“Next?” Gabriel asked, not entirely sure he liked this new conversational direction. “What do you mean by next?”
“I mean that as soon as the arrangements can be made, it will be my unfortunate duty to welcome you to the family.”
“What!” Gabriel felt the blood drain out of his cheeks. “Now, see here. I have no intention of marrying your sister.”
“Intention or not, that’s exactly what you are going to do. Lady Esme’s sketch of you was seen by the guests at the house party my wife and I are currently hosting, which means she is now quite thoroughly ruined.
“Had the incident occurred in front of the family alone, I might be persuaded to let the matter end here. But several of the witnesses are not the sort who can be trusted to hold their silence. So although it pains me, since I had hoped for a love match for my youngest sister, it seems that you and Esme will wed.”
“And if I refuse?”
Adam Gresham and the other five Byron men stepped forward as one—a united front.
“Refuse?” the duke said. “We won’t let you refuse. I’m afraid, Lord Northcote, that your fate was sealed the moment my sister saw you and put her pencil to paper.”
Chapter 4
Esme tossed back her bedcovers the following morning, having barely slept. The incident with her sketchbook kept replaying itself over and over again in her mind, along with the expressions on everyone’s faces, which ranged from shock and dismay to anger, disbelief and even titillated amusement. The latter belonged to Lettice Waxhaven, who’d looked so puffed full of spiteful delight it was a wonder canary feathers weren’t sticking to her lips as she smiled.
The worst of all, though, had been the look of sad disappointment on her mother’s face, as if Ava Byron couldn’t believe her youngest child would be capable of committing such a shameful, headstrong act.
And then there’d been Edward . . .
After the guests had been hurried off to their rooms, he’d marched her into his study. There, she’d tried to explain that it wasn’t what they were all imagining, that there was nothing between her and the man in the drawing—this Lord Northcote, whom she’d never even met. She’d simply found him intriguing from an artistic point of view and had sketched him.
“It wasn’t anything sexual,” she’d said, not sure if Edward had heard more than every third word of her hurried speech.
But he’d heard that last part, his clenched jaw actually making a popping noise as he’d launched into a blistering tirade that had left her silently quaking in her slippers. When he’d ordered her to her room, she’d been only too happy to go.
Now here she was, like a prisoner waiting to learn her fate. But in the meantime, unless someone had locked her inside her room—she went across and tested the door just to see if it would open, and it did—she wasn’t going to sit idly by, worrying the day away until her family decided to share what was sure to be even more unpleasant news.
Her brothers and Adam had gone out last night, riding away in a furious thunder of horses’ hooves. Had they gone to find and confront Lord Northcote? And what was he even doing here in the country, seeing he was Leo and Lawrence’s neighbor from London?
No wonder he’d seemed vaguely familiar to her. She must have seen him getting in and out of his coach or climbing the front steps of his town house on one of the rare occasions she’d visited Cavendish Square. She’d noticed him—how could anyone not notice him?—but she obviously hadn’t realized exactly who he was.
Well, she certainly knew now.
Did he now know what she’d done, this man who was still a stranger to her? Edward had kept her sketchbook. Had they shown Northcote the drawing?
But she didn’t want to think about all of that right now, she told herself as she moved over to the washstand. Later would be soon enough. Much, much later, if she had her druthers.
Since it was too early to ring for her maid, she washed and dressed on her own, donning an old, well-worn gown of brown cotton that she was able to fasten herself. She brushed her long dark hair and tied it back with a plain green ribbon rather than struggling to put the heavy mass up in pins.
She’d tried learning to do her own hair in the past but had never mastered Grumblethorpe’s knack for anchoring the long, thick strands in place. To date, her own efforts were nothing short of disastrous, so tied neatly and left to hang down her back would have to do despite any impropriety. And after last night, not pinning up her hair seemed the least of her sins.
She left the room, with her black-and-white kitty, Ruff, Elizabeth, Naiad and Persephone—a spotted gray-and-white shorthair—following on her heels in hopes of getting breakfast. As for her other two cats, she knew they must be out hunting rodents and birds rather than waiting to go down to the kitchens with everyone else.
Burr and old Henry, who had climbed with a stiff gait out of his basket, joined the furry entourage, tails wagging and tongues lolling as they descended the stairs. The Scotties were probably asleep in the nursery, happy to wait to see what tidbits the children would sneak them during their breakfast in another hour or two.
A couple of sleepy servants were in the kitchen when she entered, one lighting the coals in the stove while another filled kettles with water to warm. They exchanged friendly greetings with her, then went about their duties, used to her comings and goings and her menagerie of pets.
Charles, a footman who had once worked on his father’s farm and who loved animals, appeared and came over to help her prepare dishes of boiled chicken and brown rice for the cats and dogs waiting eagerly at their feet.
When guests were staying, Charles often assisted with the care of her furry brood. Without asking, he set to work, even taking a few moments to gather fresh meat scraps for Aeolus, her wounded hawk, and cut-up apple and beetroots for Poppy, a convalescing rabbit who had an injured leg. He gave her several more apple quarters for the horses, who got jealous if she didn’t bring them treats as well.
