A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  “Cowardly of us to abandon Lady Montclair to the dowager countess and my mother,” James commented, settling back in his chair and accepting a glass of whiskey from Graeme. The two men had escaped to Graeme’s study as soon as they politely could, leaving the women of the family in the drawing room.

  Graeme laughed. “Trust me. Abigail can take care of herself.”

  “She didn’t seem to be a shrinking violet,” James admitted. “She’s not the way I remembered her.”

  “Really?” Graeme sat down across from him, interested. “How do you remember her?”

  “I’m not sure.” James frowned. “Not shy exactly. But very stiff, reticent. Attractive enough, but she didn’t catch one’s eye. Truth is, I didn’t notice her all that much.”

  “Neither did I. I’m glad to know I wasn’t utterly blind.” Graeme idly swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, gazing down into it. “Prescott told me she was intimidated by her father and once away from him, she blossomed.”

  “That’s understandable. I was intimidated by her father.”

  “I doubt that.” Graeme glanced up. “Do you mean you had dealings with Thurston Price?”

  “I didn’t buy that stock, if that’s what you mean. Neither did Sir Laurence. Being a cynic has its advantages.”

  “Then what did you have to do with the man?” Over the years Graeme had learned to read his cousin’s inexpressive face, and he did so now. “It was something to do with my situation, wasn’t it?”

  “I talked to him.” James shrugged. “I thought he might be agreeable to a different resolution.”

  “James. Don’t tell me you offered to take my place.”

  James laughed. “No. I would have if I’d thought it would work—and I wouldn’t have made such a muddle of it, either, since I haven’t your vexatious romantic ideals. But me getting Miss Price’s money would not have helped. Do you really think your father would have allowed me to pay off his debts and fund your estate?”

  “No. I’m sure he would not. He would have thought it dishonorable.”

  “He would have been too proud, you mean. In any case, Price made it clear before I opened my mouth that a lowly baronet would not do for his daughter; his sights were set on an earl. I told him I was seeking a financial arrangement, not marriage, but he would have none of that, either. I knew then there was no hope for you; you had to marry Miss Price.”

  “So you went to persuade Miss Hinsdale to throw me over.”

  “To free you from making a ruinous mistake. Yes.” There was no hint of apology in the other man’s face. “I knew she was more likely to see reason than you.”

  “And not as likely to hit you.”

  “True. Though she did make a rather disparaging remark about my character and told me she hoped never to cross my path again.”

  Graeme’s lips quirked up at one corner. “And here I thought Laura was so well-mannered.”

  “I’ve found I have a talent for bringing out one’s rude side.” James was silent for a moment, his eyes on Graeme’s face. “What is it that’s changed your mind about Lady Montclair’s character? Last time we talked, you were sure she was scheming against you. Coercing you into—”

  “Yes, well . . .” A faint flush rose in Graeme’s cheeks. “I—she—that’s not important.”

  “I take it you haven’t found the task too onerous?”

  Graeme scowled at him. “That is not what I’m talking about. The other matter—the letters, the secret meetings—wasn’t what I thought. It turned out she was trying to help me. The man she met was trying to blackmail her—or give her information, I’m not entirely sure which.”

  “Blackmail. Are you serious? How did you find this out?”

  “I followed her.” Graeme related the events leading up to Abigail’s arrival in his house.

  James listened, his eyebrows soaring upward. “And here I thought you led a dull life.”

  “Not since Abigail came into it.”

  “Who shot this man? Why?”

  “I’ve no idea. I presume it must have been some other chap he was pressing for money, and he decided it would be easier to kill him than to pay him. The thing is, the man who was shot was Milton Baker.”

  “Who? That sounds familiar.”

  “He was my father’s man of business.”

  “Good Gad, yes, now I remember. But what did he have to blackmail her with— Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

  Graeme let out a sigh. “Oh, the devil take it. My father embezzled money from the fund for wounded soldiers.”

  “So that is why you were asking about that charity today.”

  Graeme nodded. “He took it to invest in the same stock and of course lost it all.”

  “Good Lord.”

  Graeme nodded. “That is how Thurston Price forced me to marry his daughter. It wasn’t only the money, though we needed that desperately. Price was a man who believed in insuring the outcome he wanted. He knew what my father had done, and he threatened to reveal it if I didn’t marry Abigail.”

  James gaped at him. Graeme had the dubious satisfaction of seeing that he had managed to shock his cousin. “No wonder you were furious with Price.”

  “Yes. I believed Abigail knew all about it, that she was a party to the blackmail.”

  “How do you know she wasn’t?”

  “By the very fact that she was trying to hide her dealings with Baker from me. If she had been a party to Thurston’s blackmail, she would have been well aware that I knew what Reginald had done. But she tried to protect me from learning of it.” He gave a wry smile.

  “What did she say when you told her about her father’s blackmail?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “She doesn’t know that Thurston forced you into it?”

  “She thinks it was just because of my desperate need for money. I started to explain exactly what happened, but then I thought—why put her through that? The man’s her father, and she loves him even if he is a scoundrel. It would only hurt her, and she has suffered enough over the years because of him.”

