She nodded and gave him a grateful smile. "Tomorrow."
Hurrying along to the dressmakers shop, Del fumed at herself. Trevelyan was a charming man. Good looking too. But his resemblance to a tall, broad shouldered, grey-eyed devil with bright red hair destroyed her interest in him.
Neville Vaughn. Neville Vaughn. That liar, that thief of hearts. That sorcerer who never left her. She'd forget him this Christmas.
Today, in fact, would be best.
Chapter 2
December 20, 1815
Bromley House, St. James's
London, England
“So let me understand this, Mister Taylor," Neville Vaughn, Viscount Bromley, sat behind his old black walnut desk, tapping his fingers against the stalk of his cane. He had to be certain of the terms of this offer. For if it interfered with his own plans for this Christmas house party and the rest of his life, he'd reject it without blinking. "If I accept this offer from the French, I may marry as I choose?"
"Yes, my lord," Neville's aged family solicitor, John Taylor, grinned. His long lantern face wrinkled with humor.
Neville leaned forward. "You're certain? This new King Louis of Bourbon cannot force me to wed any woman of his choice? If I decide to accept the responsibility of this French title and estate, all such personal choices are mine alone?"
"Correct, my lord. You will be the Comte de Valerie, Noblesse d'épée, of the sword, as they say in France. But your family is not, nor ever was, of the royal house. That is to say, sir, you are not prince du sang, of the blood. You will have no need to marry for reasons of state."
After all Neville had seen on battlefields these past four years, after all the bitter confrontations with his father and the sad ones with his late wife, Neville would take no chances he'd encounter more. "Good."
The old man frowned at him, concern lining his face. "My lord, there is no need for you to assume you must leave your English rights and privileges for the French. Indeed, your title and lands here cannot be refused. No English lords can. They are yours and your legitimate male heirs of body natural, in perpetuity, the rights granted to your sixth great grandfather by King George the Second."
Neville breathed a sigh of relief. This news to him was revolutionary in and of itself. But inheriting French land, titles, wealth and a medieval chateau meant little to him if it came with more problems than he wished to solve. Especially if acquiring them meant he was forbidden marrying the only woman he'd ever loved.
"Thank you for your research on this, Taylor. I knew not what to think of the conferment of French nobility. One fights an enemy, never thinking it possible to become one of them. The change in family name surprised me more."
"We will never know why your ancestor did that, but we do have records. The late Comte de Valerie sought out those records when he lived in London these past fifteen years."
"Odd that he would, don't you agree?"
"I do, sir. But he evidently knew of his own poor health and the frailty of his only son and heir. He must have wished to secure the lineage, if ever Napoleon was defeated and the French aristocracy returned to their domains."
"And you found no evidence that my father ever knew the late Comte or his search of our family records?"
"None, sir."
Neville frowned. He would not put it past his father to have known but not to have told him of such connections. As the third son, Neville had always been the least considered of the late Viscount Bromley's offspring.
"There is the possibility, sir, that your father was ashamed of the family association. The wars disaffected many Frenchmen from their own."
"That was true." But his father had been a bastard when it came to treating Neville with the respect due him as his only surviving heir. But then, the man hadn't much cared for his two older brothers, either. Bullying them the same way he had Neville.
Taylor frowned. "Certainly after the Terror, when French murdered aristocrats, no one there wanted a noble name. But here after the Alien Act, French names were suspect and all were considered spies. Yet birth and marriage records do indicate that you are the legitimate heir to this French Neville family title and estate."
Neville rubbed his aching leg. "What concerns me more is that I do not wish my own tenants to suffer any lack nor tempt them to think that by accepting this, I ignore them."
"I doubt they would, my lord. You've been most attentive to them as you served in the Army."
Neville wasn't so certain of that. "You are kind to say that, but we know my father had not been the most efficient administrator of the estate. I wish to make up for his lack and I've instructed Wilfred to make a list of issues for me to address."
