Not having met Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, and his countess, Adele Slater Worthington Grandby at Lord Huntington’s soirée—his first ton event—Stephen now found himself wondering why he wasn’t introduced.
Had Will had second thoughts and worried that Adele might shun him? He was a bastard, after all. There wasn’t any requirement that she recognize him as her nephew, or that the earl acknowledge him at all. Or perhaps the earl and countess hadn’t even been at the soirée.
Well, they would certainly be at their own musicale. He wondered if they would make the connection when he was introduced, although the reaction he had been noticing from others reinforced what he and Will had discovered aboard ship—they were nearly identical in appearance. Perhaps he would have an opportunity to say a few words to the woman in an attempt to gauge her thoughts on the matter.
“There you are,” Cherice said as she breezed into the study.
Stephen looked up from the Torrington invitation and gave a quick glance at the silver salver. He could hardly believe how popular his brother was! Every day saw the silver salver replenished with invitations to every sort of soirée, party, ball, lecture—he suddenly understood why some in the ton had social secretaries.
“My lady,” he said as he dropped the missive he was reading and gave her a bow. “I thought you would be out paying calls on this fine morning,” he said, noticing she wasn’t wearing a morning gown. Despite the rain the night before, or perhaps because of it, the morning was clear and sunny. He would be leaving for the Foreign Office in a few minutes, Alex Bradley having requested him to attend a meeting at ten o’ clock.
Cherice bobbed a curtsy despite having a flat, paper-wrapped package under one of her arms. “I will be this afternoon,” she replied. “This came for you,” she said as she handed him the package.
“Me?” he repeated, rather surprised she would be delivering something the butler would normally see to doing. He undid the tie that held the paper and unwrapped a sapphire blue waistcoat embroidered with an array of birds and flowers. Far more elaborate than the one he had purchased from the tailor, this one also looked far more expensive. He glanced up in time to see Cherice’s reaction to his look of surprise.
“Do you like it? I saw it at Schweitzer and Davidson and decided it would be perfect for the musicale this evening,” she gushed. “I do hope it fits.”
Stephen’s eyes widened. “You bought it for me?” he countered, wondering if it was even proper for her to do so. She wasn’t really his stepmother.
“Oh, your father paid for it, of course. I merely picked it out. You will wear it, I hope?”
His gaze taking in the artistry of the embroidery, Stephen nodded. “I will. Thank you,” he replied. Having seen how audacious some of the waistcoats had been at Lord Weatherstone’s ball, Stephen realized the one he held was almost conservative.
Cherice smiled, angling her head to one side. “I am glad you’re staying with us. I was so looking forward to Will being here, and then he went off to who-knows-where, and, well...” She sighed. “It’s a large house.”
“It is,” Stephen agreed, although the one he had grown up in wasn’t much smaller. “I appreciate your welcoming me. I couldn’t help but think I was an unexpected guest when Will insisted I stay here.”
Taking a seat in a nearby leather chair, Cherice shook her head. “Not at all. Although, I have to wonder if you will be staying for very long given how popular you are at all these social engagements.”
Frowning, Stephen took the chair opposite. “I don’t know what you mean,” he hedged. How could his popularity—or his brother’s, actually—have an effect on his living at Devonville House?
Cherice gave him an impish grin. “Oh, please, Stephen. You’re the on dit in all the parlors I’ve been to these past few days. Why, I’ve heard reports from Lady Pettigrew that you danced a waltz with her youngest niece, who didn’t even have a voucher to do so.”
Stephen blinked, suddenly aware of the sound of a scold in her voice. “In my defense, my lady, I was unaware a gel couldn’t dance a waltz without a voucher,” he replied apologetically. “Who makes such ridiculous rules? And I did warn Lady Jane that I didn’t even know how to waltz, so I’m not sure it really counts. Does it?”
Suppressing the urge to giggle, Cherice sighed. “You have been excused this one time since you were away from England for so many years,” she replied carefully. “However, it cannot happen again without you being attached to scandal,” she warned.
