“The father took great pains to create this. Surely it is important to him. And to his daughter.” He paused and locked eyes with his brother. “Imagine if Mother’s handkerchief had been lost.”
Henry’s green eyes darkened, and he dropped the apple he’d been eating on the table with a thud.
“I do not like when you invoke Mother.”
Christopher shrugged. “Like it, don’t like it. It is the same. Now. I shall go out and take a walk around Half Moon Street and the area, perhaps the letter which surely accompanied this pendant can still be located. Will you accompany me?”
Henry nodded. “The street sweepers are likely to have got to it, if it was ever there, but certainly. But only if a visit to Brook’s is in the cards.”
Christopher groaned. “Brook’s is for the Whigs. We’re Tories. White’s it is, or nothing.”
The brothers rose. “We are only Tories because Father was and Uncle Nestor is. We might make up our own minds as to what we believe in. Besides. Brook’s has much better wine than White’s.”
They made their way toward to their chambers to ready themselves for the ride just as Uncle Nestor’s voice could be heard.
“As long as we have to share Uncle Nestor’s house, you would do well not to mention Brook’s again,” Christopher said with a grin.
Henry rolled his eyes and a moment later, they parted ways.
The brothers had walked around Half Moon Street and the adjacent roads for the better part of two hours, scanning the streets for any lost communication the messenger might have dropped that night, but to no avail. Currently, they were making their way down Charles Street.
“Truthfully, the attack took place on the corner. We do not even know where he was going. It might be hopeless after all,” Christopher said, his voice now full of doubt. They might just be wasting their time. Yes, it was the right thing to do, to return the pendant to its true owner. It was the honorable thing. Certainly, seeking out the owner was the kind of thing their mother would have encouraged them to do.
Yet, it was not practical. He ought to concentrate on the matter of his social standing, not roaming the streets in search of lost letters. As so often, Christopher found himself torn between what was expected, and what was right in his heart.
“Topher!” Henry called out using his childhood nickname.
“Yes?”
“Let us cut around and head through the park. White’s is not far from here. I am famished.”
“Very well,” Christopher nodded and the two headed in the direction of Green Park. He noticed that the streets were not as busy as they had been in the past few days. Given that the weather had taken a turn for the worse, this was no big surprise. It only meant that White’s would be crowded, which was fortunate.
A full club meant many opportunities to make connections and with Henry by his side, it would be all the easier. They were both outgoing, outspoken individuals. They often made a wonderful team.
“Let’s see if we can find some lords willing to play us in billiards. Perhaps we can make connections and win some guinea at the same time.”
Henry laughed out loud. “Always a scheme going, Brother, eh, wot?”
“Eh, wot? You are beginning to sound like Uncle Nestor, Henry. It is about time we moved back to Havisham House before you start turning into an old man before your time.”
His brother’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is unwise to set your hopes on reclaiming the house. The Viscount may not be willing to sell it back to us, even if fortune’s wheel turns in our favor once more.”
Christopher shook his head.
“Let me worry about the matter when it comes to it. Havisham House is the London home of the Dukes of Westmond, and it shall never change. I am certain I will reclaim it.”
Christopher had not found it in his heart to go to Westminster to see the house, instead taking the long way around each day on his way to Parliament to avoid seeing it. He was determined that the first time he’d go near it again would be the day he was ready to purchase it back.
“Brother!” Henry’s voice drew him back to reality. He turned around and saw his brother point at a house across the street, on the corner of Charles and Queen Streets.
It was one of the more modern town houses and looked to be four-stories tall. Christopher spotted two bricked-up windows, done so to avoid the window tax, of course. A clear indication that the owner was wealthy.
The windows on the lower floors were tall and the building’s exterior was stucco, another indication that it was new. Christopher disliked these more modern homes. He much preferred the older Tudor style of Havisham House, or his Uncle’s home.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There, look.” His brother pointed at the two columns which framed the black front door. Like many in the area, they were of a stark white, but there was something unusual about them. On each of the two columns was a distinct painting. Three roses intertwined to appear as though they had one stem.
“The same as the pendant,” Henry said while Christopher stared.
“Indeed.”
They two men made their way across the street and peered at the engraving on the marble columns. Christopher pulled out the pendant and held it up for comparison when suddenly, the door opened.
“Can I help you?” an older man, the butler no doubt, asked in a stern voice.
Feeling not unlike a child caught doing a misdeed, Christopher lowered the pendant and cleared his throat while fishing in his pocket for a calling card.
“Indeed, good sir. I am Christopher Newmont, Duke of Westmond. I would like to call upon the lord of the house. Lord…?” He tilted his head to one side, aware that his calling upon a house whose owner he did not know and was most likely not yet formally introduced to was frowned upon.
