Royal Regard (22 page)

“If you will allow, my lady, securing
cuttings from the Royal Gardens would be an excellent use of my
exalted name, even knowing it may end at Newgate.” Her beatific
smile made even flaying by thorn bush worthwhile.

“You are most fortunate,” Nick promised. “I
have hidden from my mother in every shed on the property, so I
expect we can locate a gardener without much trouble.”

Nick had spent all night and most
of the morning addressing the concerns of the steward at his Irish
estate, Rathemore, then re-reading current related bills in
Parliament, then writing a floor speech is support of the
downtrodden, who would surely, given no change in British policy,
go the way of all peasants too brutally oppressed. Now, he was
finally immersed in the day’s papers, which were only making his
arguments more difficult to support.

Nick’s factotum, Blakeley, knocked lightly on
the library door, interrupting his concentration. Nick’s eyes never
left the newspaper, but his thumb rested alongside the last line he
had read.

“Yes?”

Blakeley had been with Nick since his
earliest travels, his first stop being his old friend Adolphus’
viceregal court in Hanover. Though Blakeley had been Adolphus’
dresser since childhood, he had been intrigued by the idea of
Nick’s planned expeditions overseas. The Viceroy, holding both men
in great regard, allowed Nick to take his valet into service.
Though the two men had seen countless disreputable adventures
together, once returned to England and having been trained to serve
royalty, Blakeley’s ideas of propriety had become far more
stringent than Nick’s.

“The Earl of Huntleigh to see you, Your
Grace.”

Nick let the newspaper fall slowly onto the
desk. “Huntleigh?” he repeated, disturbed straightaway, as he had
perhaps not been as discreet in his attentions to Bella as he might
have been. The only other reason the earl would come calling was
Nick’s investment, also cause for concern at nine in the
morning.

“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I show him in, or ask
him to return at a more appropriate hour?” Blakeley’s frown subtly
displayed his displeasure at anyone disturbing the morning
routine—whether the master’s routine or Blakeley’s, Nick couldn’t
determine.

“No, I’ll see him now.” Nick stood,
stretching his back and legs, then donned his jacket. “Ireland will
still be a tinderbox in an hour.” If he read every one of the
seventeen thousand, eight hundred, fifty-six books in this
room—twice—he still wouldn’t find the answer to the problem of
violent revolution.

“I daresay, Your Grace. Will you be requiring
refreshment?”

“Please.”

Blakeley peered into the coffee pot and
poured Nick the last, placing the empty ivory pot on Nick’s
breakfast tray, using the napkin to sweep nonexistent crumbs off
the desk. After the man left the room, Nick drained the dish of
lukewarm coffee, then added coal to the fire and stirred it,
staring into the flames, wondering if he wanted to know what was
about to occur.

Huntleigh was announced formally and entered,
looking up at the clerestory windows. Above the
secretaire
where Nick had been sitting, overlooking the room from the
second-story balcony, was another, much larger desk that Nick still
thought of as his grandfather’s, flanked by two leaded glass
cabinets. Behind the glass on the left were illuminated manuscripts
collected by every Duke of Wellbridge for four generations. On the
right, dozens of curios from around the world, brought home from
foreign ports by younger sons for generations, except Nick’s
mementos, which decorated his bedchamber.

Before Huntleigh could remark on the décor,
Blakeley returned through a servant’s door with a rolling cart
carrying a silver service, a plate of pastries, coffee, tea, and
various accoutrements. He placed the cart in easy reach of the
grouping of chairs around the fireplace and installed himself in
the corner.

Huntleigh bowed correctly and said, “Please
forgive the interruption at such an hour, Sir.”

Nick waved off the formality permeating the
room. “No need for apology, Huntleigh. You know me well enough by
now to forgo the protocol, and frankly, I prefer it. How may I help
you? It must be a matter of some concern, or you would never be
here so early.”