Once all her cats and dogs were fed, Esme set off for the stables, laden pail in hand, Burr trotting at her heels. She stopped along the way to chat with the gardener and his assistant, who gave her some timothy grass, comfrey and lavender to supplement the hay she regularly fed Poppy. They also showed her a dormouse nest in one of the flower beds but promised not to harm any of the inhabitants.
If only her cats would promise the same. Tobias, in particular, was a good mouser, who in addition to mice caught an occasional vole or bird, which he sometimes left in her bedroom as tribute. Mrs. Grumblethorpe and the maids were always horrified whenever they found one of his little “gifts.” But as sad as the dead animals made her feel, Esme couldn’t get angry with Tobias. He was just being what he was—a cat. Still, she hoped he left the dormice alone.
She went on, stopping first at the rabbit hutch to tend to Poppy. The young rabbit kicked as she was lifted out of her pen but then grew quiet as Esme cradled her in her lap and checked her wound. One of the local children, who’d found her and hadn’t wanted her eaten for supper, had brought her to Esme. Esme suspected a fox had done the damage to her leg, which seemed to be healing nicely. After rubbing a specially made salve into the wound, Esme returned the rabbit to her hutch, changed her water dish, and set her munching happily on her breakfast.
Next was Aeolus, who was housed in a corner stall in the barn, well away from the rabbit hutch. The majestic hawk blinked his brilliant tawny eyes and clicked his beak in greeting, permitting Esme to inspect his injured wing. His wound looked pink but healthy and was healing as well as could be expected. She fed him, taking a moment to watch as he tucked into his meat scraps with enthusiasm and drank from the water basin she refilled.
Satisfied with the bird’s progress, she went out into the main section of the stables, careful to close and latch the top and bottom doors to Aeolus’s stall behind her.
“Good morning, Lady Esme,” called one
of the grooms in a friendly voice.
“Good morning, Pete.”
“They’re all waiting for you,” he said, nodding toward the horses, who one by one were sticking their heads out of the tops of their stall boxes. A couple tossed their heads and pawed the ground; one whinnied in excitement.
Esme laughed. “Good thing, then, that I brought lots of apples.”
Pete smiled and ambled away to continue his work.
She began making her way along the stalls, stopping to greet each horse like an old friend, and to pet and feed them an apple quarter or two.
As she did, she talked to the grooms as they passed. She knew each of them by name; a few she’d known since childhood, including the head groom, Ridley, who’d set her on her very first mount—a pony named Pollux—at age three.
She was relieved when none of them gave her curious looks or made mention of last night’s debacle. Of course they wouldn’t since they were all too well trained to ever gossip about Byron family business—at least not within earshot of the family. On the other hand, they must surely know something of what had occurred last night, particularly given the fact that Adam and all six of her brothers had saddled horses and ridden out unexpectedly into the night.
She gave a tiny sigh when she finished giving a treat to the last horse, aware she was delaying so she wouldn’t have to return to the house just yet. She wasn’t looking forward to coming face-to-face with her family. She didn’t want to endure the inevitable rounds of questions and lectures, or worse, see the disapproval and disappointment shining in their eyes. She already knew she’d let them down, most especially Edward and her mother, who had always supported and indulged her independent, wayward habits.
In London, she’d overheard more than one matron decrying what they considered Esme Byron’s inappropriate eccentricities, aghast that she was allowed so much personal freedom and the ability to voice opinions they considered unsuitable for an unmarried young woman barely out of the schoolroom. But her family always stood by her, proud of her artistic talent and uniformly deaf to the complaints of any critics who might say she needed a firmer hand.
What must Ned and Mama be thinking now? Were they regretting that they had not listened to those critics? Wishing they’d kept a tighter rein on her activities rather than letting her venture out as she chose?
But she would have gone mad being constrained and confined the way she knew most girls her age were. She could never have borne the suffocating restrictions, the smothering tedium of being expected to go everywhere with a chaperone in tow, or worse, being cooped up inside doing embroidery or playing the pianoforte.
In hindsight, she admitted that she should never have done the drawing of the beautiful naked stranger—or rather, Lord Northcote, as she supposed she ought to call him now that she knew his identity. She ought to have turned her back the moment she’d seen him lying there in the grass, rather than give in to the temptation to capture his likeness on paper.
But it wasn’t all her fault. Her sketchbook was private and not meant for public consumption. If Lord Eversley hadn’t insisted on seeing her drawings and if Lettice Waxhaven hadn’t maliciously bumped into her and sent her book flying, none of this would be happening. Really, when she thought about it, Eversley and Lettice Waxhaven were the ones to blame, not her.
That was another reason she was loitering in the stables longer than necessary; she didn’t want to cross paths with any of the guests, most particularly the Waxhavens. She expected all of them would be departing today, given the uproar. And what better opportunity to start spreading gossip?
But what did she care if they flapped and crowed? She’d done nothing so very dreadful. She was an artist; she’d drawn a picture. Admittedly it was of a naked man, but once everything was explained and put in the proper context, people would see that it was a great deal of fuss over nothing. It wasn’t as if she and Lord Northcote were lovers, engaged in a torrid, clandestine affair. They’d never even met—well, not in the accepted sense of the word at least.
