Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) (24 page)

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Authors: Mia Marlowe

BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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“It’s not my statue, so it’s not my decision to make,” Griffin said, looking at Emmaline, who’d collapsed into the Tudor chair, the wind spilled out of her like a schooner caught in the doldrums. “What do you say, Miss Farnsworth?”
She managed a weak nod. “Father would want to know.”
“Very well,” Griffin said to Baxter. “See to it, but tell your nephew to be careful. I’ll see he’s recompensed for his time and trouble, of course. I must also insist he keep word of this to himself.”
“All we Baxters are the souls of discretion. One is sure one’s nephew will be grateful for your confidence, milord.” Baxter bowed and excused himself to find a jar in the kitchen for the sample.
“I’m sorry,” Griffin said to Emmaline. She looked so crestfallen, he wanted to go to her and comfort her, but he was stuck holding the statue and base till his butler returned to ladle out a portion of the contents. “I wish it had held something of value.”
“I shouldn’t have expected anything different,” she said, her head in her hands. “After the capers Monty and I have pulled, there would be no justice in the world if we’d somehow stumbled on a windfall.”
The hard shell Griffin had constructed around his heart began to crack. He’d found a windfall of his own—the woman he could love.
Unlike Emmaline, though, he’d never suffered any illusions about the way Fate balanced its scales. There was no justice in the world. Never had been.
So long as he had to hold himself apart from Emmaline rather than risk a
Sending
that showed him he’d lose her, there never would be.
C
HAPTER
27
T
he trip to Devonwood Park was a swift one. Most titled gents, who lived part of the year in London and part on their country estates, could count on uncomfortable post chaise rides of a week or so’s duration in order to reach their far-flung ancestral seats. Griffin was fortunate that his forefathers had seen fit to claim land adjacent to the sludgy worm of the Thames after they slogged across the Channel with the rest of William the Bastard’s horde.
Of course, the brackish brown water cleared as the house party’s ferry reached Shiring-on-the-Green. The sleepy little hamlet wasn’t far from the great river’s gaping mouth and the riotous North Sea. From Shiring, it was only a matter of a moderately pleasant carriage ride to Devonwood Park. How moderately pleasant depended upon whether or not heavy rains had scoured the roads to washboard roughness.
Fortunately the storm that pummeled the city had skipped over the countryside. Griffin leaned back on the tufted cushions, barely noticing the view of rolling green hills or the perfumed breath of apple orchards.
He’d avoided Emmaline whenever he could since the afternoon they’d desecrated the library desk with a coupling that had generated more heat than a midwinter’s blaze. It wasn’t for lack of wanting her. Rather the opposite.
He’d purposely chosen to ride in the carriage with Louisa, her friend Lady Cressida, who’d been persuaded to come early to the house party with the family, and Dr. Farnsworth. His mother was riding herd on Theodore and Emmaline in the equipage immediately behind them, along with Kingsley.
Griffin’s friend had said he wanted to come early and try his hand at trout fishing in the shimmering lake on the north side of the manor. Northrop would be joining them in the morning for a few days before the rest of the guests arrived for the fortnight of foolishness. Griffin was tired of it already.
He closed his eyes. All he could see against the back of his lids was Emmaline. He forced his eyes open again. As much as he longed to be with Emma, he didn’t want to be subjected to watching his brother’s continued courtship of her.
Part of him wished she’d break it off with Ted, but he understood why she didn’t. He hadn’t given her any alternative and couldn’t bring himself to.
Coward,
he named himself. But no amount of internal shame would turn him. He remembered the impotent despair that followed the
Sending
that warned of his father’s demise. He couldn’t risk an attachment to Emma because eventually in an unguarded moment, he’d touch a teacup she’d drunk from or a bit of lace draped over her bosom and
See
her death approaching.
And he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.
Better not to care. Not to love a woman like a normal man. He’d always thought eventually he’d marry for the express purpose of siring children, but he realized now that having a family was fraught with potential loss as well.
Ted would be his heir.
Lady Cressida’s giggle interrupted his dark thoughts. He dragged his gaze from the passing countryside and looked at his sister and her friend.
They burst into peals of laughter, which woke Dr. Farnsworth, who’d slipped into the light slumber of advancing years. He woke with a snort and a sputter. Griffin scowled at them for waking the old man.
