“How are your cesspits?” Julian inquired, sounding as sympathetic as he could muster (i.e. not sympathetic at all).
Kildale’s complexion darkened to puce at the reminder. “Overrun,” he bit out shortly. “Apparently it is the work of vandals. Blew the demmed things up with some sort of combustible.”
Julian’s mouth twitched at the edges. He couldn’t help it. “Oh, dear. Who would want to do such a thing?”
Kildale glowered at him, his opinion on that subject plain to see. “I can think of one person.”
“Well, I do hope you catch the culprit.”
Kildale just grunted.
Lady Ambrosia chose that moment to interrupt, strolling up to them with a simpering Lady Highbottom hanging off her arm. With her pale skin, rosy cheeks and hourglass figure, she was the perfect English Rose—an undeniable beauty, if one went in for that sort of thing. But beauty didn’t mean much to Julian. He’d seen prettier women, and he’d learned quite quickly in life that physical attractiveness rarely indicated a correspondingly pleasant disposition.
He bowed over Lady Ambrosia’s hand in a gentlemanly manner that would have impressed Fawkes, had the peacock been there to witness it. One look at the elegantly turned out Lady Ambrosia, and he knew he’d need to be on his best behavior if he was to win her favor.
“Lady Ambrosia, welcome to Arncliffe Castle,” he said, more genuine in his greeting than he had been with the marquess.
“Mr. Hirst. It’s a pleasure,” she said, sounding anything but pleased.
Well, that would never do. He’d never had to work very hard for a woman to find him attractive, but it seemed Fawkes might have been correct about Ambrosia’s exacting standards.
“I look forward to knowing you better, my lady,” he said, making sure his voice conveyed just the right amount of hidden meaning.
“I look forward to you trying,” she returned rather dryly, turning back to the viscountess with one last dismissive glance his way.
As he watched the ladies disappear inside the castle, he reassessed his assumptions about Lady Ambrosia. Fawkes had warned him the lady was a snob, but Julian had never been one to turn down a challenge. He’d seduced women far more hostile than her. He’d have her writhing beneath him in no time.
He could feel Kildale’s cold glare on the side of his face, watching him watch his daughter.
“I know what you’re trying to do, and I won’t have it,” Kildale stated.
Well, it seemed they were skipping the pleasantries altogether. He deepened his smile, which only seemed to infuriate Kildale even more.
“And just what is that?”
“A rookery bastard like you isn’t fit to breathe the same air as my daughter, much less court her.”
“It seems you’ve been checking up on me, then,” he said. “You hardly knew who I was when we last met.”
“I know enough. I cannot afford to return to London—you have made it impossible to raise any money. What grudge you bear against me, I cannot fathom, but I will not see my daughter married to a man of such low intentions.”
Lord Kildale’s estimation of him was rather generous, if he thought Julian intended to marry the chit. But Julian was quite happy for the marquess to believe the lie. For now.
“Then you have not investigated me enough,” Julian retorted. “Otherwise you would know precisely what grudge I bear against you.”
“Nevertheless, I know my daughter. You may try, but you shall not win her favor. She’ll have a peer and nothing less.”
“And how many of those peers would settle your debts for the pleasure of her hand?”
Kildale’s face was nearly purple with rage…and just the smallest shade of interest at Julian’s implication. “If this is all just a scheme of yours to buy my daughter’s hand, I’ll have you know I won’t be extorted in such a fashion.”
“Will you not?” Julian said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
“Of course not!” Kildale huffed, but he couldn’t quite meet Julian’s eye. If pressed enough, Kildale would fold like a house of cards.
“Your concern for your daughter does you credit,” he said dryly. “I didn’t think you cared for anyone else in the world but yourself.”
“Of course I care for Ambrosia!”
The extent of that claim seemed debatable, but Julian hoped that it was somewhat true, for it would hurt that much more when Kildale saw his only offspring cast out of the very society he so highly valued.
“I suppose we shall soon see how much,” Julian said, and left the sputtering marquess to find his own way inside without a backward glance.
