A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  “So you have made significant progress launching your brothers. Ash is entirely out from under your roof, as is Sycamore. Thorne is the best steward you could find anywhere and pulling his share of the load at Dorning Hall. Oak and Valerian are malingering, but they, too, are in a better posture than they were a year ago.”

  She untied Grey’s cravat and massaged the back of his neck.

  “I can’t think when you do that, madam.”

  “You can’t worry. We’re going shopping tomorrow.”

  “Now, I’m worried. What are we shopping for?”

  “I won’t spend a penny, but if we can send back some genuine intelligence to your brothers, such as the latest fashion in rose water, the most popular nerve tonic, then we might inspire them into making progress with their herbal products.”

  “A nerve tonic sounds appropriate. How many people did we invite to this ball?”

  “We invited everybody who’s in Town, as is polite. What is your alternative plan, Grey? If your brothers can’t make a go of this botanical business, what is your strategy?”

  “Send at least three of my brothers to Peru.”

  She looked him in the eye, and because she was wearing his spectacles, the effect was interesting. “You are worried, and when you worry, you do something about it.”

  Never, ever would Grey consider deceiving his wife. “I’m considering selling some land.”

  “That would break your heart.”

  “And put enmity between me and my brothers and probably be a stupid decision in the long run, but the land is not as profitable as it once was, and I cannot change that.” He gently peeled the spectacles free from Beatitude’s ears. “Thorne will consider it a personal failure if I have to sell a single acre. No Earl of Casriel has parted with so much as a square yard of Dorning Hall land for centuries.”

  “Warn him,” Beatitude said, climbing off Grey’s lap. “Fire a shot across Thorne’s bow, and if he, Oak, and Valerian are dawdling, then perhaps they will apply themselves more diligently to their challenges. I have a challenge for you, my lord.”

  Beatitude also had good advice. A frank letter to Thorne was in order, but not tonight.

  “I am ever your servant, my lady.”

  “Race me up the stairs.”

  She bolted from the room, and Grey gave chase, making very sure not to catch her until she was nearly at the bedroom door.

  Margaret was absent from services on Sunday, though Thorne was certain he’d left her in good health Saturday night. He spent the balance of his Sabbath scouring Dorning Hall’s attics and library and by late afternoon still hadn’t found what he sought.

  “You should be looking in Grey’s study,” Valerian said, strolling between the library’s half-empty shelves.

  “No, I should not. I respect my brother’s privacy. Why isn’t anybody dusting this place?”

  “We’re between housekeepers.”

  Thorne extracted a biography of Dr. Johnson from amid volumes of poetry. “Again?”

  “The last one tippled. Grey thought to economize until he and Beatitude come down from Town.”

  “If he wanted to economize, he should have closed up the house properly, given most of the staff leave, and—why does this library have no sense of order?”

  Valerian took Dr. Johnson from him. “Because this library, with the exception of all things horticultural, was of little import to the late Earl of Casriel. The present earl has had other matters to tend to. If you seek recipes for tisanes and simples, why not look among Papa’s notes? Grey wouldn’t toss them out, and—”

  “I cannot bloody find Papa’s notes, and I never knew Papa to be all that interested in fragrances. He pursued botany from a masculine perspective.” Thorne came across one of the volumes for which he’d been searching, a dimly recalled, wonderfully illustrated bound treasure.

  Valerian paged through Dr. Johnson’s life story, releasing a musty, dusty scent that resonated with the library’s general airlessness.

  “Thorne, the logical place to look for Papa’s notes is Grey’s study. Grey maintains a sort of shrine to Papa’s memory there, though you have to look closely to see it.”

  Thorne moved on to the next row of shelves. “And you have looked closely among another’s possessions? Isn’t there a word for that?”

  Valerian wandered to the other side of the shelves, so two rows of books stood between Thorne and his brother.

  “I am not a spy. I am merely a younger sibling. Ash and Sycamore understand the limitations of that status and would not judge me for taking an interest in my brother’s affairs.”

