by The Bargain
Dorcas was quick to respond with a question of her own. "Madame, this Baron Mumford, is he a decent sort? I mean... he won't be one t' compromise the dear gel, will he?" Dorcas was hardly able to believe they'd won their case so quickly with Madame, and her skepticism showed.
Madame laughed and glanced at Megan. "Tell her, Megan, dear."
Megan's low, throaty laughter joined Madame's. "Baron Mumford is completely under the thumb of his dowager mother, his wife and his five daughters, all of whom live with him in a henpecking order in which he is at the bottom! It's the chief reason the poor man escapes and comes here whenever he can. No, rest your fears on that one, Dorcas. Our gentle lass will be safe in such a household."
"Well, then, Madame, I guess 'tis settled," said Dorcas, rising. She gave her employer a sheepish look. "Beg pardon fer our—our..."
"Tactics?" questioned Madame as she escorted them to the door. She laughed. "Never mind, Dorcas, I have every intention of allowing the two of you to make it up to me—in spades! And you can begin by preparing me a dinner of roast swan with truffles for tomorrow evening. I'm expecting none other than His Royal Highness, the prince regent, for dinner."
"Prinny? Here?" questioned Megan with a show of mild surprise. "But I thought he was in Brighton."
"He was supposed to be," replied Madame, "but some recent antics of his despicable German wife have sent him into a major depression, and I, as a dear old friend, have offered to help him shake it off. Dinner will be served at nine, Dorcas. Do not fail me."
"No, Madame," murmured the cook. She disappeared down the hallway muttering about where on earth she was to come by decent truffles on such short notice.
When both women had gone, Madame rang for her tea before settling back into the chair she had recently vacated, her thoughts filled with visions of Ashleigh Sinclair's perfect features.
A pity, thought Madame as she rearranged the skirts of her dressing gown. She would have made such a lovely whore.
CHAPTER TWO
Ravensford Hall, Kent, May 27th, 1814
John Westmont sat in a sunny patch of light that warmed a bench beside a eucalyptus tree in the conservatory of his country house, vainly trying to absorb enough of the heat from the sun's rays to warm his withered frame. It had been a long time since he had felt truly warm inside his aging bones, and he realized that he would never feel warm again. He was dying, and he had known it for some time now, despite the empty words of consolation offered by his physicians.
Well, no matter, he thought to himself in what was becoming a familiar attitude of philosophical reflection. I have done what was necessary to ensure the safety and continued health of the dukedom. Brett is all I could have hoped for, I can go to my grave in peace, and—
The opening of the conservatory door interrupted the duke's ruminations, and he looked up to see Lady Margaret approaching; spying her tall, spare frame, he could not help admiring the manner in which his twin carried the weight of her years. They'd both turned seventy-eight last November, yet where time had left John's body shrunken and racked with pain, it had done little to denote the same passage of years in his sister. She walked toward him now, as lean and straight-backed as she'd ever been, with a mildly lined face that could have belonged to a woman twenty years younger.
Annoyed with himself that he should be feeling a twinge of envy at this, he made an effort at clearing his throat, as if by the action he could clear his mind, and glanced up at his sister. "Well, what news?"
"He's home," replied Margaret. "His carriage just came up the drive, and I've instructed James to have him come to the library once he's settled in his chambers, in about half an hour." She waited a moment, giving her brother's face a careful scrutiny. "Those were your instructions, were they not?"
"Yes, yes," answered her twin with an impatient gesture. "Now, help me up and to the library. I want to be behind my desk when he arrives."
As Margaret did his bidding, handing him his cane and offering her arm as well, John asked himself whether he was being foolish in attempting to disguise his state of health from Brett. It wouldn't be long before the lad found out anyway. He allowed a small smile to crease his withered lips. He's hardly a tad anymore. Though I haven't laid eyes on him in over ten months, I can picture him as well as if he'd stood by my side yesterday... tall and strapping, with a healthy bronze color to his skin from all that seafaring.... Ah, Brett, I've missed you, boy!
