Sara Lindsey - [Weston 03]

by A Rogue for All Seasons

  He was a social creature by nature, and he enjoyed the company and amusements that town life offered, but he found it trying at times. Of late, he was more often unimpressed. He had the sense that his life was a series of installments, as in the novels his sister Olivia devoured. He knew there was more than what he had at present, but he wasn’t sure of the plot’s direction. He had waited, partly because he was certain the next chapters would present themselves in time, and partly because he was comfortable with the story. Perhaps he felt a little caged at times, but better that than the unknown, which might be worse.

  Waiting hadn’t offered any answers, though, and he wasn’t sure it ever would. He had put a good face on, but maintaining that pretense was growing increasingly difficult. He had always considered himself even-tempered and, for years, he had boxed for the pleasure of the sport. These days his temper lurked just beneath the surface, and he boxed to give voice to the restlessness and frustration growing within him.

  He recalled the stricken expression that had crossed Miss Merriwether’s face as they danced. She was generally very composed in her demeanor—a little too much so—but tonight she had temporarily lost control of herself. He had seen her inner turmoil and recognized so many of the emotions he had struggled with over the past couple of years: the loneliness, the worry, the dissatisfaction, the exhaustion…

  All had been writ large on surprisingly expressive features, and her distress struck a chord with him. For a moment, he’d been certain that this woman understood how he felt, would understand him. The thought should have been comforting, but he found it unsettling. Unsettling and undeniably intriguing.

  She’d reined herself in quickly but, having caught a glimpse of what lurked beneath that poised façade, Henry suspected Miss Merriwether was a woman who felt deeply. Intensely. Passionately. The thought was almost enough to make him wonder if that passion would carry over into…

  No. Christ, what was wrong with him? Miss Merriwether was… Miss Merriwether. He didn’t think of her that way. He reprimanded himself until he reached his destination. Upon opening the door, he found he wasn’t the only one who sought refuge there. At least he wouldn’t be alone with his strange thoughts.

  “Rather unsporting to desert your guests, sir.”

  His father laughed. “Were you sent to find me, or have you turned tail as well?”

  Henry blew out his candle before seating himself opposite his father at the large, round mahogany table that dominated the room. “I wasn’t sent to find you,” he said, setting his candlestick down.

  “I am most relieved to hear it. I shall rejoin the fray presently, but a temporary escape was necessary. I believe it’s also considered unsporting to strangle one’s guests?”

  “Indubitably,” Henry told him. “I very much doubt they’d ever accept another of your invitations.”

  “Or anyone else’s. Death does tend to limit a person’s social engagements. However, as I intend to refrain from all murderous impulses this evening, let us speak on another, more lively matter. I read your proposal for the stud.”

  Henry’s nerves stretched tight. Following his discussion with James, he’d visited Ravensfield Hall. Near Great Bookham in Surrey, the stud sat only twenty miles or so south of London, which would allow him to conduct regular business in the city. As the estate was only a handful of miles from Epsom—one of England’s racing capitals—he’d have a steady influx of clients. Each June, everyone interested in horses and racing made their way to the area for the Oaks and the Derby.

  Plum location aside, the manor house itself gave him a moment of pause. Parr had closed up the house, but the buff-colored brick building bore signs of neglect and disrepair; ivy snaked up the walls, and where there had once been rose beds along the perimeter of the house, only dried, prickly clumps remained. If a steward were overseeing the place, the man wasn’t earning his wages.

  Another look at the stables convinced Henry that the house—and whatever renovations and refurbishments it might require—wasn’t important. He could almost hear the pounding hooves echoing in the covered riding house, and the whinnies and neighs as the stable lads brought round buckets of oats. With nary a doubt in his mind, he had ridden back to London and compiled his ideas regarding the stud into a proposal for a business venture, which he gave to his father.

  As the heir to the viscountcy, Henry was in the somewhat uncomfortable position of needing his sire’s financial support. He received a generous quarterly allowance, much of which had been successfully invested on the Change, which allowed him to live in a comfortable manner. Purchasing the stud and quality stock, not to mention the additional money for building, repairs, and dozens of other smaller concerns, would require a sum far greater than he had at hand.

  “Your proposal impressed me, Hal,” his father said slowly, “and I cannot deny that your mother and I are pleased to see you displaying an interest of a more serious nature, but perhaps you ought to approach this slowly. You might spend a year or two working out of the Manor to be certain you truly enjoy the business.”

  Henry’s gut clenched as he felt Ravensfield begin to slip from his fingers. “Please, sir, I realize the sum I am requesting is not inconsequential, but I will have earned back the money and more within a few years.”

  “Hal,” his father began.

  “I remember, when I was a boy, you told me that I could do anything I put my mind to. I know I can make the stud a success.”

  “I don’t doubt your ability.” His father sighed. “Do you recall that shortly after I told you that, you decided that your greatest ambition was to be an artist? I hired Mr. Edwards from London to come tutor you. After less than a fortnight, you sent him packing. He never even started work on the mural for the library ceiling.”

