Luc studied him through narrowed eyes. “Tell me,” he said, “do you also have a similar property that you’re holding until just the right moment for Lamb?”
Barnaby looked guilty. “Lamb will need, want his own place eventually,” Barnaby mumbled.
There was a time when Luc would have stormed out of the room, wrapping his pride around him, but he realized that to do so would only wound Barnaby ... and he’d be cutting off his own nose to spite his face. He thought a moment and then he said slowly, “I will buy it from you.”
When Barnaby looked like he’d object, Luc held up a hand and said, “I suspect that the amount I can pay you will be woefully less than the place is actually worth, but at least allow me to salvage some of my pride.”
Knowing it was the best he was going to get, Barnaby nodded, thrilled at the outcome. They haggled over the price, and a half hour later a dazed Luc walked out of Barnaby’s office, the new owner of Ramstone Manor. I own a house, he thought stunned. A house. And land. And farms. Sacristi! I am indeed becoming respectable.
Shaking his head in disgust, he headed for the stables, intending to ride to Ramstone Manor and see what his money had purchased. Next thing you know, he thought irritably, I will want a wife and a nursery. Gillian’s face swam in front of him and he cursed. Forcing her image from his mind, he mounted Devil and set off to inspect his new estate, but against his will, his thoughts turned to Gillian and events at High Tower.
Life had followed a predicable course at High Tower during the time of Luc’s withdrawal from public. Gillian and Sophia were settling into the house and under different circumstances both ladies would have been delighted with the change in their lives, but Canfield remained an ominous cloud on the horizon.
It wasn’t, Gillian decided, that Saturday afternoon as she, Sophy and Silas sat in the November sun in a sheltered part of the garden, that Canfield had made any overt moves toward her; it was simply that he was there. And, she admitted, never far from any of their thoughts. She scowled. How much longer would he remain a guest at High Tower?
Almost as if she read her thoughts, Sophia said, “I wonder how long Canfield intends to visit. He and Stanley have been here for over a fortnight. Surely they must be longing for London or thinking of joining one of the hunts—although I must say I will be sorry to see Stanley go—I’ve enjoyed his company.”
Sitting between Gillian and Sophy, Silas grunted. “Been surprised these past weeks by Stanley myself. Boy seems to be taking an interest in the estate—something he’s never done before now. When we met with my bailiff the other day, he actually appeared to listen. Even asked a few intelligent questions.” Silas looked thoughtful. “Never stayed more than a couple of nights before either. Most of the time, he’d show up on my doorstep with a friend or two, explain his latest shortage of funds, and once I’d given him the money, after a polite interval, off he’d go until the next time he fell into the River Tick.” He frowned. “Don’t remember Canfield being one of his friends, though. Not even in London. Stanley’s friends have always been untried cubs ready for any lark, but there was never any harm in them.”
“I agree,” said Gillian, nodding. She stared off into space. “Stanley has been ... different these past weeks. We have frequently been in each other’s company of late—but most telling of all—without bickering. I cannot say that we are close, but like Sophia, I have enjoyed being around him.” She dimpled. “He even escorted us into the village the other day to buy some lace and thread at the draper’s shop and not once did he complain.”
“Extraordinary!”
“Yes, it was,” said Sophia. “He seems to be taking his role as brother and cousin seriously.”
“I wonder,” Silas murmured almost to himself, “if that talking-to I had with him in London at the end of the Season about the way I came to own High Tower has anything to do with the changes we see in him.”
Both women looked at him. “What do you mean?” asked Gillian. “How would the way you acquired High Tower affect him?”
Silas looked uncomfortable. Both women waited for his answer and after a few moments, he sighed and said, “It’s a sad, unpleasant story—not for the ears of ladies, but since you’re living here, better you hear it from me than someone else.” He grimaced. “Not that there are many around who remember the tragedy.”
“What tragedy?” demanded Gillian.
Silas took in a deep breath and quietly told them of the Bramhall family and Edward Bramhall’s suicide from the tower that gave High Tower its name. When he finished speaking, there was silence for several minutes.
“I blame myself,” admitted Silas. “I was too pleased with myself by winning such a plum estate that I never thought of Bramhall—or what it would do to him.”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” protested Gillian, while sparing a thought for the tragic Edward Bramhall. “How often have we heard of grander estates and fortunes changing hands at the gaming tables?” Her lips drooped. “I do not hold you responsible, but this is exactly why I hate gambling. Gamblers never think of the pain they cause.” Realizing what she had said, she gasped and flashed Silas an unhappy smile. “Oh, Uncle! I am so sorry—and after all you have done for me. I did not mean to offend you.”
Silas patted her hand. “You didn’t, my dear. I don’t disagree with you. Gambling is a wicked vice—but remember that no one forces a gentleman to sit down at that table and throw away a fortune. The harsh truth is that anyone who gambles more than he can afford to lose is a fool.”
“Uncle is right,” said Sophia in her prosaic manner. “Young Bramhall’s suicide was a tragedy, but I suspect that he would have come to a bad end anyway.” She looked at Silas. “This is what you told Stanley?”
Silas nodded.
