by Regina Scott
A footman opened the door for them, and Asheram ushered them into pandemonium. When David had first arrived, he’d been amazed that the marble-floored rotunda of the entryway to Brentfield was bigger than his entire workshop in Boston. Now it surprised him that four young ladies, three passing footmen, two maids, her ladyship, and some luggage could make the place feel crowded.
“Ladies, ladies,” Asheram declared, voice ringing to the domed ceiling three stories above. “If I may have your attention. His lordship would like to say a few words.”
His lordship would have liked nothing less. However, David resigned himself to playing the part.
He hadn’t realized he was going to play host to four girls not yet out of the schoolroom until Lady Brentfield had approached him two nights ago. He’d been gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking to the northwest across the fields that ringed the great house when he’d felt her gaze on his back. Her ladyship could not possibly comprehend his fascination with the acre upon acre of rolling Somerset farmland he had inherited. He had never been out of Boston in his life, never been able to see beyond the end of the street he was on. Here he could literally see for miles. He found he never tired of the view. Her ladyship, he suspected, would say that no gentleman should take such an inordinate interest in his lands, beyond knowing that they provided amply for his upkeep.
But he was no gentleman, despite all her attempts to make him into her perception of an earl. Ever since he had appeared at the broad oak doors of the estate, head barred, carpet bag in hand, she had dropped hints, made suggestions, and gently tried to nudge him toward her ideal. He had resisted, feeling as if the woman were trying to take away some substantial part of him. As a result, he was still dressed in tweed jacket and trousers with a knotted scarf at his throat like some farmer from the field, even though she had insisted he allow a tailor from Wells to build him a new wardrobe befitting his station. He still spoke with what she considered the rough twang of a Colonial, when he could have availed himself of the diction teacher she had recommended. Worst of all to her mind, he knew, he still insisted on walking about the estate daily when he had a perfectly good stable and her offer to teach him to ride.
“Then you are determined to stay here this Season?” she had asked with a suitably regretful sigh.
David had looked at her at last and found that she had artfully arranged herself across one of the blue sofas the immense withdrawing room possessed. Seeing the knowing look in those kohl-rimmed eyes, he found himself thankful that her seduction attempt earlier had failed. Thank God, Asheram had interrupted him and thank God David had been strong enough to resist her blatant pleas to follow her back to her room. The woman thoroughly frustrated him. Sometimes she seemed determined to become his lover, and other times he wondered whether he had anything to do with this lust of hers to remain the reigning Countess of Brentfield.
He knew by reviewing the many portraits of Tenants past that he bore some family resemblance to her late husband. He was tall, with dark hair and blue eyes. He had the Tenant nose, long, slender at the bridge and wider at the tip, although he certainly hoped his own mouth was more expressive than the ones in the paintings. He’d like to think he looked more amused than foreboding, although with her ladyship, perhaps foreboding wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Yes, I’m staying,” he answered her, once again refusing to use her title. She took a deep breath as if to steady herself, and he wondered what she found in his manner to annoy this time. Let’s see, she had already lectured him that day on his demeanor (which was too familiar with underlings), his choice of reading material (novels, apparently, were for women only), and his vocal projections (which she continued to maintain were too gentle to inspire the servants, although the household staff did his bidding more quickly than he had seen them do hers). According to her ladyship, an earl should command, he should sneer, he should bring the world to its knees with only a look. It all sounded like so much nonsense to him.
“But don’t feel you have to stay here with me,” he felt compelled to add in the face of her disapproval. “I know you want to return to London. I’d prefer to remain until Asheram and I finish the projects we’ve started.” He carefully avoided any mention of what those projects entailed. He was not about to tell her that his friend’s inventory of the Brentfield estate had indicated that several priceless works of art were missing. He honestly didn’t think she was behind the thefts, but he wasn’t taking any chances until he knew more.
“But you must be confirmed in your title,” she protested earnestly. “You must take your place in Parliament. You must make your bows in Society. Do you wish to appear a rustic?”
He shrugged. “I am a rustic. How many earls do you know who made their living carving leather in Boston?”
She could not help wincing at the mention of his plebeian background, and he found himself grinning at her. To his mind, it was a kind of honor to rise to the top of one’s profession at the early age of thirty and two. Her ladyship and the solicitor who had come to fetch him in America seemed to have other ideas.
“You could show them how much you’ve learned by coming to London with me,” she insisted. He watched as she obviously considered which face and emotion would most sway him: should she hang her head pathetically, or perhaps sniff in true regret? He felt his grin growing even as her eyes widened. She realized he knew her game. She gave up the pretense and tossed her head instead.
“Now,” he countered, “how can I run off to London when you’ve been telling me how much the estate needs a firm hand?”
He had her there. She could hardly contradict her earlier complaints that the place was falling apart without a man to run it.
“You’ve done so much since you arrived,” she hedged. “Surely Haversham can manage in your absence.”
David gritted his teeth in annoyance as she once again butchered his friend’s last name. “It’s Asheram, your ladyship, Mr. Asheram,” he reminded her. “And I wouldn’t go anywhere without him.” Regaining his equilibrium with difficulty, he winked at his friend, who stood sentinel beside the double doors to the room. “What about it, Ash? Do you have a great desire to see London?”
