A Woman of True Honor (True Gentlemen Book 8)

by Grace Burrowes

  Emily left Briggs to her sniffing and stitching and took the steps up to the next floor. Living in a stately home was an adjustment for a woman who’d grown up in very modest dwellings and then in a modestly appointed London town house.

  Here, servants dashed up and down steps at meal times, desperate to get hot dishes to the table at least warm. That was a near impossibility when the kitchen was situated on the opposite side of the house from the dining room.

  Whenever Papa worked in the estate office, a footman waited outside the door, ready to fetch a book or a file from the library if need be. The maids were so numerous Emily had yet to learn all of their names, and the housekeeper expected daily consultations on everything from the linen stores to how much more summer ale should be brewed.

  “And I know nothing about any of it,” Emily muttered, rounding the landing. The steps seemed to grow more numerous each week that Emily bided at Summerfield House—or Pepper Ridge as Papa had christened the estate—but on no account must she use the more convenient stairs designated for the footmen or the maids.

  “And if a footman is found on the maids’ stairs, I am to sack him.” Briggs had offered that directive, though how was Emily to come upon such a bold fellow when she herself was relegated to only the public stairways?

  She reached the top of the steps and had to pause to catch her breath. Fatigue dragged at her—studying plans for the renovation of the master suite had run late last night—and morning had begun early so that she could fit the Summerton picnic into her schedule.

  “Where, in my usual fashion, I made a prime fool of myself—again.” She moved off in the direction of Papa’s office, dredging up a smile and a bouncy step.

  She hadn’t meant to kiss Valerian Dorning, but there he’d been, looking scrumptious in his riding attire, all alone on the path, the picture of affable gentlemanly composure caught in a moment of quiet contemplation. Emily had seen him dance in London, had seen the longing gazes the young ladies of Mayfair had aimed in his direction. He was manly grace personified, had exquisite manners, and his discretion was to be trusted utterly.

  And for the space of three heartbeats, he had kissed her back. The pleasure of that moment had been sublime, the mortification that followed it hellish.

  Why did you kiss me, Miss Pepper? Emily had been unable to admit the truth.

  She tapped on the door to the estate office and pushed her way inside. Tobias and Caleb sat with Papa at the reading table, which boasted a plethora of ledger books, two abacuses, and a pen tray full of pencil shavings.

  “Out,” Emily said, “the pair of you. Papa, for shame. I set foot off the property, and you are back to the very ways that resulted in your falling ill. I won’t have it.”

  Caleb assayed the affable smile that went so well with his medium height, auburn hair, and general good humor. Tall, blond Tobias kept flicking wooden beads from one side of the abacus to the other.

  “In a moment,” he muttered. In the opinion of most young women, Tobias would doubtless be accounted gorgeous. He had Nordic coloring, heroic features, and an English gentleman’s exquisite sense of fashion. He was also, alas, about as warmhearted as an icehouse.

  “Out. Now,” Emily said as sweetly as possible. “Papa, you are to rest before dinner.”

  Papa sat back. “But it’s only…” He flipped open his pocket watch. “Oh dear. Tobias, Caleb, best do as Emily says. We’ve been very naughty boys.”

  That oh-look-at-the-time humbug was for show, an attempt to dodge Emily’s wrath, but she was too tired to do more than hold the door for Papa’s conspirators. Papa’s health had improved significantly. His color was better, and he had more energy, but he was still of spare build and not a young man.

  Caleb and Tobias went muttering on their way, Tobias scowling, Caleb offering a sheepish bow, leaving Emily a clear field on which to upbraid the true culprit.

  “I am glad you feel so much better, Papa—”

  “But you worry for me anyway. I know, child. Sit down. You look to be in worse condition than I ever was.”

  Why, thank you, Papa. “I haven’t time to sit. I must have a look at the master suite before the workmen leave for the day. Come, I’ll walk you to your bedroom.”