  “If I were to take the same interest in your affairs, you’d attempt to bloody my nose, not that you’d succeed.” Where the hell could the damned books be?

  “Recettes du Jardin,” Valerian said, blowing dust off a slim volume. “By Madame Celestine Verlaine.”

  “Give me that.”

  Valerian passed the book over between the shelves. “Have you considered how this looks, Thorne?”

  The book stank of mildew, and if it had been permitted to wander away from Papa’s botanical treatises, it was probably of little value. “How what looks?”

  “Are you courting Mrs. Summerfield, or trying to winkle her skills from her while pretending to enjoy her company? When you fix your mind on an objective, you become cavalier about the means you use to reach your goal.”

  “Does the pot call the kettle black, Brother?” Thorne asked, holding Madame’s herbal at arm’s length and shaking it gently. “You want your boots repaired, you compose an ode to Olivia Smithers’s eyes. You need a few more monogrammed handkerchiefs, and all of a sudden, I see you walking halfway home from church with Caroline Isaacs.”

  Valerian looked disproportionately offended by Thorne’s question. “Pots and kettles have nothing to do with anything. I don’t want to see you make an idiot of yourself.”

  Thorne came across his quarry hiding among the American political pamphlets. “Forgive me if I look askance at your solicitude.”

  Valerian came around the end of the row, so Thorne was hemmed in by bookshelves on either side, the wall at his back and Valerian’s scowl before him.

  “If you mean to woo Mrs. Summerfield, then woo her. Bring her daffodils and poetry, ride out with her to the abbey ruins, and picnic with her by the stream. If you’re interested in a business arrangement involving recipes and fragrances, then tell her what you’re prepared to pay for her expertise and what you expect for your coin.”

  Valerian made sense, but Thorne was not in the mood to be lectured. “We haven’t all that much coin.”

  “Do you have the means to support a wife and children? For I do not, and until I do, I will neither walk a lady home by moonlight, nor waltz with her in a manner fit only for courting couples.”

  That poverty and honor kept Valerian from courting a wife had not occurred to Thorne, though it should have.

  “Mrs. Summerfield is very skilled at concocting fragrances,” Thorne said. “As an earl’s son with a gentlemanly occupation, I am of suitable station to pay her my addresses. I can offer her a commodious home in the steward’s cottage, I am happy to be a doting step-uncle to her nieces, and I believe the lady might look with favor upon my suit. Why are you quibbling at a mutually advantageous match that hasn’t become a fully formed courtship, much less an acknowledged possibility yet?”

  “Because a woman does not want to be wooed for her recipes, and a man should not surrender his freedom for a mess of rose-scented bathwater. I told her not to trifle with you. I see my sermon was delivered to the wrong party.”

  Thorne advanced on his brother, though Valerian did not yield a single step. “You told her what?”

  “Not to trifle with you. You’ve been trifled with before, and it did not end well.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “You stayed drunk for most of your second term at Oxford and over a woman you thought was a widow. Your arm took a year to mend. Grey
was worried about the example you set for Sycamore.”

  “You exaggerate about a youthful folly.” One that still gave Thorne nightmares.

  “Pure Dorning stubbornness,” Valerian retorted, poking Thorne in the chest. “You did not stop to think Mrs. Plumley might have a husband, did not stop to wonder if she considered toying with university boys her favorite diversion, did not worry for an instant that she might extract payment from you for the letters you wrote, or turn her husband loose on you when you could not pay.”

  “I would not pay.” Too late, Thorne had learned that the Comely Mrs. Plumley was something of an institution, and a notorious one at that.

  “Stubbornness and pride,” Valerian mused. “What could possibly go wrong when those two attributes collide in an earl’s impoverished son? Dear me, I must ponder that conundrum while my brother steals a widow’s perfume recipes and makes besotted sheep’s eyes at her in front of half the shire.” Valerian made kissing sounds and sauntered off in the direction of the fireplace, a cavernous hearth sporting a bed of old ashes and a dusty set of andirons.