But then, he had not called on them, really. The butler had come out to call on him, so to speak.
“Lord Hazelshire is not at home. I will present your calling card upon his return.”
Hazelshire. The name is familiar. How do I know it? Have I met the man at Parliament? Or at White’s perhaps?
“When can His Lordship be expected back?” Henry asked as a carriage came to a stop on the street behind them.
The butler sighed and nodded with his chin in the direction of the carriage.
“It appears His Lordship has returned now. However, I am certain he is very busy, so if you could–”
The carriage door was opened, and an older man stepped out. Dressed in a cream-colored pair of pantaloons and a dark-green tailcoat with a matching waist coat underneath, the man looked every bit a lord of the ton. He stopped to pull his waistcoat straight and then fixed his eyes on Christopher and Henry.
“What is this then, Mister Foxworth? Morning callers so early in the day?”
He approached them and stopped before them, with Christopher reaching for another calling card which he handed to the man who had to be Lord Hazelshire. The older man held the card out in front of him and squinted, then pulling his looking glass in front of one eye.
“The Duke of Westmond? I knew your Father. Quite a fellow. Ever so sorry to hear about his passing.” He reached out his hand which Christopher shook. “James Burton, Earl of Hazelshire.”
The Earl of Hazelshire? I cannot believe it! He is one of the richest Earls in the entire House of Lords. One of the richest men in the entire country. What a stroke of luck!
Beside them, the butler stepped from one foot onto the other. Christopher knew the man had to be highly upset by this irregular display. Under normal circumstances it would be he, the butler, who would be introducing Christopher. However, this was not a usual afternoon.
The Earl and Christopher shook hands. “Thank you, Lord Hazelshire. It was a tragedy to be sure.”
The Earl squinted and looked at Henry who stood and waited for his introduction.
“My brother, Lord Hazelshire,” Christopher pointed at the younger man. “Lord Henry.” Henry nodded at
the Earl.
“It is good to meet you both. Shall we?” He motioned toward the house. The butler’s eyes darted from one to the other. “Foxworth, have some tea sent up to my study, and perhaps some candied fruit, if there is any.”
The three men made their way into the house and through the modern parlor toward the back of the house, where the Earl’s study was located. Christopher was struck at once by how much the interior of the study differed from the rest of the house.
From the furniture to the tapestry that lined the high walls, everything appeared to be from a much earlier time, Jacobean perhaps. In fact, it reminded him of his father’s study at their country home. The only home they had left.
He glanced at Henry who appeared to be thinking the same.
The Earl stepped behind a large oak desk and motioned for them to sit on the heavy, red velvet chairs before the desk. Once seated, Christopher fished for the necklace in his pocket and held it in his hand, waiting for the opportunity to present it. Before he could, Lord Hazelshire spoke.
“I apologize for not making your acquaintance earlier. I’ve been exceptionally busy. I acquired a vineyard in Shropshire which turned out to be rather more time consuming than I had anticipated. In fact, I shall have to set off again tonight to return there.” The man shook his head, his wrinkles appeared to deepen. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “Westmond.” He pointed an index finger at Christopher as if something had just come to him. “Your Father owned a vineyard also, did he not? Summerwind Wine, that is yours?”
Christopher wetted his lips as he nodded. The vineyard was one of the few properties they had been able to hold on to. In fact, the vineyard was their main source of income these days.
“Indeed, it is. In fact, it is I who has been overseeing the vineyard and the winery there for the past few years.”
Lord Hazelshire nodded. “Yes, I imagine with your Father’s illness–”
“Before the illness, even,” Christopher interrupted, earning himself a sharp kick from his brother which reminded him of his manners. Since inheriting the title, he’d developed a bit of a habit of allowing the grand title to cloud his good manners.
He had to remind himself that just because he outranked these marquesses, earls, and viscounts didn’t mean he should disrespect them by interrupted them as they spoke. If nothing else, he needed them in his quest to rebuild his wealth.
Fortunately for him, Lord Hazelshire did not appear in the least perturbed by his poor manners, if he’d noticed at all.
“Christopher is quite the expert when it comes to wine production now, My Lord,” Henry said. Christopher smiled at his brother, grateful for his attempt at smoothing over his rudeness.
“Well, that is wonderful to know. As I said, I am having a rather unfortunate time with it. It appeared a worthwhile investment and my son is keen to take over the operation. However, it has been troublesome…” he shrugged. “Perhaps when my son and I return from Shropshire we can take dinner together, the four of us and talk about the business. Perhaps at White’s?”
This is going better than I had expected, and I have yet to return the necklace to him.
“Indeed, I would love to.”
“Well, that is settled then. Of course, I assume this was not the nature of your visit. What was it you were coming to call on us for?”
