The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)
Page 3
“Never mind the bloody fountain,” Richard said abruptly. “There are more important matters to discuss. How did things go with Miss Turbett last eve?”
In a blink, Wick’s merriment turned to sullenness. Richard bit back a sigh. He ought to be used to his brother’s lightning shifts in mood by now, but somehow he wasn’t. Somehow in his mind Wickham was still the tow-headed boy who’d followed him everywhere and took his word as gospel. The younger brother who’d worshipped him—and whom he’d protected in turn.
But ever since their papa’s death six years ago, things had changed. Wickham had transformed from a fun-loving lad to a wild and reckless rake. The worst of it was that any advice or solutions Richard had given had only made Wick surly and resentful… until all possibility of rational discourse was gone.
Thus, Richard had resorted to leveraging the last means available to him. He’d threatened to cut off Wick’s quarterly stipend—and only source of income—if Wick didn’t take gainful steps toward discharging his debt of ten thousand pounds. Owed to a moneylender, for God’s sake.
Richard’s temples throbbed. If only he hadn’t been preoccupied by the financial quagmire left by their father, he could have kept a better eye on Wick. Stopped the whelp from frittering away an astronomical sum and jeopardizing his future in the process—
“I danced with Miss Turbett once. She had all the charm of a dead fish,” Wick said, his chin lifting belligerently, “and the conversation of one, too.”
“It’s not her charm or conversation you’re after: it’s her twenty thousand pounds. Devil take it, you agreed to this.” Richard’s jaw clenched in frustration. “I met with Turbett and cleared your path to courting his daughter. You should count yourself fortunate that he’s willing to take you on for the connection to our family. Miss Turbett’s fortune is your only hope for salvation.”
“I don’t want to marry that antidote of a female, and you can’t make me.”
“By Jove, stop acting like a child.” Richard’s grip on his temper slipped. “Don’t you comprehend the danger you’re in? Your moneylender isn’t some merchant who will wait patiently at the tradesmen’s entrance to get paid. Garrity is a cutthroat: if you don’t make good on your debt, you’ll be parting with more than your good name. He’ll take his pound of flesh—literally.”
Wick paled but recovered quickly.
“This is all your fault,” he shot back, angrily swiping jam onto his bread. “If you’d gone into the canal venture with me, we’d both be rich as Croesus. I could pay off my debts, and the family estate wouldn’t be teetering on the brink of ruin. But you refused, and I hadn’t the coin to go at it alone. Therefore, you brought this situation upon our heads.” He pointed his knife at Richard, the initials of his gold signet ring flashing with accusation. “And Mama agrees with me.”
Of course she does. Guilt churned, which only heightened Richard’s frustration. He’d done the best he could, yet he knew full well that their mother hadn’t forgiven him for putting limits on her expenditures. She’d made her displeasure quite clear in her scathing correspondence.
Your papa would turn over in his grave if he knew how you were treating me. He’d never forgive you… and neither will I. I can only regret giving birth to such an ungrateful child.
As was her wont, Mama had glossed over the truth: Papa had paupered himself and the estate trying to keep her in her accustomed style, and, in the end, the stress of it had killed him. He’d died, face-down in a ledger book, his heart collapsing from the weight of his debts.
And he’d left Richard to clean up the mess.
Over the past year, Richard had sold his own personal possessions, including his hunting lodge and stables to clear the debts. With severe budgetary measures and estate reform, he was managing, just barely, to keep the family seat afloat. He’d had no choice but to curtail his mama’s spending—not that she’d listened to his explanations. Her preference was to shoot the messenger.
“The accord between you and Mama doesn’t make either of you right,” Richard said wearily. “I couldn’t risk the estate on a canal scheme, and you know it. My man of business and I researched the proposition thoroughly. The chance of such a venture yielding profits was extremely low.”
“But this one did. And because you didn’t listen to me, I’m bloody doomed! Why should I have to marry some nitwit because you didn’t do the right thing?” Wick’s high cheekbones reddened. “Why am I the one who must suffer in all of this?”