Sobering, Stephen nodded. “I understand, my lady. I shall not dance a waltz again.”
Rolling her eyes, Cherice shook her head. “Of course you will waltz again. I’ll merely be sure you do so with someone who is allowed.” She straightened in her chair. “Now, I understand you’ve also been rather chivalrous.”
Stephen realized just then the power of the gossip mongers in Mayfair’s parlors. When Cherice had said he was the on dit, she wasn’t exaggerating. “And how might I have been chivalrous?” he dared asked.
“Why, Lady Fletcher claims you saved her daughter from a rather amorous potted palm. Her words.”
Stephen blinked. And blinked again. Had Lady Lucida actually told her mother about the potted palm? About its rather fast frond? And if so, had she also discussed their conversation about what he might do to said palm? About what he did to her in the gardens?
“Why, Stephen Slater, I do believe you’re blushing like a girl fresh out of the schoolroom!” Cherice exclaimed, a huge smile on her face.
He knew he was. He had felt the heat of it even before it reached his throat, before it reached his cheeks. “My lady, I... I was tempted, I admit, but I assure you, I did not dispatch that potted palm. Nor did I challenge it to a duel at Wimbledon Commons,” he claimed evenly. “However, if you had seen what it was trying to do to Lady Lucida’s sleeve—why, it was behaving in a most scandalous fashion—you would understand why it was I was forced to intervene and remove her from its presence.”
It was Cherice’s turn to blink. And blink again as she considered his words. “I knew they could be troublesome plants, but I never thought... oh, dear,” Cherice replied, apparently undecided as to whether she should laugh or be a bit frightened at the prospect of spending time in the presence of a plant.
Stephen couldn’t quite figure out if she were being melodramatic or if she was teasing him or if she was truly a bit frightened by the thought of the plants and what they could do to ballgown sleeves.
“I always thought them a rather helpful decorative accessory behind which one could steal a kiss or two,” Cherice hedged. “Not that I have ever had to participate in such an assignation, mind you,” she added with a shake of her head, which had the ringlets at her temples bouncing about her lightly rouged cheeks.
Stephen had to resist the urge to imagine Lady Devonville meeting his father behind such vegetation in order to enjoy an assignation, deciding that she probably had, indeed, enjoyed such an encounter.
How would she know to ever speak of it otherwise?
The saucy minx.
“Who has the best palms for coverage?” he asked, deciding the information might be helpful should he ever require the coverage.
“Oh, the Morganfields, of course, but then some of us require the extra foliage as we’re rather prone to sudden fits of passion...” She stopped and allowed a sigh, realizing she had been caught. Her rosy cheeks grew even more rosy before she allowed a grin of embarrassment. “Why is it, do you suppose, that the most enjoyable things in life are so... forbidden?” she wondered in a wistful voice.
“Like waltzes, do you mean?” he replied with an arched eyebrow. “I do not know, my lady, but it is a shame sometimes.”
Cherice regarded him for a moment. “On that note, I suppose I should ask you about Miss Comber,” she said, one eyebrow arching up.
The humor seemed to leave Stephen all at once. “What do you wish to know?” he asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible when
he knew he was failing.
“She told me she’s rather taken with you.”
“She did?” Stephen couldn’t help but sound surprised by the comment, just then remembering that Cherice and Victoria had been huddled together in quiet conversation during the intermission at the theatre. And they had spoken before Victoria had slapped him in the face.
Cherice sighed. “Stephen! Are you really as thick as the other men in the ton? I had hoped you were a bit more... perceptive of what was going on around you.”
“I am!” he countered, tempted to tell her he’d been hired by Lord Chamberlain to act as an analyst in the Foreign Office because the man thought him capable. “I was. But, I have to admit to a bit of confusion about Victoria... Miss Comber,” he corrected himself.
Stifling her grin, Cherice waited patiently.
“What are they saying about her in the Mayfair parlors?” he asked suddenly, thinking the haute ton probably thought the daughter of a man who had eschewed the aristocracy to be prime gossip material now that she had shown herself at a ball.
