by Wilma Counts
“Y-yes, sir.”
Elly stood by the bed and tentatively touched Phillip’s hand. “Does your leg hurt real bad, Phillip?”
“Not too bad, unless it gets shaken up.” He cast an accusing glance at Robby, who pretended to hide his face in shame. “Actually, my head hurts worse right now.”
“Some willow bark tea would help with that,” four-year-old Elly said in an authoritative tone that had all the adults in the room smiling.
Phillip grinned at her. “On your recommendation, oh, learned one, I shall give it try.”
At this point, the dowager sailed into the room like a royal vessel making its way to port. To everyone’s relief, she had given up her deep mourning, but she still arrayed herself in subdued outfits. Today it was a mauve linen day dress trimmed in purple ribbons that flowed behind her.
“Phillip, dear, you have had us all worried sick. I do hope you have learned to mind the word of your elders.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” He seemed to struggle for a “dutiful” tone.
“And let this be a lesson to the rest of you too,” she added, taking the chair a servant set for her near the foot of Phillip’s bed.
Robby, still on the chair where Quint had put him, was behind their grandmother; he ostentatiously rolled his eyes at this. Ricky shook his head and looked at the floor; Phillip bit his lip; Maria looked away, but her eyes twinkled.
Sarah, however, took a position at center stage, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Does this mean Phillip need not go off to school next week? Surely, if he cannot even walk—”
Quint, who had taken a position near Harriet’s chair, leaned forward to say quietly, “That child is too precocious by half!”
Harriet smiled up at him. “Yes. She does have a tendency to cut to the point with little preamble.” She saw Phillip and Maria exchange significant glances and wondered if Quint had caught that too as all eyes were directed to him for a response to Sarah’s observation.
He hesitated, then said, “Well, as to that, much will depend upon what Dr. Babcock has to say when he comes to visit again.”
“In any event,” the dowager said, “I should think that over the years, there have been dozens of boys at that school with crutches or braces—or even Bath chairs, should it come to that.”
“No-o-o!” Phillip moaned in something close to an animal howl. He turned stricken eyes to Harriet. “Please, Aunt Harriet. You won’t let them send me off like some—some c-cripple, will you? Please?”
Harriet caressed his arm that lay on the pillow near her. “Do calm yourself, Phillip,” she said in a soft murmur. “It will be all right. You will see.”
An unusual stillness settled on the room with the children glancing from one person to another. The dowager sat forward on the edge of her chair and addressed her grandson sternly.
“Phillip, you need to understand that the matter of your education is quite simply none of Miss Mayfield’s business. Your going to school is entirely a Burnes family affair and I am sure that even she will agree that her opinion counts for very little regarding such a family matter.”
Harriet held the other woman’s gaze and lifted one eyebrow. “Ah, you put it so succinctly—and graciously, my lady.” She started to rise from her chair, but felt Quint’s hand pressing on her shoulder.
“It matters to me,” Phillip said.
“This is not a matter to be discussed just now,” Quint said just as the hall door was being shoved open.
“You see, laddie,” Chet was explaining to a footman who helped him push in a laden tea cart, “it’s just as I said: a right proper tea party we shall be having here.”
“Ah, that’s better,” Quint said, instantly lessening the tension in the room. “Maria, since this is largely a party of the nursery lot, will you do us the honors and pour?”
“Of course, Uncle Quint,” Maria said with a smile and a curtsy.
Harriet looked up at him and nodded her appreciation of his singling Maria out so. She was pleased to see the children immediately lapse into their usual ease and fun with one another even as they were solicitous of Phillip’s possible pain. She was also pleased when their grandmother chose not prolong her presence with the group.
* * * *
Quint was glad when he could at last leave the nursery set to themselves and to such adults as he deemed better able to deal with them for the nonce. He escaped to the library for what he intended to be a short respite, but was dismayed to find his mother right on his heels.
“A word with you, Quinton, dear.”
“Of course, Mother.” He sighed inwardly and held the door for her.
She swept into the room, took a seat on a leather couch, and patted the space next to her. He ignored the gesture and sat on a round chair nearby, crossing his knees.
“Something on your mind, Mother?”
“I am wondering what you intend to do about Miss Mayfield once my house party is over.”
“Do about—? Good heavens! What need—?”
“Try not to be so obtuse, my son. It cannot look good for her—a single female—to remain here as some sort of permanent guest. Even she must recognize that it is not quite proper.”
“Is this something that must be resolved this instant?” he asked, standing.
“Perhaps not, but I should like to see it settled sooner rather than later. You must hire a proper governess for the younger children once the elder two are off to school, and then Harriet can return to London. Your bachelor household will hardly be a suitable place for her.” She stood too and snapped her fingers. “I have it! The Montieths accepted the invitation to my house party—they always used to do so—she can return to London with them!”
Quint turned away from his mother, not wanting her to try to read his expression. The thought of Harriet’s not being a part of life at Sedwick Hall came as a shock. A distinctly unpleasant shock. “Later, Mother. There will be plenty of time to deal with this. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a huge stack of paperwork to muddle through.”
