“Darius and I nearly bankrupted ourselves trying to keep Leah from your filthy machinations,” Trent said with a coldness that required no dissembling. “I will be damned if I’ll let your pet spoil the waters for me should I decide to take another bride next year. If Emily blames you for her reduced circumstances, then so much the better for me. Good night, my lord.”
He closed the door behind him, quietly, because even in so small a gesture as a slammed door, he did not want to emulate his father.
He’d spouted pure, rotten tripe and sounded so like his father in his condescension, pique, and egotism, his belly rebelled. He wanted to hurl the volume of verse against the wall, wanted to run howling into the night for the lies he’d invented about his little sister and his feelings for her.
When he arrived to his room, he didn’t open the book, but took out writing materials and settled at the escritoire by the window. To soothe his conscience, he composed an explanatory letter to Lady Warne, then a more apologetic explanation to Emily, finishing with assurances that Emily needn’t show her face in Hampshire if she wasn’t completely comfortable doing so.
Then his pen started on a letter to one Lady Rammel, Deerhaven, East Havers, Surrey. His pride in how Wilton Acres was thriving came through on the page, as did his frustration over Imogenie’s situation and his distaste for dealing with his father. He told Ellie he couldn’t ever see living at Wilton Acres, nor raising his children here, but Ford at least needed to learn the place and how it worked.
He told her he missed her, and worried for her and her continued comfort as her confinement approached, and bid her to ask Andy to give Zephyr a scratch under the chin for him.
The letter was silly, one a brother might write to a sister, or, more like, a husband to a wife of long years. He probably wouldn’t send it, but signed it and sealed it anyway, because that put a sense of closure on his thoughts.
With a settled mind, he turned for his bed, there to toss for a few hours before he once again dreamed of Ellie Hampton and what he could not have with her.
***
“What are you doing here?” Peak pushed dark hair back off tired eyes and glared at Cato as he took up a perch on the end of Peak’s cot.
“Missing you.” Cato offered a smile by way of apology. “Again.”
Peak yanked the covers up higher. “You are to be at the manor, protecting the children, Mr. Spencer.”
How he loved to hear his name in those tones. Not his title, but “Mister Spencer” as only Peak could render it.
“Nonsense.” Cato eased back, propping his shoulders against the wall. “I’m doing penance up there—separated from you but reminded each minute of the comforts I’ve left at home in Ireland. Amherst knows what he’s doing.”
“He’s tempting you into leaving?”
Amherst wasn’t applying temptation so much as guilt. “He knows what it means to carry a title and to shirk those responsibilities. Knows it isn’t something lightly done.”
“You won’t give up on this, will you?”
Cato’s gaze held Peak’s in the wavering light of the lantern. “We can go back, though not as long as you insist on being stubborn.”
“You’re stubborn, too.”
More stubborn than Peak, Cato hoped. Stubborn enough to best somebody who would never know the meaning of surrender. “But I’m stubborn because I’m right, Peak. You know you’re wrong.”
“I don’t want to go back there.” Peak rubbed strong, slender arms, though the night was mild.
“You miss home as much as I do. You simply don’t want to face anybody, but it wouldn’t be like that.”
Peak thumped the pillow a few times with a callused fist. “If you need to go, I’ll tag along to make sure you don’t get up to foolishness, but as for the rest of it, you won’t wear me down.”
Cato rose, before the sadness in Peak’s eyes inspired him to foolishness. “I will wear you down.”
“You’re not staying?” Peak resumed slamming the pillow as soon as the words were out, but Cato heard the consternation and silently rejoiced.
“I’ve been reminded of my duties.” Cato stretched to his full height. “I’m off to protect innocents from mischief, while you dream of me and home. But think on this, Peak: If you came home with me, on my terms, you’d seldom sleep alone again.”
He sauntered out, knowing it was cruel, but his mind was made up. He and Peak had drifted along, content to mind Amherst’s stables, and put off facing the inevitable. Amherst had been the one to suggest a solution, and Cato had had enough of hiding with a muck fork in one hand and a knife in the other—more than enough. If he took away Peak’s pleasures, they’d come to an understanding eventually.
