Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (30 page)

*

“My Lord?” Mr. Fenton tapped upon the study door. “You have a visitor, Sir.” His butler extended a silver salver displaying one gold embossed card.

John read the card and smiled. “See Lord Stafford up, Fenton.” He stood to straighten his jacket. The sounds of approaching footsteps announced Adam Lawrence’s arrival. Lawrence, a renowned rake, had periodically served the Realm, and John had always found the man’s company pleasant. “Stafford.” John came around his desk to shake the lord’s hand. “What brings you to my door?”

The viscount grinned slyly. “I was in York on business, and I meant to return to London today; but God has other plans. Might I impose on you, Swenton, for the comfort of quarters until the storm passes?”

“Storm?” John looked amusedly out the window. “Do you speak of the mere four inches of snow upon the ground? It is January in York, my Lord.” He laughed as he gestured to the chairs gathered before the fire.

Stafford shivered noticeably. “Do not jest regarding the snowfall, Swenton,” the viscount warned. “I have been considering assuming control of a Yorkshire property I have inherited from my mother, and your joviality may change my mind.”

John settled before the fire’s warmth. “Surely it is you who jests.” He assumed amazed disbelief rippled across his expression. “In York? Which property?”

“Maryborne Manor near Sprotbrough. Do you know it?”

John motioned to Fenton, who waited by the door, to pour Stafford a restoring drink. “You will see to quarters for the viscount and his staff.”

“Immediately, Sir.” Fenton disappeared to do John’s bidding.

“I know of the estate–have ridden by it several times, but I was never aware of the connection.”

The viscount explained, “No one remains of my mother’s family, and the estate passed to me upon my majority.”

John said skeptically, “I never thought to see the infamous Lord Stafford holding thoughts of domesticity.”

The viscount shrugged off John’s jib. “I cannot say I will follow through; I have never been known for my dedication to anything but cards and beautiful women, but after spending more time this summer in Derbyshire with Sir Phillip Spurlock and Lady Spurlock, I have begun to think otherwise. Like it or not, some day I will be the Earl of Greenwall, and in my conceit, I would prefer the earldom did not meet its demise under my watch.”

John summarized, “You mean to try your hand on a smaller scale at Maryborne?”

Stafford asked with uncertainty, “Have I erred in thinking myself capable of being an estate master?”

John shook off his companion’s objections. “Not at all, but why not seek Greenwall’s advice?”

The viscount’s gaze narrowed. “May I speak uncensored?”

“Certainly.” Inwardly, John wondered upon Stafford’s purpose.

“I have always known eventually I would assume control of Greene Hall, but I will admit until that disaster at Pemberley some five years prior, I thought shouldering the responsibilities of the earldom too daunting. I could not imagine spending my days resolving tenant disputes and balancing ledgers, but I admit I envy the look of contentment I observe on Darcy’s countenance when the man speaks of his wife and children.”

John recognized the feeling. “I hold similar thoughts when I encounter Lexford or Lord Worthing or even your old nemesis Lord Godown.”

Stafford grinned sheepishly. “With the marquis’s withdrawal from London, my days have been easier.”

John countered, “I imagine Lord Godown has no concerns for the life of a rake. He is quite devoted to his lady, and I am under the belief if a man discovers his other half, he becomes better than a simple gentleman. He sheds the cloak of a boring aristocrat. Such a man can leave his mark on the world.”

“Darcy speaks of greatness in a man being borrowed from a remarkable woman.” The viscount’s smile widened. “Listen to us. We speak as if our lives are at an end.”

John swallowed his instinctive denial. “Sometimes I would agree with those who choose pessimism.”

“I heard the rumors of your late wife’s escapades,” Stafford admitted.

“Yes, Lady Swenton has much for which to answer before God’s judgment, but then so do I.”

Stafford asked, “Did you love her?”

