Mr Swithin scurried to Charlton’s side, trying to prevent him from performing such a menial job as lighting a fire, but Viscount Pendholm shooed him away.
“During the war I was often my own cook, my own groom and my own servant, Mr Swithin. Nothing new to me, rest assured…”
Having got the fire going, and seeing that the chimney had a perfect draft, Lord and Lady Pendholm started to explore the house, which was ample enough to welcome a largish family. There was a good dry basement, lighted by several small windows, and by a door opening onto the kitchen garden. It accommodated a large kitchen, a pantry, a servant’s sitting room, a laundry room, a cellar and a scullery with its boiler and its cistern. The water was piped and, though dusty, everything seemed in good order.
The hall, the dining room, the parlour, and the drawing room were on the ground floor; the first floor contained two large bedrooms, two smaller bedrooms, two spacious closets and a large, airy nursery with a smallish side-room for the nurse.
The servant’s rooms were in the attic and there was, also, an airing room where the washing up could be hung to dry, and where food, like apples, would keep for a long time.
Lord Pendholm looked at his mother and nodded.
“Very well, Mr Swithin, buy the house, have the furniture checked and completed and the needful repairs done. Hire what staff you deem necessary and see that everything is in order before the week ends. We may need the place straightaway and I want it available as soon as possible.”
“Yes, my Lord, everything will be done to your satisfaction, I’m sure.”
“Good. Let’s go back home, Mother, it is starting to snow.”
While travelling home in their comfortable carriage, a hot brick at his feet, Charlton felt distinctly uneasy.
There was something about the house –its address, maybe? - that was nagging at him, something he should know but just could not remember, something flickering at the edge of his memory like an elusive will-o’-the-wisp.
What with all the papers that Lord Setford had given him, plus his brother’s official and unofficial ledgers, he had had his fill of dubious characters, shady dealings, suspects and flimsy evidence. Perhaps all of that was making everything seem odd or suspicious to him.
It will come to me, Charlton thought and wished, not for the first time, for his friend Hunter’s skill in seeing a pattern in a disparate, haphazard jumble of facts, names and pieces of information.
Hunter had tried to explain his methods to his fellow Hounds, claiming that they were, in fact, very simple and based on mere logic, but to no avail.
There was something uncanny in his skill, a nigh on supernatural intuition, the ability to see, recognise and take into account apparently negligible details, and bring them together to discover the whole of something hidden.
Charlton smiled, thinking about his friends and hoping to be able to see them all soon, as he tried to silence the obstinate little voice that was whispering in his mind, and telling him that he was missing something very important.
Standing beside a cheval mirror, Lady Farnsworth was critically supervising her niece’s toilette. The dressing room was lavishly appointed in the Chinese style, which was all the rage after the Regent had thus furnished his Pavilion in Brighton. A delicate black lacquered table held an assortment of lotions and perfumes, while a similar cabinet overflowed with ribbons, lace, ostrich feathers and other fashionable trinkets and baubles.
Odette’s long, thick dark tresses, which she had refused to cut, were arranged in a simple but becoming style, braided with silver ribbons in a high crown and calling attention to the fine carriage of her head and her graceful neck.
Her gown was pale blue, with sapphire and silver trimmings, small puffed sleeves and a low cut bodice. Sapphire earrings and a thin gold chain with a sapphire pendant were her only jewellery.
Odette looked anxiously at her aunt.
“Is this dress not cut a bit too low, Aunt? After all, it is a dinner party, not a Ball…”
“Balderdash.” Lady Farnsworth replied. “You look ravishing, if I do say so myself. Your lady’s maid is a very accomplished hairdresser, this coiffure is flattering to your complexion and gives you added height. And stop fretting about your gowns being cut too low or too close-fitting. You are not a schoolroom miss anymore, Odette. You are a young lady on the marriage mart and your aim is to get married. A bit harsh, spoken out like that, I know, but there it is.” Lady Farnsworth smiled as she spoke, taking the edge off her words.
