by Jo Goodman
Ria looked down at her hands, then back to him. "You are not quelling my fears. You know something that you have yet to say. I wish you would be out with it and—"
"Every member of your board of governors is a member of the Society of Bishops."
Ria blinked. Her mouth parted, closed, then parted again.
"You are gaping."
"I am incredulous," she said. "Gaping is required." Studying his fine, patrician features, seeing no hint of amusement in the curve of his mouth or any deepening of the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, Ria realized he was perfectly serious. She could not match his gravity either in tone or expression. "You are in earnest. I could not have imagined this is where you were leading me."
"You don't believe me?" He had not considered that she would doubt his word. He had not given her reason to think him a liar.
"No. No, that is not it at all. Of course I believe you. It is just that I do not attach any importance to it. You don't know these men. No matter what they might have done at Hambrick Hall, they are not those boys any longer. All of them have position in a society far removed from that Society of their youth."
Ria slipped her hands from between his, no longer in need of his steadying clasp, and waited for him to sit back. She noted that he did so slowly, as if not so certain as she that his intervention would not be required. "Can you not conceive," she asked, "that maturity and time would eventually influence the purpose of a group like the bishops? Look at the charitable work they have done on behalf of Miss Weaver's. Surely that speaks to a change in what is important to them. I would imagine their shared experience as bishops at Hambrick provides a lasting bond very much like the one you enjoy with your friends."
West said nothing for a long moment. "I regret, then, that I have alarmed you. My experience with the bishops is such that it is difficult not to be concerned when I discover them together, especially when their interests exclude outsiders. I have most likely made too much of their connection to your school. As you said, they are engaged in charitable work and should be commended for their effort on behalf of your students."
Ria said slowly, "It is probably only coincidence that they were once bishops."
"I'm sure you're right."
She was feeling less so by the moment. His immediate capitulation was unexpected. She had supposed he would expend some breath convincing her his suspicions were warranted. "These are not the same men you knew at Hambrick, are they? Didn't you say the bishops have a long tradition?"
"A very long tradition. So does Miss Weaver's Academy." He let her think about that a moment, then went on. "But you are quite correct—I was acquainted with none of these men at Hambrick."
"Then you will concede that it might have been only the bishops you knew who were bullies and blighters."
"If it is important to you that I concede it, then I will."
Ria frowned. "You are patronizing me."
"I am Westphal. Patronizing is required."
She turned away from his remote, hooded glance and stared out the window to collect her thoughts. The interior lantern turned the glass into a black mirror, and she saw only her own pale, vaguely insubstantial reflection. The carriage moved more quietly now than it had at any time since their journey began. It was the snowfall, she thought, cushioning the wheels and horses' hooves. "I do not think I understand you at all," she said quietly.
"There is no requirement that you should do so."
She looked at him askance. "But there is. I cannot shake this sense that you are angry with me."
"I am not."
"Disappointed, then. Frustrated." Ria paused. "Annoyed."
"And if I am any or all of those things? What can it matter? Please say you will not subvert your own judgment to accept mine. If you are willing to do that, I shall marry you off to a plump country squire of only moderate means by Boxing Day. It is exactly what you will deserve."
Ria's smile was grimly humorous. "I think you delight in being perverse."
He shrugged, picked up his hat, and tipped it back on his head. The brim came low over his eyes as he leaned back against the squabs. Lifting his feet, he returned them to the seat beside Ria and folded his arms comfortably across his chest. "We still have some way to travel, Miss Ashby. It occurs to me that I should like to pass these last miles in silence."
* * *
When William Fairchild, Earl of Tenley, learned his half-brother had already been shown to the library and that rooms in the north wing were being readied for him, he merely nodded and informed the first butler that he should carry on. His shock, though, was visible when he was further told Westphal was accompanied by Miss Ashby. After sending the butler out, Tenley picked up one of the Egyptian artifacts on the mantelpiece—in this case, a small, bronze figure of a cat—and hurled it hard onto the floor. As an outlet for his rage, it did not satisfy. The feline bounced on the carpet and rebounded so sharply that it struck Tenley on the knee. He winced and looked to the remaining statuettes on the mantel for a better second choice.
He took so long making a selection that the urge to break something passed. It might be more the thing, he decided, to break Maria's neck, for surely she deserved it. Her deliberate disregard for his wishes was not to be borne, yet that was precisely what he must do. Hadn't he promised he would visit her at the academy as soon as it was politic to do so? His wife had been very cool to him since he had permitted Maria to accompany the family back to Ambermede from London. She could not suffer Maria's presence without making his own life a hell, and it had been very nearly that since the funeral service.
Tenley stooped, picked up the bronze cat, and turned it over. An emerald chip that had been the cat's left eye was missing. This piece was a favorite of Margaret's and she was bound to notice the absence of the eye within twenty minutes of retiring to this salon. There could be nothing else for it, he thought, returning the figurine to the mantel, but that one of the servants would have to accept the blame.
