The two men made plans to meet the following Thursday, and then Hixworth was taking his leave. Aunt Matilda saw him out, leaving Addy alone with St. Jerome. Knowing she only had a few precious moments before her aunt returned, she turned at once to his lordship.
"Do you really mean to take possession of your house this afternoon?" she asked, thinking of the conversation she'd overheard between the viscount and his solicitors.
He gave a curt nod. "Aye. The sooner, the better."
"What of your cousin?"
"What of him?" he asked with obvious indifference. "If he minds his tongue and his temper, he is welcome to stay. If not . . ." He lifted his massive shoulders in a shrug.
Addy nibbled her lip. Although she usually didn't hesitate offering her pupils the benefit of her expertise, she knew enough of the viscount to know he would hardly welcome her advice. Still, she felt obliged to say something, lest he commit a social solecism.
"Do you think that wise?" she began cautiously. "Your cousin has been living in your uncle's house for some months now, and he may need time to secure other lodgings. A gentleman would offer his kinsman the shelter of his roof, regardless of the ill feelings between them."
As she expected, the viscount pokered up at once. "A gentleman did no' inherit the title," he informed her, his accent obvious in his displeasure. "I did."
"But, my lord, I—"
"Understand this, madam," he interrupted, sending her a warning glare. "I shall play the fine gentleman when it suits me, but when it does no', I shall be what I am; a soldier. And a soldier never surrenders ground so dearly won. What is mine I'll keep, and I'll hold it by whatever force necessary. You would do well to remember that."
Addy opened her lips to protest, but Lady Fareham chose that moment to return. "I do believe that is the most talkative I have ever seen Lord Hixworth," she observed, looking pleased. "Perhaps you are right, Adalaide, and there is some hope for the creature after all."
Addy was of no mind to discuss the earl, but unfortunately could think of no way to continue the argument with her aunt looking on in avid interest. And St. Jerome knew it too, she realized, noting the sharp gleam of awareness in his eyes.
"I fear I must be taking my leave as well," he said, offering each of them a low bow. "My solicitors are waiting for me, and I must be away. Pray accept my thanks for all the kindness you have shown me. I am in your debt."
The polite words were prosaic enough, but the way he spoke them and the earnest expression on his face made Addy realize he was in earnest. Others might take their hospitality and think nothing of it, but the viscount was cut from a very different bolt of cloth. He did consider himself in their debt, and her ever nimble mind was quick to leap upon the fact.
"Don't forget we are to begin work on your wardrobe tomorrow," she said, eager to regain the control she acknowledged she'd lost. "Monsieur Henri shall be expecting us."
A crafty expression Addy could not like stole across his features. "As you have spent the past several days lecturing me on my duties and obligations, Miss Terrington, I am sure you must realize that a viscount does not wait upon a tailor; a tailor waits upon a viscount. Send Monsieur Henri to my house. I shall see him there."
"But my lord," Addy protested, annoyed he had proven to be so clever. "That will never do, as I am sure you must realize. If Monsieur Henri goes to your house, I couldn't possibly go with him. It would be most improper."
He raised an elegant eyebrow. "Would it?" he drawled, looking satisfied. "How sad. But do not fash yourself, Miss Terrington. I am sure we shall still be seeing a great deal of one another. Good day." And with that final bit of impertinence he walked out of the room, leaving a highly vexed Addy to glare after him in frustration.
"So the prodigal son has returned, or perhaps I should say, the prodigal nephew."
Mr. William Atherton lay sprawled in the elegant leather chair, a half-empty snifter of brandy cradled in his hand as he gazed drunkenly up at Ross. His cravat had been untied, and with his pale brown hair falling across his forehead, he looked every inch the debauched and indolent English gentleman Ross had come to loathe. Tossing him out into the street would be a pleasure.
"I must say I am surprised you've managed to survive all these years in his majesty's service," his cousin continued, not seeming to note Ross's rigid silence. "I gather it's true what they say: Fortes fortuna juvat. Fortune favors the brave."
