The Tutor (House of Lords)

by Brooke, Meg

  She flushed. “You are referring to the Duke of Danforth, I suppose.”

  He gave her a knowing look. “I cannot lay claim to the rights of other fathers,” he said, “but I would still very much like an interview alone with that young rascal.”

  She laughed. “He’s not a rascal, nor is he a rake. He is a decent, honest man, and I have the greatest respect for him. I love him, in fact, and I have every intention of accepting him if he should propose again.”

  “Again?”

  “He offered for me after the incident at the Farrington’s ball last week, but I refused. I have changed my mind, however. I think—I hope—he is still planning to ask me again.”

  “I see. Well, the doctors tell me a little stimulation is good for my heart,” he said. “Perhaps we shall have a little fun at this duke’s expense.”

  Cynthia grinned at him. “What did you have in mind?”

  Charles was pacing the floor of the drawing room, waiting for his mother to appear. She had breakfasted in bed and was taking her time coming downstairs. When at last she arrived with a rustle of black crepe, she kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, dear,” she said. “You look quite agitated this morning.”

  “I must confess I feel rather agitated, Mother,” he replied.

  She sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. He stayed on his feet. “Is this about Miss Endersby?” she asked.

  “I love her, Mother. I am going to ask her to be my wife.”

  “You mean you are going to ask her again,” she said evenly.

  He stared at her. “She told you I’d already proposed?”

  She nodded. “But I think you have a better chance this time, Charles. And I like her exceedingly well. You have made a good choice.”

  He sat down and took her hand. “Are you feeling all right, Mother? Are you quite well?”

  She laughed. “I assure you, dear, I am quite well. Although I am sure I will begin to feel quite ill if you do not do exactly as I say.”

  “I am yours to command,” he declared, smiling.

  “You must go to her father immediately.”

  “Ah,” he said. “We have a problem there. He will not return to town until tomorrow.”

  “I see. Well, then, you must go directly when he returns.”

  “Of course, Mother. Then I plan to get a special license and marry her right away.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “I see no need for that, Charles,” she said.

  “I do.” He said no more, but her expression indicated that she understood his desire for urgency—perhaps not completely, but well enough. He was saved from having to explain by a knock at the door. Partridge came in with a letter on a tray.

  “This was just delivered, sir, by messenger. It’s marked urgent.”

  Charles took the letter. It bore the Earl of Sheridan’s monogram. “Why would Sheridan be writing to me?” he asked aloud.

  “The Earl of Sheridan?” his mother asked. When Charles nodded as he tore the letter open she said, “He knew your father—not well, of course, but they were both in the Lords together.”

  Charles scanned the letter. “He wishes to see me as a matter of urgency.”

  His mother frowned. “I wonder what he could want?”

  “I suppose I shall have to go and find out. But after that, I will call on Miss Endersby. I am sure her father will not refuse my offer. In fact, I may ride up to Oxford and trouble him there.”

  His mother smiled and kissed him again. “I am so glad, Charles.” But before he could go she grabbed his hand. “Comb your hair before you go,” she said. “You look positively wild.”

  Charles thought he might have been to the Earl of Sheridan’s mansion once for some event his father had insisted he attend. It was one of the best addresses in Belgravia, just around the corner from Stowe House. Charles presented his card and, much to his chagrin, was made to wait fully ten minutes in the foyer before he was shown into the study, where the earl sat waiting behind his desk.

  “Have a seat, young man,” the earl said after the conventions had been observed. Charles ignored the fact that Sheridan seemed to have forgotten he was a duke.

  For a while the earl regarded him in stony silence, his fingers tented in from of his bushy moustache. Then, when Charles began to shift uncomfortably in his seat, he said, “You know, I find that the older you get, the more wonders there are in the world. Do you believe that’s true?”

  Charles stared at him. What on earth was he doing here?

  “For instance,” the old man went on, his eyes twinkling with mirth, “I was amazed to discover that last week you publicly humiliated my daughter.”