“To that end, a word to the wise, my dear: try to practice light banter, witty repartee, sweet smiles and fluttering lashes and do not try to engage young men on serious topics such as literature, history or art. Men are wary of intelligent women. They need to feel in charge. They need to feel worldly wise, experienced and knowledgeable. A sweet, naïve girl enhances those feelings for them, and is thus highly prized. An intelligent, sharp witted woman does not – I think that most of them find intelligence in a woman rather threatening. Remember that! At least, until you are married - after that, you may do as you please.”
Odette lowered her eyelids, fringed by long, black, curling lashes.
“Yes, Aunt, I will take to heart your kindly advice. I know I cannot be dependent upon you much longer. You have granted me this Season and I am determined to make the most of it.”
Lady Farnsworth snorted and shook her head.
“God give me patience. Do not be a ninnyhammer, my girl! I want you married for your own good! You know I have no children and now, especially after your dear Uncle’s demise, you are a blessing and a joy to me! You may stay with me for as long as you wish, and welcome, and, besides, I am planning to settle on you a comfortable competence, to assure your independence. But it would be much better for you, my dear, if you had a home of your own, a man of your own and your own children to raise, rather than playing lady-in-waiting to an old crotchety woman. By the way,” she slyly added “I understand that young Viscount Pendholm will be at the dinner party…”
Odette blushed from head to toe and, against her better judgement, smiled in anticipation.
~~~~~
“Why can I not come with you? It is only a boring old dinner party, after all. I’m fed up with staying at home, being a good girl, going to sleep at eight o’clock and eating all my nice pudding! I’m eighteen! You were already married when you were my age, Mama!”
Harriet was on the verge of tears, her pretty face screwed into a grimace, and she seemed just a step away from throwing a fully-fledged tantrum.
Her brother put his hands on her shoulders and made her turn and look at herself in the mirror.
“Look at your face, Harriet. Is this the countenance of a young Lady? Does it show the restraint, the self-control, the graceful manners, that a young Lady should possess? No, it does not. This is the face of a spoiled brat - of a spoiled, snotty brat, at that. Go wash your face, retire to your room and if I hear one single whisper to indicate that you have continued to carry on in this disgraceful fashion, I’ll pack you back to Pendholm Hall and we will not speak again about your coming-out until next year.”
Harriet looked at her brother’s stern face, glared at him and turned to her mother with pleading eyes, but Lady Pendholm was unmoved. “Your brother is perfectly right. Up to your room you go now, and do not let me hear from you until tomorrow.”
At a loss for words, Harriet ran up the stairs, covering her face with her hands. Charlton and Lady Pendholm heard the sound of a door being forcefully slammed shut, and could not help laughing softly.
“You are right, you know, Charlton. Harriet really is a spoiled brat. She is my last child and the only girl, she has always been indulged considerably more than was right and reasonable. Moreover, these last months since Michael died, I have had so much to worry about, that I have been remiss in my duty to your sister. A good, stern lecture is long overdue. I shall talk with her tomorrow.”
“Do not chide yourself, Mother. Harriet was spo
iled by us all, myself included. She is an intelligent girl, though. After she has brooded and pined away for a while, and imagined herself the persecuted heroine in those trashy novels she likes, she will come around, you will see.”
Lady Pendholm gratefully squeezed her son’s arm.
“Thank you, Charlton. Now, if you are ready, we should go. Being late is considered fashionable, but in my opinion it is simply rude, especially at a dinner party.”
~~~~~
During the journey to Lord and Lady Coreley’s dinner party, Charlton fell to brooding and, looking at his frown, his mother let him be. He was thinking about the Comte de Vierzon, and about the progress he was making in gaining his trust. He had to keep the underlying dislike he felt for the Frenchman under strict control, yet he could not but admit that it was a dislike mixed with reluctant admiration.
