by Anne Gracie
“That’s enough, Rose. You’re upsetting your aunt,” Cal said curtly. He resumed his seat. “I think we’ve heard quite enough about this contretemps, girls. Now drink your soup before it gets cold.”
They finished the meal in silence, more or less. Aunt Dottie began to expostulate once or twice, but Cal silenced her with a look.
“There is an excellent play starting at the theater tomorrow night,” Aunt Dottie began when they had finished their meal. “Perhaps—”
“No!” Cal slammed his fist on the table, making them and the cutlery jump. “They broke the rules and they must be punished for it.”
“Oh, but—”
“No, Aunt Dottie. They’re not showing nearly enough regret or repentance for my liking. Rose is almost proud of her disgraceful behavior.” The fact that he was also proud of her was beside the point. She had to learn.
“If I’d been a boy, you would have been proud of me for defending my sister,” Rose muttered.
“But you aren’t a boy,” Cal snapped. “You’re not even a lady!” Aunt Dottie gasped, but Cal went on, “You girls know very well you were in the wrong, sneaking out at night against my express orders. You probably think you have been punished enough, but—”
“Oh, Cal—”
“I must insist, Aunt Dottie. They need to learn their lesson. For the next two weeks they’re not to attend any function—public or private. They’re not to have any outings at all, not even a walk in the park. They shall remain inside the house, and”—he tried to think of what they should do—“and ponder the wages of disobedience. And reckless behavior.”
Rose snorted.
“What?” Goaded, he turned on her.
“You mean we cannot even go to the Pump Room?” She put her hands to her face in mock distress. “Oh, dear, that will be a hardship.”
“Rose,” her aunt began.
“Well, as if we even want to go out anywhere, looking like this,” she said scornfully. “You couldn’t make me leave the house if you tried, Brother Dear. Come along, Lily, let’s read the next chapter of our book.”
Cal gritted his teeth. It was a miracle someone hadn’t already strangled Rose.
* * *
“You shouldn’t provoke him, Rose.” Lily climbed up onto her bed.
Rose made an impatient gesture. “I can’t help it. He rubs me up the wrong way. He hasn’t been near us for years, didn’t even write to us while he was away, and now he comes back throwing his weight around and ordering us about as if—as if we’re soldiers in his horrid command!”
“He is head of the family,” Lily pointed out.
Rose snorted.
“Henry never came near us either and he wasn’t away at war, being shot at all the time.”
“Henry was a lazy selfish pig.”
“And Cal?”
“He’s selfish and mean and thoughtless.”
“He was lovely when we were little,” Lily said. “I remember him taking us for piggyback rides on his back, over and over, as often as we wanted.”
“Yes, well he’s changed, then, hasn’t he?”
“There might be reasons for that,” Lily said quietly. “We cannot know what he endured. War is a terrible thing.”
Rose hunched a careless shoulder. “He wasn’t wounded.”
“That we know of. Not all wounds show.”
Rose turned on her. “If it was so terrible for him over there, why is he so eager to go back? He doesn’t care about us, Lily—he just wants to stick us in a safe place and get back to his life. He doesn’t care how we feel or what we want.” She paced to the window and gazed out into the gray afternoon. “Two weeks stuck in here, Lil—I’m going to go mad!”
“But you said—”
“I know. But I won’t give him the satisfaction.”
“He’s trying, Rose,” Lily said quietly.
“He certainly is—extremely trying.”
* * *
For the next week or so, while the girls were recovering from their injuries—and because there was no danger of them sneaking out and showing their bruised and battered faces in public—Cal took the opportunity to check another four names on his list. He traveled to Frome and Midsomer, down to Bruton and then to the other side of Glastonbury. All to no avail.
The longest any of the men had been absent from home in the last five years was a week, and that was to attend a fair. It was disappointing, but at least he was narrowing the field.
He returned to Bath to find a letter from his lawyer that threatened to turn everything upside down.
A disturbing rumor has come to my ears. I hesitate to repeat gossip—and would stress that I have not yet been able to verify it—but there is talk that your brother Henry left a child—a living child.
Cal wasn’t surprised. It would be a bastard, of course. Given Henry’s proclivities, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were more. But a bastard child was easily dealt with—settle an allowance on the mother and make provision for the child’s future. All very straightforward. Nothing for a lawyer to get his drawers in a knot about.
He turned the letter around to read the cross-writing.
In the course of my inquiries, I met a fellow who, on finding I represented the new Lord Ashendon, spoke with some heat of Henry’s son, George, who I gather is something of a wild child. According to this fellow—who I must say seems quite respectable—your brother begot this lad by an earlier marriage.
I stress that I have no actual evidence of such a marriage and can only conclude that if it did take place, your brother for some reason kept it secret. Of course I have set inquiries in motion, but if this fellow is correct and your brother Henry did leave a son, a legitimate son—well, you will perceive the implications for yourself.
Cal did indeed. But why would Henry have made a secret marriage? There was no reason for it to be secret. Unless it was bigamous—that was a possibility.
