He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and was both tall and solidly built, with prematurely thinning hair and a prominent hook at the end of his nose. His glacial blue eyes held neither warmth nor welcome. When he reached the gate he thrust a key into the lock and shoved it open without warning, forcing Charlotte to jump to the side or be knocked to the ground.
“You may bring the trunks and any other personal belongings to the side entrance. Mr. Graystone has delegated the blue bedroom suite on the third floor to his wife. All of her things will be brought there directly for you to unpack,” he said dismissively.
Charlotte blinked.
“Well? What are you standing there for? Hop to! You may be accustomed to lazing about where you come from, but here at Shire House we run things differently.”
“I can see that,” she murmured. Taken aback by the man’s rudeness, but not wanting to set off on the wrong foot with Gavin’s staff, she swallowed the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue and said, “Might I ask your name?”
The man’s chest swelled beneath his tightly buttoned black vest. “Theodore Dobson.” His chin lifted with self-importance. “Mr. Dobson to the likes of you. I am the butler and caretaker of Shire House.”
This disagreeable man was the butler? Charlotte’s eyebrows drew together in dismay. In a household of this magnitude, the butler was a man of great importance. He was second only to the owners and oversaw everything, from managing all of the employees to counting the silver. “I believe there has been some slight confusion,” she said politely. “You see, I am—”
“I do not care what your name is,” Dobson snapped. “It does not concern me.”
That did it.
“Well perhaps it should, since my name is Charlotte.” She waited for recognition to dawn in Dobson’s cold eyes. When he continued to stare at her with nothing more than vague contempt, as if she were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his shoe, the tight rein she had on her temper gave way.
It was bad enough to be greeted by such a surly man after nearly a week of traveling. But to discover Gavin hadn’t even bothered to give his butler a basic description of his wife was infuriating.
Her lips compressed to form a hard, thin line. She refused to be an afterthought. Gavin may have been unable to welcome her himself due to prior obligations, but he certainly could have made sure the damned butler knew who she was! She could only hope it had been a careless oversight, and not an indication of how things would be now that they were in London.
Tabitha appeared behind her, a cloak over one arm and a small leather carrying case tucked in the other.
“Lady Charlotte,” she said, frowning at Dobson. “What is the matter? Were they not expecting us? And where should I have the trunks sent?”
Charlotte saw the exact moment Dobson figured it all out. He was good–as all butlers were–at veiling his emotions, but he could not fully disguise the slight widening of his eyes nor the tinge of color that appeared high on his cheeks.
“You are Mr. Graystone’s wife,” he said stiffly.
“Yes.”
She waited for an apology.
It was not forthcoming.
“Then you may enter through the front. Mrs. Pinkham, the housekeeper, will give you a tour. You”–he jabbed a finger at Tabitha–“can take the trunks around the side, and be quick about it.”
Charlotte recognized what game Dobson was playing immediately. As the butler, he was accustomed to being in complete control of the household and had no intention of relinquishing that control to someone else. Unfortunately for him, she could not in good conscience leave such an ill-tempered tyrant in command. If this was how he treated newcomers, she was loath to think how he ordered about the existing staff. Having already lived in one house where the servants were not treated with kindness, she would not live in another, especially not when she had the ability to change it.
Still, she needed to maintain some semblance of decorum. It would not do to pick a fight within minutes of her arrival, and thus with great difficulty she forced a smile. Perhaps Dobson was simply nervous. Perhaps he thought his job was in jeopardy. Or perhaps he was a miserable old goat with no regard for others. Whatever the reason for his behavior, it would not behoove her to fly off the handle. She needed the respect of her staff to run an efficient household, not their insubordination, and no one could lead them faster into the latter than a disgruntled butler.
“Mr. Dobson, I can see we have gotten off on the wrong foot,” she said, summoning every ounce of sweetness and charm she possessed. “Both Tabitha and I would very much appreciate a tour of the house before we unpack, and surely there would be no one better equipped to do that than you. I can see, just by the outside, how well you have taken care of Shire House.”