John regarded the man with mild surprise. After all, they were not intimates, but since he had forbidden his Realm friends from crossing his threshold, being permitted to speak the truth aloud was refreshing, for John had spent more hours than he would care to admit analyzing his actions in regards to Satiné Aldridge. “I had convinced myself I did. All around me, the men I had most admired were claiming extraordinary women, who, literally, changed their lives. Lord Yardley had claimed Satiné’s twin, and Lady Yardley had proved herself courageous and passionate. Thornhill had held the eldest Aldridge sister in deepest regard since his years at university, and his duchess has demonstrated her resolve when time and situation have demanded it. How could I go wrong with one of such strong blood lines?”

“But you erred?” Stafford spoke softly into the heavy silence.

John sucked in a deep steadying breath and exhaled slowly. “I was blinded by Miss Aldridge’s beauty and by her need for a protector. It is odd: I always thought Thornhill’s obsession with being a woman’s shining knight imprudent, but I fell for the heroic stance. Unfortunately, the lady was not impressed. She viewed me as the gullible do-gooder I proved to be.”

The viscount unconsciously grimaced. “Is there a secret to choosing a woman who accepts a man’s faults and makes him wish to shed them? In my limited experience, those I know, such as the Darcys and the Spurlocks, who possess strong marriages, began in contest. Do you suppose that is the key: to choose someone you find repulsive in the beginning?”

John laughed. “I wish it were that simple. Yardley and his countess argued extensively, as did Godown and the former Grace Nelson. The lady’s sister Mercy, as you well know, led Lexford upon a merry chase, and Lady Lowery had Sir Carter at his wit’s end. However, Thornhill loved his duchess for years before claiming her, and Lady Eleanor literally fell into Lord Worthing’s arms. Each of my associates has taken a different course to know love, but each possesses an incredible joining.”

Stafford smiled wryly. “Then what is the answer? If I am to reform my wicked ways, I would prefer to know success.”

“God, I wish I knew. I have observed my friends thoroughly. They are in knots when their wives are around and worse when the women are not. They cannot concentrate upon anything other than their ladies’ welfares; yet, they take delight in the most simple of tasks when their women are near. They are like moths to the fire, unable to resist the temptation the ladies offer. They often appear visibly ill, and their lady loves are the only cures.”

Stafford’s frown became a positive scowl. “Sounds quite painful.”

“Do you not grow weary of London’s false glitz? Of the smell of filth and flesh? How can what I describe be worst than that?”

Another humorless laugh escaped Stafford’s lips. “We are a hopeless pair, Swenton.”

“Absolutely absurd,” John added with a shake of his head.

Stafford regarded John during a long pause. “Have you ever known the emotions you describe in your friends?”

Most certainly
, but John chided that renegade thought from his speech. “I cannot say for certain; until of late, my models for love have been few.” He paused awkwardly before adding, “There is a lady whose scent I can recall when I close my eyes. Whose voice I hear when I least expect it.”

Stafford asked the obvious, “Why did you not claim the woman instead of your late baroness?”

“Because I had made a commitment to Lady Swenton before I realized my heart sought another,” he answered honestly.

Stafford’s brows lifted in disbelief. “Pardon me, but I thought your wife many months gone.”

John attempted to guard his expression. “Only some six months.”

The viscount’s frown lines deepened. “I would say six months the rightful time for a woman who betrayed your family name. I doubt I would have performed so dutifully.” Stafford’s gaze probed John’s. “Do you not wish to know what Lexford, Godown, and Sir Carter have discovered? Did Godown not turn over his title to a former governess? Was not Mercy Nelson’s brother destitute? Did not Lady Lowery’s previous husband have a hand in extensive art thefts? Was not Lady Worthing’s father renowned for his debauchery? It would appear none of your Realm friends have given a fig for what others considered good
ton.
Surely you care nothing for Society’s opinions. In such a matter, I would present those who thought me ill-bred the direct cut.”

John favored the viscount with a returned frown. “You think I should travel to Ireland to claim the lady?”

A bewildered smile crossed the viscount’s lips. “Bloody hell, by the time you reach Ireland this time of year, you could easily be closer to nine months in your mourning period before you speak your plea to the lady.” He laughed easily. “By the way, did you not consider the idea of the lady being Irish more damning in Society’s opinions than the concept of a year of mourning a woman who loved another?”