George Wilfred was his estate manager in Timsbury and he'd been indispensable after his father had died. Wilfred knew more about Timsbury than anyone, having been manager there since Neville was ten. But the man could not make decisions that Neville's father had not approved. Under frugal restrictions, the Timsbury tenants had done the best they could to survive the shortages and inflation of the war years.
"Wilfred wrote in response to me last week that he hopes to see you while you are in England on leave of absence."
"I do intend to go there a few days after Christmas. I'll remain a week or more to calm any fears over this new French matter. More importantly, I'll make a few improvements to the cottages. Buy new stock."
"They'll be happy to see you, my lord. Welcome you home and offer their thanks."
"I'm grateful that you and Wilfred managed my affairs in my absence, Taylor."
"That was our duty, sir, but let me assure you it is more our pleasure to serve you."
Leaning heavily on his cane, Neville got to his feet. "That answers all my questions. For now at any rate. I appreciate your help on this matter—and on such short notice, too. I knew not what to think of it at first."
"A hoax, perhaps?" Taylor struggled to his feet, supporting himself with a hand to the edge of Neville's desk.
"I admit being offered a French domain with lofty title did seem like a fairy tale. What Englishman would consider it logical after all we've done to fight down Napoleon and reestablish the Bourbons?"
"You, my lord," Taylor said with a nod toward Neville's cane and legs, "gave enough to defeat the tyrant. That they should want Bourbons back on the throne after all the peasants did to guillotine them and their kind seems less like a fairy tale. More like a nightmare."
"I do agree. Even though from what I hear in Paris, Louis will keep some of the reforms Bony started. There'd be another revolution if he didn't." Indeed in some villages, French peasants had recently rioted against restoring the Bourbons. "I worry that my Valerie tenants may not all wish to see a new seigneur take up the reins."
Taylor agreed. "It's vital that you test that. See in person who and what they think. Indeed, my lord, we need no more wars."
"I agree with you. I am fed up with the wounded and dying."
"And your continuing work with the gendarmes of Paris makes it difficult for you to leave, I should think."
"It does. But I am resolved, Taylor. As soon as I return to Paris, I'll give my notice to sell my commission."
"Aye. Bought dearly it was."
Maintained dearly, too. At the cost of the one woman I loved.
Taylor inclined his head. "Good day to you, my lord."
Neville rang for his butler to show the man out. He stood staring at the door, pondering his next move. Fishing out his pocket watch, he noted the hour, then snapped it shut. Just a few minutes until Griffith Harlinger, the earl of Marsden, was to arrive in his travel coach and Neville was to journey to Brighton and embark on the quest he'd once thought beyond his reach.
Somehow though, he felt a magic in the air. A spring in his woefully halting step. Could he possibly gain the two gifts he wished for this Christmas?
A lady's forgiveness.
And her hand.
His butler Dawes reappeared before him, Neville's Guards' cape slung over h
is arm. "I've sent Farnsworth on with the earl's valet, my lord."
"And the last of my trunks?"
"Two. Ready, sir."
"The item I brought from Paris well packed?" He'd searched for the best milliner in the City and paid a king's ransom for the Russian-a-la-mode he ordered.
"The box is cushioned in silk, as you instructed, sir."
"And the five others?" His purchases yesterday here in town had cost him the prettiest penny of all. But he didn't care. He'd acquired them, priceless as they were to his cause.
"Each well wrapped. The three you acquired yesterday are in separate wooden boxes, sir."
"Good. Good. Thank you." Neville smoothed his hand over his military tunic. Only this morning, his London tailor had delivered a few new clothes. He'd had no chance to change before meeting with Taylor, so he'd travel to Brighton in Colonel Lord Marsden's coach as he was, in his uniform. Because he hadn't yet resigned his commission, and few knew of his intentions in any case, he was right to wear it still. "I want all of you to have a happy Christmas here, Dawes. You'll distribute the Christmas wages I gave you for them and have a party with that good Cognac I brought for you from Paris."