  “It might help her understand why you were so angry ten years ago.”

  Graeme shrugged. “I’d rather leave the past in the past. We—things are going smoothly now.”

  James was silent for a long moment. “Why did you never tell me?”

  “I was afraid you would despise Reginald for it.”

  “Everyone always wanted to spare Reginald.”

  “No,” Graeme said flatly. “Not for his sake. It was for yours. I didn’t want you to despise our—your—”

  “My uncle?” James quirked a brow. “I don’t despise Reginald. How could one? He was unfaithful and foolish with money and generally left his tangles to someone else to clean up, but he was also charming and handsome and warmhearted. He never treated me with aught but affection and kindness, which is more than can be said of Sir Laurence. Reginald was as he was, just as Sir Laurence was only what he could be. All of us have managed to rub along without creating a terrible scandal. That is all that could be expected.”

  “I suppose,” Graeme said somewhat dubiously.

  “Are you certain Reginald embezzled the money?” James said, abandoning the moment of introspection.

  Graeme’s gaze sharpened. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I find it difficult to believe it of him. You called him honorable and I said proud, but wherever the truth lies in there, he was not the sort of man to put a stain on the family name—not of that sort, anyway. Sleeping with another man’s wife was one thing, but common thievery? I wouldn’t think so.”

  “I believed it then. But now I am beginning to wonder. Before he was shot, Baker told Abigail that we hadn’t been told the whole story. He asked her for money in return for information that he intimated would throw a different light on the matter.”

  “Unfortunate that he died before he could tell you.”

  “Especially for him.” Graeme tossed down the whiskey and set his glass asid
e. “We called on his widow and she said Baker knew my father had not embezzled the money; it was someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “She didn’t know.”

  “Not frightfully helpful.”

  “The thing is, I believed my father had embezzled the money because he was the one who told me it was gone. He said he was to blame. I assumed he meant he had taken the money, but looking back on it, I see that he might have meant that it was his responsibility and he must repay it. That because he was in control of it, he must bear the blame.”

  “It’s the sort of thing he would do.” James’s tone made clear his words were not admiring. “He would have been more concerned about concealing the scandal than about exposing the culprit.”

  “Abby—Abigail and I thought we might look into it, see if we could discover what really happened.”

  “Why? I cannot imagine you opening up that old scandal for the world to see.”

  “No. It would be just for me.” He looked at James. “I would like to know whether my father was really a thief. Perhaps I misjudged him all these years.”

  “I wouldn’t want to delve into that bit of soul-searching if I were you.”

  “It’s better than not knowing the truth.”

  “Just how do you plan to go about discovering the truth?”

  “I am sure Father kept records on the charity, correspondence and such, and I hoped I could find something there—at least the names of those involved in it. But so far we haven’t been able to find even a scrap of paper about it. That’s why we were late to tea today; we’d been in the attic searching for his old business papers.”

  “Ah. So that’s the reason.” James’s eyes twinkled.

  “Yes.” Graeme sent him a flat look.

  “I take it you did not find them.”

  “No. There’s more attic to explore, but even if we find the trunk with the papers, I fear we won’t find anything about the charity in it. I’m the one who put the papers in the trunk to begin with, and I don’t remember any of them pertaining to the charity.”

  “What’s left then? Talking to these chaps Mother remembered?”

  “Probably. The ones who are still alive, at least. But something Grandmother said started me thinking. She said it was her opinion Father used the invalid soldiers’ fund to relieve his boredom at the estate. And it occurred to me that much of his work with it would have been at Lydcombe Hall—perhaps the bulk of it, if she’s right.”

  “Lady Eugenia is always right.”

  “Naturally. Anything he did at Lydcombe is likely to still be there. I never used his office. Mother couldn’t bear to have it disturbed. There’s so much more room at the Hall, I just turned one of the other rooms into my study. If there is anything to find about the charity, I think we’ll find it there.”

  “Then you’re going back to Lydcombe Hall?” James quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t get the impression your wife was in favor of visiting the estate.”

  “Mm. Abigail won’t be inclined to accede to Grandmother’s wishes.” He smiled faintly. “But I think I can persuade her.”

  chapter 20

  Abby drew in her breath as the double lines of pollarded lime trees opened up, revealing a wide green expanse, with Lydcombe Hall at the top, like the jewel in a crown. From the smile on Graeme’s face, she thought that for him it probably was.

  It was easy to see why he loved the house. Large and symmetrical, it was built of brick that must once have been red and had faded through time into almost a deep rose, outlined along the corners and across the top with white stone cornices. Leading from the drive to the front door were shallow, terraced steps built of the same white stone. On either side stood planters boasting a profusion of pansies in a rainbow of hues. The house managed to appear elegant, gracious, and homey, all at the same time.

  Graeme turned to her, smiling, and took her hand. “There she is. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s wonderful.” Any other answer would have been unthinkable in the face of Graeme’s obvious pleasure, but in truth, the place was beautiful. She had a vision of her child growing up here, happy and healthy and secure, a dark-haired boy or girl—why not both?—and unexpectedly her eyes welled with tears.

