Barbara Metzger (16 page)

Leather nipples, small glass bottles, knit caps, cotton wool, yards of soft linen, and a doll, which was not on his list, either, but seemed something a girl child ought to have, all were to be at Miss Croft’s by nightfall. Peppermint drops and rum balls—a lot of rum balls if he hoped to catch the horse—were in a sack Dover carried, along with a whistle and a top, which seemed some things a boy ought to have.

The list for Melinda went on and on, it appeared to Ty, a great deal of baggage for such a small being, and one who might not survive the first night. Dover was full of tales of orphaned infants at the foundling home who never made their first birthdays. Ty made the lad drink the rest of the cow milk, to stop the gloomy stories.

Flowers were not available, not unless Lord Tyverne wanted to apply to Baron Dallsworth and his glasshouses. The viscount did not. He sent one of the Whitaker boys from the inn into Dover—the city—with a wagon, to see what was for sale there. Another son was sent to London with a packet of letters Ty had written before leaving Miss Croft’s. One was to his sister, but the other, much harder to compose, was to his man of affairs in Town.

This one was the notice to be sent to the appropriate newspapers. Ty had deliberated long and hard whether to submit a betrothal, a birth announcement, or a bereavement notice. In the end, he chose the obituary, a very brief one, stating the death of Belinda Gannon St. Ives, Viscountess Tyverne, who was survived by her husband and infant daughter. That ought to set the cat among the pigeons nicely, Ty thought, as he handed a purse to the Whitaker lad.

Molly Whitaker would have given him her sons, not just lent them out for the afternoon, she was so taken with the handsome officer. Why, he’d taken the top rooms of her inn for his friends for the week, and paid a month’s lodging for his man, in advance. And the Widow Whitaker did like to see a fellow who enjoyed her cooking.

Lord Tyverne enjoyed it so much, he ordered more sent out to Miss Delia’s, so her kitchens would not be overburdened with the extra mouths to feed. Stephen Anselm and the solicitor were staying for the funeral—Ty was paying the one and begging the other—and would expect a meal after the service, as would his new friends in town. Belinda would have a memorial befitting a viscountess, by Zeus, and by Ty’s purse.

Black-bordered cards and handkerchiefs trimmed in black lace completed his shopping, and a huge slice of Widow Whitaker’s gooseberry pie completed his meal. The viscount was ready to return, to bask in Miss Croft’s approval for all he had accomplished, and to take a nap. Lud, this had been an endless day, after a sleepless night.

Unfortunately, however, at least one other local inhabitant had gotten wind of the viscount’s visit to town. A thick-set, jowly fellow of middle years and pale eyebrows approached his table. “My name is Durwood Gannon, my lord, and we’ve got something in common.”

Not by half, they did not. The man was wearing a loose brown fustian coat with yellowed linen beneath, scuffed boots with spurs, and an old-fashioned nut-brown bag wig. He carried a riding crop and a mug of ale. “Dover, take the dog outside,” Ty ordered. “The mutt needs to walk after all you have slipped it under the table.” To say nothing of what Ty had fed it.

The viscount nodded for the squire to sit down, without getting up or offering his hand, a sign of disrespect Gannon could not overlook.

“What is it you think we have in common, Squire?” he asked after signaling to Molly for another cup of coffee.

“Why, m’gel, of course. Everyone’s talking about how you wed the chit afore she breathed her last. That’s right, ain’t it?”

“Only half. I did wed Miss Gannon, but she was not your anything. My understanding was that you had disowned the poor girl, precisely when she needed your support.”

Gannon’s face grew red, and he pounded his mug on the table, spattering a few drops of ale and making the riding crop bounce on the wooden surface. “The gel disobeyed me. And shamed me. What was I supposed to do?”

Ty kept his voice soft in contrast—in contrast to the rough countryman’s bluster, and in contrast to the harsh, violent urges he felt toward this cur. He said, “You were supposed to do what any loving parent would have done, cared for her.” Many would not, he knew, his own father included. Had his sister Ann chosen an unacceptable
parti,
Ty had no doubt, the earl would have had the fellow press-ganged, and Ann locked in her room until she wed the man of the earl’s choice. If she’d found herself increasing, Lady Ann would have found herself on a ship for the Colonies before she could bring scandal and disgrace to the family name. No one said Stivern was a loving parent, though.