She pressed her lips together and left the room in a huff. Quint had been hard at the “huge stack of paperwork” for over twenty minutes when the butler entered to announce visitors: Edward Boskins, the Sedwick family solicitor, and his clerk. Quint rose in surprise to greet them.
“Mr. Boskins! I must admit my surprise at seeing you, for I was on the verge of seeking your help in trying to get a firm hold on that.” Quint gestured to the desk, laden with ledgers he had brought from the steward Stevens, and those he had dug out from the desk and cupboards in this very room.
Boskins, a stocky, middle-aged man with graying brown hair, lifted a hefty attaché case and chuckled. He had warm brown eyes that bespoke sympathy. “I am afraid, my lord, that I may be adding to that lot—changing perspective, at least. But first, allow me to introduce Clarence Davis, my chief clerk. I have brought him along to take notes for us, my lord.”
“Colonel will do,” Quint said, guiding them to comfortable chairs and sending the butler for refreshments and for Chet before reacting to the man’s words. “Hmm. That could bode either good or ill, I suppose.
Having found advice from Chet Gibbons to be invaluable for over seven years now, it simply did not occur to Quint to leave him out of something that might prove crucial in dealing with Sedwick now. When the refreshments—and Chet—arrived, that was how Quint introduced Chet to Boskins, who nodded his understanding. The conversation was casual—news of the changes in leadership in Vienna with Wellington replacing Castlereagh, the latest on-dit of the Prince Regent’s ongoing wrangles with his wife—then Boskins sat back and reached for his attaché case. “Your letter arrived in our office in a most timely manner, Colonel Burnes.”
“How so?” Quint asked.
“Only a few days prior to that we received this from the Seton-Trevors Bank. I think you will find
it most interesting.” He handed Quint a thick sheaf of papers. “The first ten pages are a summary-overview,” he said, reaching for another biscuit.
Quint read the pages with increasing consternation, handing Chet each sheet as he finished. With about the third page, Quint exchanged a quizzical look with Chet, ran his hand through his hair, shook his head, and returned in wonder to his reading.
“I am simply not believing this,” he muttered.
Chet returned the last sheet. “You know that adage about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
Quint, already rearranging the pages to peruse them again, mumbled, “I also know enough to beware of something for nothing and so on.” He read them again, more carefully. Then he laid them on the low table in front of the couch he shared with Chet and gave the solicitor in a chair opposite them a hard stare.
“All right, Mr. Boskins, what is going on here?”
“Frankly, Colonel Burnes, I am not sure. I put my own people to investigating immediately, and I have taken the liberty of hiring a Bow Street Runner who handles such criminal matters, but none of us feels there is anything criminal involved here.”
Quint pointed a shaking finger at the papers. “So what in all God’s green earth is going on? If someone is trying to take advantage of my nephew, I swear I will call the bastard out.”
Boskins shifted in his chair. “I came here today hoping to find some answers myself, sir.” He glanced from Quint to Chet. “Are you sure you wish me to be absolutely frank about Sedwick family business?”
Quint chuckled and waved a hand at his desk and its stacks of papers and ledgers. “Mr. Boskins, you may find it interesting to know that Mr. Gibbons has spent the best part of the last what?—three weeks?”—he glanced at Chet who nodded—“working on this with me. Chet has a better mind for such matters than I do and he is as bewildered by the state of Sedwick affairs as I am.”
“That I can understand,” Boskins said. His brow wrinkled in thought and he stared off at the window, then back at Chet. “Gibbons. Chester Gibbons. You would not by any chance be one of the sons of the Laird of Aberdeen?”
Chet heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Told you folks would figure it out.”
Quint grinned.
“Just too big a secret to keep.”
“And we tried so hard.”
Boskins smiled rather sheepishly and shuffled his papers in a businesslike manner. “Yes. Yes. Well. As I was about to say: this”—he pointed at the papers Quint had laid on the table—“came as something of a shock to my brother and me.” He glanced at Chet. “Our firm has handled Sedwick affairs since—” he paused.
“The great flood,” Quint said.
“My brother Bruce and I have been concerned for some time—ever since we came into control of the firm when our father died. Your grandfather was still alive and—well—let us just say the fifth earl was not very amenable to listening to a couple of young whippersnappers as he called us tell him how to handle estate matters.”
“Grandfather could be contrary.”
The visitor nodded. “To make a long, far too familiar, and far too painful a story short—he saw little relationship between the income and outgo columns of a ledger book. Your father was, as they say, ‘a chip off the old block.’ His efforts to keep up with Prince George and that crowd wrought near havoc. As Sixth Earl, your brother was desperately trying to get hold of the problem, but…”
“Time just ran out for Win,” Quint said.
All four men were silent for a moment, then Boskins said, almost hesitantly, “My brother and I have had serious misgivings about Sedwick affairs for some time. We discussed them at length with your brother. Now, with this new development, we thought it prudent to have a thorough discussion with you.”
Quint sat back, exchanged a knowing look with Chet, and gave the visitor a sort of “go ahead” gesture.