“Then I think you may be right,” continued Sophia. “Stanley is neither stupid nor unintelligent. It may have taken him awhile, but it appears that he’s taken your words to heart.”
“He hasn’t asked for money since he’s been here, either,” admitted Silas.
Gillian looked stricken. “Oh dear, I feel dreadful. I accused him of that very thing, the first day he arrived. Everything points to him trying to change his ways—right down to his escorting Sophy and me to the village.”
“What I can’t figure out,” said Silas, changing the subject slightly, “is his friendship with a dirty dish like Canfield. Canfield may be Welbourne’s son, but his reputation makes his father look like a saint—and we all know that Welbourne was never a saint, not even in his youth.”
“Have you noticed,” asked Sophia, “that there seems to be an air of constraint between them lately?”
Leaning forward to look at Sophia where she sat on the other side of Silas, Gillian exclaimed, “You’ve noticed it, too? I thought I was imagining it.”
“I’ve noticed,” admitted Silas, moving his broken arm in its sling to a more comfortable position, “but I didn’t want to get my hopes up that they’ve had a falling-out.” Silas frowned. “They didn’t move in the same circles in London. Canfield and his friends were rowdier, wilder, wealthier and always, as I remember, falling into one scrape after another—unsavory incidents at that.”
“I received a letter from a friend of mine, and she says that gossip has it that Welbourne has disowned Canfield,” offered Sophia.
Silas waved a hand. “Welbourne has disowned him at least a half-dozen times that I know of—I wouldn’t pay much attention to that particular on-dit.” He turned over her words in his head for a moment before saying slowly, “But if the gossip is true ... it could explain Canfield’s presence here with Stanley. If Welbourne has turned his back on him, most of the ton would follow suit. With many doors closed to him, Canfield might find it prudent to latch on to someone like Stanley... .” Silas shook his head. “Stanley might think he is a man of the world, but truth is, he’s a booby when it comes to sizing up people—one of the reasons he ain’t a very successful gambler. Chances are, Stanley hasn’t heard about
Canfield’s disgrace and he was flattered to be sought out by a duke’s son—never suspecting that Canfield is only using him.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Gillian said, frowning.
“I think we’ll find out that Canfield invited himself along and that Stanley was too flattered to say no,” said Sophia. “Or wonder why Lord George Canfield, with supposedly wealthier, titled gentlemen with grander places vying for his presence, chose to visit High Tower.”
Silas nodded. “Perhaps the coolness between them is because Stanley is finally beginning to wonder about that very thing... .”
Chapter 9
It may have just been speculation, but Gillian, Sophia and Silas had hit upon the truth. The events leading up to young Bramhall’s death as related by his uncle all those months previously had shocked Stanley. Fortunes and estates were lost all the time at the gaming tables and more than one ruined gentleman had taken his life after a night of reckless gambling, but Stanley had never known anyone who had done so. He’d heard stories and shrugged them aside as allegorical tales, not to be taken seriously. Until Silas told him the facts of Edward Bramhall’s suicide he’d had no inkling that High Tower had come into the family by way of the gaming table—or that a young man had killed himself right in front of his uncle’s eyes.
The story of Bramhall’s ruin had not immediately caused Stanley to mend his ways, but as the months passed he’d found himself thinking more and more about his frivolous life. After one disastrous night at a gaming hell in June, his uncle’s words ringing in his ears, he realized how easily one could go the way of Bramhall. He realized something else: he didn’t take as much pleasure in all that London had to offer as he once had—and hadn’t for a while.
Even in the midst of the London whirl he was conscious of feeling lonely. He had friends, but friends, he admitted, were not the same as family. It was a bloody shame, Stanley decided, that he and the remaining three members of his family weren’t on warmer terms. His thoughts astonished him. Dash it all, he was fond of Uncle Silas—and not just because of the money! And, he admitted, he wished the situation between himself and Gilly and Sophia was more amiable. He grimaced. Or at least amiable. He acknowledged that he was as much at fault as anyone for the situation in the family, and he determined to institute change. By late summer, Stanley didn’t know how he would resolve the conflicts with his relatives, but he was committed to finding a way—and spending time at High Tower with his uncle seemed a step in the right direction.
Canfield’s advent into his life had thrown him off track and his relatives had been right about that, too. Canfield had sought him out, and Stanley, dazzled at being noticed by Welbourne’s youngest son, momentarily forgot all his good intentions. Stanley and his friends, while members of the ton, were amongst the lesser lights of that glittering assembly. Content within his own circle, it was a feather in Stanley’s cap to be seen in the company of Lord George Canfield—despite Canfield’s reputation for dissipation.
Waking that Sunday morning at High Tower with an aching head and a roiling stomach, Stanley cursed himself for thinking that being friends with Lord George Canfield was something to be desired. He liked to gamble, but not for the stakes that Canfield did—the story of Bramhall’s death a constant reminder to him of the dangers of gambling beyond his means. Stanley liked to drink as much as the next fellow, but he was not the tankard man that Canfield was. He had a healthy appetite for the fairer sex, but he’d never been one for whoring and wenching, and next to gambling for heart-pounding stakes, bedding the nearest attractive woman seemed to be Canfield’s favorite pastime.