Ty wondered what he would do, when Melinda was of marriageable age. What if she wanted to marry someone beneath a viscount’s daughter, someone like Dover, for instance? The boy was likable, intelligent, and bid fair to being handsome, once his teeth came in. His birth was no more irregular than Melinda’s, except he did not know his parents. What would Ty do if she swore her world depended on a foundling? Well, he would not disinherit her, that was for sure. Not after struggling so hard to see her birth legitimized. The first thing he would do, the viscount decided, was get Dover a gentleman’s education, starting next week.

Ty sighed. That was when he got to London. Gannon was here now. The man was neither loving nor wise. “It seems to me that if you had let Belinda marry her childhood sweetheart, none of this would have happened. They would not have anticipated their vows, and George would not have gone off to war.”

And Tyverne would be dead on a dusty field, but he could not think about that now. “You could have been dandling your grandchild on your knee, and Belinda would be living at Faircroft House, instead of waiting there for the undertakers’ wagon to come.”

“Well, that’s all spilt milk, don’t you know.”

No, it was spilled ale making the table sticky. The dog had not left a drop of milk. Ty was sure Dover had taken the canine outside in time, besides. He sipped at his coffee, not replying.

“Yes, well, I, ah, thought we could come to terms now, you and me.”

Ty got up to leave before his coat sleeve and his digestion were both ruined. “I would not come to you for a drink were I dying of thirst, sirrah, much less come to any kind of terms.”

“But, but, I say, there’s the matter of the settlements. We haven’t touched on the matter yet.”

“Settlements?” Ty asked in disbelief at the man’s gall. “The contracts to establish her allowance and annuity, to provide for a wife if her husband predeceases her? Your daughter requires none such now.”

Gannon flushed a deeper shade. “Aye, all that, but oftimes a gent offers his papa-in-law a settlement, too. He helps pay some of the bills for all the folderols and furbelows a female needs. Else he lets the chit’s father manage the trust fund in exchange for the gel and her dowry.”

“Oh, were you handing me Belinda’s portion, then? I had not thought you so generous. But I thank you, no. I have no need for your money.”

From the disconcerted expression on Gannon’s face, he’d had no intention of paying out the
dot.
“The gel’s dead.”

“Precisely. So we have nothing to discuss. On the other hand, if you wish to set the sum aside for Belinda’s daughter, my man will draw up the papers. Now that I think of it, most jointures are established to pass to a woman’s descendants, not back to her father when she dies. My solicitor will call on you tomorrow, then. I am sure you will cooperate with him.”

“Oh, old Heddy Hedgewick drew up the papers. No need to trouble him.”

“Especially since, ah, Heddy is not my solicitor. Mr. Macurdle is. A very thorough chap. I am certain you will find him knowledgeable in these matters. He will do everything in his power to see that the infant is well protected. Against every kind of viper.”

Gannon’s complexion suddenly lost all color, until Ty could finally see a resemblance between him and Belinda. “That’s another thing,” Squire said, not ready to give up despite Ty’s steps away from the table. “M’granddaughter.”

If Melinda was this dirty dish’s granddaughter, then Ty was his son-in-law. Bloody hell. “No. Keep the dowry. If your daughter was stricken from your family tree, you cannot claim the sprout.”

Gannon smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Never made it official, don’t you know. I meant to rewrite m’will, but never got around to it, what with hunting season and the fall harvest. I used a pencil on the Bible, anyways. Erased it already, when I heard of the wedding.”

“A ring on her finger made you love your daughter again? I will have to remember that, when Melinda comes of age.”

Gannon could not figure Ty’s meaning. “But
...
but what do you want with an infant? Especially one what’s not your—”

He stopped when Ty held up his hand and quietly said, “Melinda is my daughter, is that plain?”

“Aye, and I wouldn’t be here else. But a toff like yourself can’t want a baby around, whether you go back to the army or go on the strut in London.”

“And you do want the babe?”

“Aye, miss my girl, I do. She was my only company since m’wife passed on. I have plenty of room. Servants. A whole nursery done up in pink. I can locate Bel’s old nursemaid, too.”