John laughed also. “That particular fact seemed inconsequential in York. The Irish hold a strong presence here. You should keep that fact in mind when you choose a mate, Stafford, especially if you mean to make Maryborne Manor your home.”

As if Lady Luck meant to test his patience, Lord Stafford’s words had proved more than a taste of irony. The viscount had remained at Marwood for a sennight for the storm’s ferocity had been slow to relent. In many ways, John had been sore to lose Adam Lawrence’s company for John had thoroughly enjoyed the quick-witted viscount’s company. They had hunted until the snow had become too deep, even for the game. They had fenced in the upper gallery, played several highly contested games of billiards and cards, and had spent hours in congenial conversation.

During those days, the viscount had spoken often of his relationship with his father, the Earl of Greenwall. “I am an expert at vexing him,” Lord Stafford had declared, but John had heard the voice of a man desperately requiring his father’s approval. The viscount’s tone held the familiar longing John had experienced with Lady Fiona.

He cautioned, “Perhaps the earl has his reasons for his distance. I am not excusing Greenwall’s indifference, but I recently learned the hard lesson of judging my mother’s actions.”

Stafford scowled. “All the earl must do is offer a simple apology.”

John chuckled. “You could offer the first one, Stafford.”

The viscount feigned a wound to his heart, but John suspected his words had struck a chord. “Tell me of your Irish miss,” Stafford quickly changed the subject, and John had accepted the ruse for what it was; moreover, he enjoyed dwelling upon the many merits of Miss Neville.

That had been in mid January of the new year. He had arrived in Liverpool the first week of February after what sometimes felt an impossible journey across Derbyshire and Cheshire. Once in the port city, it had taken him a week to secure transportation across what had been a stormy Irish Sea. He had booked a small cabin upon a ship set for Dublin. “What if Miss Neville has accepted another?” his foolish heart had asked as he watched the waves from a spot upon the starboard side. He answered his greatest fear with a whisper. “You will return to Marwood and begin anew.” It was less than a hundred miles across the open water, but the ship had stopped at two Welsh ports before crossing the Irish Sea. It was the reason he had accepted the extra cost of the cabin. The ship did not leave until late afternoon and with the additional ports of call, they would not arrive in Ireland until the following day.

Much to his relief, John discovered, unlike England, Ireland’s weather was more temperate. Despite the wind being cool and damp, as quickly as John’s feet had touched solid ground, his heart had become lighter. Isolde’s image drew him onward. He had spent one night in Dublin only because it was more practical to set out for Leinster in the morning’s light, especially with a hired driver and coach of which he held no knowledge, but John had known no sleep. Isolde was near, and he meant to look upon her beautiful countenance once again.

In midday his let carriage had rolled to a halt before the simple manor house reportedly belonging to Eoghad Neville. His eyes searched each of the windows for a glimpse of her fiery hair, but only the slight shift of the drapes at a second storey window had indicated anyone knew of his arrival. With a sigh of resignation, John disembarked. As quickly as his feet touched the ground, part of him wished to return to the coach’s shadows and to make his escape before he had made a complete fool of himself, but his need to know for certain whether she would accept him controlled his steps.

He released the knocker and waited impatiently for someone to release the lock. “Yes, Sir?” The thick Irish accent of the elderly servant spoke of strong ancestry.

John peeked over the woman’s shoulder to the interior. “I am Baron Swenton, I would speak to the elder Mr. Neville.”

The woman motioned him in from the damp weather before accepting his hat, coat, and gloves. “Would’en you be waitin’ in the parlor, my Lord?”

John smiled a secret smile of amusement. “That would be most gracious.” Yet before he could follow the servant, a noise upon the stairs drew his attention, and John looked up to discover his dream standing upon the landing.

He had told himself his proposal would be the honorable thing to do after his taking exquisite liberties with the woman; however, this journey had nothing to do with honor and everything to do with his heart. His body sang in recognition, every impulse zinging with the desire to rush to her and catch Isolde up in his embrace. “Miss Neville,” he said upon a rasp and bowed.