Margaret led him to the library with slow, measured steps, stopping frequently to allow him to catch his breath and recoup his strength, but even so, he arrived at his desk exhausted and paler than before, and they barely had enough time to secure a lap robe about his lower torso when a firm knock at the door signaled Brett's arrival.
"Come in!" called the duke, trying to sound heartier than he'd felt in months.
The door swung open and in strode the tall, dashing figure of his grandson. Broad shouldered, with curling chestnut hair that just reached the high collar of his impeccably tailored riding jacket, he evinced a healthy male vitality that more than equaled the old duke's memory of him from ten months before.
It's damned near indecent for a man to be so handsome, thought John. And those eyes!
The very eyes the duke was regarding now lit up from within their turquoise depths as they met his grandfather's across the desk.
"Your Grace! How good it is to see you again!" Brett exclaimed. His eyes ran quickly over the old, familiar and beloved visage, and then a small frown creased the handsome brow. "I trust you have been well, sir?"
"Well enough for my eight-and-seventy," lied the duke. "But you, m'boy, you're looking wonderful! The sea continues to agree with you, eh? Here, no need to stand on formalities with me, Brett." He gestured toward a nearby armchair. "Sit down, sit down!"
"Ah... yes, Grandfather," replied Brett, "but first," he added, turning to his great-aunt who stood silently off to one side of the desk, "allow me to correct my manners. Lady Margaret," he said as he nodded politely in his great-aunt's direction. He had dispensed with the term "Aunt" years ago when addressing his grandfather's sister. There had never been any degree of affection between them, and if anything, the relationship had cooled even further over the years. "I trust you are well?" he added perfunctorily.
"I am, thank you." Margaret's reply was as routinely cool and distant as ever. "John," she said, turning toward her twin, "shall I send for tea?"
"No, time enough for that sort of thing later," answered the duke, "...ah, that is, unless you're in need of some refreshment, Brett. Are you? Should I offer some brandy, perhaps! Or—"
"Nothing, nothing!" laughed Brett, holding up his hands in mock protest. "You're out of character, you know, Grandfather. Remember your strictures of the past? Business first; pleasure later—if time and inclination allow!"
The duke smiled. "Ah, yes, I was a bit of a martinet then, I suppose." He shook a bony finger at his grandson. "But it was all done for a good and noble purpose!"
"True enough," agreed Brett as he took a seat after a brief, questioning gesture at his great aunt and the chair near her. But the barest shake of the old woman's head had told him she wished to remain standing. "Now, then, Grandfather, what is it you wish to hear of first? Shall I recount the latest turn in profits from your mercantile investments, or would you be more interested in hearing the details of my recent interviews with your estate managers in Sussex and Surrey? Or my chat with George Jenkins here in Kent? I saw them en route here, you know. The Ravenscrest docked well nigh a fortnight ago. You might say I took the long way home."
John nodded his approval of his heir's diligence, and they launched into an hour's discussion of the duke's vast business interests and holdings, with Brett doing most of the talking, the duke merely interrupting on occasion to ask a pertinent question or two and otherwise listening attentively, the old head with its snowy mane of hair nodding sagely from time to time. And during it all, Margaret said not a word, though her steely blue eyes regist
ered comprehension as she seemed to follow all the details of their conversation with ease.
"...So that about sums it up, sir. Even with the crop failure, it looks to be a profitable year." Brett finished with a look of genuine satisfaction on his face, a look that was mirrored by his grandfather's features.