  Papa bided in an apartment across the corridor from Emily’s old rooms on the ground floor, which put him as close as possible to the servants belowstairs and spared him from much use of the staircases. The arrangement had seemed like a good idea, though in reality, if Papa needed anything—a cup of tea, his reading glasses—he had simply hailed Emily to send for “one of those strapping fellows in livery.” She had moved to rooms on the next floor up, leaving Papa a hand bell with which to summon the servants.

  The sound of that bell haunted her nightmares.

  “You may be off about your business,” Papa said, rising. “I could not keep up with you for all the wool in Wales. Must be the good country air putting such a spring in your step, eh?”

  Never had the coal smoke of London called to Emily more sincerely. “I have much to do here, Papa, but not so much that I can’t walk with you for a moment.”

  He sent the ledgers a longing glance and went gracefully to his fate, offering Emily his arm. “You should have been a man.”

  Papa meant that frequent comment as a compliment, but each time he said it, Emily suffered a little deeper cut. She would never be a man and had better sense than to wish to be one.

  “What were you, Tobias, and Caleb working on?”

  “Redesigning the hold of the merchantman I bought off that grouchy marquess in Sussex. If Caleb is right, we can substantially increase the cargo capacity without any loss of stability.”

  “What does Tobias say?”

  “That Caleb’s an idiot, though of course Tobias is ever polite about his insults.”

  And Tobias was occasionally right. “Might you seek the opinion of a master shipwright before you start buying materials, Papa?”

  “Suppose I should, shouldn’t I?”

  “Neither Caleb nor Tobias has set foot on a merchantman under sail, to my knowledge. They mean well, but their expertise has limits.”

  “Huh.” Papa stopped outside his apartment. “We’ll let that be our little secret, shall we? Find me a shipwright, then, and he can take a look at the plans.”

  “Of course, Papa.” Pepper Ridge was close enough to Weymouth and Bournemouth that finding a shipwright shouldn’t take too much effort. “Have a nice rest, and I’ll see you at supper.”

  Papa paused, hand on the door latch. “When you have a spare moment, I have a matter to discuss with you, but it will keep for now. Perhaps you ought to grab a nap yourself, Emily, when you’ve finished inspecting the master suite.”

  Emily patted his arm, which wasn’t as bony as it had been even two months ago. “A fine idea, Papa, and whenever you can spare me a moment, I will be happy to discuss any topic you choose.”

  She dearly hoped Papa sought to discuss a business topic with her. Insurance contracts fascinated her, subrogation language was a pure delight, and terms relating to liquidated damages could entertain her for hours. Compared to those challenges, she was utterly bored with the herbal inventory, the ale calculations, the litany of difficulties put forth by the head carpenter working on the renovations, not to mention Briggs’s sniffing and sniping.

  Cook’s endless explanations for what sauce went with what joint or why certain cheeses could not be served with certain fruits had also grown tedious, and Emily had lost all patience for the master gardener’s dithering over roses.

  She dredged up another smile and prepared to deal with the master carpenter, but she also took a moment on the landing to recall those precious moments in Valerian Dorning’s arms.

  The truth was, she’d kissed him for the least defensible reason: She had simply wanted to, from the first moment she’d met him. In a sea of duties, tasks, and obligations, a stolen kiss shared with an attractive, charming gentleman had loomed before Emily like an indulgen
ce sweeter than sunshine and birdsong.

  And Valerian Dorning had kissed her back. Briefly and gently, but he had.

  Chapter Two

  So thoroughly had Grey Dorning, Earl of Casriel, adjusted to married life that when his countess decamped for a visit with her former in-laws, Dorning Hall—Casriel’s home since birth—felt unwelcoming. Beatitude had told him to enjoy having “the place to himself.”

  “As if I could,” he said, rapping on the door of the cottage Valerian now occupied. “My whole life is spent in the company of my siblings, and now they desert me.”

  Valerian himself opened the door. “That is entirely unfair. You either urged us to get married or banished us. Nonetheless, I will welcome you to my home as if you are the prodigal himself. Have we heard anything from Oak?”

