Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  "The duke? At Eversham Hall?" She said the words as speaking the name of Hell itself.

  "Why not?"

  "We're not welcome there."

  "My dear Miss Wheatly, the old regime is gone. The less said about the former steward the better, and my brother-in-law" He let his words trail off. Had she been afraid of Emery? The thought that the late duke may have forced himself on this woman brought bile to his throat.

  "Surely you are aware by now that even the servants know to turn us off. Mrs. Cotter, the cook, even refused to buy my eggs when I approached her in the village. Everyone in the county buys my eggs, unless they have sufficient hens of their own."

  He had no answer. Several steps later, she spoke again. "Besides, Papa wouldn't allow it. He calls it 'that vile place.'"

  "Miss Wheatly, what—"

  "I'm sorry, my lord. We don't talk about it." Her words were polite, but her tone squelched his questions.

  "Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Wheatly. Perhaps I'll see you again soon," he said, taking her hand and bowing over it. Her blush when she pulled away warmed his heart. With a proper nod of his head, and a less proper grin, he mounted Mercury and left.

  ***

  Damn and blast the man. She was certain the earl saw them as a ramshackle household.

  He catches me looking like a scullery maid, with Mrs. MacLeish gone to town and unable to answer the door. We provide no tea, nor even offer him a chair. Where were your manners, Catherine? Allowing his hands on her person didn't help either.

  She knew full well where her manners went. As soon as he pushed her papa about their relationship to the duke, all other thoughts fled. She didn't know him well, but she knew he didn't miss much and didn't let go once an idea took hold.

  He's curious, and he's going to stir up a hornet's nest and make Papa miserable. Damn, damn, and damn.

  Chapter Four

  Will leapt up the steps to Eversham Hall and walked with purpose to the butler's pantry. Stowe jumped up from the desk, where he had been enjoying a surreptitious nip, probably of His Grace's brandy. He ought to look guilty. Instead, his pursed lips all too eloquently showed his opinion of an earl who stormed into his refuge dirty from road and horse.

  The old man quickly shifted his gaze past the earl's left shoulder. "May I assist you, my lord?" he oozed.

  "You have been butler at Eversham many years, have you not, Stowe?"

  "I had the honor of serving His Grace's grandfather, the seventh duke," Stowe told him.

  Will considered Stowe's likely loyalty to Emery, his ingrained belief in Eversham's routines, even the ones Will abhorred, and knew a moment of doubt. Impulse drove him anyway.

  "Can you tell me what lies between Eversham and its neighbors at Songbird Cottage?"

  "Lies between, my lord?"

  "Why, for example, does the kitchen of this house not obtain its eggs from Songbird?" That should be a safe enough start.

  "His Grace so ordered it, my lord." Stowe clamped his lips closed.

  "But why?"

  "It isn't my place, my lord, but…" he hesitated.

  Will nodded. "Go on, go on."

  "The seventh duke knew the vicar's daughter was no better than she ought to be. He went so far as to step aside when he saw her in the village."

  "What about his son?"

  "The seventh duke forbade his son to see her," the old man said as if it explained everything. "Will that be all?" He looked ready to escape.

  "The seventh duke? You mean the current duke's grandfather?"

  Stowe found it unnecessary to reply while Will stood looking at an equestrian print on the butler's wall, reasoning it out. Charles's grandfather forbade Emery "the vicar's daughter," and so Songbird Cottage. Why should that apply to Charles? Is Catherine the vicar's daughter? She can't be. He tried to remember when the seventh duke died. After Sylvia's wedding, but when?

  He seized on the one solid piece of information he had. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"

  Stowe looked pained.

  "Come, come, man. Speak up."

  "Master Arthur didn't know his place," the old man said through tight lips.

  "His place?" He called Wheatly "Master Arthur," as if he knew him as a child.

  "The duke forbade his sons to go near the vicar's daughter, that is what I know." He clamped his jaw shut.

  Will no longer doubted that Lord Arthur was Emery's brother. Their father had forbidden both his sons to go near the vicar's daughter. One, or both, failed to respect their father's wishes.

  I see no sign of vice at Songbird, but what if Emery, for once, had good reason to keep his son away?