"Well done, m'boy!" said the old man. He was more than gratified by what he'd heard. Brett had told him far more than the state of his financial empire during the interview; he had confirmed in the old man's mind what had been apparent for some time: Brett had become everything he had trained and raised him to be—a highly competent manager of his vast estates and their agrarian holdings; sometime captain/commander of an ever-growing merchant fleet that it had been the boy's idea to invest in, despite the disapproving rumblings of disdainful fellow members of the aristocracy who eschewed the idea of a member of the peerage soiling his hands with trade; a well-educated and honorable person in his own right—fair with his friends and ruthless with his enemies; in short, everything the duke himself held worthwhile and valued highly.... Of course, there was one more arena in which he'd consistently instructed his grandson, and he was about to embark upon that subject now.
"Tell me, Brett," said the old man, with a brief glance at Margaret. "What of your personal life these days. Are there any... steady friends I'm to learn of? Some I haven't met yet, perhaps?"
Brett laughed. "Well, sir, there's a giant of an Irishman you may not have heard me speak of yet... well, half Irish in blood, but Irish to the bone, to look at... knew him from the days we were cabin boys at sea together, but then I lost track of him for years—until a few months ago, that is, when we ran into each other at Almack's. You can imagine my surprise when Lady Jersey introduced us and she called him Sir Patrick! It seems he'd inherited a title in the interim!"
"Yes, yes," murmured the duke, "seems like a remarkable fellow, but what I meant was—ah—that is—are there any friendships—"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Brett, nearly rising out of his seat. "Come now, sir! You cannot mean what I think you mean!" He gave the duke's visage a careful scrutiny. "You mean women?" Brett threw back his head and laughed as if he'd just heard the best joke of his life.
When at last he had calmed down enough to resume speaking, he threw his grandfather an amused look, saying, "Oh, that's ripe, it is, and coming from you, of all people!"
Finally he added in a more subdued tone, "Forgive me, Grandfather, but wasn't it you yourself who taught me all there is to know about that treacherous sex? They're nothing but trouble of the worst sort, and a man would do well to remember it. 'A major source of evil in this world,' if I remember your words correctly, sir. Wasn't that what you told me?"
The duke nodded slowly, not even bothering to look at his twin, although he was acutely aware of her presence while this was going on, as well as of what was on her mind right now. "Yes, well, I'm gratified to see you've taken my words to heart, Brett," he said thoughtfully, "but—ah—the fact remains that there is one area in which their presence cannot be avoided in our lives. Do you recall it?"
"As well as I recall my own name," said Brett with a wry smile. "They are necessary for the begetting of sons... heirs, if you will."
"Precisely," nodded the duke with a meaningful glance.
Brett caught the look and suddenly rose forward even farther in his chair. "Here, now! Oh, come, you cannot be thinking... You are! You are actually asking me to consider... marriage! But why!"
"For the begetting of heirs, naturally." The words came from Lady Margaret. They were the first she'd spoken in more than an hour, and both men looked at her as if surprised she should be there at all.
But then the duke recalled exactly why he'd included her in the interview and rushed to explain. "You are nearly thirty years old now, Brett. It is an age at which it is not unusual for a man to consider marriage and the begetting of sons."
"Rubbish!" replied Brett. "And if this was a part of your plan for me, why wasn't I informed of it until now?" He peered closely at the duke. "Is there something you haven't told me?"
John hesitated under his grandson's careful examination, wondering whether now was the time to tell him of his failing health. It was the chief reason he had allowed Margaret to make certain inquiries, after all. He was not long for this world, and it was a world he could leave far more easily if he knew his only heir was well settled, with perhaps an heir on the way—or even, if he were lucky and God were truly merciful—an heir already born and thriving before John met his reward.
Seeing his hesitation, Margaret decided to save him the trouble of deciding what to tell Brett. "John, I know how you feel about this, but it is clear the boy needs the point driven home to him." She turned toward Brett. "His Grace's health is in jeopardy. He is failing by the day, as should have been apparent—"
"Margaret!" thundered the duke. "How dare you break our confidence!"
"It was not a confidence; it is common knowledge. One has only to look at you to learn the truth." Having silenced her brother, she turned again to Brett. "It is your duty to provide an heir—and soon."
Brett cast his grandfather a questioning glance. "Is it true?"