“I told you,” Louisa said. “He didn’t hear a thing. We could be plotting the Queen’s overthrow and the earl of Devonwood wouldn’t hear us when he’s like this. My brother frequently leaves this mundane sphere for fantastical realms in his own mind.”
He deepened his frown at her. Her comment was far too on the nose for his comfort. His visions did indeed send him to worlds of his own. “If you’re truly scheming against our Sovereign, I’ll stop the coach now and let you walk the rest of the way.”
Louisa flicked her fan at him. “Beast!”
“Patriot,” he corrected.
“If you must know,” Louisa said with a sigh, “we’re trying to decide whether to gather the party together to play Sardines or just let everyone settle in at Devonwood Park once we arrive.”
“I’ve no doubt the countess has already planned all the organized fun you could wish for,” Griffin said.
“What if we want disorganized fun?” Lady Cressida asked, batting her lashes in alarmingly quick succession.
Was she trying to flirt with him?
Griffin made a mental note to absent himself if they did decide to play Sardines. More than one titled lord had found himself leg-shackled for life after hiding in a broom closet with a marriage-minded miss.
The carriages rumbled across a stone bridge, leading into the bailey of the ancient castle.
“In medieval times that would’ve been a drawbridge,” Griffin said.
“In less civilized times, you mean,” Louisa said.
“Or more enlightened,” Griffin countered. “I understand women were regarded as chattel then and disposed of correspondingly by their male relatives without so much as a by-your-leave.”
His sister stuck out her pointed little tongue at him as the carriage rumbled to a stop. Griffin handed the ladies down and then helped Dr. Farnsworth descend. The old man’s skin was the color of three-day-old suet, but he coughed less the farther they traveled from the sooty London air.
Emmaline’s carriage halted behind his and Theodore helped her alight. Griffin noted that the countess seemed to move a little stiffly once Kingsley handed her down. He’d always thought of his energetic mother as forever youthful. Now he was reminded that she bore more than fifty years.
“Welcome to the old wreck, Emmaline,” Theodore said expansively, spreading his arms wide and turning a slow circle. “The place is a total mongrel. Every earl of Devonwood felt the need to build and leave his own stamp on it. Norman foundations, medieval Gloriette, Tudor maiden’s tower.” He laid a confiding hand alongside his mouth and continued in a stage whisper. “Family legend says it once housed a whole gaggle of nuns and they were reportedly more than hospitable to the warrior class when King’s men passed through. And of course, there’s last century’s manor house all rolled into one giant monstrosity.”
“I think it’s charming, all higgledy-piggledy.” She cast her gaze over the mismatched turrets and towers, the gargoyles and arrow loops and then met Griffin’s gaze. “What have you added to the family seat, milord?”
He’d had no spare funds for grandiose projects, but he had managed to make a practical addition to the grounds. “I ordered the orangery built.”
“Ah! The larger version of the one in town,” she said, sending him a secret smile.
Was she remembering the evening when he’d all but forced her to join him in a tour of the town house orangery? Did it give her the same uptick in heart rate the memory gave him? She was a weakness in his blood, a sickness. If he’d had his way then, he’d have taken her on the cool paving stones that very night.
“My brother is nothing if not thrifty,” Theodore said. “He was able to use the same plan, just changing the scale himself.”
“Thrifty he may be, but he’s also generous,” Lady Devonwood said. “Thank you for hosting this party for us, dear.”
When Louisa broached the subject of Sardines, the countess refused to consider starting parlor games as early as Louisa and her friend wished.
“Nonsense, girls,” she said. “I have entirely too much to do. There are seating plans to draw up, rooms to assign, and then I’ll need to huddle with Cook to inspect the larder, order menus for the fortnight, and prepare shopping lists. My head spins at the thought!”
“I think it will all keep till you’ve had a chance to rest from your travels,
Maman,
” Griffin said. “I sent word we were coming. I’m sure the staff has matters well in hand for the moment.”
“A rest does sound lovely,” she admitted. “I suppose I could do with a bit of a lie down. Why don’t we all take our leisure this afternoon and then this evening, we’ll have a few games after supper? The dressing bell will ring at seven. Dinner at eight.”
Louisa and Lady Cressida agreed to this proposal without much grace.