  Oak, the family artist, had taken employment with a Hampshire widow who had a collection of paintings in need of restoration.

  “From Oak? I’ve heard not a damned thing.” Valerian had urged Grey to write to Oak, but pining for Beatitude took precedence over fretting about Oak in Grey’s opinion. He passed over his shooting jacket, which he preferred for other activities because it was spectacularly comfortable.

  “Does nobody dress you?” Valerian said, swatting at the sleeves and hanging the garment on a peg beside the door. “You are weeks ahead of the grouse season.”

  “I am comfortable. I can move my arms. What smells so good?”

  “Beef roast. We have time for a drink before our meal. Do you truly feel abandoned up there at the Hall?”

  Grey could never admit as much to a sibling. As Valerian had said, the younger Dorning brothers had been sent out into the world more or less on the end of Grey’s very own boot, lovingly applied to their respective backsides.

  In the fashion of elder brothers faced with inconvenient realities, Grey seized on the least embarrassing truth. “Her ladyship’s absence is keenly felt.”

  Valerian led the way to a small parlor, one nonetheless graced by a bouquet of daylilies and faintly scented with verbena.

  “Grey, repeat after me: I miss my wife.”

  “You needn’t gloat.”

  Valerian had only two decanters on his sideboard, both good crystal and nearly full. “A tonic to settle your lordship’s nerves,” he said, passing over a glass of claret. “I don’t gloat to see you besotted, I rejoice. You went up to London with all the enthusiasm of an innocent man facing transportation. You came strutting back thoroughly in love with your wife. Gives one hope.”

  Casriel lifted his glass. “To your health and to your own hopes, whatever they may be.”

  Valerian sipped his wine. Like Grey, he hadn’t changed for dinner. This was a bachelor household, and they would wear their damned boots to table if they pleased to, but somehow, a country gentleman’s casual turnout looked so much more… more on Valerian. His cuffs and cravat bore a touch of lace, and the weave was beautiful. His sleeve buttons, cravat pin, and watch chain were the only gold on his person, and yet he conveyed elegance in his very lack of jewelry.

  “I hope for a good meal in good company,” Valerian said. “Catch me up on the family news.”

  In truth, Beatitude had become the epicenter of family correspondence, mostly because both Daisy and Jacaranda—the female Dorning siblings—were conscientious about their letters. Jacaranda bided in Town with her husband, Worth Kettering, and thus kept an eye on Sycamore and Ash and, to a lesser extent, Will. Daisy had married a local squire and poked her nose periodically into Grey’s, Hawthorne’s, Valerian’s, and Oak’s business.

  “You catch me up first,” Grey said, sinking into an exquisitely comfortable reading chair. “Has Daisy made any inspection tours of your home?”

  “I pay my calls on Daisy on Thursday,” Valerian said, taking the second wing chair. “That way, I can see the children on the nursery maid’s half day. How long will your countess be gone?”

  “Too bloody long. I should pay a call on Daisy. One of those brigands is my godson.”

  “And Daisy is our baby sister. Drink your wine, Grey.”

  Coming here had been a mistake. The Hall was lonely—might as well admit it, damn the very notion—but Valerian dwelled in near solitude in this cottage and yet managed to give the place an air of domestic comfort. He’d always had the ability to seem at ease, to take matters in hand, whether those matters were the appointments in a tenant cottage, fashionable repartee, haying teams, or a trio of feuding brothers.

  Valerian owned his own estate, a tidy manor bequeathed to him by an aunt, but he let the land out rather than dwell even that short distance from the Hall.

  Grey sipped a lovely glass of wine and resented its quality. “Where did you come by this vintage? It’s quite good.” Better than the everyday on hand at the Hall, possibly better than the company wine at the Hall too.

  “I translated some recipes from the French for the publican’s wife. She mentioned that she was bored serving only English fare, and I offered to find her a few dishes easily prepared and not too costly. The wine was a gesture of appreciation on her part. My next assignments are recipes for Italian crème cake and French chocolate drops.”