But therein lay the difficulty. Would everyone hear about the drawing and assume the worst? Would they think Northcote had seduced her and ignore the truth? She frowned, having the sinking feeling that she knew which version of the story the Ton would believe.
But her siblings had been embroiled in scandals before, and they had all successfully weathered the storms. She would surely come through this latest hiccup too with no lasting harm.
And if I do not?
There was no point at present in ruminating over what-ifs.
She knew she ought to return to the house to change her attire, have breakfast and endure whatever scolds and cross-examinations were likely on today’s schedule.
Instead, she dawdled, wandering back to the stall where her mare was kept. Unlatching the door, she went inside, stopping to pat the animal and croon softly to her. The mare’s ears pricked up, and her velvety brown eyes glazed with pleasure as Esme scratched her on the forehead and neck and down along her withers.
Esme was about to go to the tack room to obtain a currycomb, brush and hoof-pick to do some grooming when one of the stable lads appeared.
“’Scuse me, my lady,” the boy said, “but we thought ye’d want ter know that tha’ new stray, the black one wot’s been hangin’ ’bout, looks like she’s ready ter have her kittens.”
“Abigail?”
“Aye, if tha’s wot yer callin’ her. She’s settled in ter a corner of tha’ feed room in the haymow.”
“Of course I want to know. I’ll go check on her now. While I do, see if you can find a good sturdy box, medium sided and broad; an herb box would do nicely. And some soft blankets and laundered rags. She and her kittens might feel more secure in there for the first few weeks, at least until the babies open their eyes.”
“Aye, Lady Esme.”
“Oh, bring me a pan of clean warm water too. You never know when there might be trouble during a delivery. I want to be ready to help if need be.”
As the boy hurried away with his instructions, Esme did the same.
Chapter 5
Gabriel nearly turned back as he rode toward the Byron family’s palatial estate, Braebourne. It wasn’t too late to change his mind. He could still return to Cray’s house, pack his bags and leave the area.
He’d never even met this Esme Byron. It was utter insanity to think he was on the verge of doing the gentlemanly thing and proposing marriage to her.
Ridiculous girl. The blame for this entire fiasco lay squarely in her lap. What had she thought she was about, spying on him as he relaxed in the altogether, then being idiotic enough to immortalize her sneaking ways by means of pencil and paper?
Were she anyone but the damned Duke of Clybourne’s sister, he would have shrugged the whole thing off and left the brazen chit to twist on the end of the noose she’d made herself. But as Clybourne and his band of formidable brothers had explained most insistently last night, they weren’t giving him the option of refusing.
And sadly, they didn’t need a set of pistols to enforce their edict. Not only did they know who he was and where he lived, they also knew scores of influential people who could—and would—make his life an utter misery.
The heads of all the reputable banks in London—and several disreputable ones as well—would, he was told, be asked not to do business with him should he fail to do the right thing by their sister. Since the Byrons were on friendly terms with both the Rothschilds and financial wizard Rafe Pendragon, he could well see how it wouldn’t be difficult for them to turn every bank in the city against him, including the one that held the mortgage on his London town house. Although the farms and tenant housing at Ten Elms brought in an adequate income, it was far from a grand fortune and insufficient to settle his debts should they be called in all at once. Of course, the irony was that as viscount, he was due to receive a large trust fund should he
marry. Despite the financial enticement, he had always resisted before, unwilling to shackle himself in an unwanted union.
But even if the money were not an issue, the Byrons had also informed him that they would see to it he was cast out of Society. Not that he’d ever been warmly welcomed among the Ton in spite of his title, but still he was received everywhere, able to set foot in whatever great house he cared to grace. He suspected he would even be admitted to Almack’s, that hallowed bastion of propriety that he’d always avoided like a case of the pox, had he ever seriously decided to look for a bride.
Laughable now to think that he’d never actually had to change his mind about remaining a lifelong bachelor. Instead, he was apparently caught tight in the parson’s noose and by no less than a girl upon whom he’d never even clapped his eyes.
As for Lady Esme, he wondered at her game. Was she really just some foolish young woman who’d drawn a naughty picture and gotten caught? Or had she done this deliberately, lying in wait to trap him into a marriage he most definitely did not want? God only knew many eligible misses had tried—and failed—in the past to do exactly that.
He supposed he would shortly have an opportunity to decide just how duplicitous the future Viscountess Northcote seemed to be.
He ground his teeth together at the thought.
Even now, in spite of the ruin he would surely suffer at the hands of the Byrons, he felt it might be worth calling their bluff and walking away. He’d heard Vienna could be quite nice this time of year.
Then he remembered that the Rothschilds had their fingers in finance there too, assuming he could withdraw sufficient funds from the London banks in time to escape to the Continent in the first place. But did he really want to live as a refugee, denied his home and his friends, all over his refusal to marry some silly, imprudent chit?
No, it would appear that he was well and truly caught.
Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square Page 4