"I am sorry to disappoint you, cousin," Ross replied, not bothering to inform him he spoke Latin. Let the pig think him an ignorant Scot. It could only serve to lull him into a false sense of superiority.
"Oh, I am not disappointed, Sergeant." Atherton sneered at Ross's rank. "Merely surprised, as I have said. Uncle would be in high alt did he know you were safely arrived in London. He lived in terror you would die in battle, and the title would then fall to me. He was quite proud of you, you know," he added, his dark gray eyes shining with enmity.
The artless confession took Ross aback, a fact he was careful to keep hidden. "Indeed?" he responded, wondering how much was art and how much fact. "I shouldn't have thought it, given the harsh words between us."
Atherton gave an ugly laugh and partook of a deep gulp of brandy. "Oh, at first he was as angry as could be," he said, studying Ross with ill-disguised fury. "Brought me up from Devon, vowing he'd break the entitlement by whatever means necessary and make me his heir. Then he decided he rather fancied having a war hero as the next viscount, and I became redundant. He kept me close, mind, in the event you died for king and country, but there was no further mention of my being named his heir."
Ross said nothing, but stood silently assessing the potential danger his cousin posed. The man seemed harmless enough now, but Ross had the scars on his back to remind him how quickly a drunkard could turn violent when the mood was upon him.
"Nothing to say?" Atherton gave another laugh. "A taciturn lot, you Scots, and practical in the bargain. Daresay a title seemed a godsend to you, to say nothing of the fortune that came with it." He cocked his head to one side as if in consideration.
"Of course," he drawled, studying Ross mockingly, "you could always keep the title and sign the monies and properties not entailed over to me. But I suppose there's little chance of that, eh, cousin?"
Ross scowled, disliking the implication he was avaricious. "It makes no sense to keep the one and give away the other," he answered. He'd faced many enemies, in battle and in his own camp, and he knew that if he turned his back, his cousin would likely stick a knife in it. Not that he was worried. He could kill the cladhaire before he drew his next breath, if need be.
"Yes, that is what I thought you would say." Atherton downed the rest of the brandy before rising unsteadily to his feet. "Ah, well, can't fault a fellow for trying." He began weaving toward the door.
Ross watched him go, silently cursing Miss Terrington. The devil take the interfering and managing bluestocking, he thought, seething in resentment. She was right.
"Cousin, wait," he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "There's no need to leave. You may remain here, if you wish it."
Atherton paused at the door, swaying slightly. "And have it bruited about that I am living off your largesse?" he asked, sketching an elaborate bow that almost had him toppling over. "No, Sergeant, I thank you, but I have no need of your charity. Uncle may have seen fit to leave all to you, but I would not have you think I am completely without prospects. After all, I am your heir, am I not?"
Ross tensed in wariness. "Aye," he agreed coolly. "I would suppose that you are."
Atherton smirked. "If that will be all, Sergeant, I must be going. My friends are expecting me." He turned once more toward the door.
"Wait," Ross called out. "There is one thing more."
"Yes, Sergeant?"
Ross fixed the other man with his coldest stare. "I am the viscount now," he said, his tone none the less deadly for all its softness. "When you address me, you will use my title. Is that understo
od?"
An expression of naked hatred flashed across Atherton's face, and was quickly gone. "Of course, Lord St. Jerome," he said, inclining his head mockingly. "As you say."
After his cousin departed, Ross toured his new quarters. The house was small by London standards, but to Ross's eyes it seemed a veritable palace. It was hard to think one man should need so much space.
"Ten rooms?" he asked the regal individual who had introduced himself as McNeil, his uncle's, and now his, butler.
"Not including the kitchens and servants' quarters, my lord," McNeil replied, dabbing a speck of dust from a table with his snowy handkerchief. "The house in Surrey has nearly twice that number, and the northern properties have houses as well."
