A Suspicious Affair (12 page)

That sounded about like taking a broom to bed to Dimm, but he asked, “Where are you going to find this nonesuch, guv? Iffen you don’t mind my asking.”

Kimbrough waved the other man’s demurral aside. They were old friends by now, he and the Runner, sharing cognac, sharing confidences. Less likely comradeships had formed, though at this precise moment he couldn’t quite recall when. “My bride? She won’t be in London, that’s a sure bet. I don’t want any polished Diamond who’ll be as cold as a stone in bed and hard as a rock to m’sister and m’friends on the farms. And no spinster that didn’t take, of course. None of those stammering debs will do or I’d have to bear-lead two chits through a Season. A country girl wouldn’t have the entrée either, so no milkmaids for me.”

“That do narrow the field some. Not too old, not too young, not from the country, not from the City. No wonder you ain’t legshackled yet.”

“Ah, ye of little faith. Such a paragon does indeed exist. My cousin Winifred’s goddaughter is currently a leading light in Bath society, where she resides taking care of her ailing mother. Good sign, don’t you know, when a chit knows her duty. She had a London Season three years ago and two offers since then as far as Cousin Winifred knows, so she’s no ape-leader. Not an Incomparable, but not an antidote. That’s the kind of woman I have in mind, one with a sense of responsibility who won’t land me in the briars every step.”

“And is she thin enough? Better yet, how plump is her ma? You can allus tell what kind of pup you’re getting by looking at the kennel.”

“Lady Sherville has kept her figure,” was all the earl vouchsafed. Lady Sherville was as thin as a rail. Her daughter, unfortunately, was as flat-chested as a boy. Miss Edelia Sherville was well bred, well mannered, well connected, even well dowered. A man couldn’t have everything.

“Well? When are you going to offer for the gel?”

Chapter Twelve

A man couldn’t just rush into these things. Mortality might beckon and all but, dash it, a fellow had other responsibilities, too.

Now that the streambed land was his, Lord Kimbrough had to see about reclaiming those flooded fields. He had to consult with specialists, hire engineers, order equipment, and sign on work crews before he could think of leaving the project in the hands of his steward.

Then there was the steward for the Denning lands. The fellow seemed honest and capable, but the property and people were not in good heart. Arvid had been a harsh master, and a clutchfisted landlord. Both the steward and Kimbrough agreed improvements were long past due, but the earl didn’t know the other man well enough to trust him with the decisions. Kimbrough was therefore obliged to meet with him nearly daily, to visit the fields to see conditions for himself, and to call on the tenants to hear their complaints, which were numerous and well founded. Everywhere he looked, everyone he spoke to, gave more evidence of Arvid’s villainy and venery. The people, tenant farmers and villagers alike, were excited about the infant, but mostly they were pitifully eager to welcome a right ’un like the Earl of Kimbrough as liege. So Carlinn had to stop and toast the new duke with homemade wine or ale or cider at every farmstead and cottage, reassuring Arvid’s people that
he
wasn’t going to be an absentee manager. So he couldn’t very well just hare off to Bath for the winter so soon after that.

Kimbrough also had to make sure that young Laughton was granted his commission, now that Foster was recovered enough from his injuries and the dibs were in tune. A few quick trips to London would see the deed accomplished, but Carlinn wasn’t about to take his eyes off the feisty lad until he had him in uniform and under orders to abstain from brawling. Of course, then Foster and his batman Joshua needed to be outfitted and mounted. The earl couldn’t send his ward’s uncle and Dimm’s boy off to war on Arvid’s old break-downs, could he? Tattersall’s was full of park-prads and highbred cattle that would bolt at the first sound of cannon-fire. Luckily there were horse fairs in Berkshire.

There were also robberies in Berkshire. Lord Ashcroft’s attacker struck another time, again only wounding his victim, another solitary gentleman driving alone in his carriage. The highwayman got away with a heavy purse, but left behind a good description of himself and his horse. The local constable, Mr. Dimm, and his lordship were all on the lookout. As magistrate, the earl felt it his duty to oversee the inquiry.

No, there was no hurry to get to Bath. Miss Edelia Sherville and her flat chest had gone all these years without being snatched up by some other lucky beau; she could wait a month or two. The earl told himself that Miss Sherville’s lack of projection had nothing to do with his delay. He wanted a slender wife, didn’t he? Besides, there was nothing wrong with Miss Sherville that an infant or two couldn’t cure. And the weather was bad.

*

Winter raged outside, and a storm blew through Denning Castle. Marisol was cleaning house.
Her
house. Foster went off to London. Boynton, his debts paid and his allowance increased, followed the Regent’s set to Brighton. The dowager kept to her wing of the castle with joint pain, her nose in particular being out of joint. And Marisol lined up every last servant in the place, from butler to potboy.

