The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1)

by Linda Rae Sande

  When he was done in the west wing, he moved to the east wing and did the same, finding only two rooms that lacked part of their mouldings. Making a note of their location, he moved to the servant’s floor and did the same with the rooms there. Although the third-floor rooms were simpler in design and smaller in size, he found several were still in need of a carpenter. He would have a word with the foreman before he took his leave of the house. A household staff would have to begin living in the house weeks before anyone else moved in, after all.

  Andrew was about to descend the curved stairs to the main floor when he remembered the house included an attic above the servants’ floor. A popular place to play hide-and-seek when he was a boy, the top floor featured slanted ceilings barely high enough for the tallest children to walk under without having to bend over. The back stairs at the end of the east wing were barely wide enough to allow him access, which had him wondering how all manner of trunks and old furnishings could have been stored up there.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he expected to find an expanse filled with the castoffs from the various families that had occupied the house over the years. Instead, he found it empty but for a few trunks and valises. Instead of a ceiling and corners decorated with cobwebs and the wood planks making up the floor covered in dust, he found the space swept and tidy.

  Moving to one of the trunks, he reached down and opened it, surprised to find it empty. The valise next to it was empty as well. Now it’s just storage for luggage, he realized when a large Louis Vuitton trunk proved to be empty as well.

  “Most of what was up here was ruined when the roof leaked,” a deep voice said from behind him.

  Andrew turned to find one of his cousins regarding him with an expression that suggested he wasn’t quite sure who he was addressing. “Gregory? Gregory Grandby?” he replied in disbelief.

  “Aye. And you must be … Max? Oh, my God, it is you,” the rather tall man said as he finished climbing the stairs and moved to grab Andrew’s hand. “The foreman said Uncle’s agent was up here. I had no idea he meant you, but I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised since you are expected for dinner at Woodscastle tonight. You are still coming for dinner, I hope?”

  Andrew smiled and nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it. So good of your wife to send the invitation. She learned of my return from Uncle, of course. How many bairns can you two claim now?”

  Gregory straightened as much as he could given the limited headspace in the attic. “There are ten of the hellions,” he admitted with a roll of his eyes. He motioned for them to move to the stairwell. “But they’re all healthy and happy. The oldest, Ariel, is fifteen now, and I expect I’ll be challenging suitors to duels in the next year or so.”

  Andrew regarded his much older cousin as they made their way to the stairs. “You haven’t changed a bit!” he complained. “Although you look as if you’ve had a bit too much sun.”

  The older cousin nodded. “Indeed. I just returned from Dorset yesterday. Took the oldest children down to the southern coast for a fossil hunting foray. And to meet Mary Anning in Lyme Regis.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Anning. The fossil collector. She and her brother were the ones who discovered the first complete ichthyosaur skeleton.” At Andrew’s continued look of confusion, Gregory sighed. “The fish lizard? The dinosaur? Anyway, she has quite the collection of fossils. Been pulling them out of the cliffside since she was a few years old. Seashells, mostly, but all cataloged and organized quite scientifically. She sells them to make a living. I was able to add to my collection, and I would have purchased everything she had, but I didn’t have room in the coach to get it all home.”

  The younger cousin suddenly gave a sound of understanding. “You’re the cousin who is the naturalist,” Andrew remarked.

  “Aye. Well, when I’m not having to help aristocrats earn money with their investments,” Gregory replied as he stepped out of the stairwell and into the second floor hallway. “It’s lucrative, of course, but certainly not as interesting as studying science.” He turned his attention to Andrew and regarded him for a moment in the brighter lighting. “Perhaps now that you’re back on these shores, you can take over that business,” he suggested. “Still in banking, aren’t you?”

  Andrew allowed a chuckle. “I suppose that’s part of what I’ll be expected to do. And, yes, I’m back at the Bank of England.”

  “You haven’t changed much in … what has it been? Nearly twenty years?”

