Not, of course, that he was going to reveal any of that to Brant in the middle of a conversation regarding wives, and especially not after that disastrous encounter this morning in the barn. The less he shared with his brother regarding Fan, the better.
“Is this the reason you’ve come to bedevil me?” he asked, grumbling still. “So that we can sit here, dry, wizened old bachelors, wondering why no decent women will have us for husbands?”
Brant laughed, settling comfortably into the chair beside George’s. They both had every reason for being comfortable, for they had dined on one of Small’s exemplary dinners and had also drunk a good deal of the excellent wine that Brant had brought with him as a house-warming gift. If only George’s conscience wasn’t so busy plaguing him over Fan and the stable, then he, too, might be feeling as relaxed and content, and chuckling like some simple-minded idiot.
“Since when,” continued Brant, “does one brother need a reason to visit another?”
“Since that first brother shudders at the thought of leaving London for any other less worthy place,” answered George, “by which he means the entire rest of the country, including the remote home of the second brother.”
“But it is your home, George, however remote,” said Brant evenly, stretching his legs before him, “and as your wiser, older brother, I wished to see how you’ve tossed away your good fortune.”
Moodily George swirled his brandy in the glass. “You don’t like Feversham, do you? What was it you called it? ‘An ancient pile of out-of-fashion rubble’? You think I’d have done better walking to the edge of the sea and heaving the money directly into the waves.”
“What I think is that you have found a home that suits you to perfection,” said Brant, his smile genuinely fond. “You could no more live amidst the marble, gilt, and looking-glasses of Claremont Hall than you could on the moon. But this house will be your home, George. I could tell that from the drive, before I’d even come inside. My only hope is that you have time to enjoy it as you deserve.”
“Why the devil not?” Instantly George forgot his grumbling, all eagerness as he leaned forward in his chair. “What have you heard, Brant? What are they saying in London?”
Brant shrugged with a true courtier’s understatement. “Nothing definite, no true words to pin your hopes upon. But the whispers do fly about like butterflies, everywhere one goes.”
“‘Butterflies’?” exclaimed George incredulously. “Damnation, Brant, tell me what they’re saying. Tell me if I have half a chance of being called back and given a ship before I’m old as Methuselah!”
“Oh, I should venture before that,” said Brant. “They say that Addington’s days in power are dwindling. They say that neither side of his coalition has faith in the other. They say Pitt stands just off in the shadows, waiting and smiling like the tabby ready to steal the cream. But the rumors that should mean the greatest to you come from France, where Napoléon Buonaparte is still slicing away at his own government, as if no peace were ever signed.”
“Buonaparte.” George sank back in his chair, letting the impact of his brother’s news blossom and grow. Brant knew everyone in London that was worth knowing, and while his rumors could have just as readily have come from an actress at Drury Lane as an acquaintance in the House of Lords, they were generally more reliable than many other men’s sworn facts. If Brant had heard that Buonaparte was disregarding the Treaty of Amiens, then he was.
It was as simple as that, and as complicated. If the peace ended and Britain returned to war, the fleet would be the first service mobilized. The last time they’d been at war, the Navy hadn’t been permitted to deal Buonaparte the final blow that he deserved, and now, at last, would come their chance to finish the task.
George was ranked high enough on the captain’s list to be among the first called back, and he was certain to receive a command, a good command, too, based on his record. Given his success with prize money, he’d have his pick of crewmen as well. It might damned well be as close to perfect as the Navy could make it. His orders could take him anywhere, to the Caribbean again, the Mediterranean, the Baltic, and George realized now he was the one grinning like an idiot.
“I thought this would be happy news to you,” said Brant quietly. “Though God knows I’m hardly as eager to see my brother go back to war.”
George shook his head, knowing that this, too, was another thing he’d never be able to explain to his brother. “I’m not some bloodthirsty savage, Brant. I’ve seen too much killing to treat death lightly.”