Dobson studied her from top to bottom. His lip curled. “I am very busy. Mrs. Pinkham will prove more than adequate.” Then he turned and marched away, leaving Charlotte and Tabitha staring after him in open mouthed astonishment.
“Why, I never,” Tabitha gasped.
“You are not to listen to a single order he gives you, Tabitha.” Inwardly fuming, Charlotte snatched the leather carrying case out of her maid’s arms and shoved the gate open. It gave way with a groan and a shudder. “Do you understand? You are not to do a thing that horrid man asks. Not a single thing!”
Tabitha, who was accustomed to having demands barked at her and following them no matter what, paused mid-step and hugging the cloak she carried tight to her chest. “Are you certain, Lady Charlotte? I-I wouldn’t want to create any problems, or give Mr. Graystone cause to be angry with me.”
“You leave the problem causing to me, Tabitha. I shall take care of Mr. Dobson.” With her ominous vow lingering in the air, Charlotte drew back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and led the way into their new home.
Gavin had wanted to be present when Charlotte arrived. He even had some fanciful notion of picking her a bouquet of Scottish heather, never mind that it didn’t bloom in the dirt-strewn streets of London. He would have figured out how to get some. But as it tended to do, work delayed him, and he did not arrive home until well after dark.
Dobson met him at the front door to take his coat, which Gavin gladly relinquished. Having attended three times the number of meetings he usually did to make up for his delayed absence, he was thoroughly exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to down a tumbler of brandy and fall face first into his bed.
The house was quiet. The candles were doused. No one stirred save himself and Dobson, and in that moment Gavin was glad he had not done something so foolish as to bring his wife flowers. What did he think, that she would be waiting up to welcome him home with open arms? Dragging a hand through his hair and down over his face, he crossed the foyer and entered his study to pour himself a stiff drink.
Dark and masculine, the study boasted mahogany paneling, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and heavy leather furniture. The oversized desk in the middle of the room had belonged to the last owner. Gavin had not kept it out of any sense of nostalgia, but rather as a reminder that he had come out on top of a rich nabob who had squandered all that he’d been given. Title, wealth, social prestige…It had meant nothing once Lord Manheim lost all his money at the gambling tables, and Gavin had been ruthless in taking advantage of the poor sop’s failings.
He didn’t feel bad about it. Not when that same nabob, and the others like him, had spent their entire life looking down their noses at Gavin. As if they were better, all the way down in their bones better, simply because of who their parents were.
Well, he’d proven them all wrong, hadn’t he? First when he’d purchased this ailing manor at auction for a song and proceeded to turn it into one of the finest residences in all of Grosvenor Square. And now he’d done it again by marrying one of their own. With Charlotte on his arm, he’d finally be their equal. It was what he’d always wanted. What he’d always secretly yearned for. He knew that if he could just get this last piece, he’d finally feel
whole and this gnawing aching in his soul, this–this blankness, would cease to exist.
But as he sat behind the desk, Gavin found that something was still missing. Which didn’t make any damned sense. He had wealth. He had more houses than he could live in. He had a lady wife to put on his arm.
What else was there?
Dobson followed him into the study, an ever-present shadow that had lurked the halls of Shire House since he was a young boy. For three generations the Dobson family had proudly served here, until Lord Manheim lost his fortune and was forced to sell. With Dobson already knowing so much about the house and grounds it had only made sense to keep him on, and so Gavin had, along with most of the rest of the staff.
“Is there anything more you require, sir?” Dobson asked.
Reaching for the brandy that was always kept in the left hand drawer of his desk, Gavin poured himself a glass, then shook his head. “No, nothing else. Wait. There is one thing.”
“Yes?” the butler queried patiently.
Tipping his head back, Gavin drained his glass in a single swallow, then promptly poured another. “Did everything go accordingly with the arrival of my wife?”