  Henry scowled. “The man was an idiot, and an indifferent artist.”

  “You do realize he is a member of the Royal Academy?” said his sire.

  “That hardly precludes idiocy. He expected me to sit indoors and draw drapery all day long. Drapery! I never so much as saw a paintbrush, let alone a box of paints.”

  “Practice is generally a component of training. You imagined you had only to put brush to canvas and produce a masterpiece. You didn’t want to spend the time on drawing lessons.”

  “I would have spent the time, but it was apparent, even to me, that I have no inherent artistic talent. When I showed you and Mother some of my drapery studies, she sighed and said something to you about my duckies being handsome.” He shook his head. “There were no ducks in the drapes I was drawing.”

  “Hal, she said—” His lips twitched. “Never mind it. So you’re not an artist. What about your music lessons? You asked to learn to play the violin. I persuaded Herr Cramer that teaching would be more fulfilling than performing for their majesties. That lasted all of a month.”

  “You can’t blame me for not being able to tell one note from another. I was willing to keep trying. Herr Cramer was the one who threw up his hands and left.”

  “After you broke his bow, and your own, using them to fence with James,” came the parental protest.

  “I still maintain the fencing was James’s idea.”

  His father rubbed at his temples. “What about all the letters I received from Headmaster Davies at Eton, or when you were sent down from Oxford? The only way you applied yourself in school was in finding opportunities for mischief.”

  “I prefer to think of my extracurricular activities as creative endeavors.”

  His sire sighed and got to his feet. “My point is that you have a history of giving up when something doesn’t come easily to you. Naturally, you can understand my reluctance to hand over a large sum of money for you to invest. What if some difficulty arises? How can I be certain you won’t turn your back on the project and hie yourself back to town and your, ah, creative endeavors?”

  “I need to do this. I’m meant to do this.”

  “But you believed you were meant to be an artist and a musi
cian and any other number of things, too. I know how grand this all seems in your head, but a great deal of time and hard work are required on your part. I don’t doubt that you’re capable of putting forth both. However, I can’t help but worry whether your desire will subside after the initial excitement is past.”

  Henry gripped the arms of the chair and took a deep, steadying breath. “I know I can do this, and I’m not going to give up on it. I understand how much work will be required of me, and I look forward to the challenge. I hoped my proposal would show you I’ve changed, but you appear determined to think the worst of me.”

  His father walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think the worst of you, Hal. You’re a fine young man, and any father would be lucky to have you for a son. That doesn’t mean I am blind to your faults. Still, I found your proposal impressive, and I certainly can’t deny your abilities with horses.”

  The tightness in Henry’s chest eased a mite. Cautiously, he asked, “Is this your circuitous way of telling me that you’re not going to be tightfisted with the purse strings?”

  “I’m afraid not, but I’ve spoken with Lord Parr, and I’ll counter your proposal with one of my own.”

  “You spoke with Parr? When was this? Is he willing to sell to me?” Henry shot out of his chair as he fired off the questions in a single breath.

  His father’s lips twitched. “Yes, the night before last at the Standish musicale, and possibly.”

  “At least he is considering the notion. I hope you offered a fair price.”

  His father began to fiddle with his watch chain. “I do not think Parr is considering the money so much as he is considering you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Parr has, as you know, a strong sentiment for Ravensfield, largely because his son loved the place. He knows there is little sense in holding on to the property, and he likes the idea of keeping his son’s memory alive. I am afraid he has seen your name once too often in the gossip rags, and he is concerned that Ravensfield will become a… What did he call it? Oh, yes, ‘a place of licentious revelry where young men cohabitate with women of loose morals and engage in all manner of sin.’ His words, not mine.”

  Henry gaped at his sire. “I… But…” He began to pace across the room, then suddenly stopped, turned back and demanded, “Do you mean to tell me Parr believes I will turn the place into some sort of brothel?”

  A choked laugh escaped his father. “A brothel? Heavens, no. A den of vice, perhaps—”

  “I am glad you find this amusing,” Henry said tightly.

  His father’s face grew serious. “I beg your pardon. I should not have made light of something so important to you. I will be frank: Parr is willing to sell the estate on the condition that the buyer is a respectable gentleman who will run the place in a respectable manner. I have convinced him to give you until the end of the Season to prove your worthiness.

  “As to funding this venture, use these upcoming months to approach potential investors. You are well known and well liked; I am certain you can find men willing to fund you in exchange for a share of the profits or for breeding privileges. If you can raise half of the money you need to purchase the stud and your starting stock, I will gladly give you the rest and cover whatever other expenditures arise.”

  Henry nodded. “If investors will convince you of my commitment, I don’t think I’ll have too much difficulty there. Ravensfield is perfect, Father. If you see it, you will understand.”

  “I believe you, but if I simply give you the money, Parr’s opinion of you will not change. Once he sees you have turned respectable, or at least discreet, and have the trust of well-connected men, his concerns will vanish. I am certain the old man will soon feel foolish to have ever doubted you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will not disappoint you.”

