by Nichole Van
Timothy stopped mid-sentence.
Babbling. He was babbling.
He locked eyes with Daniel. Despised himself even more for what he saw there.
Pity. Daniel’s soft blue eyes exuded sympathy . . .
Rule #51: A gentleman is never an object of pity.
“I am terribly sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, my lord.” Daniel spoke carefully. Laying the words down tentatively, as if they were fragile things Timothy might tear apart.
Wise man.
Rule #68: A gentleman never takes out his frustrations on a servant.
Three weeks ago, Timothy had called the young man to London, promoting him from being merely the steward of Kinningsley, his seat in Herefordshire, to managing all of his estates and holdings. Daniel had proved his worth over and over during the past year, becoming one of Timothy’s most trusted advisers despite being nearly a decade younger than Timothy’s own thirty-three years. In fact, Daniel had been instrumental in resolving a delicate situation regarding some missing documents and a French covert agent. Daniels’ sister, Miss Katharine Ashton, had disappeared with that scoundrel Marcus Wilde, but Daniel had remained behind.
Fortunately, as here Daniel was again . . . saving him.
“Mr. Brown was skilled in his deception. The best charlatans always are,” Daniel continued. “It appears the money was going toward gambling debts and other unsavory activities. In speaking with his widow, his finances are in disarray. There is nothing to be recovered.”
Again, Timothy’s throat tightened. His stomach clenched. He lurched from his chair, banging a knee into the desktop and scrambling papers in the process. Even worse, he didn’t pause to straighten everything as he walked over to the window.
Rule #5: A gentleman will ensure that all estates and properties, real or otherwise, are passed on to the next generation in better condition than he received them.
He stared sightlessly out over the dripping landscape, the small back garden hinting at the green of spring. Servants moving in and out of the mews behind the house. His coachman clicking Timothy’s town carriage into motion, pulling it around to the street.
What was to be done? How was this battle to be fought?
Before he could respond, the door to his study burst open in a flurry of activity.
“Brother.” Marianne greeted him with a smile as she breezed into the room.
As usual, his sister was the only bright spot in his day. She was safely and happily married to Arthur Knight, a wealthy gentleman who owned Haldon Manor, a grand estate near to Kinningsley in Herefordshire. Timothy’s financial woes would not affect her, thank goodness.
Her warm smile lit up the room as she strode over to him at the window and kissed his cheek. In her arms, she held her little daughter, Isabel. The child’s nurse stood discreetly in the doorway.
“We have come to say our quick goodbyes.” Marianne offered an apologetic smile to Daniel. “Arthur waits for us in the carriage. We are off to Lady Rutland’s country party.”
Marianne, Arthur and their toddler, Isabel, had been living with Timothy for the past year while planning to rebuild their own home, Haldon Manor, which had been destroyed by fire. They had come with Timothy to London in February, amusing themselves in town while Timothy saw to his duties in the House of Lords. Though Marianne and Isabel would be gone only five days visiting Lady Rutland, Timothy would feel their absence keenly. He always did.
Isabel regarded Timothy with her huge gray eyes, dark hair falling across her forehead. Looking so much like Marianne at the same age. It was no wonder he loved her to distraction.
Rule #4: A gentleman’s primary duty is to see to the health and care of his family.
Timothy nodded in greeting and then took Isabel from his sister’s arms, her plump body warm and soft.
As usual, he had no idea what to do with his small niece. His instinct was to hug her close, let her know that he would always care for her. But he had learned long ago that instincts of this sort were to be ignored.
Rule #42: A gentleman refrains from overt displays of affection.
“Go on,” Marianne urged with a laugh. “You can kiss her. She will not bite. At least, she seems to have put that particular phase behind her.”
Surely a kiss did not qualify as an overt display of affection.
Swallowing, Timothy forced his arms to relax, to hold Isabel a little closer. He planted a sober kiss on her forehead.
And that was all he was allowed.
“Down.” Isabel instantly twisted in his arms.
At fifteen months, his niece was a bundle of constant energy. She had recently learned how to run and practiced her new-found skill at every possible moment.
“Downdowndowndown,” she repeated, squirming more emphatically.
Marianne shook her head, still smiling. “You are an incorrigible little love. Off you go. Nurse will see you safe.”
Timothy dutifully set Isabel onto her sturdy feet and watched as she giggled gleefully, running across the room to the arms of her nurse in the doorway.
Marianne popped on her tiptoes and planted another kiss on his cheek. “Take care, Timothy. We shall return before you know it. Try not to mope.”
Flashing a wry grin, she was gone. Moments later, her departing carriage sounded outside.
Taking vital warmth and life with her.
The case clock chimed the quarter hour.
The townhouse felt like a mausoleum. Haunted by his ancestor’s expectations and devoid of his sister’s life-affirming presence.
And now this final blow with his finances . . .
“Shall we continue, my lord?” Daniel tentatively gestured toward the ledgers he held.
“Of course,” Timothy nodded, remaining standing. “I will retrench. Make economies and concessions.”
