A Woman of True Honor (True Gentlemen Book 8)

by Grace Burrowes

  He sketched a bow and opened the door for Emily.

  “Good day, Briggs,” Emily said. “I’ll see you after supper.” And just like that, she was out the door and sitting next to Mr. Dorning in his gig. “Why do I feel as if I’ve been liberated from the hulks?”

  He clucked the horse into a trot and steered the vehicle down the drive. “Because that woman has more confidence in her own judgment than she ought. She had you decked out to impress the patronesses at Almack’s, not to hop around the village assembly rooms.”

  “Briggs means well.” But listening to her would have made a fool of me. “In London, she urged me to accept the suit of Mr. Anthony Beerbaum. I refused, and we’ve been at cross-purposes ever since.”

  He turned the horse smoothly onto the lane. “I am not acquainted with Mr. Beerbaum.”

  “He’s a fortune-hunting nobody with, as you say, more confidence in his own opinions than he ought to have—and he has an endless store of opinions. Fortune hunters tend to be wealthy in their opinions. They have considered perspectives on everything from my eyebrows to the embroidery on my hems.”

  “Because,” Mr. Dorning said, “gazing at your hems as they partner you allows their eyes to stray over your person without offering outright insult. I hope you left every one of them with broken toes. Would you like to take the reins?”

  Broken toes? That was the proper response to a disrespectful gaze? Broken toes? “Do you teach your dancing students to break a man’s toes for rudeness?”

  “Absolutely.” He said that in all seriousness. “If you don’t want to ruin your gloves, you can drive bare-handed or wear mine. The horse’s name is Clovis—king of the Franks, founder of the Merovingian Dynasty—and he’s a perfect gentleman.”

  Emily was still marveling over the concept of breaking a man’s toes. “I don’t know how to drive, Mr. Dorning. Papa puts a coach and four at my disposal, and I’ve never had the need to drive myself.”

  “You are in Dorset now,” he said, putting the reins in one hand. “Take my gloves.”

  They effected the exchange, with Emily drawing off her own gloves and putting on Mr. Dorning’s. He then showed her how to hold the reins, how to communicate with the horse so the beast dropped from a trot to a walk, how to navigate a turn.

  “With a sensible equine, the driver has little to do,” Mr. Dorning said, “rather like a good dance partner. You look after your own feet, and your partner manages the rest. I think you have natural talent as a whip, Miss Pepper.”

  “I am terrified,” Emily said, though she was exhilarated too. “At any moment, Clovis will shy at a rabbit and go careening off across the fields. We will be dashed to the ground, and I will break my head upon a rock.”

  She was only half jesting.

  “If Clovis panics, you hop out of the coach at the first opportunity. You might turn an ankle, but you will not break your head. A bolting horse can sometimes be controlled by a rider, but when dragging a conveyance behind him, the same animal is harder to contain. Take the left turning into the village.”

  The gig went a little wide, but Emily managed the turn. “I like this. Ladies in the country drive themselves?”

  “You should probably take your companion along for anything but a trip to the home farm to fetch honey for your cook, but yes. Ladies in the country drive themselves.”

  “Perhaps the country isn’t all bad.”

  “You did not care for London, and you are skeptical of the country. Where would you like to be?”

  Like most of Mr. Dorning’s sallies, that question was insightful. “I am exactly where I want to be at the moment, sir.” She signaled the horse to a walk and then brought him to a smooth halt outside the village livery stable.

  Mr. Dorning handed Emily down and dealt with the hostler. A lone fiddle was tuning up somewhere nearby, and a dozen people strolled the green in pairs.

  “I’m nervous,” Emily said. “Not only because my dancing is less graceful than a bear’s, but also because I’m neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red herring.”

  Emily braced herself for platitudes: Nonsense, my dear. You’ll be the toast of the evening. Your dancing is exquisite. She’d heard them all and told herself those compliments were meant kindly.

  “Then be yourself,” Mr. Dorning said. “Simply be yourself, and that will be adequate to any challenge you face here today.”