  More than one aristocrat kept his bastards away from his legitimate family. Will needed more information, and he needed it quickly.

  An hour later, he sealed a carefully worded message with the Chadbourn signet ring. Private messenger would get it to London faster than the post, and more securely. If anyone could unravel Wheatly family secrets, it was the Marquess of Glenaire, Will's boyhood friend. Glenaire's discretion could be counted on.

  A groom left for London moments later. Will dispatched a footman carrying a request for an interview to Squire Archer soon after that.

  Now what? Will had met few men and no women who had as much passion for the land as he. Catherine Wheatly seemed to be the exception. It would be interesting to press her knowledge. It would be interesting to watch her eyes light up when he did. It would be interesting to watch those eyes if he bent to kiss her. He shook his head to clear that thought. Slow down, Will!

  His impulse was to invite the Wheatlys, father and daughter, to dinner. Who would object the loudest, Wheatly or Sylvia?

  "You wish to do what?" Sylvia exploded when he asked her an hour later.

  "They are gentry. They are neighbors. It is merely a thought."

  Sylvia sank back on her chaise longue. "I cannot entertain. I am in mourning. I am ill."

  Even in mourning, a family dinner is unexceptional. He didn't dare say that out loud.

  "Emery would not permit it. He refused even mention of them in this house. They are not received."

  "Emery is dead." God be praised, he thought without shame. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"

  Sylvia laid an arm dramatically across her eyes. "The old duke forbade that name in this house. We do not receive them."

  "Squire Archer receives them," Will said. The squire had responded with an enthusiastic invitation, all admiration for Catherine Wheatly.

  "A country squire is not society, William Chadbourn, you know that," Sylvia said wearily. "I can bear no more about Songbird Cottage."

  Will sighed to himself. At least I've planted a seed, he thought. "You best be prepared to entertain, however. I've invited Richard Hayden for the holidays."

  She popped upright. "The Marquess of Glenaire, here? You can't be serious. His mother, the duchess, is the highest of high sticklers. I can't entertain; I can't." The last came out in a long wail.

  "I didn't invite the duchess. I invited Richard, my friend." Glenaire might be more than a bit stuffy, but he would not scoff at Sylvia. The more Will thought about it, the more sure he was that the invitation was just the thing to get Sylvia out of this suffocating room. "It will be a small, informal visit, but you will entertain him, Sylvia. I demand it," he said, forcing his voice to sound firm.

  "As you wish, Chadbourn," she sniffed. He left her weeping.

  It's for your own good. And call me Will, damn it. I'm your brother.

  Chapter Five

  Two weeks later, the earl smiled with satisfaction at his likely new steward. Archer, seeing the state of the fields, running soil between his hands and sniffing it carefully, looked thoughtful. He stood with the earl by a rotting fencerow, next to a bedraggled wheat field.

  The man rubbed his hands enthusiastically, even as he pronounced Eversham land a "sad muddle."

  "It can be fixed," Will said with more hope than conviction. He didn't dare think otherwise.


  "Certainly, my lord, but it'll take a few years, four at least, better in eight. In ten to twelve years, there won't be finer fields in England. Four-field rotation, that's the ticket: wheat, barley, turnips, and clover. We can manage a smaller herd of sheep on the clover fields. Songbird, now, they use three-field rotation. Haven't the livestock to take advantage of the clover, but Miss Wheatly believes doing a bean crop in rotation with wheat and barley does the trick, as well."

  Will decided to hire him. He had the knowledge, he had the passion, and he was too young for Catherine Wheatly. That last shouldn't matter, but it did.

  "Perhaps we can invite Miss Wheatly over for a meeting, seek her advice in planning," he suggested hopefully.

  "Brilliant, my lord. She is the best there is." The young man cleared his throat as if uncomfortable with his own outburst. "Some don't see it, but she is," he murmured more quietly. "For all she's a woman."

  Interesting, Will thought. The county doesn't hold Catherine's origins or behavior against her, but they doubt her unfeminine skills. More fools they.

  The two men walked back toward the stables and barns.

  "What of the buildings, Archer? Can you take that on?"