Richard could scarce credit his brother’s twisted reasoning. Nor the fact that Wick believed that he was the only one to face unpleasant consequences. Richard had dismantled his stables, the breeding program he’d spent years building. All that remained, that he could not bring himself to auction off at Tattersall’s with the rest, was his personal mount Aiolos.
He was not a sentimental man, but he hadn’t been able to part with the Thoroughbred. Guilt panged. Now the old boy was trapped in stables as dilapidated as Richard’s own lodgings, their exhilarating gallops through the countryside curtailed to sedate trots in Hyde Park.
“Your debt is your own failing—not mine,” Richard said quietly. “You had choices other than marriage. Years ago, I offered to purchase you a commission or set you up in a respectable profession.” With Wick’s easy charm, good looks, and ready wit, he could have been anything he wanted. “But you refused.”
“Can you honestly see me marching to the drum? Or preaching some sermon or mucking about in the courts? I’m a gentleman.”
“You’ll be a dead gentleman if you don’t pay Garrity off soon. And this time, brother,” Richard said flatly, “I cannot help you.”
Wick said nothing, his expression mulish, yet his hand trembled as he reached for his teacup. Fear stiffened his normally indolent posture. Richard pressed his advantage home.
“There’s still time to remedy the situation. Turbett and his daughter will be at a house party in Hertfordshire two weeks hence. He’s secured us invitations as well. He’s willing to give you a final chance to come up to scratch.”
“Secured us invitations?” Sarcasm dripped from Wick’s words. “He’s in trade, for Christ’s sake. I sincerely doubt we’d aspire to attend an event thrown by one of his mercantile cronies.”
“Nonetheless, we will be going.” As much as Richard detested house parties, he would go to secure Wickham’s future. And, he thought with resignation, to deal with his own. He might have staved off disaster, but the estate would need more income to ensure its long-term health.
“The host of the party, Billings, is a wealthy banker. He has a daughter,” he said.
Wick’s expression lost its surly cast, and for an instant, he resembled the younger brother Richard had always known.
“Never say you are considering matrimony?” Wick’s brows shot toward his hairline. “You, whose portrait currently appears next to the word ‘bachelorhood’ in the dictionary? You, who once said you’d rather clean all the stables in the kingdom than be leg-shackled to a female?”
After the fiascoes with Miss Belton and Lady Keane, Richard had sworn off respectable females. That business had taken place years ago, however. He was no longer a greenling who expected a lady to want to marry him for any reason other than his title. Marriage for him would be a bloodless exchange: her money for his status. He’d lead by example and teach Wick that courtship could be a pragmatic endeavor free of sentimental complications.
“One does what one needs must,” he said severely.
“God’s blood, I do believe you are serious,” Wick breathed.
“I am. So you see, brother, we’re in this together.”
Wickham shrugged, but at least he offered no further argument. Richard took the other’s acquiescence as a good sign, and it renewed his resolve to see Wick settled. He would personally deal with any obstacles to his sibling’s future contentment—which meant that a certain troublesome miss had better stay out of his way.
Chapter Three
Was what happened my fault… when he was being such a boor?
Her sense of fair play invariably won out. For no matter how arrogant and condescending Carlisle had been, he didn’t deserve the ridicule he now faced.
Every gossip and tattle rag in Town seemed obsessed with his downfall. He’d become the butt of jokes—in fact “The Butt of a Joke” was the caption used over a caricature of the viscount sitting on his derriere in a fountain, knees splayed, being drenched by a torrent of champagne. Other similar cartoons included How to Make a Splash in Society and Pride Goeth Before a Fall. Worse yet, the lampoons depicted Carlisle as a scowling giant, his rough-hewn features viciously exaggerated.