“This castle and everything in it,” she told the assembled staff, “now belongs to His Grace, the seventh Duke of Denning. The household, therefore, will function for His Grace’s comfort and convenience, as I see fit. If there are any of you who take issue with this, please leave now so that we may avoid any future unpleasantness. For understand this,” she pronounced, her chin lifted, her voice raised so the smallest scullery maid could hear in the back, “I will tolerate no insubordination. No disrespect toward my son, myself, my family, nor those I have hired to care for us. No disloyalty, no dereliction of duty to the duke, no disregard for his safety. Nothing. Is that understood?”

She waited to hear murmurs of assent. “Very well. I do not know my mother-in-law’s plans at this moment, since she is ill with a sore throat.”

“From eating too much crow,” a voice in the rear of the ranks called out, and was hushed.

“If she chooses to take up residence in the Dower House, those of you who wish may apply to her for positions there. If she remains, she is also part of the duke’s family and as such is entitled to the same respect. No more, and no less.”

Not even the bootblack had to be told what that meant: Lady Marisol was in charge, plain and simple. Just for insurance, Marisol added, “Anyone who is less than loyal to the interests of His Grace shall have me to answer to. And the Earl of Kimbrough.”

Marisol hated having to invoke the earl’s name, but he was Nolly’s guardian, after all. Let him be handy for something, even if it was striking terror into the hearts of recalcitrant retainers. She dismissed the staff.

Then every cupboard was turned out, every sheet inspected for mending. Unused rooms were shut off, and important chambers were restored and polished to a fare-thee-well. The castle’s structure was inspected and made sound, eliminating drafts, smoking chimneys, and loose roofing tiles. Historic artifacts were catalogued and stored, or displayed out of reach as Marisol and the staff tried to think ahead.

The duchess was everywhere—the new duchess, that is. The old duchess stayed in her rooms suffering from back pain. She wanted to be back in command.

Lady Marisol, as she was called to avoid confusion, ran upstairs and down, from the attic to the cellars, with a hundred stops between. Sometimes she raced up and down the stairs to reach Nolly at his first whimper, but sometimes she just used those steep marble steps for the exercise. Besides the weather being too inclement for outdoor activities, Marisol needed to be within reach of her son at a moment’s notice. Furthermore, she was determined to have her shape back before the spring, and the light muslins she so enjoyed. So she also ordered fewer courses served at dinner.

The dowager made her excuses from the table. A headache, this time, from banging it against the wall.

And Nolly thrived. How could he not, under his mother’s adoration? He had his aunt Tess’s knitted bonnets, booties, and blankets to keep him warm; Dimm’s daughter Rebecca to see him clean and dry; Her Grace’s maid Sarah to listen for his cries; and Mrs. Vicar Hambley to lend advice and admiration. And of course Nolly had the smiles and pats and coos of a castleful of people dependent on him for their very livelihoods.

The only thing His Little Grace was missing—not that he suffered from the lack—was his grandmother’s affection, for she was too ill. It was heart trouble. She didn’t have one.

*

No peacock in his full plumage ever strutted as proudly as Foster in his brand-new scarlet regimentals.

“Oh dear,” Marisol cried as she watched her beloved brother practice walking without tripping on his scabbard, “however am I going to let you go?” Foster wasn’t just a little boy playing at soldier anymore; he was really going to go off to war this time, with real swords, real pistols.

“Don’t be a gudgeon,” he told her in that fond way brothers have. “You can’t stop me now. ’Sides, it was you gave me the chance to go and make something of myself in the first place. Arvid never would have, by Jupiter. I’d still be like a dog begging for crumbs at his table. That’s the way he wanted it, don’t you know.”

She knew that, but she also knew how much she was going to miss her brother, how much she was going to worry about him. Marisol wouldn’t make Foster carry the burden of her anxieties, though, so she only told him how proud Nolly was going to be with a hero for an uncle.

“There,” Foster teased. “I knew you couldn’t keep the brat out of the conversation for two minutes! See, you won’t miss me a whit, now that you’ve got Nolly to fuss over. Why, you’ve hardly noticed me this past month.” He fondly chucked the sleeping baby under the chin.

“Not true!” Well, only partly true.

When Foster’s orders had come, Marisol scheduled Nolly’s christening for the week before her brother was to meet his troop ship, so he could stand as godfather. Aunt Tess would be godmother.

Marisol had sent out invitations to the ceremony at Reverend Hambley’s little church and the reception at Denning Castle after, without much response. Still, she spent more time over her toilette than she had in ages. Sarah had transformed one of her old gowns for the occasion, trimming a lavender taffeta into half-mourning, with black ribbons and black rouleau at the hem. The maid had loosely coiled the duchess’s thick blonde hair under a black ruched bonnet that trailed a long black veil, and both the bonnet and the gown’s bodice were embellished with clusters of silk violets. Black gloves completed the outfit, which should have satisfied any but the highest sticklers. Since none of them had bothered responding to her invitation, Marisol was unconcerned. She felt almost attractive again.