  Novel advice, and she suspected Mr. Dorning followed it himself.

  He knew everybody, of course, and handled the introductions faultlessly. Then Emily was walking through the steps of the dance pattern while Mr. Dorning used his cane to beat a steady rhythm on the plank flooring, and the fiddler offered a dirge-like version of the dance tune.

  I am enjoying myself. The thought popped into her head as young Mr. Woodmore Troke collided with Miss May Cheaverton, amid warnings from the onlookers to “Watch out, Woodie!” and “Tack left, Maysie, or he’ll sink you for sure!”

  The couple remained upright, more at peril of capsizing from laughter than anything else. Through it all, Mr. Dorning called assurances, dance steps, the occasional sly jest, and advice, until the dancers were moving at a proper tempo. They learned three dances, though everybody but Emily appeared to know the first one fairly well.

  When the time came to wander back to the livery, Emily was tired, but in a good way—for a change.

  “They’ve seen those dances done many times,” Mr. Dorning said, backing Clovis into the gig’s traces and fastening the harness buckles. “Old Roger de Coverly is often the opening or closing dance. He gets the blood moving or, in the alternative, ends the evening on a jolly note.”

  The hostlers were busy with other customers, and Mr. Dorning dealt with the horse as if he was used to serving as his own groom.

  “My blood is moving,” Emily replied. “I cannot say when I’ve enjoyed an evening more.” They’d finished up with punch and cake at the local inn, which Mr. Dorning had paid for from coins in a jar discreetly positioned near the fiddler’s feet. “Was I to compensate you for this evening’s instruction?”

  He stood unmoving by the gig, while the horse flicked an ear back and forth. “The jar is for donations. I pass a bit to the fiddler, pay for the punch and cake, and there’s seldom much left over. Let me hand you up. Would you like to drive?”

  Emily climbed into the bench. “I would. No need to lend me your gloves. Was my question awkward?”

  He took the place beside her, making the vehicle rock. “My answer was awkward.”

  Ah, so that’s what he’d meant about having no prospects. He’d meant he had no money. Emily took up the reins and clucked to Clovis, who seemed to know the way back to Pepper Ridge. The summer sunset was lovely, the evening air a fine antidote to the exertions of dancing.

  Emily remained close to Mr. Dorning when he handed her down in front of the manor house. “I meant what I said earlier.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have never enjoyed myself on an outing more, Mr. Dorning. I will look forward to learning more dances next week.”

  He stepped back. “I will look forward to that as well. Your servant, Miss Pepper.” He bowed very correctly over her hand and waited for her to open the front door before driving off.

  She watched him go, her heart light. He had no money, but never had a problem been easier to solve, for she had pots and pots of money and nobody to share it with. She assayed a little pirouette before skipping up the steps, much too happy to deal with Briggs, Papa, or the housekeeper’s latest recitation of domestic drama.

  “Osgood is almost his old self again,” Caleb Booth said, pouring two brandies and bringing one to Tobias. “Good to see him enjoying the work and giving orders once more.”

  “To Osgood Pepper’s health.” Tobias Granger lifted the glass, the toast sincere. Osgood had taken a pair of grubby boys from the mill floor and made successful merchants of them. Of course, they were in part to thank for Osgood’s own success, but the initial generosi
ty had been Pepper’s, and he remained generous with them still.

  “To his health and to his determination to bide in the country.” Caleb took a sip of his drink. “I did not see this sudden penchant for ruralizing coming, Toby. This house could put up a regiment comfortably, and the distance from the bedroom to the dining room is a morning constitutional.”

  Caleb was doing what he always did. Playing the jovial confrere while tiptoeing up to a delicate topic. Tobias found that strategy tedious and preferred that Caleb either keep his schemes to himself or air them directly.

  “Osgood knows what he’s about, Caleb, and his present priorities work to our advantage, so adapt your opinions accordingly.”

  The library was splendid, if a bit shabby. Old books had one scent—vanilla and leather—a library full of neglected old books another. A hint of dust and mildew, a touch of bygone hound about the carpets. The ceiling boasted a fresco of cherubs, billowing clouds, golden trumpery, and a buxom, spear-bearing female in a white robe, while the globe in the bow window was seventy years out of date.