West turned from his casual study of the library's tomes as the doors behind him opened. He inclined his head toward his brother but waited for him to say something by way of greeting.
"Taking inventory?" asked Tenley.
Ignoring the snide remark, West responded pleasantly, "Good evening, Tenley."
Grunting softly, Tenley closed the doors. "Will you have a drink?"
"No. But you must please yourself."
"I do."
West watched his brother pour a generous portion of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and seize the glass so forcefully that it might have been a rope thrown to a drowning man. It occurred to West that he did not know Tenley well enough to speculate about his drinking habits but was hopeful his brother found only occasional solace in his cups. He did not blame him for clutching his drink now. There was nothing about the situation in which they had been thrust that was comfortable.
Tenley took a large first swallow. "So, you have come. Should I be informing my wife and children we will be leaving with due haste?"
"If you do, it will be because you want to. I am not here to evict you from the estate." West felt his brother's keen regard as if it were a palpable thing. It had never escaped his notice that he and Tenley shared some similarities of manner and feature, and this remote study of another person, done specifically to take their measure and discomfit them, was certainly something held in common.
West wondered why he had never considered that it might be a practice inherited from the duke. Thinking on it now made him vaguely uneasy. It was less troubling to acknowledge the similarities of resemblance. They were of the same height, easily within a stone's weight of each other, and both were possessed of a like profile: strongly defined jaw, fine patrician nose, and a broad brow. At a distance, with their heads covered by hats, they might easily be mistaken for twins. Their coloring was an obviously distinctive feature. His own darker hair took its copper shades from his mother, while Tenley's fair locks and complexion favored the duke.
"You are not here to toss us out today," Tenley said. "That is what you meant."
"Is it? I do not think so." West shrugged lightly. "I seem to recall that you have always liked to insist on having your way. I do not suppose there can be much difference in determining what games your friends should play as children to assigning meaning to another person's words that was not intended."
It was no effort for Tenley to put a chill in his glance. His eyes were glacier blue at the outset. It was left, rather, for them to influence the temperature of his smile, and in a moment it was frosty. "What the devil are you talking about?"
"It is unimportant."
Tenley did not press himself to think about it but went straight to the heart of the matter. "If, as you say, you have not come to give us our walking papers, then what may we infer from your presence?"
"You may infer anything you like, but I am here to set some of my affairs in order. It makes no sense to set up lodging anywhere else."
"I suppose you have no use for the cottage any longer."
"In fact, I do. It is just that I have lent it to a friend for the time being." West made a point of looking around the large library with its vaulted ceiling and ornately sculpted plaster work. "I believe the whole of the cottage could be fit in this room. Will you find it so onerous to have me underfoot, Tenley?"
"Why have you brought Maria?"
West did not miss the fact that his brother had not answered the question put to him. It was response enough, he supposed. He could not blame Tenley for wishing him gone. If positions were reversed, he might very well be of a similar mind. "Quite frankly, I brought her because I did not know what sort of reception I could expect. I knew she was familiar with the estate and could act as a guide and mentor should you not be of a mind to do the same."
"Hopper will do that. He is the steward."
"Of course." He paused, noting that the tips of Tenley's fingers had whitened a bit where he pressed his glass. "Have I presumed too much by inviting Miss Ashby to accompany me?"
"You are duke now. You may presume anything you like."
"I will adopt that cast of mind in time, I suppose. You certainly have."
Tenley's smile was without humor. "If you meant to offend, you did not. That you think you could by such a remark merely shows how ill-suited you are for the responsibilities that attend your new station."
"We were not speaking of responsibilities. We were speaking of a certain disposition toward others."
"A disposition that is bred in the bone."
"Pray, do not remind me."
If anything, Tenley's smile became a fraction cooler. "You think I am speaking only of our common sire. I assure you, I am not. My mother was the daughter of an earl while yours was—"
West waited. When Tenley chose to take another swallow of his drink rather than finish his sentence, West did it for him. "While my mother was not. That is what you meant to say, isn't it? Your mother was the daughter of an earl while my mother was not."
After a long moment, Tenley nodded. "Yes," he said. "That is it."
"I thought it might be. There can be no faulting the observation—it's true enough."
Tenley finished off his drink and set the tumbler down. "You might have sent word around of your intention to visit, especially of your intention to bring Maria with you."
"So there is a problem. She gave no indication that she would not be welcome."
"Did you ask her?" He did not wait for West to reply. "How did you come to be in her company? Have you been to Miss Weaver's, then?"
West nodded. "Once I learned that Miss Ashby was my ward, I thought a visit to the school was in order. I could not get away from London until a few days ago."
Tenley gestured with his hand to indicate the pair of wing chairs turned at an angle toward the fireplace. He let West choose one, then took the other. There was no sense in squaring off like fighters at Gentleman Jackson's. "What is your opinion of the school?" he asked.