“It went quite well, Mr. Graystone, although…” Dobson hesitated, and Gavin tensed.
He knew something would go wrong. All bloody day he found himself thinking about Charlotte when his mind should have been on matters of business. He worried for her constantly, wondering if her journey was going smoothly, wondering if she was afraid after what had happened the last time she got in a carriage, wondering if she needed him, wondering if she wanted him. The woman was inside his head more than he was, and he cursed himself for not having the control necessary to tuck her away in some dark corner of his mind and forget about her, if only for a few hours.
“What happened?” He jumped to his feet, ready to charge up the stairs and run to Charlotte’s aide like some bloody knight in shining armor. “Damn you Dobson, tell me!” When the butler took a step back, Gavin ordered himself to take a deep, calming breath. Bloody hell. He was behaving like a mad man. “What I meant to say, did anything occur that would require my immediate attention?”
“Nothing untoward,” Dobson assured him quickly. “Your wife arrived precisely on time. I was there to greet her. Mrs. Pinkham gave her a tour of the estate and she retired early to her room.”
Retired early? Gavin frowned. That did not sound like his Charlotte at all. After being penned up inside the inn for so many days he expected her to enjoy her newfound freedom, not hide in her room immediately after arriving. “Is she ill?”
“Ill?” Dobson repeated. “No, not that I know of. I believe she was tired from traveling.”
A plausible excuse, Gavin reasoned as he slowly lowered himself into his chair. “Then what is the issue?”
“Upon her arrival, your wife seemed…displeased.”
“Displeased?” Gavin repeated blankly. “Displeased about what?”
“Shire House, sir.”
“Shire House?”
“Yes,” Dobson nodded. “I do not believe it met her…expectations.”
“I told Charlotte it was undergoing renovations. She has placed herself in charge of decorating all the rooms. No oranges, though. She does not like the color orange. It clashes with her hair,” he explained, smiling ever-so-slightly as he recalled their conversation atop the hill. Noting the lines that still furrowed Dobson’s brow, he sighed and said, “Speak frankly, man. Say what you have to say, and be done with it.”
The butler clasped his hands behind his back. “It was not the renovations she disliked so much as the house itself. I believe she found Shire House to be wanting. I would never dare speak out of turn, but I believe Lady Graystone was expecting…more.”
More, Gavin repeated silently. What the hell did more mean?”
“I am sure she will come around,” Dobson said. “It may simply take her some time to adjust to the life of a common woman.”
Maybe if Gavin had not been plagued by the same concerns, he would have been able to laugh off Dobson’s observations. As it was, the butler’s words only served to confirm his suspicions.
Charlotte would never be happy here.
Not when she was married to a commoner.
“Thank you, Dobson. You can retire for the night.” He lifted his glass, tipping it this way and that to study the way the candlelight shot through the brandy. “I will speak with you tomorrow morning about some changes I’d like to make on the third floor.”
“Have a good evening, sir.” Dobson left, closing the door discreetly behind him.
For more than an hour Gavin remained unmoving in his chair. His throat was dry, but he didn’t take another sip of liquor. Instead he sat, watching the candles as they sputtered and died one by one. He welcomed the darkness as one would a lover, too familiar with the lack of light to be disconcerted by it. Once upon a time it had been his job to move in the shadows, back when he was nothing. Back when he was no one.
He was someone now. Someone men envied. Someone women lusted after. He should have been content with what he had, but it still wasn’t enough. And he was beginning to fear it never would be.
Seeking solace in the darkness both inside and out, he pushed aside his glass and lifted the bottle.
Chapter Nineteen
Charlotte woke at dawn.
She remained perfectly still for several minutes, giving her body time to catch up with a mind that was already racing. Outside the deep set windows that ran the length of one wall and overlooked the back gardens, she could hear birds chirping merrily as they hopped from branch to branch, doing all the things little birds did in the early morning. Oh to be a sparrow, without a care in the world.