The servants streamed into the main bailey and lined up to greet the family’s return in a rolling wave of bows and curtseys. Baxter stood at the head of the line. Griffin had sent him on ahead a few days early to take charge of the country staff, leaving the town house under the watchful eye of Atkins, the young under-butler.
Griffin greeted the help, pausing to inquire after their families and calling each by name. Many of them had known him since he was a boy and several heads were more gray than he remembered from last summer. He made a mental note that something would have to be done to provide for pensioners before long.
Yet another financial quagmire his unproductive estate would have to wade through. He sent another silent prayer for the
Rebecca Goodspeed
to make safe berth in London before the end of the season. If that risky investment paid off, he’d finally turn the corner.
Lady Devonwood shepherded the women into the newest portion of the manor, the part that was a mere seventy-five years or so old, promising baths and a cold luncheon in their chambers. Footmen unloaded the carriage boots and hauled the ladies’ trunks and parcels after them.
“Careful with that, Bascombe,” Theodore said to the one who carried the small crate that housed the Tetisheri statue. “Come, Dr. Farnsworth.” He draped an arm around the old man’s shoulders. “I’ll show you the library. Devon doesn’t have much on Egypt, but he’s assembled a fairly decent Greek and Roman collection.”
The pair of them ambled off toward the Tudor portion of the castle, which housed the books and maps.
Griffin had vowed to himself that if his financial state reached the point where he had to start selling personal items to make ends meet, he’d part with the silver first and save the library till last.
Kingsley sidled next to him. “It’s still impressive, never mind about the mix of architecture, Devon. Each time I see it, this place takes me back. Look at that tower there. Bet it saw the viking hordes cresting the hill.”
“If it did, it was looking down at my ancestors,” Griffin said with a laugh. “My family swept in with the Norman invaders, you know. If the tower was here then, and I wager it was, they found a way to breech and take it.”
“The essence of nobility.
Orbi non sufficit
. ‘The world is not enough,’” Kingsley said wryly. His was an old and venerated barony, but the much smaller manor house on it was a fairly recent construction, only since George IV sat on the throne. “Must cost the earth to maintain a place like this though.”
“You don’t want to know the half of it.”
Drafty and with a roof that perpetually leaked, the Devonwood family seat was more a millstone around his neck than a showpiece. The interior hadn’t been refurbished since before his father’s time and was undoubtedly a bit shabby. Fortunately, he’d given Baxter instructions to see to it that the main public rooms had a thorough scrubbing. Devonwood Park had never been converted to gas. The dim glow of candlelight and whale oil lamps covered a multitude of sins.
“Well, then.” Kingsley rubbed his hands together. “Shall we try our luck at the lake?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Devon said. “Go ahead if you like and take one of the grooms with you to handle the tackle. I think I’ll see how the orangery fared over the winter.”
“I’ll go with you.” Kingsley fell into step beside him on the pea gravel path that led around the newer part of the manor. “Theodore said someone tried to steal Dr. Farnsworth’s statue back in town. Have you a safe place to keep it here?”
“I do, but just between us two, I don’t think it’s necessary. The statue may well be a fake.”
Kingsley frowned. “That’s not the word at White’s.”
“And when do the layabouts there have anything right?” He pushed open the door of the classically inspired outbuilding and breathed deeply. Several orange trees were already bearing. The sharp tang of citrus bit the moist air of the artificially warm space. “I’m surprised you have time to attend to such drivel, Kingsley. All they do at that coffeehouse is drink, gossip, and gamble.”
“As to that, the wagers there are running against Teddy’s betrothal now. Thought you should know.”
“Do the wags at Whites say why?”
Kingsley shrugged. “The ones who’re betting against the liaison say the fact that the lady hasn’t said yes means she’s got her eye on someone else.”
“Ridiculous.” Griffin snorted. “Ted’s as fine a man as they come.”
“And yet the lady dithers,” Kingsley said slyly. “Makes one think they might be right. Still, she is a lovely creature. One can see why Ted is smitten.”
Griffin gave a noncommittal “humph!”
Kingsley shot him a shrewd glance. “You fancy her yourself, don’t you?”
Griffin glared at his friend.
“Don’t forget, I know you, Devon. Still waters run deep and all, but your face fairly shouts it.” Kingsley cocked his head as he studied him. “Has this affair progressed beyond the furtive longing stage? Have you swived the lady yet?”

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