  She blinked them away. Better not to dream of things that might not ever come to pass. Right now, she must brace herself to meet his mother.

  Abby didn’t mind visiting Lydcombe Hall, aside from a brief irritation at the appearance of giving in to Lady Eugenia’s wishes. Hopefully they would find papers relating to Lord Reginald’s charity here. A longer search of the attic in the London house had turned up nothing. More alluring than that, though, was the prospect of getting out from under the gaze of Graeme’s grandmother. The Hall, Graeme assured her, was much larger, and his mother far less intrusive.

  Abby remembered Lady Montclair as a sweet-faced, sweet-tempered woman. Though Abby had not spent much time in her company before their wedding, Mirabelle had been pleasant, even kind. Still, no mother could be happy about her son having to marry a woman he did not want. If Graeme had believed Abby was cut from the same cloth as her father, doubtless his mother did, as well.

  Ten years of Abby’s absence would not have made the woman like her any better. No doubt she resented Abby for showing up again, just as Graeme had. Graeme now seemed content with their arrangement, even pleased with it—at least in the bedroom. But there was no reason for his mother to have changed her mind.

  Abby’s stomach knotted as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the house. The double front doors opened, framing a rotund man in formal black and white. His face was wreathed in smiles in a most un-butler-like fashion.

  “Master Graeme.” He hurried down the steps to open the carriage door and put down the step. “Welcome home.”

  “Master Graeme?” Abigail murmured, her eyes twinkling.

  “Difficult to maintain one’s stature when the man’s known me since I was in leading strings,” he told her before he left the carriage. “Fletcher. It’s good to be home. You’re looking well.”

  “Good of you to say so, sir.”

  Graeme reached back to give Abigail his hand as she left the carriage. “Allow me to introduce my wife.”

  “Lady Montclair.” Fletcher honored her with a gracious bow. “I hope you will find everything in order.”

  “Thank you, Fletcher. I am sure I will.”

  The servants had formed a line to the door, and Abby was introduced to a dizzying array of names and faces, from the housekeeper to the second upstairs maid. Abby hoped that Molly would find herself more at home among this group than she had with the servants in the London house. The housekeeper, Mrs. Sinclair, had a touch of Scottish burr in her tone.

  They walked into an enormous entry hall open to the second floor. Abby drew in a breath of admiration at seeing the graceful double staircase. “Graeme. How lovely.”

  A woman clad in brilliant purple hurried down the stairs toward them. Abby recognized Graeme’s mother at once. Slightly plumper, with more gray threaded through her hair and more lines in her face than ten years ago, still she looked much the same. Like her more flamboyant sister Tessa, Lady Montclair had dark hair and gray eyes, and Abby was sure that she had probably had dozens of admirers when she was young.

  “It’s so wonderful to have you home again!” Mirabelle exclaimed, holding out her arms to Graeme.

  “Hello, Mother.” Graeme embraced her and bent to kiss her cheek, affection clear upon his face. “You remember Abigail.”

  “Of course.” Graeme’s mother turned to her with no diminution of her happy glow. “Welcome to Lydcombe Hall, my dear.”

  To Abby’s surprise, Mirabelle kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Lady Montclair. I am happy to see you again.”

  “Oh, please don’t be so formal with me. You must call me Mirabelle, or perhaps Mother, as Graeme does?” She lifted her brows in a hopeful way. “You are, after all, my daughter now. Not, of course, that I would da
re to replace your own mother, so I perfectly understand if you don’t wish to.”

  “No, I mean, yes, of course, if you would like it. My own mother died many years ago.”

  “My dear! I am so sorry. I had forgotten. It must have been hard growing up without a mother.”

  Clearly, making conversation with Graeme’s mother would not be a problem. Abby glanced over at Graeme as Mirabelle continued to chatter, and he smiled and winked. Abby was suddenly filled with warmth. She was going to enjoy it here.

  The next day, they started their search of the previous Lord Montclair’s study. The room was large and filled with papers, books, and sundry other items all jumbled together in drawers and shelves and trunks. The place was the complete opposite of Graeme’s tidy office, and going through it was a slow process.

  Their progress was slowed even more because they often drifted off into conversation and laughter. Each day the amount of time they spent in the study became shorter, taken up by long walks through the garden or rides around the estate.

  Lydcombe Hall was set in a large, well-kept park, with wilder woods beckoning beyond that, perfect for a ride or long walk. The gardens were at their glorious best, an array of color and scents, with arbors and fountains and benches where one could sit and enjoy the peace. Where they could be alone together.

  In London there had always been social engagements, parties, and callers, and when they were at home, they were rarely alone. With both Lady Eugenia and her companion in the same house, not to mention countless servants, there was little privacy except behind the closed door of their bedroom.

  Here, there was no social activity beyond an occasional visit from the vicar and his wife, and the house was larger and emptier. Best of all, Graeme’s mother did not push or pry, and, to Abby’s amazement, showed not the slightest antipathy toward Abby. Mirabelle tactfully spent most of her time engaged in her usual tasks, giving the married couple ample time alone together.