  "Buildings, fences, tenant roofs. They all want repair. If I can hire the workers, we can fix it. Folks will be glad of the work."

  Will thought for a moment. Yes, I can picture this man, young as he is, overseeing the work. His enthusiasm alone will carry them along.

  "Hire what you need, Archer. You have a position. Can you start a week from Monday?"

  "I can start this hour, my lord. The need is great."

  "It is that, but we'll expect you to live in. The steward's cottage needs airing, and your uncle will want you to take your leave."

  "He will," Archer said, slightly crestfallen. "I'll speak to Miss Wheatly and see if she can join us then."

  The two men walked toward the stableyard to find Eversham stables entertaining guests.

  "These two came to visit Mercury, my lord," Reilly the head groom said, with a worried look.

  The two Wheatly boys looked at him with cautious hope.

  "We just wanted to see the horse, my lord," the one called Freddy said. "You said maybe another time, but you haven't been back."

  "Hey, John," Randy peered around the earl to beam up at Archer.

  "That's Mr. Archer to you, young sir," the earl said. "Mr. Archer is Eversham Hall's new land steward."

  "Brilliant!" Randy exclaimed. "He'll be so much better than—" He hung his head. "Sorry, my lord," he whispered.

  Archer suppressed a smile. "I'll see you in a week, my lord," he said. He ruffled Randy's hair. "My best to your papa and sister, Randy." He walked away with a long-limbed stride, and a new sense of purpose.

  Freddy looked back and forth between the earl and his brother. He sighed deeply and turned his attention to the interior of the stables. "Do you have many horses, my lord?" he asked.

  The contrast between Freddy's obsession and Charles's fear cut the earl like a knife to the belly. The boy's words twisted it. A decision firmed and planted itself in his mind.

  "Reilly," he said to the groom. "Perhaps His Grace would like to join us in the stableyard."

  The man grinned. "He might, my lord, or he might not, but it'll do 'im good."

  ***

  "There's the noble one!" Freddy exclaimed, looking up at Mercury's great height. "He has fire in his eye, too." He raised a tentative hand and let the animal sniff at him.

  "He's a great horrid beast," came a voice from the door. Charles stood with his feet planted outside the stable, a footman at his side.

  "He's a beauty," Freddy disagreed, spinning on his heels. "How can you say that?"

  "He's too much mount for a boy," Will put in before Charles could argue. "Come out to the stableyard, and I will make some introductions." He whispered instructions to Reilly and led the Wheatly boys out to the paddock. Two horses grazed in the grassy enclosure.

  Freddy watched them with unfiltered longing. "Bit elderly, those," he murmured.

  "Still able to carry a load," the earl told him. At the earl's voice, one of the two ambled over. He fetched out a lump of sugar. "Always know where the sweets are, don't you, now ?" He patted the horse's neck and accepted a nuzzle in return.

  "Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Lady Guinevere, Eversham's matriarch." Charles looked pained. "But I forgot my manners. Charles, permit me to make known to you Master Randolph and Master Frank Wheatly. Boys, this is Charles Wheatly, Duke of Murnane. I have the honor of being his uncle."

  Both boys made a proper bow, but Randy couldn't contain his interest. "Wheatly! We have the same name," he exclaimed.

  Freddy, who had already begun to caress Lady Guinevere's nose, said, "Of course we do, but Papa don't like to talk about it."

  Charles did his best to maintain a haughty expression, but curiosity got the better of him. "What do you mean by, 'of course'?"

  "I believe you are cousins, Charles. Freddy and Randy's father is your father's brother."

  "Brilliant!" Randy exclaimed. "Cousins are almost as good as brothers."

  The idea seemed to startle Charles.

  "I'm ten just this month," Randy went on without noticing. "Freddy's twelve. How old are you?"

  Charles glanced at his uncle. Nothing in his experience prepared him for the Wheatlys. Will could tell he waffled between putting Randy down as impertinent, and responding in kind. He looked at the other boys as though they were some sort of exotics. "Ten," he said at last.

  "You're the lucky one, I guess," Freddy sighed, still looking at the horse. He climbed up on a fence rail to get closer. Charles frowned. "You get to have these beauties." Not the title. Not the house. Not the wardrobe. The horses. Good man, Freddy!