"My visit was brief, but it seems to be fulfilling its promise to educate young ladies. It has not the breadth of resources of Eton or Hambrick Hall, but the teachers appear adequate to the task and the girls are eager to learn."
"You realize Father did not countenance Maria taking a position with the academy."
"She told me. It seems he did not forbid it, though."
"He was infinitely indulgent with her."
"You did not approve?"
"No. I thought she should be made to marry."
"On my short acquaintance with Miss Ashby, she does not impress as one who can be made to do anything."
"Long acquaintance will not alter your view. She is singularly wrongheaded."
West's lips twisted wryly. "Naturally, it is for the rest of us to know what is in her best interests."
"Naturally."
Here was another difference, West thought. His brother had no sense of the ironic. It seemed Tenley could not find humor with a map and compass. It was a pity, really, because it might have been something worth sharing with him—infinitely more important than the cut of their features, the breadth of their shoulders, or the way they both sat with their legs stretched lengthwise before them.
"Was there some particular candidate for Miss Ashby's hand?" asked West.
Tenley's hesitation was brief but telling. "I seem to recollect there was a Mr. Butterfield who came up to snuff. And a Mr. Abbot. She would have neither of them, of course. Set her cap for independence."
Remembering the views Ria had expressed during their journey to Ambermede, West was hard-pressed to keep his chuckle in check. "I believe she's read Wollstonecraft's Vindication of the Rights of Women."
Tenley waved this comment aside, anxious to make his point. "The thing of it is, she is not independent at all. Not with an allowance that would beggar most men trying to support it."
Ria's allowance was not so great as that, West thought, but perhaps his brother begrudged her the use of any funds at all. "I believe it is her wish to become independent. She will have control of her inheritance in eight months."
"To throw away on the school. Mark my words, she will bankrupt herself providing for those girls."
"Mayhap she will." West turned over one hand in a gesture of indifference. "Mayhap she is only demanding the right to do so."
"You do not foresee a problem? She will announce herself on your doorstep and apply to you to provide the solution."
"Pay her creditors, you mean? Somehow I cannot imagine that she would. What of the board of governors? Wouldn't she be more likely to go to them?"
"She might, but that won't keep her from coming to you. The board charges her with operating the school on what they give her. They aren't likely to dig deeply in their pockets on her behalf."
"Oh? I thought there was a rather generous endowment."
"I couldn't say. I have never inquired. What I know is that Maria seems to think there is never enough money."
West chose not to pursue this with Tenley. He realized his brother had never had sufficient curiosity about the school to be able to answer his questions. It meant seeking out Ria again on this subject, something he had hoped to avoid since she made it clear she did not share his views of the governors. He was prepared to inquire on the health of the countess and Tenley's children, when the door to the library opened and Ria stepped inside, a child in the crook of one arm and two others trying to lay claim to her free hand.
"Never say you have brought them here," Tenley said visibly annoyed by the interruption. "Where is James's nanny? William? Caroline? Where is your governess?"
William stopped batting his younger sister's hand away from Ria's and came to attention at her side. At six years of age, he felt it was incumbent upon him to speak up. "
Mrs. Burke is not feeling well, Father. She is resting."
"What of Chapel? Is she abed also?"
Ria ruffled William's toffee-colored hair with her fingertips, forcing up the cowlick he had taken pains to squash earlier. "James's nanny has gone to the kitchen to inquire about the children's supper. They are of the opinion that it is late, and they are likely to starve if trays are not delivered promptly." She glanced at Caroline for confirmation, her eyes encouraging. The little girl offered a rather uncertain nod, pale blue eyes darting between Ria and her father. "Oh, you must be more sincere in your approach, Caro, else your papa will think I have put you up to it."
"I think it anyway," Tenley said. "Whether they support you or not. Take them back to the nursery and see that they stay there. Find one of the maids to sit with them until Nanny Chapel returns."
West thought Ria looked more disappointed than surprised by this edict, though even that emotion was couched quickly so the children might not see. He gave her full marks for making no comment. She also did not insist upon a demonstration of affection between any of the parties, as that would have been uncomfortable in the extreme. She did, however, make a formal introduction of the children, something Tenley appeared reluctant to do himself.
"They are handsome children," West said when Ria had taken them from the room. "You are a fortunate man, Tenley."
"You will understand if the circumstances of late have made me think otherwise."
West nodded faintly. "What made him do it?"
Tenley shrugged. "I have asked myself that a hundred times since coming away from his deathbed. Perhaps you think there was some quarrel that put me out of favor with him, but that was not the case. He was distant of late. I thought it was in aid of coming to terms with the fact that he was dying, and I might not have been wrong. However, I could not anticipate that his reflections would lead us to this pass. You, the duke. Me, with reduced circumstances."