John noted her lips forming his Christian name, but a shake of her head had cleared the lady’s gaze. “Lord Swenton. I held no idea you meant to call upon us.” The look of welcome in her eyes eased John’s heart, and he smiled.

“But you knew I would come eventually.”

Her eyes held his in a tender embrace, as if she could read the void in his soul. “I received a lengthy letter from Lady Lowery after the events at Brighton.”

“I see,” he said as he moved forward slowly. John would be grateful not to relive the pain of those hours in the seaport again. He wished to replace each of those moments of terror with the scent and feel of the woman looking down upon him. “It was good of the baronet’s wife to serve as my courier.”

“Isolde.” A stern voice from above halted John’s steps. “Do you not think it appropriate, Daughter, to escort our guest to Padraic’s study?” Despite his reprimand, the man smiled upon Miss Neville, and John hid his protective stance behind a second bow.

Miss Neville turned to rush to the man’s side. Catching the gentleman’s hand, she made the introductions. “My Lord, my father Mr. Eoghad Neville. Papa, may I give you the acquaintance of Lord Swenton?”

“My benefactor.” Her father’s eyes spoke of understanding of John’s purpose. “I suppose you should come up, Young Man. I imagine you have business of which to speak.”

“Yes, Sir.” John felt as if he had been called to task, but a glance to Isolde told him she was worth any cantankerous words he could endure from her father, and so he had followed father and daughter into a comfortable study. Mr. Neville did not look back, but Isolde had shot John two quick glances over her shoulder, and both had held an inviting smile. God, she was beautiful, and John had been starving for her company. The light danced in the fire of her hair, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

A younger version of her tawny-headed father stood upon their entrance. Mr. Neville released Isolde before gesturing to the man awaiting an introduction. “Baron Swenton, my eldest son Padraic. Paddy, this is Lord Swenton, the gentleman who financed my recovery and Isolde’s time in Newcastle. As I can think of no other reason why such an illustrious Englishman would call upon us, the baron means to call in his debt.”

John had begun his bow, but the elder Neville’s words had caught him off guard, he stumbled into a small table, tipping over a vase. Catching it before it hit the floor, John straightened to find a scowl upon the elder Neville’s countenance. “I assure you, Mr. Neville, my mission is one of a more personal nature.” John returned the vase to the table.

“More personal than money?” Neville asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Papa!” Isolde chastised. “You are not to bam Lord Swenton. The baron knows nothing of your love of jest.” Her words in his defense were a welcoming balm to John’s battered heart.

John’s shoulders relaxed. “Under most circumstances, I would welcome your levity, Sir, but I suspect you are well aware of my purpose in calling upon your household unannounced.”

“Likely, I do, Young Man.” With a sigh of resignation, the elder Neville said, “Isolde, please excuse yourself. Your brother and I have business of import with Lord Swenton.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said obediently, but as she exited, Isolde warned, “Paddy, you are to be the reasonable one.”

John watched her go; his eyes had longed to look upon her for many months, and he was half tempted to follow her.

The younger Neville asked, “Is this stand up business or sit down business, Father?”

The elder Neville lowered his weight into a nearby chair. “Baron Swenton does not appear to be the type who is easily intimidated by two Irishmen; therefore, I suspect this is sit down business.”

Padraic Neville motioned John to a seat. “Join us, Baron. I am anxious to know your purpose.”

John sat tentatively. He had imagined several scenarios, but none that matched the reality of having the acquaintance of the irascible Eoghad Neville. “Thank you for accepting my intrusion,” John said as he glanced about the room. More nervous than he had ever recalled being, he cleared his throat. “As you are aware, Miss Neville was in my employ when she served as Lady Swenton’s companion in both Vienna and upon our return to England.”

“I am aware you possess a wife, Sir,” the younger Neville said dryly.