  Besotted sheep’s eyes? “I do occasionally smile at my neighbors,” Thorne said, following him. “If anybody qualifies for the title of Mr. Sheep’s Eyes, it’s you.”

  “Grey expected us to have products to sell six months ago, Thorne. How much more patient can he be?”

  How odd that Valerian would ignore a taunt. “Grey is very patient and also—sometimes—an idiot. He expected us to have the whole dower house torn down, sold, and shipped off in one summer. He wants the family wing disassembled in a few months’ time as well. He has no idea what developing a commercial enterprise will take, and we haven’t even built a proper herbal because we’ve been too busy selling bricks and stone.”

  At a tidy profit, thank the heavenly choruses.

  Valerian propped an elbow on the mantel and rubbed his fingers across his forehead, a posture reminiscent of their late father.

  “We haven’t even begun to develop products either, Thorne. All we have are some pretty paintings Oak has done, while Ash has left his card at a few London apothecaries. We’ve done nothing here at the Hall, and if you waste the next six months courting a widow under false pretenses, Grey will have no choice but to exile us from the property.”

  Valerian was worried. Not meddling, not spying, not lecturing for the sheer pleasure of annoying a sibling. Thorne thrived on the responsibility of caring for a patch of ground. Oak’s art had begun to be noticed and even produced the occasional sale. Ash was racketing about London with Sycamore, and Will trained dogs for no less personage than King George.

  Jacaranda and Daisy were content with their spouses and children, while Valerian…

  Had charm when he cared to exhibit it.

  “We should have sent you to London,” Thorne said. “Ash is probably moping the Season away, or wasting his days fretting over Sycamore, which has never been a productive enterprise. You are hectoring me about courting protocol because if I muck up the agricultural aspect of this venture, you are left with nothing.”

  “If you muck up the courting, I am left with a brother who should have known better and other siblings whose expectations are blighted. Grey has been patient long enough.”

  Offended dignity colored that remark, but also an admission: Valerian was relying on Thorne, which had been a theoretical burden prior to this discussion. For Valerian, who had to flirt himself up mended boots and embroidered handkerchiefs, the need for a profitable business had passed from the theoretical realm while Thorne had been hawking loads of building stone and overseeing the autumn harvest.

  “I won’t fail you,” Thorne said, “but if you bring up the lovely and duplicitous Mrs. Plumley again, I will flatten you on the drive and gallop Gowain over your remains.” Valerian alone knew the extent of Thorne’s indiscretion where Mrs. Plumley was concerned, and had Valerian not kept a close eye on Thorne—spied on him—as the drama had unfolded, Mr. Plumley would likely have done much worse than merely break one of Thorne’s arms before Valerian had arrived on the scene.

  Valerian saluted him from the cold hearth. “I found a half-dozen notebooks in Papa’s hand that appear to be crammed with instructions for making this tea or that tonic. They are on the sideboard in the foyer, which brings me to my next inquiry.”

  “I live to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Nothing all that interesting of a botanical nature was ever kept in this library, so why have you been rooting around like a truffle-hunting boar, and what have you found?”

  Thorne ambled for the door, his pace relaxed. “Just some light reading. I’m off to pay a call on Mrs. Summerfield. Perhaps you might sketch us an architectural plan for our herbal?”

  Valerian pushed away from the mantel and set an equally unhurried pace for the door. “I know little about how to build an herbal. I’m sure we’ll need stills, ventilation, a large hearth or two, decent lighting, and worktables, but I have no insight into the exact proportions or configurations that make for an ideal—”

  Thorne was a fraction of a second too slow. Valerian had the two little books in his hand even as Thorne reached for the door latch.

  “Give those back, Valerian.”

  Thorne was the best pugilist in the family, in part because of his size and sheer muscle, but also because when his determination was aroused, no mere physical blow deterred him. Pain became an incidental cost to pursuing an objective, and not much else mattered. He had Mr. Plumley’s instruction to thank for starting him on that lesson, and nobody had landed a meaningful blow on him since.