Ross said nothing, although his head spun at the thought of all he now owned. En route from Spain his uncle's solicitors had gone over his inheritance with him, but he'd been too ill for the information to impact him. Now that he'd had time to recover, he had a better understanding of his new circumstances, and it staggered him. He'd gone from a rough, battle-hardened soldier with little more than the clothes on his back to a titled lord with four expensive properties, literally overnight.
The reality of his new position might have overwhelmed another man, but he couldn't allow himself that luxury. However daunting the prospects before him might be, he had to succeed in the new role fate had handed him. Too many lives hung in the balance for him to be anything other than victorious.
With that thought firmly in mind, he turned his attention to securing his new holdings. Thinking in purely military terms, he concluded that as the enemy—his cousin—had held the ground first, it was wise to assume he'd left spies to report back to him. He wouldn't dismiss any of the staff unless he had proof they were in league with Atherton, but neither would he let them close enough to learn anything of value.
He dined that night in lonely and uncomfortable splendor, trying his best to eat all the food the butler kept placing before him. In the end he gave up with a groan, and retired to his rooms for the night. His valet, Joseph, was waiting for him, and Ross's plans for an early evening were firmly squelched when Joseph presented him with a list.
"What the devil is this?" Ross demanded impatiently, frowning as he recognized Miss Terrington's elegant script.
"A list of clothing Miss Terrington wishes you to order," Joseph said in the patient tones of one addressing a not overly bright child. "She has listed the fabrics and color of each item, and the number of each she thinks you will need. You are to review the list and add any articles which are missing. It will be presented to the tailor when he arrives tomorrow, that he might begin your new wardrobe at once."
Ross scanned the list, impatience giving way to incredulity. "Eight dozen handkerchiefs?" he demanded, raising his eyes to meet Joseph's bland gaze. "Who the bloody devil needs eight dozen handkerchiefs?"
"You do, my lord," Joseph replied primly. "And of finest lawn, please note. Should the occasion arise and you need to offer a handkerchief to a lady, it would not do to offer her something of inferior quality."
Ross stared at him for a moment, amazed to find himself fighting the urge to laugh. He had a sudden image of Miss Terrington, her pretty face set in stern disapproval, leaping out of the bushes and scolding him for offering some formless lady the wrong kind of handkerchief.
"No, I suppose it would not," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "What other orders did Miss Terrington send?" He knew his instructress too well to think she would content herself with one paltry list.
In answer Joseph reached into his pocket. "These are a review of what has already been covered," he said, handing Ross several sheets of paper. "And these"—more paper was proffered—"are a list of what will be covered in the next session. Have you any questions, my lord?"
Ross's lips twitched. "No, Joseph, I do not," he said, and then unable to contain himself, he threw back his head and roared with laughter. He'd thought his sergeant from his first days as a recruit was the toughest, most demanding creature on the face of God's green earth, but he was as innocent as a babe when compared to Miss Terrington.
He'd only been teasing when he suggested she offer her services to Wellington, but now he thought it might be just the thing. Given a few sergeants like her to whip the soldiers into shape, the earl would take Spain within the month. Given ten of her, Wellington would be in France by year's end. The thought had him chuckling as he settled on a chair to review his orders.
Three
The following afternoon a disgruntled Ross presented himself at Miss Terrington's. He'd spent the morning being poked at and insulted by the officious French tailor, and his temper was simmering like a pot about to boil over. Even the fact he was wearing a handsome new jacket and a pair of fashionable breeches the tailor had altered for him did little to soothe his ire, and by the time he arrived at Bruton Street he was spoiling for a brawl. His intentions to have it out with his tyrannical instructress, however, were thwarted when he walked into the elegant parlor and found her and her aunt holding court with the three gentlemen waiting there.
Miss Terrington glanced up at his arrival, a warm smile of welcome lighting her face as she rose to greet him.
"My lord, I am so glad you are come," she said, her blue eyes bright behind her spectacles. "Did things go well with Monsieur Henri? He can be a trifle difficult at times."
Ross thought of the despotic tailor and managed a grim smile. "I am an old hand at dealing with the French, ma'am," he drawled in response, and because he could think of no reason not to, he caught the slender hand she'd offered him and raised it to his lips.