  "Would you like to give the lady a trot around the paddock?" Will asked.

  Freddy leapt down. "May I?" he breathed. Reilly came out of the barn carrying saddle and tack.

  "Help Mr. Reilly saddle the horse, and you certainly may."

  Charles watched Freddy scramble over the fence and take instructions from Reilly with open curiosity, and, Will hoped, some longing.

  "Horse mad," Randy said.

  "I beg your pardon?" the young duke asked.

  "My brother is horse mad. Always was."

  "Do you like horses?" Charles asked cautiously.

  "I like them well enough, but I don't get much chance to ride. I like all animals. What is your favorite?" Randy asked.

  Charles looked perplexed. Will doubted the boy interacted with livestock, much less wild animals. He had obviously had few interactions with boys his own age.

  Randy went on talking. "I like the farm animals myself. The pigs smell, but they are smart as can be. The geese are bad tempered, and the chickens aren't too bright. The goat, though, is my favorite. Do you prefer wild ones?" This time he looked directly at his cousin, expecting an answer.

  "I like birds," Charles admitted finally. "Especially hawks. I can see them from the nursery window when they hunt in the meadow."

  "Brilliant!" Randy said. "I love them. There's a red-tail that hunts in the orchard. We have an owl in the woods, did you know?"

  "Truly? I've read about them, but I've never seen one." Will watched his nephew's eyes shine with interest, all thoughts of status and class gone. He bit back his smile.

  "I could show you. It isn't far," Randy suggested.

  Charles turned to his uncle as if to ask if he might.

  "Up you go, Freddy," Will said, putting an arm around Charles. "She's a patient and gentle soul. Walk her easy." Freddy clearly needed little instruction; he was a born rider. With little encouragement from Reilly, he began to circle the paddock.

  "I could do that, if I wanted to," Charles said stiffly.

  "Of course you could," Randy told him. "It just takes a bit of patience and practice." He leaned in. "Even I can do it."

  Will thanked the Good Lord who sent these boys into his life. I might get thro
ugh to Charles yet. Before he could consider how best to take advantage, retribution arrived in the form of an irate older sister.

  "Randolph and Frederick Wheatly, what on earth are you about?"

  "Hello, Cath," Freddy called from horseback. "We're just visiting. His Grace doesn't mind." He put his mount to a trot.

  ***

  His Grace, in Catherine's opinion, looked rather too stunned to mind, if the awkward boy next to Chadbourn was, indeed, the new duke.

  "Miss Wheatly, it is my privilege to present His Grace, the Duke of Murnane, Charles Wheatly. Charles, may I present Miss Catherine Wheatly?"

  "I'm honored, Your Grace." Catherine curtseyed to the boy properly. Through lowered lashes, she watched his uncle whisper in his ear. The duke looked at Chadbourn in question before he turned back to Catherine. What on earth?

  The young duke looked uncertain. "Chadbourn suggests you should call me Charles, since we are cousins. Are you really my cousin?" he asked.

  Or something very like. "Of course, if your uncle says it. You may call me Catherine, if you like." His returning smile looked more shy than haughty. Catherine warmed to the boy immediately.

  "Cath, His Grace likes birds," Randy broke in. "Can I show him the owl in the woods? He don't even know it's there, even though it is practically on his land," Randy enthused.

  "That would be 'may I' and 'he doesn't…'" She caught the earl's eye. "I need to discuss it with His Lordship." She couldn't decide if Chadbourn's welcome of her brothers boded good or ill. The damned man seems amused.

  "Famous," Randy said to Charles, "Cath will talk him round. She likes the owl, too. My father is an expert on birds. Would you like to see his books?" The two boys moved toward the rails, talking a mile a minute, but Catherine quit listening. Chadbourn's eyes held hers.

  "When would you like him?" Chadbourn asked with a grin.

  "Beg pardon?" Catherine shook off the stupor his gaze had engendered.

  "My nephew. Nothing for it. He has to visit."

  "I'm sorry, my lord. This is all too much. We don't 'visit' with Eversham Hall."

  "And that's a damned shame. The boys are good for Charles, and he would be good for them."