So much for pretty manners. One more moment alone with the marquess, and he might have done the man a violence. And that would never do. He didn’t want to kill Kildale. He just wanted to make him suffer for the rest of his miserable life. That seemed an eminently more satisfying revenge. When Julian was through with him, the marquess wouldn’t have a daughter any more. At least, none he could bear to acknowledge.
Bones intercepted him as he walked back to the workshop, which didn’t surprise Julian at all. He seemed as concerned over Julian’s imagined nuptials as the marquess and had probably been spying on the front entrance all morning, waiting for an opportunity to harangue Julian.
“Thought ruining the blighter would be enough for ya,” Bones said morosely, falling into step with Julian. “Marrying ‘is daughter is a different kettle o’ fish. Never thought you’d actually go this far.”
“It’s like you don’t know me at all, Bones.”
“I thought after all these years you would’ve finally let go of yer little obsession.”
Julian nearly laughed in Bones’s face. Let go of it? “The man as good as murdered my mother,” he said stonily. “I’ll never let it go.”
Bones shook his head, not looking nearly chastened enough for Julian’s taste. “I know ya hired some cove behind my back for whatever you’ve done to Kildale House. It’s like you doan trust me at all anymore.”
“Of course I trust you. If you’re worried about me…”
Bones’ expression darkened. “I jus’ wonder ‘ow far you’ll go with Kildale, and whether anything we’ve built’ll be left standing at the end.”
“Anything that I’ve built, you mean,” he corrected. “I’ve made you more than a rich man, Bones. But my fortune is mine alone, and mine to lose.”
Something unpleasant flashed through Bones’ eyes just as his body seemed to deflate with resignation. “Of course, Jules. Jus’ wished I didn’t ‘ave to watch, is all.”
Julian clapped his friend on the back, determined to put their argument to bed, and entered the workshop. He hated when he and Bones were at odds, but it seemed to happen with more frequency ever since Julian had set his sights on Lady Ambrosia.
Bones knew that the only reason Julian had worked as hard as he did over the years was so he could have his revenge. To think that Julian would give that up now was laughable.
He should really tell Bones his actual intentions toward Lady Ambrosia. The joke had gone on long enough, and perhaps assuring his man-of-affairs his plans did not, in fact, include matrimony, would assuage Bones’ worries. The avaricious man seemed terrified Julian was going to give his entire fortune over to his wife’s whims or something equally absurd.
But as Julian entered the workshop, he spotted Fawkes’ head peeking over the slowly eroding foolscap mountain, and held his peace. He couldn’t exactly explain himself to Bones now, not with Fawkes there to poke his nose where it didn’t belong yet again.
Though Fawkes seemed entirely unimpressed by Lady Ambrosia, Julian didn’t think his prim little secretary would approve of his nefarious plans of seduction and ruin. And he certainly didn’t want to hear some affronted lecture on the subject. Though why he should care about Fawkes’ opinion on the matter was beyond him.
He took up a wrench and went straight to work on his prototype, hoping to have an end to the subject.
Bones seemed to take the hint and shook his head in resignation. He watched Julian fuss about the engine instead. “So is it done yet?”
Julian sighed. He had even less interest in talking about the engine than he did Kildale. “You just can’t be pleased these days, Bones. What’s your hurry?”
Bones’ beetle brow furrowed. “You ain’t worried about the blunt, but I am.”
He should have known in this too Bones’ worries would be the same as always. Julian’s accumulation of wealth had been a means to an end for him, but for Bones, the money was his highest priority. No matter how much Julian gave him, Bones always seemed to want more—always seemed to think he deserved more.
Julian should be more worried about his friend’s greed. But then he’d have to worry about himself. It was just that his greed was not for the actual money, but rather the revenge that money could buy him.
He already had more than enough for his purposes, and with his revenge finally at hand, he had minimal interest in accumulating more at the moment. Bones would just have to get over it.
“If you must know, I’m waiting to test it when Sir Wesley visits,” Julian said.
Something clattered to the flagstone floor, and he turned to find Fawkes staring down at a fallen inkpot with a constipated expression. What was wrong with the lad?