  “The coach passengers will appreciate your work. Beatitude enjoys chocolate drops.”

  Valerian’s smile was damnably kind and knowing.

  Grey downed his wine and rose. “I miss my wife.”

  “She doubtless misses you, too, and the reunion will occasion much joy. Tell me about tomorrow’s cases.”

  The thought of welcoming Beatitude home was so very cheering—she’d promised an absence of no more than ten days—while the prospect of the Monday-morning parlor session was nearly grim. What fool had decided that the ranking family in the shire should also periodically supply the neighborhood’s magistrate?

  “One would think having eight younger siblings would result in a temperament suited to the magistrate’s job,” Grey said. “I find instead that my upbringing has exhausted my patience with petty squabbles. I fear I should not have had Thomas Springer bound over for the quarter sessions.”

  “Nonsense. He stole from a widow and did so on a lark when he has never known want in all his sixteen years. His family should let him stew for another week or so before they make reparation sufficient to get the case withdrawn. His youthful peccadillo will remain that—an embarrassment, rather than an outright scandal—and you will have spared him far more serious consequences a few years hence.”

  An accurate and sensible summation—also comforting. “His father over-imbibes. I suspect Thomas was trying to earn his father’s notice.”

  “So have a serious talk with the senior Mr. Springer about how a boy’s conduct reflects on his antecedents and a good paternal example being the best gift a lad can inherit. Then ask him if he’d like you to approach the widow to hint at the possibility of reparation.”

  “I’m the magistrate. I cannot approach anybody.”

  “You can approach her to ask after her well-being, Grey. You need not oversee the negotiations. I can do that.”

  This case had cost Grey sleep for the past week. Young Tom Springer had no real harm in him, but neither had he any sense. Valerian’s suggestion, by contrast, was the embodiment of good sense.

  The evening progressed with most of the conversation over dinner relating to the cases to be dealt with on the morrow. There were six, and by the time Valerian was serving the Italian crème cake, Grey knew exactly how he would dispose of five of them.

  “And have you any suggestions regarding the allegations brought against Jenny Switzer?” Grey asked.

  Valerian topped up Grey’s wineglass and sat back. “She’s charged with mayhem, if I recall, for taking a swipe at Squire Rutledge?”

  “Served him a good slap across the face. The surrounding facts are in dispute.”

  “No, they are not,” Valerian said, carving off a slice of cheddar and passing it to Grey. “Rutledge is a philandering old boor. He has to find maids through the Lo
ndon agencies because none of the local women will allow their daughters to work in his home. He made a grab at Daisy once when she was fourteen.”

  “If somebody had thought to tell me that, I might have cited conflict of interest and sent the case elsewhere.” The wine went perfectly with the cheese, not too sweet, a hint of effervescence, a nice, light note on which to end a pleasant evening, though the Switzer case was anything but light.

  Jenny was fifteen. She would not fare well at all if incarcerated or sent to the quarter sessions.

  Valerian served himself some cheese. “The crime of mayhem requires not simply injury, but permanent disfigurement or disability to the victim, does it not?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I helped Ash learn his law. Somebody had to quiz him. Sycamore was too busy annoying all and sundry, Oak was off painting, Hawthorne was pulling up tree stumps with his bare hands, and so forth. Will the blow Jenny dealt leave a scar?”

  “She barely scratched him, more’s the pity.”

  “Then dismiss the charge for lack of foundation. I will send word to Miss Pepper at Pepper Ridge that a young lady with a reputation for hard work and sound morals is available for employment. That will spare the combatants awkward moments on market day or in the churchyard.”

  Pepper Ridge—formerly Summerfield House—was more than ten miles distant from Dorning Hall by the lanes, and did indeed patronize a different church and market town.

  “You’re sure about the definition of mayhem?”

  “Absolutely certain, and Rutledge won’t argue with the king’s man in any event. He’s lucky you didn’t charge him with attempted rape.”

  “Had I done that, Jenny would have suffered, and no jury would have convicted him.”