Shaking her head, Cherice regarded Stephen for a moment. “Nothing, actually. I mean, Lady Chamberlain may ask after her when I go to Lady Norwick’s for afternoon tea, but I’ve heard nothing about the girl from anyone else.” She allowed a sigh. “Although, after tonight’s musicale, there may be a bit more discussion about the chit.”
Stephen stilled himself. “And why might that be?” he wondered.
Cherice gave a shrug. “I may have encouraged your aunt to invite her to tonight’s fête, although I wasn’t sure where to tell her to send the invitation,” she hinted.
He wasn’t quite sure why he felt a combination of relief and dread at hearing Cherice’s words, but Stephen breathed a sigh. “Number thirty-one King Street,” Stephen replied before realizing he said too much too soon. “That’s where she is staying with an aunt,” he added.
Cherice considered his comment before allowing a sigh. “Do you want her to be at tonight’s musicale? I mean, what do you think of her?” she asked carefully.
Stephen wondered if he could claim it was time he leave for Whitehall, but noticed the time on the mantel clock still showed just a bit after nine. “Honestly, my lady, I’m not quite sure what to think of her. She’s... bold. She’s rather free-thinking. She’s certainly not fresh out of the schoolroom,” he added with an arched eyebrow.
Cherice considered his response for a moment. “However did you meet her? And do not try to claim that last night was the first time you laid eyes on her. You knew her from somewhere else, I’m quite sure of it.”
Nodding, Stephen replied, “I ran into her—literally—at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. She claimed she had never been at a ball before and that she didn’t have an invitation.”
Cherice’s eyes widened at the same time her mouth opened into an ‘o’. “She crashed Lord Weatherstone’s ball?” There was a hint of awe in Cherice’s question before her face suddenly fell. “With no chaperone, either, I suppose,” she added with an arched eyebrow.
Stephen realized just then that Cherice was probably imagining Victoria Comber to be a... a courtesan or worse—a prostitute. “True,” he agreed. “However, as the niece of Lord Aimsley, I cannot believe she is... bad ton,” he ventured.
“Aimsley?” Cherice repeated, rather surprised at this bit of news. Now she understood why her husband had mentioned him in the coach the night before.
“Aye, her father is the Earl of Aimsley’s youngest brother,” he explained, having discovered the information in the copy of Debrett’s he had been reading in the library. “She’s staying with her aunt for the Season.”
Cherice gave the comment a bit of thought before offering, “Cheapside?” There were so many King Streets in London.
Stephen had almost imagined her suggesting ‘Wapping’. “Carnaby. Just north of Golden Square,” Stephen replied, wanting her to know it wasn’t as bad as she was imagining.
“Oh,” she managed to get out. “Well, that’s a bit of a relief. I shouldn’t want you marrying someone who isn’t worthy of you.”
Stephen blinked. “Marrying?” he repeated. Worthy? He was a bastard! “I’m not looking to marry, my lady. At least, not yet. My only reason for meeting these girls was to determine which one would make a suitable wife for Will if he was unable to find Lady Barbara.”
Cherice angled her head to one side. “Oh, Stephen. You doth protest too much,” she replied happily. “Lady Jane is far too young for your brother and for you, Lady Lucida would be better suited to someone who wants to live in the country, and Miss Comber is, well, far more suited to you, don’t you suppose?”
Blinking as fast as his head was spinning, Stephen furrowed his brows and stared at his stepmother.
Victoria Comber as a wife?
“Besides, your father received word that Will found his Lady Barbara. Apparently she’s still unmarried, although your father didn’t say anything else.” She decided to remain mum on the topic of Will’s son.
Stephen nodded his understanding, resisting the urge to ask if she was found with Will’s child. He did feel a bit of relief on his brother’s behalf, but he had to wonder why an earl’s daughter would leave London, apparently intending never to return, unless she found herself pregnant. Stephen had already shared his thoughts with his father, but he didn’t want to think the worst of his brother’s woman, either. Or his brother. “Well, that’s good news,” he said, realizing he no longer had to vet chits on his brother’s behalf.