“I keep captain’s hours and hoped to catch
you alone.”

The curtains, drawn against a raw, grey day,
left the room dim in firelight, so Nick motioned to Blakeley to
open the drapes. Leaving the sheers closed, the butler tied back
the burgundy velvet covering the French doors to the terrace
overlooking the garden.

Huntleigh took a deep breath and the lines on
his face twisted in distress, enough to make Nick ponder whether he
were in physical or emotional pain, or both. When he saw the man
lean more heavily on his walking stick, Nick gestured him to a
seat.

Huntleigh offered Nick a brief look of
gratitude, quickly swallowed by profound anxiety, and slowly
lowered himself onto the claret-colored horsehair sofa, stretching
his bad leg before him. “It is of grave concern, Sir.”

“Wellbridge. Please. May I offer you coffee
or tea? I find brandy or ale in the morning makes me sluggish, but
if you would prefer…?”

“Thank you, coffee would be most welcome if
it is no trouble, although we may both require brandy before I am
finished.” This did not bode well from the abstemious Lord
Huntleigh.

Blakeley prepared and served coffee, with
Huntleigh making much of the ivory coffee pot Nick had acquired in
Burma and the cups from Canton. When Nick admitted he had imported
the coffee from South America, they were quickly caught up in
discussion of trade crops, but it did not take long for the
placeholder topic to be exhausted. Nick dismissed Blakeley and
closed the doors behind him.

“Care to explain what might require brandy in
the morning?” he asked, as he traversed the reddish-brown Persian
carpet.

Huntleigh breathed deeply again, and screwed
up his face in an even more alarming manner. Surely his heart must
be failing, Nick thought, wondering if he should have someone call
for a physician.

“I must beg your forgiveness for the
discomfort of the topic at hand, as I am compelled by deep
affection for my wife.”

Nick stiffened and stopped halfway across the
room. He had assumed he could be called out for his behavior—that
was not unusual—but the earl had a reasonable, courteous tone in
his voice. Perhaps he didn’t really know anything.

“What has your wife to do with me, Lord
Huntleigh?” Nick asked casually, taking a position across from his
caller in his favorite armchair. He leaned back into the red
leather upholstery, swirling a dish in his hand to cool the hot
coffee, admitting nothing by word or deed.

Beneath Lord Huntleigh’s fixed stare,
however, he found himself squirming.

“It seems you have developed an affection for
my Bella. A
tendre
, perhaps?”

Nick stayed silent, shoulders tensed, stomach
in a froth. He hoped, quite sincerely, this had not become a
problem in her lap. If he were shot at dawn, it would only be what
he deserved, but reprisals for Bel—Lady Huntleigh—were another
question entirely.

Huntleigh shifted slightly in his chair,
screwing up his face against a twinge that visibly tensed his
thigh. “I will not live much longer.”

He twisted to find a more comfortable
position for his bad leg, so Nick located his late brother’s gout
stool in a corner of the room and set it down before his guest, who
carefully used both hands to drape his leg over the tufted
cushion.

“My thanks, Wellbridge. It is Hell getting
old. If it weren’t for the alternative, I’d suggest you never do
it.” Huntleigh was more relaxed with his leg now more comfortable,
but with troubles still drifting across his face.

“I have perhaps half a year, Lord willing,”
Huntleigh continued, “but not much more. Of course, we can never
know the hour of our demise, but mine approaches.”

“I am certain Lady Huntleigh will be
devastated.”

“Perhaps. Though perchance not as a wife for
a husband. You and I are men of the world, Wellbridge. We have seen
deep passion, and my marriage is no example, although I confess
tremendous fondness.”

Nick had to admit, he instinctively preferred
Huntleigh acting fatherly toward Bella than in the role of jealous
spouse, though fathers were far more difficult to bamboozle than
husbands. It was just so distasteful imagining him lecherous.