“I didn’t say you were.” He sighed softly, his regret palpable. “We each found new worlds, new lives, to replace the ones our dear bastard of a father stole from us, and yours was the sea, and the Navy with it. I’ll even grant you that the Admiralty has served you with more kindness than our father ever did. But this time will be different for you, won’t it, Georgie? Because this time, when you sail, you’ll have a home of your own—this home—to leave behind.”
Home. Slowly George glanced around his bedchamber, from the sweep of the window to the old-fashioned bed, to how he’d arranged his books and papers and journals exactly the way he wished them on his table-turned-desk. Brant was right. He would miss Feversham, and for the first time in many years he’d sail away with a yearning to return home, because, at last, he’d a home that would be waiting.
But with an odd twist in his chest, he realized that Feversham meant more to him than the house alone. It meant Fan, the two so closely intertwined that it was impossible to imagine one without the other. He had never before gone to sea with a heart burdened by a tearful farewell from a sweetheart, and he’d never gone into battle or a storm with last thoughts of a special woman waiting ashore for his return. This time for him would be different, because this time he’d be carrying the memory of Fan’s face with him, her kiss, how she’d felt to hold in his arms….
“So where is your fair housekeeper, George?” asked Brant lightly, pulling George abruptly from his thoughts. “All I’ve seen here has been your usual pack of unruly rascals.”
“You mean Fan,” answered George without thinking, until he saw the satisfied smile cross his brother’s face. “She sent word earlier that she was feeling unwell, and has kept to her rooms for most of the day.”
“That is her name, eh?” asked Brant. “Fan? A sweet name, doubtless for a sweet lady. No wonder you’ll regret leaving her behind when you sail.”
With a grumbling sigh, George knew better than to try to deny it. He’d never been able to keep secrets from Brant. Too often it was as if he’d written his thoughts on his forehead, there plain as day for his brother to read.
“Yes, I shall miss her when my orders come,” he admitted, still choosing his words with care. “She has been most useful to me in arranging Feversham.”
“Then I wonder why doesn’t your face take on the same mooncalf glow when you speak of, say, your steward?” mused Brant, running his fingertips around the rim of his glass. “Certainly he must be of equal use in arranging your quarters for you as Miss Fan.”
“Stow it, Brant,” ordered George. “Now, before you venture on to say things we shall both regret. The, ah, the connection between Fan Winslow and me is of no concern to you, mind? None.”
Bemused, Brant regarded him over the edge of the glass. “You would thrash me for the sake of this woman?”
“If it came to that, yes,” said George deliberately, and he realized he meant it, too, his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. “Don’t test me, Brant.”
“I shouldn’t dream of it,” said Brant easily. “I’ve no doubt you’d blacken both my eyes and leave me groveling for mercy. I concede the field of honor entirely to you, my dear bellicose brother, and shall vow to say not one word further of your housekeeper. All that’s left for us now is to do honor to this excellent brandy, and drink to the swift confusion of old Monsieur Buonaparte.”
Lying on her bed with the paper propped against her knees, Fan tallied t
he figures once again, making sure they were right. Unlike many of the larger smuggling companies that took their tea directly to merchants in London, hers still catered to individuals, selling the bags of tea to a list of regular customers, inns and coffeehouses and even to the kitchens of several grand houses in the county.
The deliveries were begun as soon as Markham’s shipments were unloaded; only in rainy weather was the tea kept longer in a warehouse. Then, on the following night, with Will Hood as her escort, she would follow the same route as the deliveries had taken, make the usual small conversation, and collect the payments.
But tonight would be different. Tonight she’d have to slip unnoticed from a house still in an uproar over the arrival of the duke, and tonight, too, she’d have to tell each of her customers of the increase in tea’s price.
She put aside the paper, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. As exhausted as she was, she hadn’t been able to sleep, and now her weariness was compounded by an aching head. How foolish she’d been to believe even for those few minutes in the stable that there could ever be anything special or lasting between her and George! The kiss they’d shared had been magical—more than magical!—but then he’d discovered her pistol, and the magic had vanished as quickly as the dew at dawn.
