An Unusual Courtship (2 page)

“I am certain it is so,” Mr. Everett said in his smooth, deep voice. It raised the hairs on the back of Percival’s neck, and he began to fear that the colour on his cheeks would be permanent. “As Mr. Bolton did remark, Lord Barham has only ever evinced the highest regard for your—and your father’s—management of the Linston estates. Such a capable overseer must indeed be loved by his charges.”

Percival looked over in flattered surprise at the compliment and found Mr. Everett’s eyes to be as dangerously entrancing as they had been the last time he had looked. “It is good of you to say so,” Percival said, leaning sideways in his chair in the hopes that a few more inches of distance between them might diminish the intensity of Mr. Everett’s influence upon him. “Truly, Mr. Everett, you—and Lord Barham, I am sure—do me too much credit.”

“I doubt that,” Mr. Everett assured him. Percival was once again fixated upon Mr. Everett’s pale blue eyes, and continued his backward and sideways lean in his chair, trying to maintain as much decorum in his manner as he could remember how to manage. “We have found Linston Grange to be impeccably maintained—certainly your hand is in that.”

Percival could not possibly accept such credit. “Of a surety, Mr. Everett, it is Mrs. Eddlesworth, the housekeeper, who must be credited with the flawless condition of the Grange.”

“And have you often visited the Grange to ensure the quality of that condition?” Mr. Everett pressed him.

Percival licked his lips, drawn to the elegant line of Mr. Everett’s mouth. He belatedly realised that this was an even more dangerous entrancement, and returned his attention to Mr. Everett’s eyes. “As is my duty, Mr. Everett, to watch over the estates, but I have always found Mrs. Eddlesworth’s management to require no correction.”

“I think you do yourself too little credit,” Mr. Everett insisted.

“Indeed, Mr. Everett—” Percival began, and then discovered in the most dramatic possible fashion that he had leaned rather
too
far, and fell out of his chair.

This caused a minor uproar in the room.

Miss Bolton rose to her feet with an alarmed cry, while Mr. Bolton knelt at Percival’s side to ensure that he was unhurt and Mr. Everett likewise rose to hover over Percival with genuine concern.

“Mr. Valentine!” Miss Bolton exclaimed. “Are you quite well?”

Mr. Bolton seemed to be suffering from a sudden onset of a sort of dry cough, but he nonetheless assisted Mr. Everett in getting Percival to his feet so that they might install him on the much more secure seating of the couch.

“Quite well, I assure you.” Blushing copiously, Percival allowed their assistance. Mr. Everett’s hand lingered upon Percival’s arm before it drew away, and Percival’s arm tingled where it had touched. “I fear that I can sometimes be distractible, and thus clumsy.”

The tea was brought in at this time. Miss Bolton took charge of the serving of it and provided Percival with a well-sugared cup of tea. He sipped at it gratefully.

Mr. Everett had drawn over the two chairs that had previously been occupied by himself and Percival so that their little group might chat more intimately around the couch. Miss Bolton took the seat beside Percival on the couch and watched him with stern kindliness.

“I do hope that we shall all be dear friends,” Miss Bolton expressed. “The three of us would be glad of your company, and to be sure no one knows the area better than you. I hope you will allow us to impose upon you for a tour of the estates once we have settled.”

“It would be my most sincere pleasure,” Percival said, already thinking of all the sights he must make certain to show them, and hoping that they would enjoy introductions to the good people of Linston Village. He knew that he must remember that the Boltons and Mr. Everett were his tenants, and required only the pleasure of the estates, while all the responsibility remained his own. There would be no need for them to mingle with the common village folk if they did not so desire. Percival thought this a very regrettable state of respectability, for he was certain that his own life would be poorer without the acquaintance of Mrs. Hartley, Mr. Green, the Rackhams, or any of the other local inhabitants of the village.

“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” Miss Bolton decided, “if the weather is good. And if it is not, perhaps you would be willing to help me with a little project of mine.”

“Oh, certainly!” Percival exclaimed. He did not know the project, but he was already very pleased with the company of elegant, responsible Miss Bolton, mirthful Mr. Bolton, and the magnetic and intense Mr. Everett.