Provided Cato could deny himself those same pleasures as long as it took to overcome Peak’s stubbornness.
***
In five years of marriage, Ellie hadn’t received a single letter from Dane. She’d had notes. “I’ll be down end of next week. Hope you’re keeping well. Rammel.” Or, “Blasted stinking rain won’t let up. Might stop by for the weekend. Rammel.” Or, one she’d particularly treasured at the time: “Need a short repairing lease. Will hope to see you end of this week. Missing the comforts of home. Rammel.”
But Trenton Lindsey had sent her a letter, both sides of an uncrossed page, recounting his frustrations, his joys, and his plans, as well as his list of admonitions to her:
“Be sure to put your feet up at every opportunity and rest often.”
“Keep your flowers near to hand, for they seem to cheer you.”
“Don’t skimp on the peppermint tea, it soothes the digestion.”
Worst of all, the man had had the temerity to address the letter to “My Dearest Friend.”
This letter wasn’t romantic, boasted neither a line of verse nor a florid analogy in the whole thing. The prose wasn’t the work of a callow swain or a lovesick boy. The words were from the pen of a lonely man and a caring man.
“What has put that expression on your face, Elegy?”
“Good morning, Minty.” Minty, whom Ellie hadn’t heard approaching in the corridor beyond her sitting room. “I’ve a letter from Trenton Lindsey.”
Minty settled in to her customary rocker all too comfortably. “A letter from a gentleman. Not quite the done thing, even if you are a widow. What does it say, or shall I read it myself and assess his penmanship while I’m about it?”
Ellie passed the letter over.
“Lovely hand. Not at all like a man’s.”
“I think he likes to sketch.” Ellie sipped her peppermint tea. “His father wouldn’t let him have a drawing master, though. Said it was a female waste of time, sketching and the like.”
“When Andy does it, it’s a waste of time. This reminds me of the letters my papa would send my mama. Very…comfy.”
“Comfy?”
“As if he were cuddled up beside her at the end of the day or maybe brushing out her hair.”
“Araminthea!”
Minty handed back the letter, expression as serene as ever. “My parents were not fancy people. My mother’s father was a miller; Papa was the local school teacher, a vicar’s son. We barely scraped by, but they loved each other. I would fall asleep on my little truckle-bed, listening to them visit at the end of the day. I’ve never heard sweeter music than the two of them, chuckling over some student’s prank when they thought I’d drifted off.”
Ellie folded the letter carefully and set it aside. Were Minty not present, she might have held it to her nose before she re-read it. “Minty, you are a closet romantic.”
“You’re breeding. You think everything is romantic, but I will say this: Lord Amherst has been paying attention.”
While Ellie’s tea grew cold in its cup. “What does that mean?”
“He knows you like the simple flowers—the daisies and jonquils, not the fancy roses and orchids and lilies.”
“I like all flowers.”
Minty glanced around the room a
t the daises displayed in profusion.
“They’re in season,” Ellie protested.
“He knows you’ll leave your footmen in the house unless he reminds you otherwise,” Minty went on, “and he knows you’ll mention his greeting to Andy. He pays attention.”
“He’s a gentleman. He’s merely being polite.”
“Right.” Minty stared for a moment at the daisies. “Now that you’ve told him he’s persona non grata, he takes to writing you comfy letters. This is a requirement of good breeding between unattached adults I’ve yet to hear of.”
Angry with the man and unwelcoming were not the same at all, particularly when a goodly dose of missing him figured into the emotional mix.
And worrying for him.
“He’s not persona non grata. I wasn’t dealing very well, and this way is—”
“Better?”
“Wiser,” Ellie said, but to her own ears she didn’t sound convinced. When Minty merely sipped her tea in silence, Ellie re-read the letter. Again.