  “How does rusticating in the back of God’s own wilderness work to our advantage?” Caleb asked, giving the globe a spin.

  Caleb’s tone was mild, his features pleasant. He showed the world a cheerful, tolerant mien, and for all Tobias knew, Caleb was cheerful and tolerant. He was also a shrewd, ambitious, hardworking businessman, though not nearly as astute about people as he was about buying and selling cloth.

  “Osgood wants Emily to marry into the gentry,” Tobias said, “or so he used to claim. No peer-for-sale will do for Emily, and in that regard, Osgood is wise.”

  “He is an indulgent papa,” Caleb allowed. “We know that. We also know none of the fortune hunters stood a chance with dear Emily.”

  “And thank God for that, but the squires and baronets don’t stand a chance with her either.”

  Caleb slouched against the casement of a tall window, the fading sun catching the fiery highlights in his auburn hair.

  “We can pray that is so, but I lack your confidence, Tobias. Some of these country gents have Town bronze, plenty of means, and impressive physiques.”

  “But they are country gents. Emily has spent most of her life learning to move among the peerage without causing offense. She’s out of her depth here, and she knows it. We will be her dear, familiar friends. Ready to escort her anywhere, deflect the presuming bumpkins, and remind her of the splendors of the capital should she tire of ruralizing.”

  “She does seem a bit out of sorts lately, but then, Osgood gave us all a scare.” Caleb gazed out over the front drive, his expression distracted.

  Had Caleb truly been unhappy to see Osgood fading, or had he been relieved? “I’ve done some reading on foxglove medications,” Tobias said.

  “Oh?”

  “Sometimes, the cure is temporary. Sometimes, the patient gets a reprieve, and then the dropsical symptoms carry him off with little warning.”

  Caleb used the edge of the window casement to scratch between his shoulder blades, like a bullock against a sapling. “When I die, I hope it’s with little warning. A decline like Osgood endured was hardly dignified.” He tossed back the last of his drink. “You are still convinced Emily will settle on one of us?”

  “We are all she has. The nobs consider her a mushroom, the squires consider her a nabob’s princess, the nabobs threw their sons at her in hopes of getting their hands on her money. We care for her, we know her, we understand her.”

  “You don’t mention that we like her.”

  Caleb apparently more than liked Emily. Tobias had no idea whether the affliction was romantic love, physical attraction, or an amalgam of the two with a soupçon of old-fashioned greed, but Caleb watched Emily with a covetousness he usually reserved for the inventories of failing competitors.

  “More to the point,” Tobias said, “Emily likes us. She will soon see the advantage of choosing one of us for a spouse.” In which case, he and Caleb had long ago agreed that the loser should cede the field with good grace, and the winner would recall that good grace when it came time to administer Osgood’s vast estate.

  A pragmatic plan that saw to the security of all concerned, which was really what Osgood himself wished for.

  “If we are such obvious superior choices,” Caleb said, “who is driving Emily up the lane?”

  She hadn’t been at supper, which was served at an ungodly early hour in the country, but then, women could keep to their rooms for any number of reasons. Tobias went to the window and watched a one-horse gig come to a halt at the foot of the steps. The beast in the traces was glossy and well built, but a bit on the unprepossessing side. No matching white socks, no braids in his mane.

  “That is one of the Earl of Casriel’s host of brothers,” Tobias said. “They clean up nicely but haven’t a proverbial pot between them.”

  “The youngest owns The Coventry Club in Town. He has a pot or two, I’ll wager.”

  “That’s not the youngest. They are all named for plants. Hawthorne Dorning married the woman who used to be lady of this manor, if my interrogation of the footmen is to be believed. The spare trains dogs, of all things, and there’s a painter in the batch. The Dorning family suffers from the increasingly common ailment of having more pedigree than means. Come away from the window, Caleb.”

  The Dorning fellow bowed correctly over Emily’s hand, and when the front door banged closed, he climbed into his humble conveyance and tooled away.