  Suddenly convinced that there had been a terrible mistake, Charles began to protest. But then he remembered that Lord Sheridan had never been married or fathered any children. Had the man gone round the bend in his twilight years? Deciding to humor him a little longer, he leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

  “And I was further shocked to learn that, even though you ruined her reputation, you have still not married her.”

  Charles tried to come up with something to say to placate the old man’s wandering mind, but there was nothing he could think of that sounded right.

  “Is there something wrong with my daughter, Danforth?”

  “I...I...” Charles stammered, glancing at the door, wondering if he should call for a servant. Sheridan was beginning to sound rather irate.

  “She has a great fortune, you know: eighty thousand pounds to be settled upon her on the occasion of her marriage. Certainly nothing to be sneezed at. And she is reputed to be a great beauty.”

  This could not go on any longer. It was inhuman to allow the man to indulge in these delusions. “I understood that you had no children, My Lord,” Charles said carefully.

  To his surprise, Lord Sheridan actually chuckled. “Shall we go into the parlor and meet her?” he asked. “Come, Danforth, humor an old man who was a friend of your father.”

  Charles sighed and stood. “Very well,” he said.

  Sheridan rose as well, crossing the room to a set of double doors that presumably led into the parlor. This was turning out to be the most bizarre day of his life, Charles thought. “My dear,” the earl called out as he flung the doors open. “There’s someone here who would like to meet you.”

  A woman was sitting on the sofa, turned away from them. Still, Charles would have known that coppery hair and pale skin anywhere. Cynthia turned, looking up from her book, grinning from ear to ear. “Hello, Charles,” she said.

  She should not have agreed to this, Cynthia thought as she waited in the parlor. What if Charles was humiliated by the earl’s little joke? What if he didn’t believe them? She could hardly believe it herself.

  After Lord Sheridan—Sherry, she tried to remind herself—had explained his plan to reveal her true identity to Charles, he had said, “You know, my dear, that if you choose not to marry him—and I certainly can’t force you to accept him—you will always have a home with me. And you will reach your majority in a few months and have the money anyway.”

  “I know,” Cynthia had replied, “and I thank you. But I have every intention of accepting him if he proposes. I know I have your permission to marry him. I certainly no longer need my—that of Roger Endersby.”

  Sherry patted her hand. “You can call him ‘father’ if you like, my dear. I won’t be offended. He raised you, after all. He did more for you than I ever have.”

  She shook her head, feeling sudden tears spring to her eyes. “In two hours of being my father you have done more to make me happy than he did in twenty-four years,” she insisted. “I will never call him ‘father’ again.”

  “Well, let me do a little more,” he had said, smiling kindly. “I cannot give you legitimacy, or my name, but I can give you the life that will make you happy, and I intend to do it.”

  It was true, of course. He could never legitimate her—it was simply not possible under the laws
of inheritance. And he would never be able to give her his name, either. Until she married, she would be Cynthia Endersby. It might not even be possible to openly acknowledge him as her father. To be a bastard daughter would be a blight that might always prevent her from being welcomed in polite society. But that did not mean Cynthia did not have every intention of treating him as her father in every way.

  It was not long before Charles’s arrival was announced. “Now, wait here while I speak with him in the study,” Sherry said. “We shall have a little fun, I think!” He was so gleeful that Cynthia nodded obediently, settling herself on the sofa to wait.

  It seemed like an eternity that she sat there in the silent parlor. The doors were so thick that she could not hear what was being said in the next room, but she could imagine the act Sherry was putting on. He seemed to enjoy a good joke.

  Then, without any warning, the doors slid open, and she heard the earl chortling at Charles’s surprise. Cynthia turned and almost burst into laughter herself at the look on his face. But she managed to say, “Hello, Charles.”

  He crossed the room in three strides. “Cynthia, what are you doing here?”