“I would very much like to throw a party,” Miss Bolton explained, “so that we might offer our hospitality and make the acquaintance of all the families in the district.”

“How pleasant!” Percival said. “A party at Linston Grange. There hasn’t been one since I was a child.”

That long-ago party was his earliest memory of Linston Grange, and he supposed he could not have been more than five. He recalled arriving with his parents one night while the Grange had been glittering with light and with the gowns of the ladies. He had been relegated above stairs with the only other child who had been brought to the party, a boy his own age who at once seized possession of Percy’s hand and had dragged him along through the upper corridors and balconies so that they could spy upon the glamour of the party below.

The boy had been named William, and Percival remembered nothing more but the way his lips curved when he laughed, and the way they felt against his own as the boy stole a kiss.

“—and so I was hoping for your aid in the planning of the party and the guest list,” Miss Bolton was saying as Percival emerged from his reverie.

“It would be my pleasure,” Percival assured her, smiling at the prospect. “The Ellises from Larimer are very charming, and we shall certainly want to invite the Earl of Aveton and his sons…”

Miss Bolton fetched paper so that she might take notes as they compiled their list, while Mr. Bolton and Mr. Everett listened politely to the proceedings and asked sociable questions about their new neighbours. By the time Percival left that afternoon, he thought that it was quite the most pleasant day he had spent in quite some time, and was delighted to have his invitation to return the next day.

T
he next day
dawned dreary and wet.

While Percival was breakfasting, he received a missive from Miss Bolton with the polite recommendation that they might postpone their tour of the estates until a day with better conditions, and her invitation that he should join the three of them for dinner that evening. He wrote back with his delighted acceptance, and then began the composition of a letter to Lord Barham to reassure him of the safe arrival of his new tenants, and Percival’s opinion that they were all very charming, respectable personages who would be a credit to the residence of Linston Grange.

The day was very productive for Percival, and he felt quite pleased with himself as he made his way to Linston Grange. He took his horse and went alone, despite the bad weather, since it seemed rather too much bother to prepare the carriage for only the short trip to Linston Grange.

Regretting this decision by the halfway point, Percival arrived at the Grange in a slightly soggy condition. Surrendering overcoat and hat to the butler, Percival’s heart lifted to be back in the spacious, well-lit opulence of the grand home. His hosts awaited him in a drawing room: Miss Bolton was at a small table with some papers while the gentlemen were occupied with cards. All of this was set aside upon the appearance of Percival.

“Here is our dear Mr. Valentine!” Mr. Bolton remarked with cheer. “Welcome once again, we are delighted to have you.”

“Oh, Mr. Valentine,” said Miss Bolton. “Is it terribly cold outside? You must be chilled. May I offer you a glass of claret wine?”

“Yes, thank you.” Percival flushed at being back in their charming company, smiling from ear to ear as the three of them rose to greet him.

“I’ll see to it, Miss Bolton,” Mr. Everett said. He fetched the glass of claret wine while the Bolton siblings saw Percival to a chair. Percival suspected that they might have some fear as to him toppling over again.

Mr. Everett bent to offer the glass. His eyes locked on Percival’s, gaze as intense as ever, but also amused and kind. His well-formed face was very handsomely accented by the long, dark sideburns he wore, and the slightly unruly fashion of his dark hair, which fell over his forehead in tumbling curls.

Percival’s heart quickened, and he returned the smile. The claret wine was welcome to help warm him after his ride, and soon enough they were called in to dinner.

The Bolton siblings had brought their chef with them from London, and an excellent table was laid for their meal. There were lampreys in cream and a mutton pie along with an artfully moulded jelly in the shape of a sleeping lamb and a tower of fresh berries. Everything was prepared according to what Percival assumed was the latest fashion in London, on account of he had never seen its like before.

Miss Bolton led the dinner conversation with a recounting of their journey from London and the sights that they had seen along the way.

“It is so very refreshing to be in the country,” said she, “London is stifling this time of year.”

“And we are so very glad to have you in the country,” said Percival. “May I ask, how did you come to be acquainted with Lord Barham?”