"Yes, sir." The baldheaded man grinned. Resembling an eagle, the butler had a noblesse about him and a kindness that appealed to Neville, always had. "I expect to return here a week or two after the New Year. I shall write to notify you of a more precise date, but by then I do want the renovations to my chambers finished."
"They shall be done, sir."
Neville had ordered new paint, carpet, drapes, a bigger bed and new linens for his suite of sitting room, dressing room, bedroom and adjoining rooms. Improvements to the library and drawing room would be as vital. However, given his intentions and his need for speed, they were not his priority. The house had seen no improvements to it in decades. His father had been a miser. Neville, now holding the title and the purse strings, had the authority to improve the townhouse and he meant it to be welcoming for a new bride.
If she'll have me.
"Sir?" Dawes indicated the hall. "Is there anything else I can get for you for your journey? A hot brick for the carriage or—?"
"No, thank you, Dawes." He refused to consider himself a cripple in need of bricks and toddies and potions. But he'd escaped complete disability after two Frenchmen had shot him at Waterloo. One took aim at his foot and shot away more boot than flesh. The other cuirassier might have deprived him of the totality of his leg from the knee down, but the cavalryman had taken poor aim and gotten only pieces of him. Just enough to give him an ungainly hobble that he called dot-and-go-one and the unattractive necessity of a cane. Perhaps for the rest of his life.
At the front door, he allowed Dawes to help him on with his cape and secured his shako over his hair.
"Good day to you, sir. Happy Christmas. May you receive all you wish for."
"Just so, Dawes. And you."
He stepped out into the bitter cold. Bracing, the wind also bit. One element of war he would never miss would be the never-ending conflict of the body with the ungodly weather.
Turning the corner was the Earl of Marsden's fine travel coach. He'd accepted the offer to ride with Marsden because his own coach was a shambles. But truth be told, he liked the idea of arriving with Marsden to his step-mother's house. Always better to arrive in a cohort than brave a battle alone.
Marsden's footman jumped down and opened the door. The earl moved to exit his carriage and greet Neville, but Neville stopped him. "No need to get out, Marsden! I'm ready. Cases are inside the house."
He climbed in opposite Griff and sank to the black leather squabs as his footmen stowed his last two trunks in the boot. "I say, terrible storm brewing. Snow, don't you think?"
Marsden grasped his hand in hearty welcome. "And heaven knows what it will be like along the Channel. Hope you brought heavy woolens. Rough going in Brighton in December. Never visited, you say?"
"No." He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, then set his black cane against his calf. "I sent my valet to your second coach to ride with your man. I'm most eager to be off."
Marsden chuckled. "I can tell!"
"I'm sorry to have delayed you until this afternoon."
"That's not a problem, Neville."
The informality of the earl addressing him by his given name appealed to him and he’d welcomed the invitation to reciprocate.
"I've sent a footman on to take rooms for us at an inn in Crawley."
"I'm grateful for the stop. My leg goes stiff on me. I appreciate your help with my...issue."
"I'm glad you came to me."
"Are you?" He worried he had imposed upon a man he did not know well. But it was imperative, he prevail upon Marsden's good will. Last month, days after he'd received the invitation to take up the title and responsibilities of the comte de Valerie, he'd gotten a letter from his cousin Penelope, Lady Goddard. She wrote that her friend, the earl's step-mother, had invited her to a Christmas party at her home in Brighton. When Penelope revealed that the Countess of Marsden's goal of the event was to secure marriage proposals for her three nieces, Neville had jumped to his feet and almost fell over in the effort. But he knew he must attend. Difficult as it was to get released from his duty in Paris, he'd appealed his case over and over and finally won. Now he had three weeks in which to accomplish his goal before he must return to Paris. "Thank you, sir."
"Of course," Griff assured him. "My step-mother loves nothing more than a house full of people especially at this time of year."