  “Your Grace,” Sherry said, still chuckling, “may I introduce my natural daughter, Miss Cynthia Endersby?”

  Charles looked from Sherry to her and back. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Cynthia picked up the packet she had found. “It’s all here, Charles. Lord Sheridan is my father.” She held out the papers to him. “You may read them if you like.”

  He shook his head. “I believe you. It’s just all so extraordinary.”

  She took his hands. “I know exactly how you feel,” she said.

  Sherry cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he said, “I believe you have something to say to my daughter.”

  Charles flushed a bright scarlet. “Yes,” he said, and then he dropped to one knee right there in Lord Sheridan’s parlor. “Cynthia, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  In that moment, she thought she could not possibly have been happier. “I will,” she said.

  TWENTY

  Two hours later, Charles left Doctor’s Commons with a special license to celebrate the wedding the following morning. On the license, Cynthia was listed as the daughter of Roger Endersby, but it was the Earl of Sheridan who had accompanied Charles to give his consent. The Archbishop himself had received them, and had expressed his concern over the peculiarity of the situation, but a sizable donation from the earl to the building fund for Westminster Cathedral had assuaged his concerns.

  “Not that the man can be bought,” the earl laughed as he and Charles walked towards the Black Friar’s Bridge.

  Charles smiled at him. The man was especially jolly since Cynthia had agreed that he would be the one to give her away tomorrow, and that she would spend the night before her wedding at his townhouse. “Of course not,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough for what you have done, My Lord.”

  “Tush,” the earl said. “Think nothing of it. I only wish I could do more. I would, you know, if it wouldn’t make her way in society far more difficult. I will never understand how being the child of a disgusting tyrant like Roger Endersby can be better than being the illegitimate daughter of a man like me, but there it is. I only hope I never have to meet the scoundrel.”

  Charles nodded in agreement. “He is quite unpleasant. I am grateful to be spared the displeasure of begging him for his daughter’s hand.”

  “What are your plans for after the wedding?”

  “We will spend the wedding night at Danforth House, and then journey to Suffolk on Sunday,” Charles answered.

  “And when will you come back? I want to give you both a lavish dinner upon your return.”

  “Before the end of the month, I should think,” Charles said. “I don’t think Cynthia would forgive me if I missed the opening.”

  “I have gotten the impression that she is rather political.”

  Charles laughed. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

  They parted ways near the bridge. The earl was bound for his club, and Charles for Sidney House. If he was to be married tomorrow, he needed a best man.

  “Oh, Miss,” Ellen cried as she folded gowns to be placed in Cynthia’s trunk, “how much has happened in a week! I can scarce believe it. Tonight we will sleep in the Earl of Sheridan’s mansion, and tomorrow we go to Danforth House.”

  Cynthia smiled. “And after that to Suffolk, Ellen. Will you be all right so far from the city?”

  “To be sure, Miss, it will be an adventure.”

  Cynthia knew for a fact that her maid had never been further from London than Uxbridge. But she was not anxious about poaching Ellen from Endersby, just as she was not worried about taking her gowns and other belongings. It was her money, after all, that had purchased everything they owned.

  She had asked the earl to leave Endersby the money he had already taken—it would make things far easier and save them a very public battle later. The earl had agreed reluctantly, grumbling and muttering about just deserts. It had been impossible to convince him that she really didn’t need eighty thousand pounds.

  “It will go to your children,” he insisted, “whom I should like to meet sooner rather than later, my dear,” he added, winking.

  Cynthia had smiled, hoping fervently that he didn’t suspect one of those children might already be on its way. It was one of the reasons she had agreed to the idea of a special license, though her primary motivation was to avoid a great spectacle of a wedding and get the ceremony done with before Endersby returned to town. He had no claim to be there, after all, and even now Charles was hopefully explaining to the people who would form their inner circle exactly why Roger Endersby was not going to be at the wedding tomorrow.