***
“My lord, a pleasure.” Trent offered his former father-in-law his hand while trying to hide his shock. In the several years since Trent had last seen him, Baron Trevisham had aged. He had the kind of blond-going-silver good looks that shouldn’t have changed much between midlife and old age, particularly on a man who enjoyed his land and his horses and had no reputation for over-imbibing.
“Amherst! Jolly good to see you.” Trevisham’s greeting from the door of his saddle room seemed genuine. “Favor a spot of tea, or would you like something stronger? Don’t tell m’wife, but there’s fine summer ale to be had here at the Grange and not only for the gardeners and maids.”
“Ale sounds good.” The ride over had been hot and dusty, and what Trent had to discuss wasn’t a tea-and-crumpets sort of topic. “How fares the baroness, and how fares your land?”
“Doing better.” Trevisham haled a groom without clarifying whether his comment related to his land or his wife. “The past few winters were beastly, but this year’s harvest should help us recover. And Wilton?”
“Thriving. I might assume my father passed along that much at least.”
“You might.” Trevisham slapped his crop against his boot, which prompted a half-grown tabby cat to pounce on the lash. “Except he and Tye get to chatting each other up, and they all know the Town set, while I know little save which mares I have in foal from year to year. How are those grandsons of mine?”
Trevisham scooped the cat up and gently scratched its chin.
“Your grandsons thrive as well,” Trent said, relieved the man would think to ask. “They are plagued increasingly by their younger sister, who is now talking at a great rate and tearing around Crossbridge at a flat gallop.”
“Is she now?” Trevisham’s smile was mellow. “Paula was like that, quiet as a mouse, until she took it into her head to hold forth, and then, my goodness, the girl had a set of lungs. And stubborn! The baroness claims the children get that from me, but I’ve my doubts. Will you be off hunting with Wilton this year?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I could have sworn he said he was going up to Melton come November.” Trevisham’s longing gaze fixed on a bay hunter across the barn aisle. “I should love to go as well, but at some point, a man must admit that field hunting for weeks on end is a young fellow’s sport, though I’ll not miss a local meet, of course.”
He prosed on about his mounts for the coming hunt season and some younger hounds who were promising on the cubbing runs, and Trent recalled that Trevisham was one of the reasons he’d even considered marrying Paula. Her father was one of those unassuming minor titles who was content to mind his acres and had no need of Town life to entertain him. He was salt of the earth in the best English sense.
Or he seemed to be.
“Amherst?” Tidewell Benning came strutting down the barn aisle. His dress was fancy enough for a Mayfair dandy but snug at the seams, particularly around his middle. “Good heavens, it is you.”
He stuck out a hand in the manner of the jovial man about town, and Trent saw in Tye’s face more evidence of years passing. In the case of the son, rich food and long hours at smoky gaming tables were likely taking a toll. The toll of time on the baron was… different.
“I’m in the area more frequently,” Trent said, “and thought to drop in. I’ve been remiss in this regard.”
“Heard your papa had turned Wilton Acres over to you,” Tye said. “Don’t be giving Trevisham any ideas. I’ve a good deal more gadding about to do before I’m chained to the ledger books and the steward’s lectures.”
“Tidewell…” The baron’s expression was vaguely exasperated.
“Not now, Papa.” Tye’s smile might have been charming on a boy. “I’m away to return some of Mama’s books from the subscription library. I’ll pick up the post while I’m about it. Amherst, a pleasure, and let me know if you’re up for a friendly hand of cards sometime. Papa is no challenge whatsoever anymore.”
He was off, calling out to the lads, leaving Trent to wonder why on earth Tidewell would take a curricle over the farm lanes, when a riding horse would make the same journey more easily.
Trevisham might have been wondering much the same thing as he set the cat down, and gave it a final pat on the head.
“Would that I could pass Tye the duties of the barony. Tom’s better suited to it but won’t poach on his brother’s fixture.”
“Couldn’t Tidewell take on something? The hounds or the home farm?”