  “But where did she go with him?” Caleb muttered, pouring himself another drink. “Why go anywhere with a fellow whose idea of a well-spent day is to fish, nap, swill ale, and converse with his hounds? These country types have no ambition.”

  “A pleasant drive at the end of a summer day strikes me as more appealing than another supper listening to you, me, and Osgood discuss engineering modifications to make steam looms more efficient. Emily is simply bored with rural life and trying to be gracious to the bumpkin-ry. One of us will eventually take her to wife, and all will be as it should.”

  Caleb appeared soothed by that recitation, though he tossed back the rest of his brandy before sauntering from the library, a man with no apparent destination. He would attempt to catch Emily on the stairs and fail—she moved at nothing less than a forced march these days—and he’d try to pry the details of her outing from her if he did catch her.

  Tobias, by contrast, rose early enough that he and Emily were the first down to breakfast most mornings, and they had a good half hour to confer—as a cordial husband and wife often conferred—regarding the day’s schedule.

  Emily hadn’t even mentioned an outing with the Dorning fellow—Elderberry? Setwall? What was his name?—which confirmed that she put no importance whatsoever on Dorning’s company.

  In an abundance of caution, Tobias would ensure that remained the case.

  A paradox had visited itself upon Valerian the day he’d hugged his brother Oak farewell. Oak had taken a post in Hampshire restoring paintings for some parsimonious widow, a fine use of both his charm and his artistic ability.

  The result was that, of the seven Dorning brothers, only Valerian and Casriel remained at the family seat. The irony of feeling thronged by louts and boors for most of his life and missing those same louts and boors terribly was cruel.

  The spare, Willow, had married an earl’s daughter, Lady Susannah Haddonfield. They were awash in marital bliss and puppies, for Willow loved dogs and dogs loved him. Fortunately, the favor of a few well-placed aristocrats meant polite society loved to pay extravagantly for Will’s canines and for his services as a trainer of hounds.

  Ash, who had read law, was in Town as the second-in-command at Sycamore’s club. Sycamore, the youngest, had struck out into the world without much gentlemanly education and was apparently thriving all the better for it as the proprietor of a gaming establishment doing business as a supper club.

  Hawthorne had taken on the challenge of converting Dorning Hall’s vast botanical
riches into a commercial venture, and in the process he’d married Mrs. Margaret Summerfield. They bided on a property of hers that shared a boundary with Dorning Hall, and Hawthorne had never looked happier.

  Sitting in her lovely parlor, Margaret looked rather pleased with life too. “I will tell Hawthorne you stopped by, Valerian, and he will be sorry he missed you. More lemonade?”

  “No, thank you. I must be going, but I did want to—”

  “Uncle Valerian!” Before he could get to his feet, Valerian was stormed by a little girl in a wrinkled pinafore. Adriana climbed into his lap and squeezed him about the neck. “Were you coming up to the nursery to see us?”

  Greta, smaller, quieter, and less robust in her mannerisms, hung back by the doorway at her governess’s side.

  “I was indeed,” Valerian said, rising. “Greta, good day.” He bowed with Adriana clinging to his neck, which occasioned giggling from Adriana, a smile from Greta, and a look of patient humor from Margaret. “I am burdened with a bag of lemon drops,” he went on, “and they grow ever so heavy in my pocket. If only my hands were free to retrieve the bag.”

  Adriana scrambled down. “You’re free now.”

  “Margaret?”

  “They may each have one.”

  He withdrew the bag and held it out to Adriana, who snatched a sweet like a trout after a fly. Greta was more deliberate, and the young governess, who blushed becomingly, somewhere in between.

  “And for you?” Valerian held out the bag to his hostess when the children had gone whooping down the corridor.

  “You are so sweet,” Margaret said, rising to select a treat for herself. “I do believe you are the girls’ favorite uncle.”

  The compliment stung, though Valerian wasn’t in truth any sort of uncle to the children at all. “I am the uncle they know the best, all the others having found gainful employment elsewhere.”