  While Ellen finished packing her things, Cynthia went into the study and seated herself behind the desk. She found a fresh sheet of paper and a pen and sat thinking for a moment before she began to write.

  By the time you read this, I will be the Duchess of Danforth and beyond your reach forever. I do not begrudge you your ill treatment of me, your cruelness and unfeeling heart. I will allow you to keep the money you have stolen from me and the records of your vile experiment. I only ask that, in return, you never speak to me, never seek me out. I wish never to lay eyes on you again.

  She did not sign the letter, nor did she include a salutation. She would not have known what to write. She simply folded the paper and left it on the desk. Then she got up and went back into her room to choose a gown for her wedding.

  “So you’ve asked her?” Leo took a casual sip of his tea. Charles had finally managed to track him down in the Peers’ Tea Room at Westminster. The Earl of Stowe was with him as well, and grinned like a schoolboy when Charles told them that Cynthia had accepted his proposal.

  “I have,” Charles said. “And I’ll need a best man, Leo.”

  “When is the wedding?”

  “Tomorrow morning, in the drawing room at Danforth House,” Charles said.

  Stowe choked on his tea. Leo slapped him on the back.

  “Well,” he said, “you can count on me, Charles. But I thought you had to wait until her father returned to town?”

  Charles nodded. “I have her father’s consent.”

  Stowe looked very seriously at him. Charles nodded ever so slightly, understanding the unspoken question he was being asked.

  “I am glad to hear that,” Leo pressed on, “but won’t he wish to be here for the wedding?”

  “He will be,” Charles said. “Leo, listen. I have to tell you something.”

  Stowe said, “It’s really all right, Charles. You don’t have to tell him.”

  Charles shook his head. “I do. Cynthia has said that I must, and I would hate to make her angry the day before our wedding.”

  Putting a hand on Charles’s shoulder, Stowe said, “Then by all means, tell him.”

  Charles looked carefully at the man with wh
om he was beginning to form a friendship. Lady Stowe came from a background similar to Cynthia’s, and Charles tried to decide now whether Stowe himself might have told Leo about what had happened to his wife. It was not likely. So he revised the story he had planned to tell. “Cynthia was adopted as an infant, Leo. Her mother had a liaison with the Earl of Sheridan before she was born, and on her deathbed she swore that Cynthia was his daughter. Roger Endersby is not her father, which is a good thing because he was so exceedingly cruel to her during her childhood that I would be glad never to have to see the man again, as, I’m sure, would she. He will not be at the wedding tomorrow, but the Earl of Sheridan will be giving her away.”

  Leo leaned back in his chair, a low whistle escaping his lips. “My God,” he said softly. “What a thing to discover about oneself. Well, Sheridan will be a decent enough father-in-law, I suppose. He’s a jolly old fellow. You’ll have to look across the Lords at him every day of the session, of course.”

  “I confess I hadn’t given that much thought,” said Charles, realizing at that moment that Sheridan was a Tory. Well, if he was willing to accept a Whig son-in-law, Charles was willing to be tolerant as well.

  “Given the events of the past week,” Leo laughed, “I’m not surprised. Well, we will have to give you a fine send-off tonight.”

  “You are all invited to dine at Danforth House,” Charles said. “I believe Cynthia is issuing an invitation to your wife as we speak, Stowe.”

  “Cynthia!” Clarissa cried, rushing down the stairs to meet her. “Come into the parlor. I was just about to ring for tea. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” Cynthia said, smiling impishly. “I’ve spent the whole morning packing.”

  Clarissa stopped in her tracks and turned to face Cynthia. “You’ve never refused him?” she asked.

  Cynthia shook her head. “I have accepted a proposal of marriage from the Duke of Danforth,” she said.

  “Oh!” Clarissa squealed. “Oh, I am so happy!” And she threw her arms around Cynthia, who hugged her back joyfully. Clarissa took her hands and pulled her into the parlor. “You must tell me all about it.”