“Not at the moment,” the older man intoned in his deep thoughtful voice. “I spent entirely enough time there caring for the Earl of Kent before he died.”
Her ladyship rolled her eyes, and David knew she did not believe the story that Asheram had recently retired as a confidante to British aristocracy. As far as David knew, the story was perfectly true. Asheram’s English was far superior to David’s, and the man’s wide-spaced dark eyes were too knowing for a British butler. He carried himself more like a warrior than a servant. He certainly dressed well, and he even knew how to tie a cravat. Yet her ladyship persisted in treating him as if he were an escaped slave David had rescued from an American plantation.
“There you have it, your ladyship,” David concluded. “Asheram and I will be staying here for some time. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your trip to London.” He started to turn away from her, but she called out to keep his attention.
“Oh, but my lord, I regret that I must leave you alone.” She sighed as if to prove it. “But my niece Priscilla Tate is being presented this year. I promised her mother that I would be her guide. My connections are so much better than her parents’. And they know I dote on the girl. I will have to go up for the Season, shortly after Easter. However, I would not feel right if I did not provide you with some company before then. Anticipating your desires, I have invited a few people over for the week until Easter.”
David knew he should be annoyed with her cavalier attitude toward what was now his home, but having guests could only keep her ladyship occupied and away from him. David spread his hands. “Not at all. I’m sure you’ll have a fine time.”
“If I may ask,” Asheram put in, “how many guests is her ladyship considering and when will they arrive?”
She scowled at him. Of anyone on the estate, she h
ad not been able to understand his friend’s role in the household. David respected Asheram’s knowledge of how the aristocracy managed and had been more than willing to let the man review the papers on Brentfield. His friend had already identified a number of discrepancies between what was supposed to be inherited and what was actually in evidence. He had also uncovered information that indicated that the previous earl and his son might not have died accidentally, as David had been told. To David’s mind, Asheram had every right to ask after guests, as he would probably be making the arrangements. Her ladyship apparently realized this as well, for she sighed again.
“I invited my niece. I wanted to spend some time with her before we start the Season. And she requested to bring some of the girls from her school, three, I believe. Their fathers are all influential.”
David could not find it in himself to be as impressed as she would have no doubt liked. She obviously decided it was not worth the effort to pursue that train of thought. “The school will of course send one of its staff as a chaperone to assist me,” she continued. “You need not worry about her. They should arrive by the end of the week.”
David eyed her thoughtfully. “Is that all? Somehow I thought you’d want something bigger.”
She plucked at the silk skirt of her mourning gown. “It is too early for that, I fear. No, Priscilla’s company will be sufficient. A young lady on the verge of stepping out into Society is so lovely and untried, with a fresh outlook on life. Do you not think so, my lord?” She watched him closely, and David wondered what she was hinting at this time. She was certainly not a young maiden in first bloom, and he had no intention of trying to convince her she was.
“I only hope,” he replied, “that your niece won’t be disappointed by this quiet country life.”
“Priscilla adores the country,” she cheerfully replied, and he wondered whether that could be true if she was so close to her London-loving aunt. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy her company as much as I do. She plays the piano with the skill of an artist, and her singing would stop the birds in envy.” Again she watched him, but this time he refused to acknowledge the bait. He found it difficult to believe she had stopped throwing herself at him only to throw her niece instead. He purposefully returned his gaze to the landscape.
“You will honor us with your attendance at our events, won’t you, my lord?” she asked with the perfect note of humble anticipation.
“If I must,” he had told the view, knowing he sounded rude. “Although I don’t think your niece and her friends will have much interest in me.”
“On the contrary, my lord,” she had replied and he had heard the smile in her voice. “I’m sure each of the girls will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Now, he wasn’t so sure. They were certainly all staring at him. Reluctantly releasing Miss Alexander, he bowed again.
“Ladies, welcome to Brentfield. I saw that the blossoms were opening on the estate today, but I see the loveliest blooms were here waiting for me.”
Two of the girls, a blonde and a brunette who stood side-by-side, simpered and giggled. The dark-haired one opposite them managed a disdainful half smile. The blonde siren batted her lashes at him. Her ladyship glowered, but oddly enough her gaze seemed to be fixed on Miss Alexander, not on him for a change. Miss Alexander looked as if she were going to be ill.
“Allow me to introduce you,” her ladyship said, stepping to his side unbidden. She inserted herself so forcibly that Miss Alexander had no choice but to step back out of the way. David wondered if her ladyship would ever learn that he did not particularly need her help.
“Girls, this is David, soon to be confirmed as the Earl of Brentfield. My lord, this is Lady Emily Southwell, youngest daughter of His Grace the Duke of Emerson.” The dark-haired girl curtseyed. He bowed.
“I hope this is a pleasant visit,” she muttered, tone implying she sincerely doubted it.
“And these are Miss Courdebas and Miss Ariadne Courdebas, daughters of Viscount Rollings.”
The two who stood together bobbed, and he bowed again. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” the taller of the two gushed. “And may I say you don’t look American at all.”