She closed her eyes and let herself imagine it: the sensation of wind beneath her wings, the ease of flight, the bright, cheerful songs, the cats and the hawks and the snakes. Her eyes flew open and she grimaced. Every creature, large or small, had its own set of problems. Even darling songbirds were not exempt.
Rolling out of bed, she wrapped herself in a pale blue dressing robe and padded barefoot down the hall. No one stirred in any of the rooms she passed, giving her cause to wonder if she was the only one awake, or if the rooms were simply empty.
Tabitha had been given a chamber on the fourth floor. Charlotte hoped the maid slept in, and had already told her to take the day off. As for Charlotte, she intended to spend the next few hours exploring. She wanted to know her new home. She wanted to feel it. In all of her life she had never been in charge of anything, and she was looking forward to bringing Shire House back to life.
Certainly Gavin had begun the process. During her tour yesterday Charlotte had admired the work that had already been put into the grand old dowager. For that was how she thought of her new home. Not a mansion or an estate, but a dowager, one whom had fallen on hard times only to be plucked from the brink of ruination by a generous benefactor.
Her fingertips trailed down the oak banister as she descended the curving staircase that led to the front foyer. The wood felt grimy against her skin and was in desperate need of a good polish to make it gleam. She could only assume cleaning had been put by the wayside as walls were plastered over and floors were replaced, but now that the construction had ceased the first thing on her agenda would be to have everything thoroughly swept, dusted, and polished.
She kept an eye out for Dobson as she tip toed from the foyer into what Mrs. Pinkham had described as the music room, even though there were no instruments to be had, not even a pianoforte. With all the natural light Charlotte rather thought the room would make an excellent library, although she had not shared her thoughts with Mrs. Pinkham. The tall, thin woman had the look of someone who was perpetually annoyed and had exerted the same amount of enthusiasm as Dobson upon meeting her, which was to say none at all.
In fact, with the exception of a fair-haired scullery maid who flashed a brief, hesitant smile when Charlotte popped her head into the kitchen, she
had yet to meet any member of the staff who seemed pleased about her arrival. Not only that, but all of those she met thus far seemed distinctly displeased about it, and for that Charlotte blamed Dobson.
As she had suspected, the butler had complete control of the staff. What he approved of they approved of, and what he disliked–which, as of right now, was her for reasons she could not fathom–they disliked as well. She would have to win them over bit by bit, or she feared they would all have to be replaced for a household of servants that did not respect their mistress was a household of servants on the brink of revolt. Gavin had already given her so much. A way out of marrying Paine. More freedom than she could have had with any other husband. An endless allowance to spend as she saw fit. The least she could do was repay him with a house that ran seamlessly.
Crossing to a window, she drew back the heavy curtain, sneezed from the dust that billowed into the air, and pressed her fingertips against the smudged glass. She had a clear view of the front lawn. It rolled away from the house, sloping slightly down towards the black iron fence that wrapped around the entire property.
A lone phaeton rolled down the lane, pulled by a sleepy looking gray gelding. Waiting until it had passed to drop the curtains back into place, Charlotte continued her singular tour of the house, wandering from room to room until she found herself in a wing she was quite certain Mrs. Pinkham had not shown her the day before. Unable to suppress her inquisitive nature, she opened the first door she came across and came up short at the sight that greeted her.
Gavin, wearing nothing save an unbuttoned pair of rust colored breeches, lay sprawled across a leather chaise lounge, his feet propped up on one end and his head lolling off the edge of the other. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with his soft snores, and as Charlotte stepped into the room she spied the reason for his deep sleep on the desk behind him.
Brandy, she decided after taking a whiff from the empty bottle. Wrinkling her nose, she took a long, hard look at Gavin, determined he was not going to be waking anytime soon, and began a slow, thorough exploration of his study.
Runaway Duchess (London Ladies Book 1) Page 17