Every time Violet encountered the consequences of her impulsivity, her insides twisted. Act in haste, repent in leisure as Mama had been wont to say. She was ten when her mother died, and at times like this she missed the other more than ever. For Mama had been the one person who’d truly understood Vi’s nature; she’d never lost her patience or gotten exasperated with her middle child’s antics.
Heavens, my girl, you’re like a pot about to boil over, Marjorie Kent would say with a warm twinkle in her eyes. Let’s put that steam to work, shall we?
Then she’d send Violet off to do some chore. After weeding the garden or milking the family cow, Vi would always feel better.
But Mama wasn’t here now, and Violet was so ashamed of what she’d done that she couldn’t bring herself to confide in her other family members. The thought of their reaction—the I-told-you-so looks and lectures, not to mention the increased chaperonage—bolstered her motivation to keep the matter under wraps. Which made her feel even guiltier.
When Emma had asked about the telltale red champagne splattered on Vi’s skirts, Vi had mumbled some shoddy excuse, saying that she’d walked by the scene of the accident. Even though Em let the matter drop, Vi’s distress manifested itself in worse than usual distraction, which her sister and the others, not knowing the true cause, remarked upon with growing annoyance.
Never a favored pupil amongst her tutors, she was even less focused than usual during her weekly lessons. She made poor Monsieur Le Roche tear at his wispy hair, and she feared he’d be bald before she learned to conjugate a French verb. She fared no better at her music lesson: Master Fromm had stormed out, declaring that he would have better luck teaching a pig to play the pianoforte.
He was probably right… although she would have liked to have seen him attempt the latter. Just for novelty’s sake. With a private snicker, she’d wondered who would be more annoyed at the undertaking: Master Fromm or the swine?
By week’s end, Violet’s natural equilibrium returned. Bit by bit, her guilt had eased; the gossip about Carlisle had begun to die down, replaced by some newer, juicier tidbit, and she told herself that what was done was done. She couldn’t undo her actions, and, thus, there was but one solution. She would offer Carlisle her most sincere apologies whenever they next met.
And that, she concluded with a mental dusting of her hands, would be that.
Her spirits were further lifted by a visit. She and her youngest sister Polly raced down the stairwell to greet their sister-in-law Marianne, niece Primrose, and Miss Billings, a family friend. Emma had refreshments served in the main salon, a room with a soaring ceiling and lush green furnishings. They all took seats around the coffee table and accepted cups of fragrant tea from Emma. Vi also helped herself to a plate of iced cakes from Gunter’s, her favorite confectionary.
“Lud, Violet, how can you eat like that and never gain an ounce?” Marianne said. A stunning silver blonde, Ambrose’s wife patted a hand over her own willowy form, impeccably displayed in a promenade dress of dove grey silk. “I daresay I would resemble one of those hot-air balloons they launch at Vauxhall if I had your appetite.”
“I’m hungry,” Violet said around a mouthful of marzipan-covered sponge.
“You’re always hungry.” Perched next to Marianne on the settee, Em shook her head, her brunette curls gleaming. “When it comes to food, your stomach brings to mind the Pit of Tartarus from Greek lore.”
Vi had never been good at the classics. “What’s the Pit of Tartarus?”
“A bottomless abyss,” Marianne said dryly, and everyone laughed.
Violet gave a good-natured shrug. One couldn’t take offense when something was true. Polishing off a buttery lemon tart, she said, “If they had these in Tartarus, I’d jump right in. You really ought to try one.”
“Mama and I are off to Madame Rousseau’s for a fitting afterward, so I shan’t risk it,” said Primrose, Marianne’s eighteen-year-old daughter. “With the descending waistlines this Season, gowns aren’t nearly as forgiving, and no amount of tight lacing will erase a plate of cakes.”
Rosie, as the girl was affectionately known, had inherited not only her mother’s fair beauty but also the other’s wit and self-confidence. Since Marianne’s marriage to Ambrose a decade earlier, the Kents had considered Rosie one of their own. She’d formed a particular connection with Polly, who was the same age. The two girls presently shared a chaise, their arms linked and pale muslin skirts overlapping like petals of a single flower.