“I didn’t know ‘e were planning on a visit,” Bones said sourly. He’d dubbed the boffleheaded Sir Wesley a “rum cull of the first order”, the type of gentleman he disdained the most in the world.
Sir Wesley’s opinion of Bones was no better, and Julian found it amusing to watch them circle each other warily, rather like a pair of feral cats. Well, a feral cat and a puppy—Sir Wesley definitely being the puppy.
“He said he’d stop in soon, but there’s been a family emergency he’s had to attend to. Something to do with his sister.”
A strange, choking sound came from his secretary. He turned yet again to find Fawkes crouched down low, fumbling to retrieve the inkpot as he coughed up a lung, face tomato red.
Good God.
“Do you need some water, Fawkes? Or a sawbones? You’re not coming down with the plague, are you?”
Fawkes just waved dismissively for several long seconds while he composed himself enough to speak. “I’m fine,” he squeaked out. “Nothing to worry about here.”
Julian highly doubted that. “Have you heard anything from your cousin, Fawkes?”
“Wh…wha…who?” Fawkes shot to his feet with the recovered inkpot, sloshing ink across his cheekbone in his haste and looking everywhere but Julian. Rather like Kildale had done when he’d been trying to hide something.
Julian narrowed his eyes at his secretary. There was no possible way the nosy little peacock didn’t know full well who he was talking about. “Sir Wesley,” he prompted. “Have you heard from Sir Wesley? There’s been some sort of palaver with his sister.”
“It’s…ah, the first I’ve heard of it,” Fawkes said, cheeks still scarlet, blue eyes too wide behind those ridiculous spectacles. The lad was a terrible liar. What could he possibly know about his cousins that made him so skittish?
He turned back to his man-of-affairs. “As I said, Sir Wesley’s sister has involved herself in some scandal. Otherwise he would have been here sooner. He wants to fly his charlière here.”
Bones’ face twisted into a disgusted scowl. His man-of-affairs didn’t even like to ride in a carriage. He definitely didn’t want to have anything to do with Sir Wesley’s more lofty mode of transport. “That fancy arse French balloon of his?”
“Sounds interesting,” Julian said, ignoring Bones’ disapproval.
“Sounds like a terrible way to die,” Bones muttered, but he seemed to have finally had enough of the conversation and stalked out of the workshop, leaving him alone with Fawkes.
Julian studied his new employee as he scrubbed the ink off his cheek with one of his dandyish handkerchiefs. The fribble winced when he reached the edges of his tender black eye, which was starting to fade into a sickly mix of chartreuse and aubergine.
The injury seemed so incongruous on such an impeccably groomed man, but then Fawkes was full of incongruities. It was obvious from the first day that Fawkes was not telling him the whole truth, but Fawkes’ blackened eye made Julian inclined to let Fawkes’ little prevarications stand. Fawkes was clearly running from a bad situation.
Julian knew all about bad situations, and despite how he had protested at first, he couldn’t bring himself to send Fawkes away. Fawkes was annoying, but not so annoying as to be deserving of abuse. He couldn’t send the lad back to that.
Besides, the last thing he had time for at the moment was puzzling out his secretary. He’d let Fawkes have his little intrigues. For now.
Worse, he was beginning to suspect that he actually liked the little peacock. Fawkes had grown on him in the same slightly uncomfortable, slightly pleasurable way that facial hair sprouted on his face. Fawkes had against all odds managed to prove himself useful.
He had clearly underestimated his new employee. Fawkes didn’t seem to find him remotely frightening, and even had a rudimentary knowledge of physics, thanks to Sir Wesley. It was more than most of his short-lived assistants had ever managed. Fawkes was still painfully ignorant on the subject (as everyone was, invariably) but at least the little peacock showed some modicum of intelligence.
In fact, at the rate Fawkes was transcribing his old notes, Julian might have a chance in hell of actually publishing his tract on thermodynamics. He’d always wanted to, but hadn’t seen it happening for years.