“This is beyond mere retrenchment, my lord. This is the white flag of surrender. Your current financial obligations far outstrip your income. Even with the strictest economy, the two numbers will not meet. Your holdings are too agrarian—”
“The Viscounts Linwood have ever relied upon the land for their income. Anything else is beneath our dignity—”
“Perhaps, my lord. But many lords speculate in industry with great success. The world has changed in the last thirty years and will continue to change—”
“We, however, do not change, Mr. Ashton. Anything that stinks of trade is anathema to the Linwood name.”
“With all due respect, my lord, Napoleon has recently escaped from Elba and is again on the march. England will most likely face difficult economic times in the near future. I do not know that you have the luxury—”
“As a lord of the peerage, my life is not my own, Mr. Ashton. The entire point of my existence is to maintain the honor and respectability of our family name. To ensure that my title and heritage pass on, untainted and intact, to the next generation. It is my life’s purpose. I will not see the family honor polluted.” They were his father’s words, but true nonetheless. Timothy held up a staying hand as Daniel opened his mouth in protest. “That is all I will say on the subject.”
Silence.
Timothy’s fingers drummed against his thigh. And then he consciously forced them to still, spreading them flat against his leg.
Daniel cleared his throat and stood, placing the stack of ledgers he held on the desk.
“Perhaps we could review your current expenditures, my lord, and find a way to buy you a little more time.”
“Proceed.” Timothy gestured toward the ledgers.
Daniel opened one to a page of tallied numbers.
“I fear, my lord, that you will need to make some difficult decisions. In reviewing your expenses, it appears that you pay £300 per annum to a Mrs. Drake of Manchester—”
“Yes, yes.” Timothy waved a dismissive hand. “My father’s youngest sister, Margaret. Her husband drank himself into the grave, leaving her destitute. My stipend ensures a roof over her head.”
“A
nd the large sum of £2000 paid to Mr. Frederick Linwood?”
“My cousin . . . a commission in the Ninth Light Dragoons. Frederick wishes to marry, and the officer salary ensures him of an income.”
“And Lady Farrest? You have sent her £25 each month for the last seven years. Such expenses—”
“—ensure that Lady Farrest can pay for the care of her invalid daughter. I fail to see the point of all these questions, Mr. Ashton. As Lord Linwood, I am the paterfamilias.” Rule #63: The paterfamilias must see to the care and comfort of all family members who cannot or are unable to care for themselves. “If a widowed great-aunt needs a roof repaired, I see that it is done. If a maiden cousin wishes to wed and her father is deceased, her suitor comes to me for permission. The financial health of the Linwood viscountcy stretches far beyond my mere comfort. It impacts the lives of my extended family, as well as the thousands of tenants who rely upon my land for their sustenance. In short, a solution to this crisis must be found. And found soon.”
Timothy’s fingers were twitching to drum against his thigh.
Rule #91: A gentleman never fidgets.
To control the impulse, he retrieved the gear from his coat pocket, clenching it tightly in his fist, the spokes cutting into his skin. He focused on the pain.
But Timothy knew the solution. It stared him baldly in the face. He just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Even as Daniel said the words:
“Well then, my lord, you have no choice. You will have to marry an heiress. The sooner, the better.”
Timothy turned back to the window. “Heiresses within the aristocracy are few and far between. Is there even a good candidate?”
“Not . . . precisely, my lord. Your financial needs are large . . .”
“Meaning?”
“You will most likely need to look beyond the peerage for your bride.”
Timothy turned back to stare out the window, barely repressing a shudder.
“Are you suggesting I marry a woman whose family is in . . . trade?” He said the word scathingly. As if it were a filthy, infectious thing. “How is marrying into trade any better than participating in it myself? That is hardly a solution, Mr. Ashton—”
“Of course, I am not recommending such a course, my lord.” Daniel held out a placating hand. “I am merely pointing out the reality of your situation. There is one candidate who is perhaps acceptable—Miss Arabella Heartstone.”
Timothy paused, half turned his body back to Daniel. Slowly nodded his head.
“I have heard of Miss Heartstone. She was a topic of conversation at White’s yesterday afternoon. They say she is pretty, and her connections are not entirely unsuitable—”
“Indeed not, my lord. She is the great-granddaughter of an earl, and her mother is a cousin to Sir Henry Stylles, your neighbor in Herefordshire. Her father was a respected banker—so not the lowest levels of trade—and all his assets were sold upon his death, leaving the bulk of his wealth to his only child, Miss Heartstone. His widow was quite put out, apparently, as I believe she wanted the money for herself.”
“And the girl’s dowry?”
“Sixty thousand pounds, all in the five percents.”
“Pardon? How much did you say?” Voice hoarse. “Surely I did not hear that right.”
“Sixty thousand pounds. It is the largest dowry of any genteel unmarried lady in England. Enough to solve your financial woes.”
Timothy fought to catch his breath. The sum was . . . staggering.
Daniel gave an amused grin. “Though as you might imagine, with such a spectacular carrot dangling in front of her, Miss Heartstone is the catch of this Season. They say her mother will settle for nothing less than a duchess’ crown for her daughter.”
A pause.
“You will need to woo her, my lord. The mother too. Convince them both that settling for a handsome, charming viscount will be sufficient. It will not be an easy task.”