The brothers exchange a glance.
“Well, it is an unusual matter but, as it were, a couple of nights ago as I was returning from Parliament, I witnessed a robbery in progress, just a few streets from here, on Half Moon.”
“How ghastly! And I had thought Mayfair such a safe neighborhood. The best in London,” Lord Hazelshire’s voice was laced in outrage.
“Indeed. It was a messenger who was attacked. I was able to fend off the attackers…”
“With help of our coachman, Mister Thorpe,” Henry threw in, glaring at Christopher once more for taking too much of the credit.
“Yes, yes, Mister Thorpe. Brave man he is. In any case, together we were able to fend off the attackers. The messenger had run off with his horse the first chance he had and, well, he left this behind.”
Christopher opened his hand and held it out to the Earl who gasped.
“By Jove, there it is!” He took the necklace from Christopher’s palm and held up the necklace. A loving expression appeared on his face. “I had this made by my trusted jeweler back home in Hertfordshire and expected it days ago. I feared it lost. What good fortune. And just in time, for my daughter will arrive in London today…” He retrieved a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and folded it around the necklace. “There wasn’t a letter with it, I suppose?”
Christopher shook his head. “If there was, it is lost. Once the attackers had fled, I found the necklace on the ground. Thorpe and I looked for a letter or anything to identify the owner but were unlucky.”
“My brother was determined to find the owner. Hope against hope, we decided to comb the streets once more, in case the letter had flown away.”
Christopher cleared his throat and crossed his legs. “It was sheer luck that my brother spotted the three-headed rose on the columns outside your house and remembered that the same symbol was on the necklace.”
The older man broke into a soft smile, his eyes sparkled.
“Ah yes, the roses. A design I created myself, many years ago.” He rose, pocketing the handkerchief containing the necklace. He walked around the table and past the brothers. “It symbolizes them,” he said. Christopher followed his gaze and saw he was pointing at a painting behind them.
The breath got caught in Christopher’s throat when his eyes fell upon the painting. It showed three women, one slightly older, with blonde hair, and another, younger, who looked almost identical. And then there was the third woman. Tall and slender, her hair dark as ember and her eyes just as deep and dark, she peered down from the painting as if looking directly at Christopher.
Without meaning to, he rose from his chair and stepped beside the Earl, unable to take his eyes off the woman in the painting. She was ethereal.
“My wife, Emma, and my daughters, Catherine and Rowena,” he pointed first at the two blonde women, and then the dark-haired one.
Rowena. What a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.
“I created the symbol of the roses for them. My three roses, each an individual, but each of the same strong root. I am fond of roses. I should mention that I dabble in the arts, thus the rose.” The Earl chuckled but Christopher hardly heard him.
“What a beautiful family you have,” Henry’s voice drifted to Christopher’s ear, but he hardly took note.
“Indeed. This is my son, Charles. Viscount Dorset. He is the one dealing with the vineyard most of the time, and beside him is his wife, Margaret. The painting was created shortly before their wedding, two years ago, at the same time as that of my three roses here.”
“A beautiful family. May I ask, which of your daughters was the necklace for? Excuse me if I am too forward in asking.” Henry’s voice said.
“Not at all. Indeed, it was a gift for–”
The woman’s eyes seemed to speak to him. There was a depth in them, as if she had many tales to tell, tales he longed to hear. He knew if he was opposite her in real life, he would get lost in those eyes. He imagined what her voice might sound like. Soft and kind, her words chosen carefully. He found himself wondering how she might smell, like a rose perhaps? Or a summer’s day?
“Christopher?” Henry’s voice carried an undercurrent of alarm which drew him out of his daydream.
“Yes, Henry? What is it?”
His brother glared at him and Christopher noted that both his brother and Lord Hazelshire were once again seated at their respective chairs. Embarrassed, he quickly joined them.
“I am sorry, I have not slept well since the attack. I am fatigued.”
“Lord Hazelshire has just very graciously invited us to his daughter’s upcoming coming-out ball,” Henry said.
“In
deed? That is very considerate of you, Lord Hazelshire. My brother and I gladly accept the invitation.”
Lord Hazelshire clapped his hands together in delight.
“Very well. The party is to be held in two weeks’ time, at the Worcester Ballroom. Do you know it?”
Christopher nodded, his thoughts already at the party. He wished he had paid closer attention to the conversation between Henry and Lord Hazelshire. Then he might know which of the two daughters was having her coming-out party. In any case, certainly both sisters would be at the party and he was bound to be able to meet her there.
Perhaps he could even steal a dance or two. Christopher felt himself falling back into the dream like state he’d experienced while examining the portrait but forced himself to remain in the present.
A Forbidden Waltz With the Dashing Duke Page 3