“You always look beautiful, Rosie,” Polly said with quiet sincerity.
Rosie’s jade-colored eyes danced. “You’re a dear for saying that, but I’d rather not be squeezed like a sausage into a corset if I can help it.”
“I’ll have a cake.” The pink ruffles on Gabriella Billings’ bodice fluttered as she shrugged. “Since I’m a sausage anyway, I have nothing to lose.”
“That’s not true, Gabby. You’re lovely,” Emma protested.
“I have freckles and hair the color of carrots…”
Violet was distracted by the arrival of Tabitha, Em’s grey striped cat. Ever since an unfortunate slingshot incident, Vi had been trying to get back into the feline’s good graces. She held out a bit of cake as a peace offering; Tabby turned her nose up at it and curled up next to Em.
“… what harm is a piece of cake going to do?” Gabby finished.
Hearing the word “cake,” Vi obligingly passed the silver tray of confections to her friend.
“Violet.” Emma gave her a chiding glance.
“What?”
“Cake isn’t the point.”
To Vi, cake was always the point. With the tray held out, she said, puzzled, “It isn’t?”
“Gabby is concerned about her looks,” Em said pointedly.
“Oh.” Vi looked at Gabby. With her ginger curls and bright blue eyes, the other girl looked like a friendly wood sprite. She was one of the few truly nice girls Vi had met in London, and that gave her undisputable appeal in Vi’s book. “Why? You’re pretty.”
“You’re ever so kind.” Gabby’s smile was tremulous. Using the silver tongs, she selected a slice of black currant cake (an excellent choice—Vi could vouch from experience). “I’m sorry to carry on like this. I think my nerves are frazzled because I’ll be hosting my first house party in just a week.” She ate a forkful of cake, mumbling, “I hope I do it correctly.”
“Generosity and kindness are the marks of any successful hostess. And you, my dear Gabby,” Marianne said, “have both in spades. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I wish that were true. Father has spared no expense for the fete. He purchased a whole new wardrobe for me and jewels to match.”
“I read about your jewels in the papers; the auction at Rundell’s was quite a to-do, wasn’t it? Were those divine pearls part of the collection?” Rosie said brightly.
Touching the lustrous strand around her neck, Gabby gave a glum nod. “You should see the sapphire necklace. It was owned by a comtesse of something or another, and I feel like an utter imposter wearing it. But the jewels are the least of it. Father’s had an amphitheatre built to showcase the entertainment. He’s hired The Great Nicoletti to perform magic tricks, and there’s a troupe coming from Astley’s—”
“Astley’s?” Violet’s mind had drifted off during the jewelry discussion, but now she bolted upright. “As in the Astley’s Amphitheatre?”
“The one and only. Madame Monique and others will be performing.”
“Gadzooks,” Violet breathed.
Excitement blazed through her. She adored Astley’s—and Monique Le Magnifique, the famed French acrobat, was her ultimate idol. “That’s smashing news! I cannot wait to meet Madame Monique. Do you think she’ll share the secrets behind how to stand on a moving horse or how to balance on a tightrope—”
“Have a seat, dear,” Marianne said mildly, “and let Gabby finish.”
Violet hadn’t realized that she’d risen. She sat again, her heart thumping. Meeting Madame Monique in the flesh. Absolutely brilliant! Through the years, she’d practiced countless moves inspired by the acrobat; she wondered if the diva would mind giving her some tips.
“… Father wants me to be a success ever so much, but the fact is I’m just a wallflower,” Gabby was saying. “What if nobody deigns to come to my party?”
Understanding suddenly perforated Violet’s delight. Gabby’s father was a banker whose fortune came from clients who were, well, a bit unsavory. In fact, while the Kents adored Gabby, they were not fans of Mr. Billings, whom they’d first met during the course of a murder investigation. With his wealth, Billings could purchase his daughter’s entrée into the upper echelons, but acceptance was another matter altogether.