took a seat in a chair so comfortable, it practically begged her to toe off her slippers and curl up with a book. The faint scent of cedar came to her, suggesting this was his lordship’s preferred reading perch.

  “I was ambushed earlier today,” Grampion said, taking the near end of the sofa. “Daisy’s aunt presented herself on my doorstep, bold as you please, demanding that I hand Daisy over to her.”

  Oh dear. “You were tempted to comply?”

  “I am a bachelor and a peer. In Mrs. Braithwaite’s opinion, both sad attributes disqualify me from supervising the upbringing of one little girl. She is Daisy’s only female relation, and thus I must uproot the child and surrender her posthaste, for I lack a wife, auntie, or other handy female to protect Daisy from my male ineptitude.”

  He was angry at the aunt’s presumption, but Lily suspected he also felt honor-bound to consider the woman’s request. “What was Daisy’s reaction to her aunt?”

  Grampion crossed his legs, a Continental pose most Englishmen eschewed, and twitched a seam straight on his breeches.

  “Mrs. Braithwaite did not ask to see the child, did not seem to know that Daisy was under this very roof.”

  Or she had not cared. “Where else might Daisy be, if not here with you?”

  “In Cumberland, in the care of the staff she’s known her entire life. I’ve made arrangements for the remaining nursery maids from the Evers household to join my household at Grampion Hall when I return north.”

  When his wife-hunting was successfully concluded. “In the weeks since Lady Evers’s death, Mrs. Braithwaite hasn’t troubled to find out where Daisy is?”

  A lordly nose wrinkled. “Either she hasn’t troubled to find out where Daisy is, or she knew Daisy was here and anticipated that I’d refuse a request to meet with the girl.”

  “Would you have?”

  “You should have been a barrister.” He rose and used the cast-iron poker to move coals about on the hearth. “I took Mrs. Braithwaite into dislike when I met her several years ago at one of Lady Evers’s dinner parties. I could not tell if Mrs. Braithwaite was flirting with me, or if she was nervous to be in titled company. Some people are. Or perhaps she’d had too much wine. She tittered and batted her lashes and found rather too many opportunities to lay her hand on my arm, which behavior I expect from nervous debutantes.”

  Lily expected the equivalent from presuming lords and knew exactly why Grampion had formed such a bad impression of Mrs. Braithwaite. The widow was Lord Stemberger in a dress, regarding everybody in her ambit as either an opportunity or an obstacle.

  The earl stared at the flames, then added half a scoop of coal and dusted his hands. “I ought not to judge people on scant evidence, but ladies who are too fond of cosmetics provoke me to caution. This is not rational or fair, I know, but why alter one’s appearance beyond the endowments conferred by the Almighty? Society should be accepting of an honest appearance, and to present oneself as something one is not… I’m maundering. My brother says I excel at maundering.”

  He resumed his seat. “She uses henna and rice powder in obvious quantities when there’s no need. She’s well-enough looking, not victimized by small pox. And her clothing is loud.”

  This last was offered quietly, like a confession. “Her clothing is loud?”

  “All fussy and frilly to the eye, and she cannot lift a hand without rustling and swishing. My late wife used the same tactic. She could rivet a man’s attention by virtue of adjusting her skirts, straightening a cuff, or merely crossing a room. After she died, I thought I heard the rustle of her clothing rather than her voice.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am daft. You will forget I said that. I spend much time reading poetry in duck blinds, or napping. My mind tends to run about like a march hare on the moor. What shall I do with Mrs. Braithwaite?”

  Lily had the oddest urge to take his hand. “You must do what is best for Daisy, and I cannot think more upheaval and change fits that description.”

  “Precisely what I told Mrs. Braithwaite. I did my lordly best to crush her presumptions, but she’ll be back. Scheming women have to be persistent, else their plans never come to fruition. One can’t blame them, but neither can one afford them any sympathy.”

  His words were no less measured than any other comment he’d made, and yet, they cut Lily to the soul.

  “Then you must crush her presumptions again,” Lily said, rising, “and I really must be going.” Before she began to cry, which would be stupid and useless.

  “I haven’t ordered the coach yet,” Grampion said, standing as gentlemen must when a lady leaves her seat, “and I have yet to puzzle out exactly how I’ll crush Mrs. Braithwaite’s presumptions. She is Daisy’s aunt, and I am…”

  “You are an uncle,” Lily said. “You have nieces too and thus have some familiarity with how a household accommodates a little girl. You mentioned a sister who bided with you in the north.”

  Grampion peered down at her, and Lily realized she’d made a mistake. The earl’s brother had recently come into a minor title, a knighthood, or a baronetcy—Lily forgot which—but Worth Kettering was not of such a social stature that Lily should know the
configuration of his household.

  When Uncle Walter had revealed that he sought to partner with Kettering on some investments, Lily had done the usual research, else she would not have learned that Grampion’s brother had married the current Earl of Casriel’s sister, much less that they had one girl child and half-grown niece under their roof.

  “I am an uncle, you’re right, and I do have a half-sister, whom few know of. Yolanda was born on the wrong side of the blanket, though I’ll call out anyone who mentions that fact, and Worth will gladly serve as second. Shall I ring for a tray? When I hosted Mrs. Braithwaite’s call, I barely partook, and Cook will be wroth with me unless I do justice to her next offering.”

  You haven’t ordered the coach for me. Except Lily was back in her chair, once again felled by Grampion’s casual honesty. He had a bastard half-sister, of whom he and his brother were ferociously protective.

  “I’ve upset you with all this family linen flung so casually out to dry,” Grampion said, resuming his place on the sofa. “I apologize. Mrs. Braithwaite discommoded me.”

  “She apparently delights in discommoding others.” She and Uncle would suit famously. “How do you suppose Daisy would fare in a household run by such a woman?”

  “Daisy would fade into perfect, miserable obedience. I doubt Mrs. Braithwaite’s companion said two words during the entire visit. Miss Smythe took not one tea cake and didn’t so much as move from her seat without her employer’s leave.”

  He fell silent, giving Lily a moment to study his profile.

  “You have made up my mind, Miss Ferguson. Mrs. Braithwaite can be a doting auntie, but no more. I doubt she knows how to dote, but I suggested she start with a note of condolence to the child and some token in remembrance of Belinda.”

  “Belinda?”