There was a pause in the conversation, long enough for Percival to worry that he had asked something untoward.

“Oh, he was our father’s friend,” said Miss Bolton, with a smile that was charming enough to smooth over the lapse.

Percival smiled back at her, although he still felt confused. “And yourself, Mr. Everett?”

“The same,” said Mr. Everett. “It is an inherited acquaintance.”

This all seemed somehow very odd to Percival, who thought they were all being so peculiar about the matter that, were they any less charming and respectable, he might suspect them of being adventurers or masqueraders. But the letter from Lord Barham had been in the same hand as ever, and there was nothing out of place in either their manner or entourage. It also seemed peculiar that Lord Barham had rented out the place at all, since he had never taken renters before, nor had he or anyone resided in Linston Grange since Percival was a very young child.

“May I ask about the orchard, Mr. Valentine?” said Mr. Everett. “You seem to have quite a variety of fruit trees, and I regret that I do not know enough about botany to identify them.”

“Oh, they are mostly plums,” said Percival, “although I believe that one of the former owners of the Grange was very fond of nectarines and did indeed love variety. There are pears, and quinces, apples of course, sloes, and of a certainty at least three other sorts that I’ve forgotten. You have the orangerie as well, although there is only the one surviving tree, which is grafted lemons, oranges, and bitter oranges altogether. Linston Grange has fresh fruit in every season.”

“It seems that there is nothing that you do not know about Linston Grange,” said Mr. Everett, with a warm smile.

Percival flushed with pleasure at the compliment, still quite flattered at any and all attention from the handsome Mr. Everett. “That is too generous of you, especially since I have forgotten at least a third of the orchard.”

“I so regret that we were not able to have our tour today,” said Miss Bolton. “Are you able to oblige us tomorrow, if the weather is good?”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Percival. “Indeed, perhaps the exploration of the region may supply us with several days worth of entertainment.”

“I believe,” said Mr. Everett, “we would all enjoy that very much.”

After dinner, the four of them retired back to the drawing room, where Miss Bolton enlisted Percival’s assistance and approval with the plans that she had begun to draw up for the desired party. While the two of them discussed suitable dates and menus, Mr. Bolton and Mr. Everett set about playing chess.

The two gentlemen at the chess game provided some queries and input as to the planning, and Percival watched their game with an interested eye. Mr. Bolton scowled good-naturedly as he played, and seemed to be steadily losing, while Mr. Everett played with a dry smile on his well-formed lips, and glanced over occasionally at Percival.

Caught staring again, Percival coloured and returned his attention to Miss Bolton and the party preparation.

The game came to its inevitable end, with a victory for Mr. Everett.

“You are too much for me, Mr. Everett,” said Mr. Bolton, clutching dramatically at his heart. “The game is yours.”

“A rematch, perhaps?” said Mr. Everett. “To regain your honour.”

“There’s no use to it,” said Mr. Bolton, although his smile came as readily as ever. “You should defeat me in that one, and the next. You must have someone else to be your cat’s-paw. See if Mr. Valentine will agree to it.”

“I shall,” Mr. Everett resolved, and turned his pale blue gaze and secretive smile toward Percival. “Mr. Valentine, will you have me?”

“I suppose I must,” Percival consented, “if Miss Bolton will give me leave.”

“You may have it,” she said. “Although I do warn you that Mr. Everett is entirely ruthless at chess. You must play to restore all our honour.”

“I fear I have little hope of that,” Percival said, as he rose and took his place across from Mr. Everett at the gaming table. “I was never skilled at chess.”

“Fie,” Mr. Everett teased, “you do but protest out of humility. I’m certain you will have me quite at odds to defend my championship.”

This did not at all turn out to be the case. Percival’s protestations had been accurate, while Mr. Everett played with a skill such as Percival had never before seen. It seemed to him that Mr. Everett was always at least three steps ahead of him, and whenever Mr. Everett moved a piece, it would two steps later end up providing Percival with some dire inconvenience.