He was an officer and a peer, sworn to serve the king, while she was common-born as could be, his servant, and devoted to picking that same king’s pocket. What kind of future could they ever build together with so much between them?
She slid her hands over her eyes and bowed her head over her knees. But she would not cry: not for George, not for herself, not for the passion and love and life they’d never share.
She would not cry.
“Miss Winslow? Are you within, Miss Winslow?”
“A moment, if you please.” She didn’t recognize the man’s voice through the door, but given all the people who’d arrived with the duke this morning, that wasn’t unusual. But for him to come here to her room to summon her after she’d left express word not to be disturbed could only mean some genuine catastrophe must have happened below stairs.
Quickly she sniffed, and swiped her eyes with the hem of her sheets before she slid from the bed. She shoved the paper with her figuring beneath her pillow and, on second thought, put her pistol there as well. Next she pulled the coverlet from the end of the bed and flung it over her nightshift, padding across the floor on bare feet to open the door.
The man was standing away from the door, his face indistinct in the shadows of the hall, but she could make out enough to know he must be one of the duke’s men, and not George’s.
“Yes?” she said with her best haughty housekeeper’s voice. “Is there a problem downstairs that requires me?”
“So you did in fact take to your bed,” said the man, not bothering to answer her question, “and by yourself, too. Ah, what joy to find a woman both honest and honorable!”
“And what a trial for me to find a man who is neither,” she said irritably. The fellow definitely was one of the duke’s people. Not only did he speak with a London accent to ape his betters, but his manner carried a London cockiness to it as well, taunting her about being honorable and honest. “Tell me your business now, else I’ll have you turned out in the morning for your insolence, see if I don’t.”
The man laughed, amused. “You truly have no notion of who I am, do you?” he marveled. “How barbarously ill-mannered of me, Mistress Winslow, to keep such a secret! I am the Duke of Strachen, and I do pray you won’t turn me out in the morning.”
Finally he stepped forward into the light from the open door, and she could see the undeniable resemblance between George and his older brother.
“Oh, my,” she said faintly. “You are the duke, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he said with a graceful twist of his wrist. “Although ‘Good day, Your Grace’ is the more customary greeting.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, ducking into the required curtsey. Insolence from a duke held a somewhat different color than the same ill manners in a footman. “But since your visit here to my rooms like this is far from customary, the customary greeting flew straight from my head.”
He laughed again, not at all irritated with her reply. “You are every bit as prickly as my brother said you were. ‘A dish of nettles’, I believe is what he said, and every bit as prickly as he is himself.”
“Nettles,” she repeated, perplexed. She’d always thought of herself as practical, straightforward, with no patience for folderol or nonsense. Admirable qualities, she’d always thought, not…prickly.
“And of course you are most handsome, even in your shift,” continued the duke, looking her up and down in frank appraisal, and approval. “Honest, honorable, handsome, and prickly, every attribute that George would seek. No wonder he is so besotted with you.”
“George—that is, Captain Lord Claremont—is not besotted with me,” she answered quickly, stunned that his brother would even suggest such a thing. “Not in the least.”
“No?” said the duke. “I have known him far longer than you, Miss Winslow, and I can assure you that he is more thoroughly besotted with you than I have ever seen him before with any other woman. Might I come in? If we are to discuss George’s besottedness, then we should do so with more privacy, and besides, this hallway is deuced drafty.”
She opened the door further to let him enter past her, still too preoccupied with what he’d just told her to argue. Besides, she doubted a worldly gentleman like the duke would be much impressed to learn that, other than her father, he was the first man, highborn or low, to be invited into her rooms, especially so late and with her in her nightclothes.