  “Children’s books, Thorne?” Valerian’s puzzlement was more bothersome than his needling.

  “Greta and Adriana, Mrs. Summerfield’s nieces, are in want of diversion,” Thorne said. “You and I both know the power of a good tale, and these were among my favorites.”

  Valerian passed the books back, his expression nearly somber. “Be careful, Thorne. They are little girls, and they know nothing of your commercial ventures. Trifle with their aunt, and I will have to beat you, though Bancroft might have you waylaid in an alley first. Use those children to pursue your objectives, and I will make Plumley’s beating look like a mere schoolyard scuffle.”

  Valerian fluffed Thorne’s cravat, refolded the creases in his lapels, and bowed him through the door.

  Chapter Seven

  “We should get a tiger,” Adriana announced, petting Cicero, the largest of Margaret’s house cats. He was orange, long-haired, and friendly… up to a point. Margaret had never seen him swipe at one of the girls, but he hissed at the occasional footman.

  “What would we do with a tiger?” Greta asked, considering her sketch.

  “Roam the jungle with him,” Adriana retorted. “A tiger would keep us safe, like the tigers who live in the temples. He’d eat anybody who came to do us harm.”

  “Adriana is fanciful.” Greta’s expression turned her statement into a question.

  “Adriana has a powerful imagination,” Margaret said, pausing by the nursery window. “A fine quality in anybody who’d seek to take on the problems of the world.” No sense of smell was needed to know that the day would be gorgeous. The canopy of the home wood was luminous with new leaves. The daffodils in the garden were shining yellow harbingers trumpeting the arrival of a beautiful spring day.

  “I want to roam in the woods,” Adriana said, peering over Greta’s shoulder. “You are getting better at drawing. It’s not fair.”

  “I practice. You hop around on one foot much better than I do.”

  Which, of course, inspired said hopping.

  “If we have another dry day today, we can walk in the woods tomorrow,” Margaret said. “We can refresh our bouquets and check on the bluebells.” The woods and hedges had been calling to Margaret more loudly than ever in recent days. After winter’s unrelenting bleakness, spring was for enjoying, for exploring and learning the secrets of the countryside, not for wandering about in a house that felt increasin
gly oppressive.

  “I love the bluebells!” Adriana bellowed.

  “It’s too early for bluebells,” Greta replied. “Aunt Margaret said.”

  “Then why are they blooming in the garden?” Adriana switched feet, which managed to make her hopping louder.

  “Because,” Margaret replied, “the garden offers protection from the elements, lacks trees competing for the sunlight, and will be warmer for having stone walls beside the bluebells to soak up the sun’s heat during the day.”

  Adriana hopped over to the window. “Who is that?”

  A man rode up the drive on a fancy chestnut. Margaret’s first thought was that Hawthorne Dorning had at last come to call. Monday and Tuesday had passed with no sign of him, and Margaret’s impatience had grown by the day.

  Which was silly. He’d asked her to look over a few recipes, nothing more. Whatever pleasure she’d taken in a single kiss, nothing more was exactly what she should expect. She would explain that to him if it became necessary.

  Though if that was Hawthorne Dorning, Margaret wondered why he’d come up the drive. She’d asked him not to call by way of the lanes, and her request had been in earnest, even as she had resented the need for discretion.

  Greta joined them at the window. “That is Mr. Hartley’s horse. His name is Benjamin, after Benjamin Franklin because he doesn’t mind storms.”

  Greta likely had no idea who Dr. Franklin had been or what his connection was with storms, but having heard this snippet of equine biography somewhere, she’d never forget it.

  “Mr. Hartley is Uncle Bancroft’s steward,” Adriana said, both feet on the carpet. “Uncle went to London, so why is his steward here?”

  Any change from routine provoked anxiety in either girl, and in Margaret. They were just old enough to recall Charles’s passing and the great upheaval it had wrought. She was certain they recalled, in some manner without words, losing both parents to influenza as well.