  The younger cousin nodded. “Hard to believe it’s been that long.”

  “When I saw a mention of an ‘A. Burroughs’ in The Tattler this morning, I wondered who it might be. Now I realize it had to be you.” Gregory continued down the hallway, stopping only once to peek into one of the rooms to announce it had been his when he was a boy.

  “The Tattler?” Andrew repeated. Goodness, he had only been back from the Continent for a fortnight! What could I have done to earn a mention in a news sheet?

  “Congratulations. You made the front page,” Gregory said when he reached the mezzanine overlooking the grand hall. Instead of continuing down the main stairs, he headed for the west hallway.

  Andrew gave him a look of confusion. “But, why would I be mentioned on the front page of … what is The Tattler?”

  “London’s premiere gossip newspaper,” Gregory replied with a roll of his eyes. “Whoever publishes it must be making a fortune,” he added with a quirked lip. “Rather wish I had been asked to be an investor back when it was first started.” Gregory was well known for the money he had made over the years with his lucrative investments, his initial inheritance having provided the seed money necessary to build his personal income so he was now one of the wealthiest men in all of England. His manner lightened a bit. “So, Lady J, huh? I do hope you weren’t robbing the cradle,” he remarked with an arched brow.

  Pausing halfway down the hallway, Andrew frowned and shook his head. “I was hardly robbing the cradle. Lady Stoneleigh and I are only a few years apart in age,” he replied defensively, before he had a chance to consider he had only just renewed his acquaintance with the lady the night before. “And just what did this newspaper claim I was doing with Jane?” he asked in alarm.

  Jesus. He had thought they had left Lord Weatherstone’s house without being spied by anyone other than the two footmen who had seen to their coats. The butler who had nodded as they made their way out of the front door. Her town coach driver knew, of course, and there was the scullery maid he had surprised at the back door of Jane’s townhouse this morning, but he was quite sure no one else had seen the two of them together.

  Gregory angled his head. “Kissing in the gardens, I believe was the crime,” he answered with a bit of hesitance. “But I do not think they were referring to Jane Fitzpatrick. A recent widow, isn’t she?” They had reached the end of the hallway and Gregory turned back toward the front of the house, ducking his head into several of the bedchambers as they walked.

  Andrew nodded. “And my future wife, I hope,” he replied in a hushed voice, absently patting his waistcoat to ensure the ring box was still secure in his pocket.

  The older cousin appeared impressed. “You’ve been back on British shores for how many days …?”

  “Ten or twelve.”

  “And widowed for, what? Eleven years?”

  “Not quite, but …”

  “And you’re looking to be leg-shackled again?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t kissing anyone in the gardens last night,” Andrew argued, ignoring the question about being leg-shackled. He was looking forward to marriage, actually. Looking forward to a life with Jane Vandermeer Fitzpatrick. Good God! If only a few nights a week were like last night, he might never get out of bed!

  Gregory gave him a quelling glance. “Well, someone thinks you were.” He reached the curved stairs and made his way down, Andrew almost alongside him, but he suddenly paused on the landing to the first floor. “Does Todd Vandermeer
know you’re after his cousin?”

  Andrew blinked. “Who?”

  The older cousin angled his head before rolling his eyes. “You were probably gone from London by the time Todd learned who his parents were,” he murmured absently.

  “And, once again, I ask, who is Todd Vandermeer?”

  Gregory continued descending the rest of the stairs. “I cannot believe you don’t remember him, but mayhap he was already a caddy for East India when you were in short pants,” he replied, realizing that had to be the case. Perhaps Andrew hadn’t even been born when Todd Vandermeer, Gregory, and their friend, Thomas Wellingham, played together as children.

  “So?” Andrew prompted.