And Julian…didn’t hate Fawkes’ company in the workshop. Fawkes had, against all odds, wormed his way underneath Julian’s skin. The little peacock had somehow broken through all of his well-hewn defenses in a matter of days. It was almost unsettling.
What was it about Fawkes? He studied the long, lean lines of Fawkes’ body beneath the coxcomb’s clothes, and the slenderness that seemed to be Fawkes’ natural state and not the symptom of some hidden ailment. Julian had seen Fawkes eat these past few days, after all. And eat.
And eat some more.
Fawkes’ appetite was more than healthy, and though he had the strength typical of most men of his station—very little, if any—he seemed unexpectedly resilient. He’d proven as much after spending several late nights in the workshop with Julian the past few days of his employment, demolishing the paper mountain with the grim determination of a gravedigger.
And if Julian had any lingering doubts about Fawkes’ health, he only had to glance down at the man’s plump derriere to reassure himself. Sickly men didn’t have arses like that.
Not that Julian spent his spare time glancing at Fawkes’ arse, but when he accidentally caught sight of it, say, when Fawkes was bending over to retrieve a fallen inkpot, for instance, he could hardly help but notice it. A blind man would notice it, for God’s sake. Fawkes’ backside was criminally attractive, especially in those ridiculously tight calf clingers Fawkes insisted on wearing. Women would have died to have an arse like that.
Men would have died to touch an arse like that.
As if on cue, Fawkes accidentally dropped his handkerchief as he moved to put it back in his pocket, and he bent over once more to fetch it. Julian groaned inwardly and tried not to look.
He really shouldn’t be having these sorts of thoughts about his secretary’s arse. But when had his brainbox ever worked the way he wanted it to?
He’d really have to have a talk with Fawkes about his wardrobe choices, for if the fribble wanted to deter rapacious women like Lady Highbottom, who had taken a keen interest in his new employee ever since that first night, he really needed to reconsider those pantaloons.
Staring at another man’s arse. Holy hell, what was he thinking? What was his body thinking? He was thankful that he wasn’t wearing inexpressibles today.
“Am I interrupting something?”
It was Lady Ambrosia’s voice, coming from the doorway, and it startle
d him so much that he dropped the wrench he’d been holding on his toes and cursed.
Fawkes froze, his arse stuck in the air, before straightening and throwing a horrified look between Julian and the newcomer.
Feeling like a schoolboy caught doing something naughty, Julian willed his body to behave, and turned to face Lady Ambrosia, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt.
“You’re not interrupting anything, my lady.”
Lady Ambrosia glanced between the two men skeptically. Her gaze stopped short on Fawkes, who looked nearly purple with chagrin for no discernible reason. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “And who is this?”
Fawkes’ blush only grew even worse, and his gaze darted around the room, as if he were looking for a place to hide. Was the lad so wet behind the ears he turned into a nervous wreck around the opposite sex? He’d seemed confident enough when he’d been casting aspersions upon the lady the day before.
“This is my…er, secretary. Mr. Fawkes,” he answered.
Fawkes gathered his composure enough to sweep the lady a rather elaborate bow.
Lady Ambrosia lifted a single eyebrow with pointed skepticism. “I see,” she said, scrutinizing the fribble from top to toe as if he were something she’d discovered on the bottom of her slipper. “You look very familiar to me, Mr. Fawkes.”
“Ah…That is…” Fawkes stuttered, wringing his hands, unable to even look at the lady.
Julian felt an uncharacteristic urge to intercede on Fawkes’ behalf, half out of pity at the lad’s poor showing around a lady, and half out of guilt at his earlier ogling. “Perhaps you know his cousin, Sir Wesley Benwick.”
Lady Ambrosia’s expression cleared. “Ah, of course. I am acquainted with Miss Benwick, Sir Wesley’s sister. You bear an uncanny resemblance to my friend.”
Fawkes gave an awkward bow. “My lady,” he managed to squeak out.
Ambrosia ignored the gesture and turned her attention to Julian, dismissing Fawkes from her notice now that her curiosity had been satisfied. “I came to inquire if you would accompany me on a ride, Mr. Hirst. That is, if you ride.”
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 10