“Yes, since it means you can concentrate on finding your own wife,” Cherice said as she dropped a curtsy. “Do have a good day at your... work,” she added before she took her leave of the study.
She was gone before Stephen could offer a bow or his complaint of, “I’m not looking for a wife!”
With a sigh, he made his way to the phaeton parked out front for the ride to Whitehall.
Chapter 33
Brothers Speak of Bastards
Meanwhile, back in Oxfordshire
Will followed Henry’s lead as the earl returned to his seat in the parlor, noting how the man’s gaze had followed Hannah until she was completely out of sight. He slowly lowered himself into the upholstered chair and gave his host a cocked eyebrow. “I take it you married her for love,” he half-questioned.
In the middle of reaching for another cake from the tea tray, Henry paused and considered Will’s words. “Truth be told...” He paused, wondering if he dare admit what had really happened to make him choose Hannah as his wife. “We agreed to marry because neither of us expected more than... an arrangement,” he stammered.
Will watched the earl as color stained his neck and face. “You’re saying... your marriage to Hannah is a marriage of convenience?” he questioned, his brows furrowed in disbelief.
Henry took a deep breath and let it out. “It was at first,” he agreed with a nod. “But... things changed. Circumstances changed. And, before I knew what was happening, I found myself feeling affection for her. At some point, her feelings changed as well, and, well...” He sighed again.
“You’re hopelessly in love with her,” Will said, a slight smile lighting his face.
Nodding, Henry dipped his head. “She deserved better than me. She deserved to be the first and only in a man’s regard.”
Confused by Henry’s comment, Will leaned forward. “What are you saying?”
The earl matched Will’s stance, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His voice pitched low, he said, “I expected to marry my childhood sweetheart. I even got a child on her thinking she would have to agree to be my wife.”
Will frowned before he remembered Hannah’s comment about a boy named Nathaniel in one of her letters. “She preferred to have a bastard rather than marry you?” he asked, his head shaking back in forth in disbelief.
Henry sighed. “Sarah is a farmer’s daughter, and she didn’t wish to be married to one. She knew I would eventually inherit an earldom and insisted I sh
ould take a wife who was the daughter of an aristocrat,” he explained. “My uncle finally accepted her and my son, although he cursed her stubbornness for not marrying me until the day he died. Since he had no sons, I ended up with the earldom.”
“So, that’s how you ended up with my sister?” Will prodded, thinking Henry had simply gone to London for a Season and made an arrangement for Hannah to be his wife.
“No,” Henry replied with a shake of his head. “Actually, I was betrothed to marry the Wainwright girl, but she died in the same fire that killed the elder Wainwrights and their oldest son.”
Hissing, Will sat back, realizing his brother-in-law spoke of the Duke and Duchess of Chichester and the Earl of Grinstead. All but Joshua Wainwright had perished in that fire at Wisborough Oaks in Sussex, a fire that left Joshua horribly burned when he attempted to rescue his sister, Jennifer. When Joshua had recovered enough to travel back to Wisborough Oaks, he took on the dukedom and a duchess in the form of Charlotte Bingham. The daughter of the Earl of Ellsworth, Charlotte had been betrothed to Joshua’s older brother. With that man’s death, she insisted she be allowed to do her duty and become Joshua’s wife—a match far better suited to her and to Joshua. Her father hadn’t shared that sentiment however.
“Jesus, I didn’t know,” Will said with a shake of his head. “So, you set your sights on my sister then?” he whispered.
Looking ever so embarrassed, Henry shook his head. “The property next door, Ellsworth Park, belonged to Charles Bingham—”
“The Earl of Ellsworth,” Will clarified, wanting to be sure he had the right man in mind.
“Yes. Except Ellsworth Park wasn’t entailed to the earldom. At one time, it had been part of the Gisborn holdings, but was lost in a game of chance more than a century ago. I wanted the back two-thirds of the property in order to extend my farm fields, and I figured I could let the house or make it the principal Gisborn residence,” he explained. “So, two years ago, I went to London to buy it from Ellsworth.”
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