“I left my bear skins and bone rattle upstairs,” he replied with a wink. She looked interested, but her sister paled, grabbing her back out of reach as if he were carrying some disease. Asheram scowled at him.
“And of course, my dear niece, Priscilla.” The siren glided forward, dipping into a flawless curtsey. “My lord,” she said huskily, “we’re so glad you came to Brentfield.”
The tone was warm but the words implied that it was he who was the visitor. He bowed. “Miss Tate. Your aunt has told me a great deal about you.”
The lanky brunette snickered.
Her ladyship did not spare her a glance. “My dears, there are lovely rooms awaiting you in the west wing near my chambers. I thought perhaps you’d like to tidy up before dinner. We keep country hours here at Brentfield. Dinner will be at six. Haversham?”
Asheram visibly sighed as she turned his Ethiopian name into English once again. David had to admit that the woman was focused on what she wanted, often to the exclusion of all else and anyone else. He coughed, and she deigned to glance at him.
“I believe you’ve forgotten Miss Alexander,” he put in.
Miss Alexander curled in on herself as if she wished he’d forgotten her too. Asheram motioned the maids and footman to escort the girls, who flounced out of the rotunda with animated giggles. Miss Alexander curtsied and started after them, but her ladyship’s voice stopped her.
“Just a minute. Who are you, exactly?”
Miss Alexander curtsied again, eyes respectfully lowered. “Miss Alexander, from the Barnsley School.”
“The school chaperone?” her ladyship frowned. David could only wonder at her animosity. Had he done the poor thing a disservice by keeping her from the girls?
“I’m the art teacher,” she gently corrected. “Miss Martingale requested that I accompany the girls as you requested.”
Her ladyship coolly appraised the woman. “You are not what I had expected.”
David looked again at the woman who had captured his attention, standing stiffly now as if she expected to be taken off and hung for some crime. His mind flashed to the shiny, overdone beauty of her ladyship and her niece. He felt himself smiling. No, Miss Alexander was clearly not what her ladyship had expected. Miss Alexander was entirely too pretty. And he had compounded the problem by paying attention to her.
“I’m sorry if my conduct is not up to your ladyship’s standards,” she replied with far more composure than David thought she was feeling. “I shall try to be a good chaperone while we are here.”
“I don’t see that you need to be a chaperone at all,” her ladyship replied. “I find my niece’s company more refreshing than I had thought. I’m sure I will want to spend every minute in her company, so I will not need help after all. And I doubt very much that they will have time for art lessons during their visit.” She turned to Ash. “Have the carriage brought around to return Miss Alexander to the school, immediately. I’m sure we should not impose upon her time.”
Miss Alexander didn’t seem to know whether to be pleased or dismayed by this turn of events. Head turning in her bonnet, she glanced first to her ladyship and then to David. By far the shortest in the room, David thought she must have felt surrounded. It seemed only natural to come to her rescue.
“I bet we aren’t much of an imposition,” he put in. “Miss Alexander seems the type to be devoted to her work. If we find her a nice sunny corner to paint in, she ought to be happy here at Brentfield, and then she can be ready to escort the girls back to the school when they are done visiting.”
Her ladyship’s eyes narrowed, and he hoped he hadn’t sounded as eager as he felt to have the lovely art teacher stay.
Asheram had obviously heard his tone for he stepped forward to offer a solution. “Didn’t you express a
desire to be painted, Lady Brentfield? Perhaps Miss Alexander could be persuaded to try.”
Miss Alexander’s eyes widened, even as her ladyship sputtered. “Certainly not! I was referring to a real portrait painter, not an amateur!”
David made ready to jump into the fray again, but to his surprise, Miss Alexander spoke up. “Lady Brentfield might be interested in knowing that I’ve painted Lady Prestwick.”
So, she wouldn’t defend herself, but she would defend her work. It was much like his own philosophy.
“Lady Prestwick,” her ladyship sneered, “was once a governess.”
“Perhaps that’s why she was so kind and patient,” Hannah replied. “His Grace the Duke of Emerson has agreed to sit for me when he returns from Vienna, and I delayed painting Squire Pentercast and his family to make this trip.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint the Pentercasts,” her ladyship proclaimed triumphantly. “Please, Miss Alexander, feel free to return to your work.”
Miss Alexander squared her shoulders, and David could feel her relief at being dismissed. She had work to do, he could understand that, work that was most likely far more important than playing nursemaid to a set of untried young ladies. But he and Asheram had been trying in vain to understand what was happening to the Brentfield art treasures, and this woman might hold the key.
“I think she should stay,” he proclaimed.
She jumped.
The countess frowned at him. “Why?”
They were all staring at him as if he’d lost his wits. Even Asheram wore a frown, as if trying to understand David’s thoughts.
“I want to be painted,” he told them for want of anything better to say.
Miss Alexander blinked.
Her ladyship’s frown deepened. “You cannot be serious. And if you are, we will have Lawrence or Fuseli visit this summer.” Her very tone dismissed the subject. David had no idea who she had cited, but he imagined they must be famous painters in England. He had no intention of sitting for hours in front of another stiff-necked Brit.