“At first,” the solicitor went on, “the gaming debts seemed innocuous enough. Heavy, mind you, but given Prinny’s lot, not unusual.” Boskins coughed and looked a bit embarrassed. “Even your mother’s vouchers were not outlandish given her friendship with the late Duchess of Devonshire. But then our conjectures were that someone—or more than one someone—might be deliberately using gaming debts and other obligations as a means to undermine the very foundation of Sedwick holdings.
“Very interesting,” Quint said. “Very interesting indeed, for Gibbons and I have just recently come to the same conclusion. Have your investigations turned up a name—or names?”
“We thought we had until recently.” He pointed at the papers.
“And that was—?”
“Sir Desmond Humphreys. The man seems determined to create a monopoly on the local weaving industry. Or at least he may have had such an intention.”
“But no longer does?”
“It would seem to be impractical if the Sedwick mills are out of the picture.”
“Do he—and several others as well—not hold mortgages on both our mills? And sundry other unentailed properties spread over three counties?” Quint fought unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness out of his voice. How could his own parents have done this to their children and grandchildren?
Boskins smiled and pointed at the papers again. “Held. Past tense.”
Quint sat up straight. “I do not understand this at all.”
“And I was rather hoping you would be able to enlighten me,” Boskins said. “Seton-Trevors assure me their transactions are perfectly legal and backed by perfectly honorable business people. Seton-Trevors is one of the City’s most respected financial institutions.”
“But what the devil does all this mean?” Quint asked. “How am I supposed to deal with this—this unknown entity?”
“So far as we can see, that is the situation: someone has managed to buy up all the outstanding debt against Sedwick,” the solicitor explained.
“And can collect at any time,” Quint said.
“Theoretically, perhaps. But what these documents actually boil down is that so long as current management—that is largely you, Colonel—continues to see things run efficiently, that will not happen.”
Quint snorted. “‘Efficiently.’ What does that mean?”
Boskins shook his head. “The question is a good one. So far as we can determine, the person holding this bond merely wants to ensure the young earl’s interests are handled with integrity until he himself can take over.”
“If you read closely,” Chet said, nodding in the direction of the papers, “it looks like this fella maybe doesn’t know you, Quint. Or, not well at least. Just look at the safe guards he puts in place—a bank committee to approve inordinate expenses, for instance.”
“I’ve no objection to the fellow’s seeking to protect Phillip, but I must say I deeply resent his insisting on remaining anonymous,” Quint said. “I find that insulting.”
“Can’t say as I blame you,” Chet said.
“On the other hand,” Boskins said, “this anonymous benefactor may have saved you a monumental scramble for funds. In our inquiries, we turned up a good deal of talk that this Humphreys fellow was planning a major move in the textile industry late this summer, but it seems something put him off.”
“Saved you having to sell the London townhouse, eh, laddie?” Chet said to Quint.
“Perhaps,” Quint conceded. “Still, we do not know who this Seton-Trevors connection is or what he hopes to get out of what he is doing.”
“At this point, perhaps a cautious ‘wait and see’ is the most prudent approach,” Boskins said. “It did occur to me that the Montieth family have strong financial ties in the City and the young earl has family ties there, has he not?”
“Yes.” Quint was delighted to have found a logical solution to the dilemma. “The Earl of Hawthorne is Phillip’s great-grandfather! That must be it. The old man wouldn’t
know me from Adam.”
Boskins put up a hand in the universal “halt” sign. “Hold on, son. I had that very idea myself. It was a demmed good one too. In fact, I put it to Hawthorne and his son Charles when I happened on them in White’s one evening. Well, truth to tell, I was not the only one. That Seton-Trevors Bank deal was the big news that day—that and Princess Caroline and her Italian cavalryman. Anyway, both Montieth men denied having anything to do with it—insisted they had financial matters enough of their own to keep them occupied.”
Quint had always prided himself on being a good judge of men on short acquaintance and he readily accepted Boskins’s assessment of the situation he faced. He closed the matter by saying, “As you say, sir, wait and see. At least until something requires a different approach.”
Quint felt this business was by no means finished, but it could certainly be postponed in view of more pressing issues, could it not? To this end, he invited Boskins and the clerk to remain as guests at Sedwick Hall for a day or two. He explained about the accident only this morning but Lord Phillip would surely be better able to meet with his solicitor the following morning. The prolonged visit would also give him, as the earl’s guardian, an opportunity to work out long-term financial goals and so on with the solicitor.
But for at least a part of this day, one Quinton Burnes had quite another matter on his mind.
Chapter 15
Harriet was not surprised when a footman brought word that Colonel Burnes would like to meet with her in the morning room at her convenience. While it was more or less expected, the summons nevertheless produced a disproportionate share of butterflies. After all, what did she have to answer for? And to one Quinton Burnes at that?
In truth, though, she was worried. Deeply worried. That little caper this morning was not just the act of an adolescent boy trying to prove himself a man. To what extent should she have seen it coming? Those mood swings she had attributed to ordinary uncertainties of life obviously went much deeper. Some mother you’d make, Harriet Mayfield! And thanks ever so much, my dear Anne, she muttered to herself as she rushed to respond to the royal command.