The fellow was a born conspirator. He never spoke openly, he never clearly set forward his plans and he never uttered a single word that could be construed as open sedition. Nevertheless, his resentment against England, and the English aristocracy in particular, seeped into each one of his sentences. He was sharp as a blade, unprincipled, dangerous, and charismatic. Little wonder that so many young bucks, second sons, and impoverished noblemen had fallen under his spell.
Charlton had played the part of the clean-cut, upright military man, who, back from war, had discovered that injustice was running rife in England and was horrified by it. It was very easy to fall into character, because, to some extent, he was actually living a similar situation, albeit at a personal level, and the Comte of Vierzon had no inkling of what he really was about.
Charlton was so deep in his thoughts that he did not realise they had arrived until Lady Pendholm gently shook him out of his musings.
~~~~~
They were received in the rather opulent foyer, where a footman relieved them of their outer garments and led them to the drawing room, where the guests were waiting for dinner to be announced.
Lady Coreley, a charming and witty woman in her mid-thirties, greeted them warmly.
“My dear Lady Pendholm, Lord Pendholm, I am so glad you could come. This is not a large party, there will be time enough during the Season for grand squeezes, but I hope you will find the other guests interesting. A cosy affair with a few chosen friends is the best way to while away a winter evening, do you not agree?”
Charlton smiled. He was starting to feel that the wind was changing and that the ton was beginning to realise how different he was from his late brother. He attended only unimpeachable establishments, was scrupulously honest in all his dealings and the on-dit of recent days had included the fact that he had cut, completely, many of Michael’s least savoury associates, who were trying to trade on that acquaintance in the hope of associating with him. Lady Coreley herself led them to the dining room, where some of the guests were already gathering, a distinct sign of esteem and trust.
“Lady Pendholm, will you do me the honour of sitting near me? And, Lord Pendholm, you are to sit near Lady Odette Marmont - you are already acquainted with her, I believe.”
~~~~~
Sitting beside Odette, Charlton found himself to be totally captivated by her.
She was shy, but not coy. Her eyes sparkled as if she was contemplating something amusing which only she could see. Charlton tried to gently draw her out, to find a subject which she could find interesting. At last he started to talk about the Elgin Marbles and how they had been taken away from the Parthenon in Athens.
“I saw them in 1811, when they were first displayed. Now I hear that the British Museum is going to purchase them. I hope it is so, such beauty should be shared with everybody, not just be the private property of a single individual.”
Odette blushed becomingly.
“Did you really see them, Lord Pendholm? Tell me about them, please! I have heard many discordant opinions: some said that they are little more than rubble, scarcely worth the trouble, others, instead, have hailed them as great works of art. What do you think?”
“I heartily agree with the second opinion. The Parthenon marbles really are a wonderful work of art. They brought to my mind the great Greek and Latin classic literature, The Odyssey, the Aeneid, the Iliad…”
“Sing, Muse, the fatal wrath of Peleus’ son/which to the Greek unnumbered evils brought/and many heroes to the realms of night/sent premature and gave their limbs a prey/to dogs and birds, for such the will of Jove/when fierce contention rose between the chiefs/Achilles and Atriedes king of men…”
Charlton stared at her. She was glibly reciting the introduction to the Iliad, and somehow the ancient, solemn syllables sounded perfectly right on Odette’s lovely lips.
Suddenly she stopped, looked at him wide-eyed, and blushed a furious crimson.
Charlton smiled at her, with some dismay at her ceasing what was a marvellous rendition of the words.
“Why did you stop? It was a very good rendition. Is it Reverend Morrice’s translation?”
She looked at him, her eyes alive with a strange mixture of embarrassment and mischief. “Are you not shocked? Young ladies are scarcely expected to toss off Homer’s verses at random.”
“I am delighted, rather. I find myself bored by inconsequential chit-chat, silly giggles, and coy maidens batting their eyelashes at me, then producing ugly watercolours for me to admire.”