To his delight, her eyes widened in amazement, and a soft flow of rose washed across her cheeks. But even as he was savoring her response she was turning away, as efficient as always as she introduced him to the other occupants of the room.
"'Tis all a tempest in a teacup, if you ask me," opined the Duke of Creshton, his bushy eyebrows meeting in a scowl. "Who in their proper mind would want to recall Wellington?"
"The Whigs, of course!" retorted the Earl of Denbury. "They've always been thick as inkleweavers with the Frogs, and they'd like nothing better than to see him back in England. Daresay he's pinned their ears back a time or two, eh, Sergeant?" He winked at Ross.
"A time or two, aye, my lord," Ross agreed, noting with interest the way the earl pronounced his rank, and the way his cousin had sneered it.
"Whoever may be behind the petition and their reasons for doing so is not at issue here," said the hardeyed man who had been introduced as the Marquess of Falconer. "What matters is that they not succeed. Lord St. Jerome." His clear, golden gaze rested on Ross's face. "You were in a position to know his lordship in a way none of us ever could. As a soldier, what do you see as his greatest strength and his greatest weakness?"
"Be blunt if you will," he added, as if sensing Ross's hesitation. "You'll do England no good by saying only what you think we wish to hear."
Ross cast Miss Terrington a speculative glance before responding. In her pretty gown of yellow-and-cream-striped muslin, her red curls peeking out from beneath her starched cambric cap, she looked every inch the proper Society lady. He'd have thought such a creature would find the conversation singularly boring, but if her avid expression was any indication, she was as interested in his reply as any of the men. Her reaction surprised him, and he wondered if all women of her class were equally as intrigued by the matter. Probably not. Miss Terrington struck him as being an untypical lady of any class.
"Wellington's greatest strength is as a strategist," he said at last, granting his listeners the courtesy of complete honesty. "He fights hard for the most advantageous ground, and he holds it fast once he's won it. He also makes excellent use of cover, and he's careful not to squander his troops uselessly. An important consideration from a common soldier's perspective," he added with a shrug.
"And his greatest weakness?" Lord Falconer pressed.
That took a little more thou
ght. "I've met the general but the one time," he continued cautiously. "But he strikes me as a man, like any other. Hard, shrewd, a wee bit proud, perhaps, but he is a man I or any other soldier in Spain would follow into hell did he ask it of us."
A satisfied look flashed across the marquess's face. "I can think of no higher endorsement. Thank you, my lord."
A heated debate followed, and Ross was amused to observe that the art of politics was fought every bit as hard as the art of warfare. Strategy, the marshaling of troops and resources, and the judicious use of intelligence counted as much in the ballroom as on the battlefield, with the participants far less nice in their notions. Both Lady Fareham and Miss Terrington contributed to the discussion, with Miss Terrington showing a not unexpected talent for subterfuge.
In the end it was agreed the sooner Ross made his bows, the better. Given the fact he was one of London's most eligible bachelors, Lord Falconer would be the one to introduce Ross to Society, ably seconded by Lords Denbury and Creshton. His first public appearance would be tomorrow evening at the home of Creshton's heir, who was celebrating his recent wedding.
"It's the perfect occasion," the duke assured him with a wink. "Small enough not to be a dashed squeeze, but large enough to make certain everyone you'll need to meet will be there."
"An excellent suggestion, your grace," Miss Terrington approved with a brisk nod. "Although this means we shall have to work doubly hard if we are to be ready in time. His lordship has done quite well, but there are still several things he will need to learn before engaging the enemy."
Ross said nothing, although twas hard. He was accustomed to being addressed by his commanding officers as if he were a brainless dolt, but that didn't mean he cared for the sensation. His word to Wellington aside, there were limits to his patience, and Miss Terrington had just reached those limits. It seemed 'twas time he and the diminutive tyrant came to an understanding. Tamping down his emotions, he settled back in his chair, sipping his tea and waiting with unholy patience for the coming battle.
The Scotsman and the Spinster Page 4