Beyond the first few evenings, Stanley had not enjoyed himself at The Ram’s Head. A polite gentleman and not indifferent to his fellow man, Stanley found Canfield’s behavior to others uncomfortable, but it was Canfield’s arrogance toward Nolles that alarmed him. Stanley knew of Nolles’s reputation, and he feared that Canfield would offend the man and bring trouble down on them.
Most importantly, he’d recently perceived that he disliked the duke’s youngest son and wondered why he’d ever been flattered by Canfield’s attentions. He’d also made another discovery that surprised him—during these past weeks he’d been happier at High Tower with his uncle and Gillian and Sophia than he had ever been in his life.
Throwing water into his face from the china bowl on the wooden washstand, he stared at his haggard features in the mirror and winced. Uncle Silas, Gilly and Sophy had every right to look at him with disapproval, and he swore that he had spent his last evening frittering away his time at The Ram’s Head.
After their late nights at The Ram’s Head it was the habit of the two gentlemen to lay abed until the late afternoon, but Stanley broke that routine by forcing himself out of bed well before noon. Once he was dressed for the day, he surprised Silas and the ladies by joining them for a light repast served in the breakfast room.
When he walked into the breakfast room, they all looked at him astonished. He smiled and, approaching the sideboard, poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot that sat among the other offerings of food and drink.
Turning back to his relatives sitting at the round table in the center of the room, he said, “Good morning. I trust all is well with everyone.”
“Good morning to you,” said Silas. “We don’t often see you up this early. Is there some reason?”
Stanley flushed. “Er, nothing particular.” He cleared his throat and muttered, “It, um, isn’t often that we are together as a family, and I, ah, felt that I should spend more time with you.”
“What have you done with my brother?” Gillian demanded wide-eyed. “First you escort us into the village without complaint, and now you actually seek out our company. You must be an imposter.”
“Well, he didn’t go with us to church this morning,” Sophia pointed out, “so perhaps he’s not an imposter, but he must not be in his right mind—how else to explain his behavior?”
“He’s mad, do you think?” Gillian murmured with a lifted brow.
“Dash it all, that’s not amusing,” Stanley complained, glaring at both women. “Here I am, trying my best to put out the hand of friendship, and all the pair of you do is slap it aside.”
Silas chuckled and said, “Oh, sit down, boy. Can’t you tell when you’re being teased? May I remind you that we only tease people we like.”
Stanley looked nonplussed for a second, and then a tentative smile crossed his face. “That’s true, isn’t it?” he said as he took a seat next to Gillian.
“Yes, it is,” replied his sister, a twinkle in her eyes. “And we are only rude to people we love. Haven’t you noticed how excruciatingly polite one is to a person they dislike?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Stanley said and something occurred to him. His family had been very polite to Canfield and just as rude as ever to him. It shouldn’t have, but that knowledge cheered him.
Glancing around the table, he asked, “So what are your plans for this afternoon?”
Silas spoke up. “We have nothing planned. The ladies usually retire to their rooms and amuse themselves while I take the old man’s prerogative and nap for a few hours in my room.”
Before more was said, Meacham knocked on the door and at Silas’s command entered the room. “Mr. Luc Joslyn has come to call,” he said, looking at his master.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Silas, brightening. “Show him in.”
Stanley frowned. “I wonder if that’s wise. I think Mr. Joslyn is far too familiar with you.”
“Don’t ruin all the progress you’ve made,” Silas warned. “Luc is my friend and I am always happy to see him—and you would do well to remember that.”
“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Stanley muttered, “it is just that ...”
“Oh hush,” said Gillian, hoping no one could hear her galloping heart. Luc Joslyn was here and until this moment, she hadn’t realized that she had been counting the days until she would see him again.
A moment later, wearing a dark blue coat with brass buttons and nankeen breeches, Luc strolled into the breakfast room. After greeting everyone and refusing offers of refreshments, he took a seat between Silas and Sophia. Everyone wanted to know how he was doing, and Luc entertained them with a silly, elaborate tale detailing the fall from his horse and his recovery.
Eyeing him, Gillian decided that he’d never looked more handsome as he sat relaxed across the table from her. There was no sign of the injuries he’d suffered, and with his black hair gleaming in the sunlight streaming in from the window and his azure eyes bright and full of amusement, he was the picture of health.
For a second their eyes met and hers dropped, her pulse thudding. I am not a green girl to be bowled over by a handsome face, she reminded herself.
The conversation drifted from topic to topic for a few minutes, until Luc said, “I did have a reason for coming to call today.” He looked at Silas. “I am still not certain how it came about,” he confessed, “but I find myself the owner of an estate: my brother sold me Ramstone Manor. I spent most of yesterday afternoon inspecting the main house and some of the outbuildings, and while I expected nothing less from my brother, I was pleased to find the place in excellent condition.” He grinned. “I’ve already moved in with my two servants—we spent last night settling into the place.” Diffidently, he added, “Since the weather is fine, if it’s not too short of notice, I was wondering if you,” he glanced around the table, “and the others would care to take a drive over and see my new home this afternoon.”
Desire Becomes Her Page 15