"My parents did, too," he said remembering happier times when his mother was alive and his father was a saner man. "Does your step-mother know we shall be three?"
"She does. What she does not know is that we arrive tomorrow. I wanted this to be a surprise."
"Surprise or planned, I am grateful for your invitation."
"Glad to be of help."
Neville, his leave secured, had appeared at Wellington's headquarters at the Hotel Charost three days ago and asked to see Griff who was on the duke's staff. Hoping for an introduction to Griff's step-mother who lived at their home in Brighton, he also hoped for an invitation to the house party. "I have leave beginning day after tomorrow for nearly three weeks," he'd told Griff, "and I'd like to spend it in Brighton."
"Better than that, Bromley, what if I take you there? Come home with me for the holiday. What do you say?"
Neville accepted at once.
"Can I ask why?" Griff wore a mischievous smile. "Have you met my step-mother?"
Neville thought diplomacy a good tactic. "I've learned from friends that the three Craymore ladies live with your step-mother. Your cousins, aren't they?"
"We say we are, but no. The Misses Craymore are my step-mother's nieces by her sister."
"I see. One of them, Miss Delphine Craymore is a lady with whom I'd like to renew my acquaintance."
"I did not know you'd met her previously."
"I did. Years ago. Before my marriage."
"And now you wish to meet her again?" Griff asked.
He'd been honest. "I made a mistake then, allowing my father to bully me into marrying Another. My wife died last year and I am—shall we say—a stronger and wiser man? I wish to see if Delphine might look on me with favor." Penelope had indicated that Griff looked on himself as somewhat of a protector, if not a guardian of the three young women. "Of course, I hope you'd approve."
Griff had readily and he was grateful for the ease of it.
Neville settled into the cushions and rubbed his knee through his breeches.
Griff considered Neville's cane. "Did they remove all the grapeshot from your wound?"
"The surgeon said he had, but digging it out meant they took quite a bit of tissue along with it. I'm afraid, I'll always walk like a pigeon." He tapped his sturdy cane. "Don't know if I can dance and hope that doesn't bar me from Delphine's good graces."
"I'm sure it won't. She has a big heart and your injuries may be just
the thing to help soften her opinion of you."
"My rejection of her wasn't intentionally harsh. But I had to be quick and I'm afraid it was not easy for her. She was very angry with me."
"I knew there had been a man she cared for, Neville. Had no name to him or rumors of him or his reputation. But after that summer, she remained reclusive for a very long time. We worried. And she was very young."
"Seventeen."
The sound of the boot slamming shut had both men wincing. The battlefield cacophony of men yelling, guns blaring, twelve pounders tearing troops apart was nothing Neville could forget. Griff either, it seemed.
He leaned toward Neville. "I know your intentions are honorable toward my cousin. But I ask you to make your cause strongly. Delphine has changed quite a bit since you met her. She is no longer young. But head-strong. Determined."
Neville frowned. "Do you say she'll refuse me?"
"I've no idea. I will say that my mother writes that Delphine finds many men attractive, but she favors none of them. Not for long. If you wish to have her you must find a way to rise above the pack."
The competition for Del's hand presented him with one challenge. The fact that she found many men appealing was a bigger one. And he had changed since last he'd courted her. How could he rise above the others? "A cripple? A man who can no longer waltz with any grace?"
"A man who won her heart before, I would wager, did so with more skills than a dance."
He glanced out the window at the passing scene, then shot a wicked look at Griff. "I'll employ those other skills."
"Not too many of those, please!"
They both chuckled as the coach rumbled to a stop.
Griff glanced out the window. "You met my friend, His Grace the Duke of Kingston, at my lodgings in Paris. He, too, comes with us to secure a wife."
"Is that so?" Neville caught his breath. "Not—?"
"No. My apologies. I didn't mean to give you a start. Not Delphine, but in fact, her oldest sister, Belinda."
Neville was relieved.
The Viscount's Only Love: Christmas Belles, Book 2 Page 2