Percival was sure that it did not help that he was so very distracted as he played. More than the chessboard, he noticed how a lock of dark hair strayed across Mr. Everett’s forehead, how his fine lips pursed a moment before he made each move, and how, the instant after, he would glance up at Percival with his impossible blue eyes. They were challenging and entrancing, and Percival stared back, lips slightly parted, until he remembered that he was supposed to be playing the game.

It was no surprise to him when he lost. Mr. Everett was very cordial about it, all kind smiles, and Percival almost became lost in that smile before he remembered the presence of the Boltons.

He looked over to find them engaged at their own game, playing cards with animated pleasure. The siblings both appeared to be happy, charming people by nature, and they jested with each other as they played.

“Another?” asked Mr. Everett. His eyes were full of good natured challenge, and Percival smiled.

“Another.”

He lost the second game as well, after which Miss Bolton suggested that the four of them play at Whist. They arranged themselves around the table with some discussion: Miss Bolton desired to be partnered with her brother, and Mr. Everett playfully objected to this on the grounds that it gave them unfair advantage. Miss Bolton insisted that any possible advantage conveyed by sibling familiarity was a perfectly just advantage, considering the necessity of reclaiming honour since Mr. Everett seemed resolved to continue trouncing them all at chess.

Mr. Everett played the rube, jestingly going on about how very puzzling the game was to him, and ended up achieving victory for himself and for Percival nonetheless, to a chorus of friendly complaints from the Boltons.

It was very late when Percival made his departure for the evening. Mr. Everett tried to insist that he would see Percival safely home, but Percival would have none of this and departed alone, finding that he smiled all the way home.

P
ercival retired
at once to his room, dressing for bed but then instead donning a dressing gown and moving to his study. Excitement and concern weighed heavily on his thoughts.

His heart beat quickly every time he thought of the way that Mr. Everett had looked at him with that warm, teasing, intent gaze. He had never encountered anyone with such a gaze before, or at least had never had such a gaze trained on him. Mr. Everett’s lips were almost as distracting, prone to wry half-smiles and clever, gentle words.

Striving to put Mr. Everett from his mind, he reviewed the papers sent to him by Lord Barham’s solicitor. Everything seemed to be in order, and Lord Barham’s handwriting was easy for Percival to recognise. The Boltons were to reside in Linston Grange. The rental account had been settled in London between the Boltons’ bank and Lord Barham’s solicitor, so there would be no need for Percival to collect rents from them.

There was something odd about the whole thing. Their familiarity with Lord Barham was significant, and yet they all three avoided Percival’s questions on the topic.

He had a wild notion that, if masqueraders, the Boltons could have forged all the documents and the solicitor would be none the wiser. This seemed impossible to suspect of such polite, decent people as the Boltons, but Percival liked to be certain of things. To satisfy his curiosity without giving any hint of suspicion, Percival composed a letter to Lord Barham’s solicitor on a minor issue, regarding how he should handle the produce from the orchard while the new tenants were in residence: should they have full enjoyment of the orchard? Or should Percival continue having the fruit harvested and used or sold as was his previous custom? Or perhaps some reasonable compromise?

Pleased with this bit of subterfuge, especially since it would settle an important question, Percival sealed the letter and set it aside to be sent.

His skin tingled with the memory of Mr. Everett’s touch. Cheeks heating at once, Percival shook his head to dismiss the intrusive thought. If his skin should be tingling with the memory of anyone’s touch, and if he were to be preoccupied about anyone’s eyes and lips, it ought to be the lovely and presumably eligible Miss Bolton.

Percival thought it entirely possible that Mr. Everett might have some claim upon her, but no such thing had been mentioned to him, and Mr. Everett did not behave toward her in the way that Percival would expect of an affectionate suitor. In fact, he seemed hardly to notice Miss Bolton in any manner but that of a brother, and certainly paid her less attention than her actual brother.

Taking out another sheet of paper, Percival titled it to his cousin Agatha in London, who would be glad to make discreet inquiries on the topic of Miss Bolton’s availability and suitability to be courted by a gentleman of Percival’s standing. He set that aside to be finished in the morning, and betook himself to bed.

Much more satisfied with his ignorance now that he had arranged for these correspondences to lighten it, Percival crept under the covers and thought resolutely of Miss Bolton until he fell asleep.