Henry had married Mariah just over sixteen years ago, when Cal was twelve and Henry was just two-and-twenty. Mariah had died not quite two years ago and the babe with her. If this boy was being talked of as a wild child—he would have to be at least fourteen or fifteen.
It didn’t make sense. Cal returned to deciphering the letter.
My informant is from Alderton, a village some fifteen miles north of Cheltenham, and I understand the child resides nearby at a place called Willowbank Farm. The legitimacy or otherwise of this boy needs to be established as quickly as possible. Rumors are dangerous things and estate affairs could be held up for months if not for years if there is a dispute. I hesitate to ask your lordship to go in person, but I am off to Canterbury—finding your brother’s will is of the first urgency—and the fewer who know about this boy, the better. In the meantime, should you require a legal opinion when you get there, may I recommend an old acquaintance of my father’s, Mr. Samuel Chiswick, a lawyer, semiretired, who lives in Alderton. He is both reliable and discreet and should be able to advise you.
Cal refolded the letter. Odds on the child would be a bastard. Phipps was going on hearsay and rumor, which was ridiculous for a man of the law.
But if the boy did turn out to be legitimate, he would be the new Lord Ashendon, which would free Cal from the rest of the nonsense. He could make the necessary arrangements and get back to his life.
Besides, he had another two names to check near Cheltenham. Two birds with one stone.
He sent for Hawkins and instructed him to have the carriage ready first thing in the morning. They were going to Alderton, a small village north of Cheltenham.
He spoke to the girls before he left and extracted a promise from them that while he was away, they wouldn’t venture out at night unescorted. They weren’t happy about it, but when he promised to take them out somewhere exciting when he returned, they reluctantly agreed. “Word of a Rutherford.”
* * *
“Are you responsible for that hell-born brat?”
“I beg your pardon,” Cal said in freezing accents. He’d just stepped down from the carriage, which had pulled up in the main street of Alderton, outside the lawyer’s office. And this fellow had taken one look and rushed up to him.
The man looked from Cal to the crest on the carriage and back again. “You’ve got the look of a Rutherford, all right, and that’s the Ashendon crest. You’re the new Lord Ashendon, ain’t you?”
Cal gave him a cold stare. He had no intention of explaining himself to this mannerless oaf.
“Sorry, should have introduce m’self. Gresham,” the man said, unfazed. “Local squire. Master of the Hunt, for all the good it does me.” His small blue eyes gleamed angrily in his meaty red face. He turned and beckoned to a tall fellow in baggy breeches and muddy top boots. “The new Lord Ashendon,” he told his friend, and jerked his chin toward the crest on the carriage.
The tall man gave his friend a startled look, glanced at the crest and turned to Cal with a warm smile. “Welcome to Gloucestershire, my lord. We are delighted to see you here at last. Simply delighted.” And before Cal knew it the fellow was pumping his hand with enthusiasm.
“Planning to remove the little wretch from the district, I hope,” the squire interrupted. “Haven’t had a proper hunt in years. Much longer and someone’s going to shoot the brat.”
Cal stiffened.
“Not your fault, we know that,” Muddy-boots said hastily. “Blame your brother. Never showed any interest in the child. Not young George’s fault, not really. A child needs a firm hand on the bridle—”
The squire snorted. “Firm hand? Needs a damned good thrashing if you ask me. Interfering in the hunt, dammit—it’s not, not English!”
“I will deal with the matter,” Cal said crisply. “In the meantime, I’m looking for the lawyer, Chiswick.” He indicated the doorway with the brass plate attached.
“Out, I’m afraid,” Muddy-boots said. “Saw him heading out of town an hour ago.”
“I see. Could you direct me to Willowbank Farm?”
Muddy-boots gave him the directions. Cal glanced up at Hawkins, who nodded to indicate he’d heard them.
Muddy-boots gave a satisfied nod. “Can we count on you removing that—er, removing young George from the district, Lord Ashendon?”
“I’ll make my decision when I’ve gathered all the relevant information. Good day, gentlemen.” He climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof, and in minutes the village was behind them.
Henry had obviously acknowledged the boy—at least locally, if not to his family. He sounded like a youth, rather than a child—a wild and uncontrollable one, at that.
The army was the perfect place for wild, uncontrollable youths. A disciplined environment and a worthy job to do, a little responsibility and the wildest lad could be tamed. A cavalry regiment, perhaps, for young George. It was the obvious solution.
Chapter Seven
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
Willowbank Farm looked shabby and neglected. Weeds studded the rutted lane that led to the house, and the garden was overgrown and straggly. The paint on the frames surrounding the windows was peeling, as was the front door.
As they drove up, a large gray wolfhound loped toward them, barking. The front door opened and a lanky youth appeared. “Finn. Come here!” The dog gave the carriage wheels a longing look, then trotted obediently back to his master.
Dressed in worn buff riding breeches, a shabby green jacket and high leather riding boots splattered with mud, the youth made no move to come and greet the visitor. One hand on the dog’s collar, he eyed the carriage and its occupant with suspicion.
He looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, with an angular face, pointed chin and closely cropped curly dark hair. There was a faint, barely discernible resemblance to Henry.
Cal leapt lightly down from the carriage. “Would you be George?” he asked, realizing he didn’t know the boy’s surname.
The boy scowled and raised his chin. “Who’s asking?” And there, suddenly, was the resemblance Cal had been looking for: the famous Rutherford scowl, evident in half the ancestral portraits that graced the family portrait gallery at Ashendon.
“I’m your uncle, Cal Rutherford.” Cal held out his hand.
The boy made no move to take it. He scanned Cal suspiciously for a good minute, his hand tight on the dog’s collar. Then he released the dog with a muttered order to stay, and moved reluctantly forward. “George Rutherford.”
Cal watched the way the lad strode toward him. “No, you’re not,” he said slowly. “Georgina, or Georgette, maybe, but not George.”
His niece’s gray eyes flashed. “I prefer George.”
“I’m sure you do, but what does it say on the parish register?”
She met his question with a mulish expression and a chin lifted in silent challenge. There was a streak of dried mud across her forehead. He waited. After a moment she said sulkily, “Georgiana. But I don’t answer to that.”
“We’ll discuss it later. In the meantime, I presume there is someone to help see to the horses?” Usually a stableboy would have come out at the first sign of a coach arriving, but there was no sign of anyone.
“I’ll see to them.”
Cal’s brows rose. “Thank you. I’ll meet you in the house in, shall we say ten minutes?”
“You’re very free with my home,” she snapped.
“A habit of uncles,” Cal answered with mock sympathy. He was pleased to have her distracted. It would give him a chance to get the lay of the land.
* * *
He found the sitting room, a shabby but comfortable-looking room with overstuffed armchairs and lined with bookshelves. A small fire glowed sullenly in a large stone fireplace. Darker patches on the faded paint showed where paintings had once hung. Where were they now?
Cal noticed a small pile of papers—legal documents?—on a table next to the window. He picked up the top one.
It was a letter from Chiswick, the lawyer in Alderton, advising Miss Georgiana to find her mother’s marriage lines and other documentation so he could contest her father’s will.
Marriage lines? Then Miss Georgiana was no bastard after all.
He glanced through the lawyer’s letter again, then read through the fair copy of Henry’s will that lay beneath it. He felt a spurt of anger on the girl’s behalf.
The will made no mention of Georgiana. He’d left her nothing. Not a penny. Dammit, she was his daughter. Henry had no business leaving her without any visible means of support.
How did she live? Who was looking after her? There was no sign of any other adult in evidence. Cal sifted through the documents to see what else he could learn.
A cold draft from the door alerted him to his niece’s return. “How dare you! Those papers are private!” She stormed forward and snatched them out of his hand, her gray eyes sparking with anger. Eyes the exact same color as Cal’s. “Who do you think you are, walking into my home and looking through my private—”
“I told you, I’m your uncle, Calbourne Rutherford, Lord Ashendon since your father died, and currently head of your family.”
She put her chin up. “I’ve only got your word for it that you’re my uncle.”
“That and the evidence of your looking glass—if you use one,” he added, noticing a fresh smear of mud on her cheek. Did she always greet her guests with a dirty face and smelling of the stables?
She scowled, and the family resemblance was even more pronounced. Oh, lord, everyone was going to take this touchy ragamuffin for his daughter.
“How old are you?”
She
stiffened. “None of your b—”
“You look about sixteen.”
“I’m eighteen. I turned eighteen last month.”
“And who is looking after you?”
She snorted. “I’m not a child. I don’t need to be looked after. I can take care of myself!”
“Let me rephrase the question; whom do you live with?”
“Finn.” She put a hand on the dog’s collar. “And Martha.”
“Where is this Martha?” Her companion or chaperone, presumably.
“In the kitchen—where else?”
“Be so good as to fetch her.”
“Fetch her yourself. You can’t just march in here and start throwing orders around!”
“I think you’ll find I can. I’m your closest relative, which, until you’re twenty-one, makes me your guardian. You’ll do as I tell you.”
“I won’t!”
“If you’ve read and understood these documents, you know the law will support me. Now run along and fetch this Martha, will you?”
As much as anyone could flounce in breeches and boots, his niece Georgiana flounced from the room, making her point by slamming the door resoundingly behind her.
He stood, warming himself by the fire, contemplating his rash statement. But he could see no way around it. He had to take her under his control. This place was a disgrace and as for her behavior, well, it seemed she was running true to form with Rutherford females.
“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” An elderly woman stood in the doorway, smoothing her apron with anxious hands.
“Martha?”
“Aye, sir, Martha Scarrat, cook and housekeeper, and before that, nursemaid when Miss George were a wee babe.”
Cook and housekeeper? He frowned. “Is there anyone else to help you? Any other servants?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. Not since—well, not for a few years now. Mr. Henry stopped sending the money some years ago. But we manage.” She hesitated, then said, “You have a slight look of Mr. Henry, sir, would you be a relative of Miss George’s?”