  Gregory allowed a grin. “He’s an import broker now. Taller than me, I kid you not. Works at my brother-in-law’s import company. Has a mansion in Cavendish Square. His father, God rest his soul, and Lady Stoneleigh’s father were brothers,” he explained, finally establishing the connection between Jane Fitzpatrick and his friend Todd. “He’s rather protective of what family he has left since his father died in service to the British Army, just before his mother died.

  “For an orphan, he’s done very well for himself.”

  Andrew considered the information. “Thank you for warning me. I think,” he added uncertainly. He was still a bit perturbed at learning someone thought he had been kissing Jane in the gardens, though. He rather hoped Jane didn’t mind the mention in the news sheet. Perhaps she was reading about it right now and finding it more humorous than he did.

  He could only hope.

  As for kissing in the gardens, he could hardly believe anyone would mistake the potted palms along the sides and back of the ballroom to be part of the gardens. Even then, he hadn’t kissed Jane beneath a palm frond, or even behind one. He’d been tempted, of course, but discretion was paramount right now.

  It was then he and his cousin noticed that someone else had come into Merriweather Manor. Giving each other a lifted brow, they turned their attention to their visitor and both bowed.

  “So good of you to join us,” Gregory said as he straightened.

  Chapter 22

  Unwelcome Flowers

  Rumor has it Lady W ordered over a dozen potted palms from a Chiswick greenhouse for the back of her ballroom. The palms are a favorite of the wallflowers—far better to keep company with a potted palm tree than with the wallpaper—as well as some couples who just can’t seem to wait until they’re back in their bedchambers to steal a kiss or two! Lord and Lady M have their favorite tree, it seems, as do Lord and Lady B. ~ An article in the May 7, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  May 7, 1818, Lady Stoneleigh’s townhouse

  As her butler nearly collided with her at the door to the study, Jane worked hard to rein in her anger. She feared snapping at the older man should he put voice to any kind of pleasantry. Perhaps he sensed her distress, for he didn’t say anything when he held out the salver containing that day’s mail.

  Jane gave him a quick nod as she took the missives. She rifled through the envelopes as she made her way into the hall and past the round table at its center, a part of her heartened at the number of invitations. Goodness! It was as if everyone in the ton knew she was done with mourning. Maybe it would be best to put off her move to the Continent until after the Season’s events, she considered, remembering that today was the day she was to make the necessary arrangements to escape London.

  Reviewing the wax seals on the backs of the envelopes, she recognized the Morganfield, Aimsley, and Torrington crests as well as several others. Pausing to open one of the envelopes, she dropped the others on the table.

  Although the crystal vase in the middle had been empty since this morning—none of the summer flowers in the back garden were in bloom quite yet—a giant bouquet of white daisies now filled the vase.

  Staring at the flowers, Jane angled her head to one side.

  “Aren’t they beautiful, my lady?” her housekeeper, Mrs. Adams, asked as she joined Jane at the table. “They arrived only a few minutes ago.”

  “Arrived?” Jane repeated before she noticed a card tucked into the top of the vase. She plucked it from its wooden holder and unfolded the missive. I hope you’re having a brilliant day. See you at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Love, A.

  Jane sighed, a small smile touching her lips. How lovely of him, she thought for a fraction of the second before she remembered just how angry she was at the banker.

  How duplicitous! What a rake!

  The rogue had probably sent the same bouquet to Lady Jane! Or one twice as large and made up of roses. The thought had her anger boiling again, and she struggled to bring it back down to a simmer lest she burn someone who didn’t deserve it.

  Turning to the housekeeper, Jane was of a mind to order her to destroy the flowers. At the woman’s expression of adoration over the flowers, though, Jane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Could you see to it these flowers are moved to the servants’ table below stairs? I’m sure they’ll be enjoyed far more during your supper this evening than they will be here where no one can see them,” she added after seeing the look of disbelief on the housekeeper’s face.

  “As you wish, my lady,” Mrs. Adams finally replied with a nod, her expression having changed to one of puzzlement. The older woman leaned over and carefully lifted the heavy vase from the table. Once she had it cradled against the front of her body, she managed a curtsy and took her leave of the hall.