Odette gave him a full, sparkling smile that transformed her face and quite took his breath away. By Jove, he thought, but she was quite an astoundingly beautiful girl…
“Indeed, I hope not to shock you if I tell you that my only regret is not to be able to read Homer in his original language…”
“Well, I read the classics at Eton. I was a second son, you know, so it was the Church or the Army, for me. I chose the Army, but I did not forget my youthful efforts to learn Homer’s language - I could teach you, if you truly wish…”
Odette was bewildered. Here was a gentleman who not only was not distressed by her love for literature and languages, but who was also, it seemed, willing to help her become even more learned.
She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you teasing me?”
“Not at all. Do you read Latin, by chance?”
“A little. I am better acquainted with modern languages: French, German, Italian…”
Charlton was enchanted all over again by this evidence that she was far more than a typical boring society miss, and, in his delight at her quick intelligence, he put aside his misgivings about her very dangerous father.
~~~~~
From the opposite side of the long table, the Comte de Vierzon looked at Lord Pendholm through slitted eyes.
He would be a worthy addition to his plot, that one. His military experience would not come amiss, and he had also a good head on his shoulders. He could even like him, were he not a member of the hateful British aristocracy. The Comte’s calculating black eyes skimmed over Odette. It was clear that she liked Lord Pendholm and, to judge from the besotted smile on his face, he liked her in return.
The Comte sneered slightly, irritated by the sight. An attachment between those two was to be discouraged, it would not do at all. He would not bestow his beloved child on someone who was a valuable tool in his hands, but an enemy nevertheless. Ah, well, let the cauldron simmer, it would soon come to a boil…
In her small cold room, Mary disconsolately looked out of the only surviving pane of a wrecked window. The few hard snowflakes of the afternoon were rapidly turning into a blizzard, and only a few pieces remained of their carefully hoarded coal. Her little girl was sleeping, snug under a pile of ragged blankets and discarded cloaks. In the greyish light of the gathering winter dusk, the young woman was waiting for her sister, who had gone out earlier to deliver her work and receive her meagre salary, hardly enough to support her, let alone another woman and her baby.
‘I am shamefully exploiting Rose,’ she thought. ‘I should do something to earn my daughter’s keep and mine, but what can a woman do, wi
thout a character? I help her with her sewing, it is true, and of course I can keep house for her, but I do not feel it is enough. And anyway, how can anybody call this hovel “home”? If this wretched weather keeps up, we will not live through the winter - we cannot afford both food and coal…’
She thought about something her landlady, Mrs Grafton, had told her, and shivered, recalling the avaricious glint in the older woman’s eyes.
“Don’t be a fool, dearie. You are young, you are pretty, a bit skinny, it is true, but there are gentlemen who would very much appreciate your innocent, waifish air. You could make a good living. Your daughter would not starve. I could find you a better place to stay… When you decide, let me know. You know where to find me.”
‘When you decide,’ not ‘if you decide…’ Mary sighed. She could not think of a man touching her without fear and revulsion, but she knew that, if her daughter’s life were at stake, there would be no other avenue open to her.
~~~~~
When there were no guests, Charlton liked to dine in the small dining room, which was much cosier than the formal dining room, with its long table and its vaulted ceiling.
The small dining room was beautifully appointed in sage green and cream, with striped curtains in the same colours, a fireplace with a rose marble mantel and a thick Aubusson rug in muted tones of cream, rose, and green.
Harriet was on her very best behaviour, the model of a demure young lady. After having let her sulk in her room for a whole day, Lady Pendholm had, rather brusquely, put an end to what she had labelled ‘a disgraceful melodrama’ and had thoroughly catechised her wayward daughter.
Charlton also was in a good mood, because, at long last, his friends were back in London and he had been able to spend some time with them the previous evening, after escorting his mother home from the dinner party. He had sorely missed them, and smiled, recalling their friendly banter and outrageous jokes.
Charlton looked at his mother, wondering why she was fidgeting and seemingly anxious. Lady Pendholm played with her food, twisted her napkin and seemed to discourage any attempt at conversation.
Intriguing the Viscount: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 2) Page 4