“I’ve tried,” Trevisham said tiredly. “Here comes our ale.” He lifted a tankard from the tray held by the groom. “To your health, Amherst.”
“And yours.”
“Come, lad. There’s shade to be had.” He led Trent to a bench and table outside the barn, waving off a pair of grooms cleaning and mending harness.
Trevisham turned to blow the foam off his ale. “How are you?”
“Sir?”
“You’re widowed, and that business with Paula had to be hard on you.”
“It will soon be two years.” Trent hadn’t anticipated this, or the keen concern in the baron’s eyes. “The situation is improving, slowly.”
“Not what I heard.” Trevisham took a considering sip of his drink. “When I was up to Town retrieving my miscreant offspring, I asked around and nobody had seen hide nor hair of you, other than to say your sister had bagged herself an earl. Good show, that.”
She had accomplished this feat without benefit of a fowling piece, too.
“Leah is happy. I’ve been more concerned with raising the children than socializing.”
“As if you expect me to believe that. The womenfolk don’t let us within ten feet of our own offspring, not until the little dears are swearing and smoking and ready to be shipped off to university, which explains a few things, if you ask me. But without Paula on hand, maybe you can have it otherwise.”
“Even when Paula was alive,” Trent said, wondering if this was how an old man expressed old regrets, “I had the running of the nursery, sir. Paula was not often up to it.”
“You’re likely being diplomatic.” The baron dipped his head, as if taking a blow rather than expressing assent. “One doesn’t like to hear ill of one’s offspring, but you’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“I’m sorry.” Trent found a name for what he saw in the baron’s eyes: grief, and not only for Paula.
“Not your fault,” Trevisham said, as the cat hopped onto the table and sniffed at Trent’s sleeve. “Maybe not even mine, but Paula’s at peace now, and you’re still young enough to enjoy life and the children she gave you.”
“I can, but do you imply that Paula’s delicacy comes as no surprise to you?”
The baron considered his mug of ale, already half-empty. “Her mother’s the delicate sort. She’s doing better in her later years. Not a particularly lusty woman, if you take my meaning, but she dotes on those boys of ours.”
“Was Pa
ula close to her mother?”
“Not especially. Only room for one lady of the house. And Paula was such a surprise, coming along after her brothers. She was my consolation, Paula was, but I think that made the boys jealous, particularly Tye.”
He fell silent, lost in his reminiscing, while Trent noted that the baron did, indeed, brew a lovely summer ale.
“I have miniatures of Ford and Michael,” Trent said, reaching into his pockets. “Lanie won’t sit still long enough yet, and Michael’s is very recent.” He passed the little portraits to the baron.
“Oh, my. Young Fordham is very much your son, but I think Michael is more of a Benning about the eyes and chin. Handsome lads, and they look full of the devil.”
“They’re ready for their own ponies, and they can be handfuls, particularly when they’re tired or hungry. They’re friends, though, already, and they’ve spent much of this summer at Bellefonte’s seat in Kent.”
The baron’s brows knit. “Bellefonte? Your sister’s earl—great huge fellow who knows his horses? I knew the old earl; pity he’s gone.”
“The new earl is managing well.” Blissfully well, damn him. “If you’ve a few more minutes, I’d like to discuss a personal matter.”
The baron passed the miniatures over, his gaze following them into Trent’s pocket. “Your personal matter must be serious.”
“Not serious, tedious. You may not have heard the rumors regarding my father’s decision to rusticate this summer.”
“I’m not much where rumors would circulate. I never did understand why the man would spend summers in London when he could be at Wilton. Town is rife with disease most years.”
“I’m enjoying a summer in the country myself, though my father is at Wilton under duress.”
“One gathered this,” the baron said dryly. “He won’t come out and say it, has to dance around it, as if he’s making some great sacrifice. Then he and Tye get to rolling their eyes at each other. Makes me wonder why the land is in the hands of those who don’t appreciate it, if Wilton is indicative of my betters and Tye of our future.”
Trenton: Lord Of Loss Page 27