The old man nodded. "I'm afraid it is. And so you see the reason for the timing of my suggestion... or perhaps you can call it a request."
A frown of annoyance crossed Brett's brow. "And who, pray tell, is the fair lady I am to wed? I assume you've worked that out as well?"
The duke threw him a sheepish look and glanced at his twin, who rose to the occasion.
"You are well acquainted with the lady already," she replied with the first evidence of a smile Brett had seen since his return. "Lady Elizabeth Hastings is in every way a suitable—"
"Elizabeth Hastings!" roared Brett, bolting from his chair. "I might have known! It's always been the Hastingses with you, hasn't it, Lady Margaret? You've cared more about all of them over the years than you have about any of us. So much so, that you not only arranged that ruinous liaison between Lady Caroline Hastings and my poor, besotted father, but now you would compound that error by having me wed her bitch niece!"
He ignored the gasp of indignation from Margaret and turned to his grandfather. "And you, sir, how could you allow her to set her plotting claws into us once again? Lady Elizabeth Hastings! My God! I'd rather choke on the bile the thought of wedding her brings to my throat!"
"Brett," said the duke, reaching toward him with a gesture meant to placate. "It was my health. I had to let Margaret do the arranging!"
"Save your breath, Grandfather," said Brett, striding toward the door. "I have no intention of marrying for a long while. You've said it yourself. Women are a scourge, and the actions of the present company prove it." He turned at the door and scowled darkly at his great-aunt. "As far as I'm concerned, Lady Margaret, you are of a piece with women like the mother who deserted me and all the rest—ever treacherous. And as for Lady Elizabeth Hastings—" he sneered "—disabuse your mind of the notion that I shall ever align myself with that simpering niece of the stepmother who led my father astray!" He then turned sharply on his heel and left.
As they heard his footsteps echo down the hall, Margaret turned toward her twin. "Well?" she asked. "What now?"
The duke allowed himself a sigh. "It was to be expected, of course. Never mind, Margaret, leave him to me," he added tiredly. The interview with his grandson had taxed his strength considerably, and he was feeling exhausted. "Go ahead and arrange the marriage with the Hastingses. Brett will come around."
But after Margaret had gone, promising to send one of the footmen to help him to his chamber, John had second thoughts about what he'd told her. He thought he understood his grandson well. After all, he'd been the principal influence in his upbringing all these years. But what if he'd been assuming something that was missing here? In urging the lad to beware of women and never to trust them, had he perhaps done his job too well? He remembered the look on Brett's face as he'd raged against the so-called fai
rer sex. It had been full of utter disdain, even hatred. Was it possible that the lad had never even had a woman? He pondered the question for a moment. It was highly unlikely, wasn't it? That was to say, given the boy's arresting good looks.... Suddenly a horrifying thought raised its ugly head. What if, by some errant twist of fate, some mischief perpetrated by the gods, the boy weren't... normal? But as quickly as the thought came, it dissipated. The duke had traveled in sophisticated circles in his day, and had met his share of gentleman of that ilk, and he knew in his bones that Brett could never, by any stretch of the imagination, be one of them.
Well, what then? And once again the improbable notion arose that the lad might somehow have survived all those years of his youth, owing to the hard and relentless schedule of his rearing and training, as a virgin! Impossible though it sounded, that would explain it... would it not?
Suddenly he pulled open the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a piece of the fine ivory vellum that bore an imprint of his family coat of arms at the top. Dipping a nearby quill into the Limoges inkwell that sat on the desk, he hastily penned a note. A few moments later, when it had been sealed and sanded, the seal also bearing the Ravensford family crest of a raven atop a battlement, he was handing it to the footman who had come to assist him to his chambers. "See that this is delivered to my solicitor, Merton, one Mister Robert Adams. The gentleman is down from London, by my request. You will find him staying at the Red Dog Inn in Folk-stone. No need to wait for a reply."