“Possessed,” John corrected. “Lady Swenton has passed.” Isolde had mentioned Lady Lowery’s letter. Had she not shared Lucinda Lowery’s news with her family? If so, was it because she wanted no one to know of their connection beyond Isolde being his wife’s companion or had she hidden her dreams from the world, as had he?

*

Prior to Stafford’s arrival at Marwood Manor, John’s uncle and his Aunt Edith had made a return to York, and it had been one of the most pleasant times John could ever recall. The visit had been another step in healing John’s troubled soul. He and his uncle had ridden out across the countryside, and it had pleased John to hear Honesdale praise John’s forward thinking regarding the new forge, as well as his plans for better roads, but more importantly the conversation had brought him a taste of family. His aunt had fused over his health and had instructed John’s cook on several hardy meals for a bachelor household. It had been a new reality for John had felt completely comfortable with his mother’s family. “Be aware of a special shipment arriving on your birthday,” Uncle Farrell had declared as he had departed for Warwickshire, and good to his word, a wooden crate had arrived two days before John’s late November birthday.

“Thirty and no prospects,” John had grumbled when he thought upon the day. He rarely marked the passing years, but as this one was a milestone, Honesdale’s generosity had brightened the otherwise gloomy day. Within the crate were two more of Lady Fiona’s paintings and tucked in a small box stuffed between the two frames were another dozen letters sent to Honesdale from John’s mother. “I selected a few of my sister’s missives, which I thought you would enjoy. The others are open to your perusal whenever the inclination strikes you. My prayers remain, as always, for you to know God’s blessings, Johnathan.” In truth, the only blessings for which John had ever prayed had been for a family of his own, and of late, the naming of Isolde as his wife. Today, he would pronounce his hopes for the world to hear.

“As my daughter and I have been in Ireland a wee less than eight months, I am confused as to when you found time to lose a wife,” the elder Neville accused.

John knew this would be the sticking point of his proposal. “Lady Swenton passed some seven months prior.”

“Do you not mourn your wife?” Padraic asked.

John swallowed his apprehension. “The truth is not a pretty story.”

“But I would hear it,” Isolde’s brother assured.

“Lady Swenton had become dependent upon laudanum. In an opiate-induced fantasy, my wife plunged to her death from the tower of a medieval abbey.”

“And?” Neville probed.

“My lady had run off to Brighton to reunite with her lover, a foreign prince, by whom she had beget an illegitimate son, a child I agreed to claim as mine, before the prince arrived at the threshold of my Yorkshire home to demand the child’s return. When she had traveled to Brighton to beg the prince to resume their alliance, Lady Swenton was carrying my child. It is my belief my lady meant to foist my child upon her lover.” John held the younger Neville’s gaze and said a prayer Isolde’s brother would understand how John could no longer “grieve” for a woman who had shamed her husband.

Padraic said empathetically, “It would seem Lady Swenton brought notoriety to your door.”

“Yes,” John said simply. “I know I have no right to assume Miss Neville would consider…”

“You wish to ask our permission to marry Isolde?”

Her brother’s words sounded very much of an accusation. “It would be my dearest wish,” John admitted. “If you desire for me to wait the full year of mourning, I will return to York without speaking my piece; yet, know this, on the day following the required year, I will again be standing upon your threshold and asking the same question as today.”

Padraic kept the floor, but John could feel the elder Neville’s scrutiny. “Perhaps you should explain what you are prepared to offer my sister, which would offset the rumors likely to surround your joining.”

John’s mind searched for the words, which would sway the younger Neville. “My title dates back some six hundred years. If we marry, Miss Neville will know the recognition of King George III for I possess a trusted position in the Home Office in addition to my barony. As such, Miss Neville will hold great sway in Society. Previously, Miss Neville has voiced her position on the trials facing the Irish people to several of my associates. Your sister may champion any of a dozen just causes and have the
ton
follow her lead. My closest associates number among England’s most influential families.

“My estate is sound and profitable. I have recently contracted for several improvements to better the lot of my tenants, including new roads and a forge. And according to my man of business, my fortune ranks among the elite of England.”