  “You have never disappointed me, Hal. You have worried me at times and given me and your mother some sleepless nights, but I have always been immensely proud to call you my son.”

  As his father spoke, a lump began in Henry’s throat and grew until it threatened to choke him. He suspected any attempts at speech would come out sounding like a croak, so he opted to cross the room and hug his father instead.

  “Enough. You will break my ribs, boy. Come. We had best get back to the ball before your mother sets the servants to looking for us.” He paused for a moment, eyeing Henry up and down, and then shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder from whence you sprung.”

  “Mother has told me on more than one occasion that I am my father’s son, so you should not have to look far,” Henry said as he relit his candle, and then blew out the tapers in the candelabra on the table. A quick glance at the fire assured him it would keep until one of the servants banked it for the night.

  “I’ve always known where I came from,” Henry murmured as he opened the door and stepped past his father into the hall. “It’s where I am going that took some time to figure out.”

  “What are you mumbling about?”

  Henry cast a glance over his shoulder. “Nothing of any import.”

  “Go on, then. I will be right behind you.”

  The words eased something in Henry. Although his sire only spoke of walking through the town house, Henry knew his family would stand by him in whatever he attempted. He was, he thought, a very lucky man.

  And then he saw his mother waiting for them at the door to the drawing room.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she hissed at them. “Supper should have started five minutes ago. We have two groups sitting down. Livvy and Sheldon will sit with the first, and Izzie and James will take the second. Both of you”—she pointed a menacing finger first at Henry and then at her husband—“will sit with the first group. When you are not eating, I expect you to be circulating amongst the guests, not hiding on the other side of the house. Do not look so dumbfounded. We have been married for thirty years, Oliver. I know you better than you know yourself. Now please, go in so the guests can line up and go down to dinner. I will send Hal along in a moment, but first I want a quick word with him.”

  “Yes, dear.” His father winked at him. “Remember those words, son. They are the secret to a lasting marriage.” He bussed his wife’s cheek and headed into the drawing room.

  “Impossible man,” his mother muttered, gazing after him fondly. She turned back to Henry. “As for you, you have rather surprised me.”

  Henry raked a hand through his hair. “I am quite capable of asking Miss Merriwether to dance without your constant reminding.”

  “Of course you are, dearest.” Her eyes sparkled. “I was referring to your interest in starting the stud.”

  “Oh,” he said weakly, the wind not so much leaving his sails as entirely changing direction.

  “A mother cannot help but fret about her children and wish to solve their problems. For some reason, you have not been happy, and I have not known how to help. There is a sense of purpose about you now, as if you have found yourself and finally know which direction to go.”

  “My life is up in the air, and yet I feel more grounded than I have in years.” He put his arms around her. “I regret that I caused you to worry. You should have spoken to me.”

  She laughed up at him. “You are my son, Hal. You have but one purpose in life, and that is to worry me.”

  “I am sorry for it, all the same.”

  “I can think of some way for you to make it up to me if you like,” she suggested, reaching up to adjust his cravat. “For instance, I was very pleased to see you dancing with Miss Merriwether tonight. As you noted earlier, I did not have to remind you of your gentlemanly duty to dance with the less popular girls as well as the pretty ones.”

  “Interesting,” Henry mused, “how often Miss Merriwether’s name comes up in these delightful little conversations of ours.”

  “I freely admit to being fond of her,” his mother said, her look daring him to oppose her, “and you make such a striking couple, wha
t with both of you so tall. You need not slouch when you dance with her, and you know how I despise poor posture. Then there is that glorious hair of hers…”

  “Glorious?” Henry’s lips twitched. “It’s red.”

  His mother gave a despairing sigh. “It is no surprise you did not take to painting. You clearly lack an artist’s appreciation for true beauty.”

  He frowned. “I thought you liked my ducks.”

  “Your what?”

  “My ducks. When I showed you and Father my drapery studies, you told him my duckies were handsome.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, clearly puzzled, and then she began to laugh. “I said it was lucky that you were handsome. A mother does not like to speak poorly of her child, but there was nothing redeeming—or recognizable—in any of your drawings. I think you took years off poor Mr. Edwards’s life. You were such a trial to him.”

  “I tried my best,” he joked.

  “Not then,” she said softly. “I do not mean to imply that you are averse to hard work, but our family has been very blessed. Your father and I did not deliberately spoil our children, but you have never had to fight for something you want. Perhaps it is because you are the eldest, but you hold back. I think you doubt yourself, but you must remember what Lucio tells Isabella in Measure for Measure.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “He says, ‘Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.’ You fear failure, Hal, and you believe that if you do not try, you cannot fail. The truth is that if you do not try, you cannot succeed. So long as you try your best, as long as you fight for what you want, you could never be anything other than a great success in my eyes. I hope you know that, for all you try my nerves, I love you very much.”