“While I, of course, would underwrite the child’s upbringing, finance her education and pay for those servants, governesses, music instructors, and French lessons. To say nothing of letting you have the interest from Belinda’s bride portion. Or were you hoping I’d go back to the Peninsula and get myself killed, leaving her an heiress?”

Gannon was on his feet now, too. “You are going to farm her off to strangers anyways. At least with me she’d be with blood kin.”

What good had relatives been to Belinda, Ty wondered, or Delia, for that matter? Or him? This dastard had raised a flighty female. Worse, he’d cruelly disowned her. Worst of all, he was fool enough to think Ty would hand him another innocent to destroy. He’d see him in hell before—

“I will see you at Belinda’s funeral in two days. She would have liked that, I think.” Delia would, and the villagers would cease some of their gossip if they saw Belinda’s father there, as if he had given his blessings on the marriage.

“And the babe?” Gannon pressed.

“Is well. Thank you for asking.”

Chapter 19

Delia wished she could have gone into the village with Lord Tyverne, but the old tabbies’ soup bowls were already overflowing with scandalbroth. No need to add any more spice to the brew. She watched from the upstairs window as the viscount strode away down the path, then adjusted his long steps to let Dover keep up with him. The boy had begged her for permission to accompany his new hero, and even Belinda’s dog had whined to follow.

Up in the attics, she had to listen to Sergeant Winsted sing his major’s praises. The older man admitted he was not quite accustomed to civilian life, but swore he would follow his officer anywhere.

“Like as not, though, the major will sell out, on account of his bad arm and the fevers.”

“Surely there are positions for an officer that do not involve wielding a sword and a pistol at the same time.”

“Aye, but Major Tyverne ain’t one to sit at a desk, nor stay behind the lines. He’s never sent men into battle yet, not without himself at the head of the column.”

Then Delia was subjected to Aunt Eliza’s paean to the peer’s perfection. Lord Tyverne had taken her aunt’s order of new handkerchiefs with him, it seemed, as if he were a footman doing errands. “And he would not hear of taking my pin money to pay for them, either, the dear man, saying he owed me more, for my care of Belinda.”

Just thinking of the viscount’s kindness was enough to bring tears to Aunt Eliza’s eyes.

Even Nanny and Mags had changed their tunes. The old nursery maid declared Lord Tyverne a decent, God-fearing gentleman. His language could use a scrub brush, but his soul seemed pure. Wasn’t he moving heaven and earth to see that unfortunate girl buried in sanctified ground? Mags now believed he was as steady as sunrise, his word as good as the gold band he had placed on Miss Gannon’s finger—and the gold in Mags’s hand, for her services. “You can trust a real gentleman like that, Miss Dilly, to do what’s right.”

Delia was not jealous, of course, that Tyverne seemed to attract adulation like a fine actor drew applause. She had to admit he really was an honorable man, always. And kind, usually. Easy to deal with? Sometimes. Bendable? Hah! But she was not jealous that even Mindle was considering asking the viscount for a position, after Sir Clarence and his wife moved into Faircroft House.

Nor was she envious of Hester Wigmore’s large breasts. Well, perhaps
...
No, Delia told herself, she would fall over on her face with such forward ballast.

She did not resent the sow-scented Hessie’s ability to sooth baby Melinda and send her back to sleep, either.

No, what turned Miss Croft nearly green with jealousy was the fact that Tyverne and Dover got to go to the village, the women all got to stay upstairs admiring Melly, and Mindle got to inspect the wine cellar for the viscount’s dinner—while she had to entertain Cousin Clarence.

Clarence and Gwen had arrived, they said, to reassure Delia that another week or so before their occupancy would not be a terrible inconvenience. Not after receiving the viscount’s message, it would not. From their satisfied smirks, Delia gathered the man could have purchased an abbey for what he was paying these two in rent.

They also came to bring a gift to the baby, a coral teething ring, the same one, Delia believed, she had given their youngest offspring three or four years previously. So she asked if she should send for little Melinda St. Ives, so Gwen might hold her.

Gwen was already holding the Sevres vase, trying to read the mark on the bottom without tipping out the water and flowers. “What, in this gown?” Gwen was wearing a sky-blue silk dress today, with a jonquil lace overskirt. She did have on black lace gloves and a fringed black lace shawl for mourning. Clarence matched, in a blue coat, yellow Cossack pants, with a black silk rosette boutonniere.