He stood poised before one of the two chairs, respectfully waiting for her to sit first. It was a small nicety she hadn’t anticipated, and enough to make her blush as she scurried to the second chair, plopping down in an ungainly tangle between the coverlet and her bare feet.
He, of course, had no such tangle, flipping aside his coattails as he sat with perfect masculine grace. He was more classically handsome than George, his features more regular and less weathered on account of spending his life in drawing rooms instead of on board a warship, and his hair was a neat shock of burnished golden blond instead of George’s unruly dark waves. But what she noticed most was the guarded sadness in his eyes, almost as if he didn’t quite trust his own elegant facade and cleverness. If this was the opposite of what he called “prickly” in George and herself, then she’d gladly claim the nettles.
“You wish to speak of your brother with me, Your Grace?” she asked, self-consciously straightening her back against the spindles of the chair. “To be sure, there is little enough to discuss. Captain Lord Claremont is the owner of Feversham, and I am Feversham’s housekeeper.”
The duke made a small tent of his fingers, pressing the tips together over his chest. “Oh, you are far too modest, Miss Winslow. Look at what you have done! With your plain black gowns and country ways, you have accomplished what the very cream of this season’s belles have not. You have quite captured my brother.”
“I am sorry, Your Grace, but no.” She shook her head fiercely, denying her own feelings as much as his assertion. “No, no. That cannot be true. It isn’t true.”
He shrugged carelessly. “But it is, whether you believe it or not, and also whether you act on it or not. More prickliness, perhaps?”
Abruptly he screwed his face up into an odd scowling frown, before he smoothed it with a smile.
“Did you know I am unwed?” he asked. “I have no duchess, and therefore no legitimate son. George is my heir, the second eldest brother. Has he mentioned that to you? If I unwisely stumble on those stairs out there and break my neck, then he becomes His Grace, and I am reduced to a mere bushel of unlamented old bones and nothingness.”
“Oh, Your Grace, no!” she exclaimed, taken aback. “That would be most dreadful! Not only are you far too young to die, Your Grace, but Geor—the captain would b
e miserable. It would be an utter disaster for you both.”
“You believe George would regard becoming the seventh Duke of Strachen a disaster?” he asked, watching her closely. “To sit in the House of Lords, to be received by His Majesty, to be master of all the Claremont houses and lands? Most gentleman would consider such a change in their status to be a great gift from heaven.”
“But not your brother,” she answered firmly. “He would feel cursed by it, and burdened beyond measure. He would do his best to be a good duke, because he believes in responsibility, but what he loves is the ocean and the Navy and this house, too, not London and court life. Why, most days that he has been here, he has worn such clothing that you would guess him to be any other farmer or sailor, scarce a lord and great hero!”
Gently the duke bounced his fingertips together, considering what she’d said. “You realize that, as affairs stand now, George will receive no inheritance of his own. All he has, or will have, must come from his own hand, from prize money and such.”
“Which I’d warrant is exactly how he prefers it,” she said, nodding for extra emphasis. “He welcomes challenges, Your Grace.”
“You sound remarkably confident regarding my brother’s happiness,” observed the duke, plucking idly at the lace along his cuff. “Especially given that you are, as you say, no more than his housekeeper.”
“And if, as you say, Your Grace,” countered Fan warmly, “you know your brother as well as you claim, then you would already have understood all of this, without asking me. You taunt me about being honorable and honest, as if such things count for nothing except for mockery. Perhaps in London, that is so. But here in Kent, they still matter, and I can say—I will say!—that Captain Lord Claremont is the most honorable and honest gentleman ever I have met, and that, Your Grace, is all the further I have to say of your brother.”
She rose to her feet, clutching the coverlet tightly around her. She was determined not to say another word. Likely she’d already said more than she should have, anyway, but she wasn’t going to let George go undefended, no matter what had happened between them earlier in the stable. Besides, she needed the duke to leave so she could slip away from the house herself, and meet Will Hood at Green Bridge.
The Silver Lord Page 11