They’d come to the church early, so she might feed Nolly in the little vestry in hopes that he’d sleep through the ceremony. Now she sat waiting, watching the church fill with a few of the tenants, a handful of servants, and the Reverend Hambley’s brood. There were more of Jeremiah Dimm’s relations here than there were of Nolly’s, she calculated. So be it. These were the people who mattered, the ones who cared about her son.

Then Lord Kimbrough arrived. Marisol told herself she shouldn’t have been surprised. Nolly was the earl’s ward, after all, and Kimbrough was nothing if not punctilious about his duties. The earl had even dressed for the occasion, in Bath superfine and dove gray pantaloons. He was just too large a man for elegance, Marisol decided, but he did look bang up to the mark, as Foster would have said. Except for the frown, of course. Lord Kimbrough’s scowls were nothing new to Marisol, but she did wonder if perhaps he was up in the boughs this time because she’d selected Foster to be godfather. The guardianship was enough for one man, she’d decided.

As Foster went out to shake the earl’s hand, Marisol realized Kimbrough’s forbidding countenance had nothing to do with her, for once. He was aggravated beyond bearing, she could tell from her place in the tiny chamber, at the necessity of introducing Foster to his family. Marisol’s handsome scamp of a brother was making his formal bows over the hands of the earl’s older cousin and his younger sister. His impressionable younger sister. The stunning little brunette was staring up at Foster, fading bruises and all, with open-mouthed admiration. The earl bustled her off into a pew, glaring.

Marisol grinned. Hoist with your own petard, my stiff-necked lord.

Her attention swung back to the door, through which a knot of gaily decorated gentlemen entered, laughing and comparing times for the journey. Boynton had come and brought some of his friends. “M’nevvy’s christening, don’t you know,” she heard him tell Lord Kimbrough. “Couldn’t miss it, so we made it into a race. I won a monkey on Cordell’s grays. Used some of the flimsies to buy the boy a gift, don’t you know. Can’t imagine what he’d need now, of course, so I’ll set the blunt aside for when he’s ready for a pony, what?”

Ponies would grow wings if Boynton had that money when Nolly was old enough to ride, and everyone knew it. Even his friends all laughed. “No matter,” Boynton said good-naturedly, “Prinny sent a gift. Youngest duke in the land, don’t you know. Doubt it’s paid for either, now I think ont. But it’s the thought that matters, what?”

“What’s he saying?” Aunt Tess asked, next to Marisol in the side room.

“Boynton’s telling everyone that the Prince Regent sent a gift to Nolly.”

“How lovely. Unless it’s a portrait of himself. That’s what he sent Lady Harrowsmith. She had to hang it in the infant’s room, of course. The child had nightmares for years.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Marisol found herself repeating as another commotion at the doorway caught her attention.

Bugles should have been playing a fanfare. At the very least, a superior butler should have stood at the opposite end of a red carpet announcing the new arrival. No, the Regent hadn’t decided to attend in person after all. The dowager had.

She swept in on her chaplain’s arm, dressed head to toe in flowing black crepe. She accepted her son Boynton’s kiss on the cheek and the other gentlemen’s bows with a dismissing wave of her hand as she sailed toward the front pew. When Lord Kimbrough’s sister swept her a deep curtsy as she passed, the dowager paused and patted the girl’s hand. “Practice,” was all she said. Even from her viewing place Marisol could see the girl’s lower lip begin to tremble. Then Foster strolled by, retrieving one of the scarfs Her Grace had dropped, and winked at Bettina. The sun came out again on her face.

Oh dear, he isn’t going to be happy, was all Marisol had time to think, before carriage after carriage deposited passengers at the steps of the little church. Where the dowager led, her fellow gorgons followed. And where those bejewelled, beturbanned, and befurred bastions of local society went, their husbands, sons, and daughters followed, willy-nilly.

Marisol quickly conferred with Sarah, who stepped outside with a message for their coachman, who sent a rider back to the Castle to warn Cook, who almost had apoplexy, that so many more guests were coming.

Then it was time. Marisol handed little Noel Alistaire Laughton Pendenning to his godparents and wept as Vicar Hambley said the prayers over him.

Nolly behaved, Foster stopped grinning at Lady Bettina, and the dowager nodded.

Later, everyone complimented Marisol on her beautiful baby, the refurbishing of the Castle, and the excellent refreshments. If some of the company privately found some of the offerings plain fare, Marisol was not surprised. Cook had excelled, but many of the dishes had been prepared for the servants’ celebration later. The duchess promised them a better party tomorrow—and a bonus.

The excellent wines from Arvid’s cellars compensated for the refreshments and kept the gathering in high spirits. None were higher than the dowager’s as she held court in the Queen Anne drawing room, her grandson in her lap. Nolly’s long white lace gown draped over the black crepe of her mourning. It was the gown Arvid and Boynton had worn, she told everyone, and their father and his before that. Of course, none of them had been such a fine boy as Noel.