Timothy stared out the window.
In his mind’s eye, he built a scale. A fulcrum with balancing weights on either side. On the right, he placed his heritage, his responsibilities . . . his familial duty.
On the left, he placed Miss Heartstone and her sixty thousand pounds.
There was no contest. A solution to his problem had been found. He merely needed to enact it.
“Shall I open a dialogue with the girl’s uncle and guardian?” Daniel’s voice quiet behind him.
Timothy half-turned his head. There was only one answer. “Yes. See it done.”
Timothy gripped the gear more tightly. Had it drawn blood yet?
And wasn’t that the perfect metaphor for his current life? A hand dripping with blood shed to save the family.
Cut by the cog that he was.
Chapter 3
The great room
Duir Cottage
March 12, 2015
I still can’t believe you’re trying to make a go of this whole painting thing. Shouldn’t you have a grown-up job by now?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes at her aunt Rita’s statement. Mostly because she was on the phone, and Rita couldn’t see her face.
Some things . . . some people never changed.
This was why it had taken her four days to call Rita. After her conversation with Mike, she needed answers.
Now if Rita could only be pleasant . . .
Jasmine slouched into the couch, staring at the fire roaring in the enormous hearth. English rain pitter-pattered against the windows.
She sighed and then said, “Despite what you may think, Rita, my painting pays the bills—”
“I thought Marmi’s trust fund paid your bills.”
Well, that too.
Jasmine worked as an illustrator and painter. Freelance graphic design jobs and her small inheritance from Marmi made ends meet, but old-fashioned oil painting was her first love.
Pity there was no money in it.
Or rather, there was money in it. You just had to be willing to part with your art.
But, for Jasmine, selling a painting felt like bartering away a child. And who would do that? How could she sell such a vital part of herself?
Though trust Rita to instantly twist the conversation to money-matters.
“I have been doing better with the painting, Rita,” Jasmine said. “My job in Herefordshire right now is a private commission piece—”
“I thought you were just wanting to escape after your boyfriend dumped you, and some old friend invited you to paint their baby’s bedroom?”
Okay, so that was (sort of) technically true. But trust Rita to make it sound so . . . unglamorous.
Jasmine preferred to think of it as ‘enjoying a personal journey of self-healing while creating a privately commissioned piece of art for an estate in rural England.’
See? That sounded much better.
Why did Rita always have to be such a glass-half-empty kill-joy? And how could Marmi have had a daughter so fundamentally different from herself?
Jasmine stopped, her throat choking.
Marmi who, turns out, was her grandmother in name only. Because, according to Mike’s oh-so-meticulous research, they didn’t share a drop of genetic blood.
“I’m not sure how painting rainbows and puppy dogs on some kid’s wall makes you an artist,” Rita continued.
Yep. Total kill-joy.
“Rita,”—deep breath—“this project is hardly just tacky illustration. It’s a highly-artistic, Pre-Raphaelite inspired homage to King Arthur. Like those Victorian paintings of knights and ladies Marmi loved.”
A pause.
“Why would you paint something like that in a baby’s bedroom?”
“The baby’s name is Arthur James Knight. What else could I paint?”
Rita’s dismissive snort summed up her opinion.
This was why she hated chatting with Rita. Her aunt had a talent for drama-creation. Rita could fabricate it out of absolutely nothing.
The painting did make perfect sense. Arthur was
a traditional Knight family name—James’ brother and grandfather being Arthurs among others. How could she not paint scenes of Camelot for his nursery? A mural of ladies and knights talking and flirting against a backdrop of the city.
Emme and James had thought the idea was brilliant and had been particularly excited for Jasmine to incorporate actual landscape elements from Wales, one of the possible locations for Camelot.
She had just hit one teeny, tiny snag.
None of the sites she needed to visit were on a train or bus route. Which meant getting behind the wheel of an automobile. A wheel which sat on the British right, not the American left, side of the car.
James’ shiny BMW, in fact, parked in the old stables behind the house.
But seriously. She was an average driver, at best. When at home. On the right side of the road. In her well-worn Volkswagen.
But you take the opposite of all of those things . . .
And she already mentioned the shiny BMW part, right? All that shine so very scratchable.
Jasmine had been relying on buses and Emme’s bicycle to fetch groceries. But at some point—
“Well, I can’t even imagine how ashamed I would be if my own daughter didn’t have a real job at your age,” Rita said.
Man, it was comments like that which explained why it had taken Jasmine so long to get up the courage to call her aunt . . . ehr, ex-aunt? Psuedo-aunt? Psycho-aunt?
Why did Rita have to be Jasmine’s best source of family information?
“Have you heard Breanne’s latest news?” Rita asked.
Of course . . . perfect cousin Breanne. Jasmine vaguely registered words like made a partner and new house and then she tuned out, letting Rita ramble on.
Jasmine shivered and reached for a velvet blanket, pulling it over her. The fire was warm enough but didn’t quite compensate for the loose summery blouse and high-waisted culottes she wore. Classically vintage and comfortable (both characteristics Jasmine valued in clothing), the outfit also offered much-needed comfort, a closeness with her past.