  Aware she was once again about to cry, Jane gathered the envelopes from the table and hurried up the stairs to her room. Damn him! she nearly cried out loud as her body hit the bed. Her head and one fist landed on the very pillow Andrew had used when he hadn’t been using her as one the night before, sending the scents of amber and citrus wafting past her nose and bringing back the memories of their exquisite evening together.

  “Damn him,” she murmured as the tears once again flowed down her cheeks. She fell asleep, the note from the flowers still clutched in her fist and the invitations scattered about the counterpane.

  Chapter 23

  Another Cousin Visits Merriweather Manor

  Rumor has it Merriweather Manor will be ready for occupancy in June. But who will live there? A search of public records hasn’t yet determined just who owns the pile, nor who is writing the cheques for all the renovations. Our money is on someone at the Bank of England. Who else can afford twenty toilets and all that marble? ~ An article in the March 19, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  Meanwhile, back in Chiswick

  As Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, stepped down from his phaeton, he regarded the brick structure before him and allowed a long whistle. Merriweather Manor had never looked this good. Not during any of the years he had been in residence—and probably not when it was first built the century or so prior.

  A sense of melancholy settled over him just then. He hadn’t paid more than a visit or two to his childhood home since he inherited the Torrington earldom, and that had been a very long time ago. Thirty years? No, not quite that long, he considered.

  He dared a glance at the other phaeton parked nearby, a sportier version than the one he drove. Although he didn’t recognize the equipage, he was fairly sure the horses belonged to his cousin, Gregory.

  He turned his attention to the fountain in the center of the drive, wondering at the trotter that stood waiting there. Not recognizing the horse, he wondered who else might be in the house. Andrew? Sir William?

  Several drays were parked off to one side, furnishings piled up on the carts much like large puzzle pieces interlocked together. A series of laborers were in the process of carrying in the loads, intent on their work and ignoring him as they did so.

  Stepping down from the phaeton, Grandby made his way to the double-doors and paused before entering. The familiar odor of home didn’t waft past his nostrils as he half-expected. Instead the vestibule smelled of fresh wax and polish and paint and sawdust.

  New! he th
ought in surprise. Uncle William has certainly outdone himself, he realized as he entered the vestibule and took in the finishing details—mouldings, wallpaper, marble and brass—and let out another low whistle. The great hall beyond was much larger than he remembered, one of the straight staircases having been removed in favor of a single curved one off to the right. It should have made the symmetry of the hall seem off, but it did not, seeing as how a series of tall alcoves were tucked into the wall to the left. In each one, a pedestal supported a marble statue of a character from mythology.

  Three stories above him, the painted ceiling featured a scene out of one of the tales of mythology. Cupid, Grandby thought, noting the quiver and arrow and depictions of the cherub’s parents, Venus and Mars.

  The mezzanine above, lined with carved wooden doors and fronted by a continuous balustrade, suggested the second story was nothing but bedchambers. No upstairs parlor? he wondered, pausing in the middle of the hall when he heard voices from above.

  He watched as his cousins appeared from the western side of the manor house. About to announce his presence, he instead listened when he realized they were discussing the very woman he was here to defend. The very woman who was apparently rather hurt by the thought that one of his youngest cousins had been kissing an even younger woman in the gardens during Lord Weatherstone’s ball the night before.

  Crossing his arms, Grandby watched as the two men descended the stairs, their conversation having turned to the Vandermeers. He screwed up his face in concentration, trying to figure out how the Vandermeers figured into the equation when he suddenly remembered that Jane Fitzpatrick, Dowager Countess of Stoneleigh, was a Vandermeer. He wouldn’t even know of the Vandermeers except that Todd Vandermeer was in business with Gregory’s brother-in-law, Thomas Wellingham, who was a cousin to the current Earl of Trenton.