The fire popped and spat, so Nick rose to add
coal and stir the flames. It was uncanny how much Huntleigh
reminded him of his father’s father. He remembered his grandfather
banning both Northope boys from this room when David was eight and
Nick was only four, after David’s dog came in behind them and
piddled in the corner, no more than three feet from where Huntleigh
was now seated. The look on Huntleigh’s face was exactly the same
as the late duke’s had been during belated discussion about taking
responsibility for one’s pets—part angry, part resigned, and part
frustrated that little boys weren’t yet adults.

“Bella is half my age,” Huntleigh continued.
“There is only so much we will ever have in common. She feels
tenderness for a man who treats her kindly, gratitude for me
showing her the world, sadness at my deteriorating condition.”

“I’m sure she—”

“Please do not patronize me, Wellbridge. I
did not enter into my marriage seeking romance, was fortunate to
find an abiding friendship, and that is enough for me. Bella has
been a remarkable wife, better than I deserved.”

Nick chuckled, “I’m sure the king reminds you
so daily.”

“In fact, I do my best to remind him. It is
my hope his regard will make her life that much easier when I am
gone.”

Nick sipped his coffee, listening to the
ticking of the long-case clock in the corner, making no claim to
knowledge of the king’s plans for Bella. He was quite certain there
were none to romance her, as he had delicately broached that
subject. At least he had thought he was delicate, until Prinny said
slyly, “No, Wellbridge, she is witty, of course—always interesting
things to say—but far too ugly for me. Since you only bed
hideous-looking women, you can have her when Humdrum is finished—if
you cannot accomplish the deed before then.”

“The regard of royalty is fickle,” Nick
observed.

“Which brings us neatly to the subject at
hand.”

“Yes?”

Huntleigh’s silence sat like wet toweling
between them. Finally, he started, “In not so very long, thanks to
His Majesty’s beneficence and my own business acumen, I will leave
a gentle wife too clever for her own good, with a title that sits
uneasy on her, at the mercy of every fortune hunter in Europe. I
would be happy to see her future settled before such time as she
may need the protection of another man.”

Nick nearly spit out his coffee, and managed
to slosh a considerable portion onto the knee of his pantaloons.
“You are trying to marry off your wife?” Huntleigh passed him a
handkerchief, but Nick had already snatched a table napkin from the
tea cart.

“In a manner of speaking,” Huntleigh said,
sitting back into the cushions and adjusting his seat again,
tugging pointedly at his immaculate waistcoat, while Nick swabbed
at the coffee, hardly able keep his manners.

Nick sopped up the thankfully cooled spill,
annoyed to find an additional stain on his new coat. “She will not
thank you for that.”

“I am aware and intend it anyway. She was
saddled with an old man while still a girl, and I find it engenders
guilt in me now. The next time she marries, I will do my part to
ensure it is for love and will protect her interests as her father
should have done.”

Nick sat back, sliding his chair away
infinitesimally. Knee twitching, he forcefully quelled the urge to
tap his heel against the carpet and stopped his fingers drumming
against his thumb. Each and every perfect model ship his brother
had ever built caught his attention one after the other, dozens to
distract him, some in shadow boxes, some in niches; a spectacular
three-mast clipper ship sailed under glass on the marble
mantelpiece above the columned fireplace.

Huntleigh’s eyes grew sharper, and after one
quick glimpse, Nick avoided his stare by studying the curios.

“I am old enough to be Bella’s father—and old
enough to have played cards with yours—so you may consider this a
fatherly request to clarify your intentions and define the precepts
for your courtship, should you be considering such a pursuit.”

Nick coughed and sat forward, shaking his
head, not quite sure if his ears were failing him. “You are
defining the precepts for my courtship of your wife?”

“I am doing my best. As lovely as my Bella is
to me, I know her appearance is not quite the fashion. I find it
unlikely many men will display your sort of enthusiasm, unless they
are feigning for love of her fortune, which you are not.”