He always kept in the back of his mind the small chatter meant to amuse acquaintances from the society round, which was useful. Rosethorpe was only just east of London and Isabel was always contriving some kind of party or another. He had to stay affable. In general, he did not mingle too much, but he knew what was expected of him and always behaved accordingly.
Cringing, Jeremy wondered how many of her “paramours” he had met already without knowing it. He shook his head slightly and brought his face back to a smooth expression. No. He would not dwell on that.
“So I may as well speak to someone who is being paid to know all about them?” Jeremy smiled and quirked an eyebrow.
Mother blushed as deeply as Jeremy himself could and protested, “No, no, it is not that, at all. Though now that you mention it, there should be someone else who knows all about it.”
She was forgetting about Mr. Blackwell, the steward who was the son of a Bowland steward, who had been the son of yet another Bowland steward. Blackwell practically is a Bowland. But a secretary wouldn’t be for the estate itself. A secretary would be for Jeremy. And even in that respect, he had a solicitor in town who looked after his business affairs.
Jeremy thought of the pandemonium in his study and leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Very well. I shall look for a poor secretary. He’ll begin by taming the hurricane in my study.”
It wouldn’t be the same as taming the hurricane of his life, but perhaps it would be a start. Some control and peace of mind was better than none. Currently, despite his calm exterior, Jeremy had very little of either.
Chapter Two
Though she wanted nothing more than to shove Lady Hareden down a flight of stairs and solve all of Jeremy’s problems in the most unladylike, illegal and immoral manner possible, Margaret had an important errand that same morning.
Her dear friend, Lady Maria Wenwood, who lived just in town, had sent her a letter weeks ago stating that her twins wished to see their godmother on their birthday. The day had arrived and coincided with Isabel’s latest brazen return. Margaret left Jeremy to his own devices shortly after nine o’clock.
She did not worry too much about him, as his original bout of melancholy had passed once he found more purpose in his life. But she did deeply wish that his lady wife would drop dead, God help her for feeling or thinking it.
As she made her way to the Wenwoods’ home in a covered phaeton, she mulled over Jeremy’s position. She understood his distrust of causing a scene or a situation in which he could be interpreted as the villain, but she was certain that no one worth their salt would criticize him for sending Isabel to one of the smaller homes in his possession. She didn’t even think he’d earn society’s censure for seeking something so extreme and shocking as a divorce, but that would be a different matter entirely. Costly and time-consuming. Exhausting, too. But he was a duke and dukes were very rarely stomped on by the ton in the way others were.
Margaret just wished that Jeremy would remember that. He needed to call on the power and dignity that had been bestowed upon him by generations of the stuff. His detractors would have to be silent, then.
She turned her attention to the problem she could solve. Jeremy was too modest to say exactly how much work he had taken on, but she had observed the steady influx of not only tenants and locals, but also wealthy merchants, for example, into the manor. True, Jeremy kept an office in town, but when matters were local, urgent, or both, his clients came to see him in Rosethorpe. He needed someone whose mind was better suited to organization.
She shuddered to think of the state of his study, or office, or whatever he called it. It always looked as though a storm had swept its way through it, unfurling papers and dripping tea in its wake. There were often even dirty plates and cutlery. Jeremy was many admirable things, but he was not tidy.
Once she had arrived at the stately brick house off the Marylebone Road, Margaret concluded that perhaps the next best thing she could do for her son, apart from murdering his wife and making it look like an accident, was to help him find, well, help. Lord Wenwood will have something useful to say about it, she thought. That was not the reason for her visit, but perhaps it would come up all the same. She’d make it so.
She was ushered out of the light but insistent rain and inside by a harried, young footman. The last time she had seen him, she’d overheard him mentioning to another footman that his wife was due to give birth any day, now.
“Ah, Jeavons,” she said. “I trust your wife and new child are well?”
The blond, slight man blushed visibly even under his ruddy skin, pleased that she recalled this recent joy. “Yes, thank you, your grace.” He took her hat, gloves, and reticule with a shy smile. “I am surprised you remembered.”
“Please,” said Margaret. “You were so nervous about it last month that I found the emotion palpable and distracting.” She raised an eyebrow at him.
Blushing even more deeply, Jeavons said, “Lady Wenwood is in the parlor. Your godsons are upstairs, and young Lady Ma—” But before he could finish his sentence, a small, fair-haired girl shrieked so loudly that her words carried into the opulent foyer and echoed against all the lacquered wood and polished gilt.
“Lady Margle! Lady Margle!” She paused on the landing, where she must have escaped from her nursery and governess, then toddled as fast as she could down the stairs. Although Margaret wondered if the very little Lady Mary Wenwood could even manage the steps on her own, this was evidently quotidian behavior, because her stout governess trailed just behind her a few moments later and did not appear nervous.
She just looks bored, thought Margaret, bringing a hand to her lips to hide her smile. Good thing they got Miss Masbeck in—I’m sure they need all hands on deck, so to speak, when it comes to the children.
Wisely, Jeavons got out of the way, instinctively stepping to his left and closer to the massive double doors that led to the drawing room.
Margaret nodded and said, “Very sensible of you to shift out of her way, Jeavons.” Then she beamed at the source of the jubilant shrieking. Mary was a fairy of a little girl, a tiny, delicate thing who was still somehow dashing toward her with all the speed of a runaway horse. “And how is my goddaughter this fine morning?”
She was godmother to all three of the Wenwood children. At five years old, Mary was the youngest. She is surprisingly solid for such a small child, thought Margaret as Mary collided with her legs with a muffled “oof”.
But Mary recovered quickly and gazed up at her. “I am doing very well.” After a pause to collect her thoughts, as though she was remembering her manners, she added, “How do you do, today, your grace?”
Her governess came to a much more dignified stop a pace or two behind her and bobbed a quick curtsy to Margaret. “Good morning, your grace,” she said.
Margaret nodded to her, then addressed Mary. “I fare very well, too, my darling lady. And even better than ‘very well’, now that we are together.” She straightened the tiny cap on Mary’s blonde head. “Have your brothers behaved themselves today? I understand that it is their birthday and they will probably do as they wish, but there’ve been no more spiders in your bed as of late, correct?”
The boys were not malicious so much as rambunctious. Mary was very fond of insects, for whatever reason and a reason that was only intelligible to her, so they had thought it would be kind to capture her a spider a fortnight ago. The spider, unfortunately, was neither an insect, being an arachnid, nor content to be confined under a water glass pilfered from the kitchen.
As far as Lady Wenwood could piece together, it escaped and retreated to Mary’s bed. She never got a full confession from either boy, but via their shifty half-truths, it was the best conclusion their mother could reach. She did not believe they would purposefully put the little beast into their sister’s bed.
It led to an afternoon with their father explaining the differences between poisonous and harmless spiders, as well as the finer points of arachnids versus
insects. That must be where she got her interest in insects, Margaret thought. Lord Wenwood was a politician more than anything else, but he also had a strong interest in the natural world.
The Wenwoods were not disciplinarians in the classic sense and preferred that when there were issues with their children’s behavior, they learn from their mistakes. Margaret could not help but approve when she saw how well the approach worked. And the boys’ adventures made for very amusing correspondence because, in the end, they were harmless and without any ill-intent. Luckily, Mary’s intended pet spider was nothing more than a common garden variety.
“No, no more. They haven’t brought me more…” Mary hesitated. “A-ah-arachnids.”
It seemed that she had benefited from the lesson that afternoon, too.
“They belong outdoors. Not in a house so fine as this one.”
Mary shook her head. “They’re good. Some eat the insects that come inside, and Mr. Sutcliffe says that—” A yelp of joy drifted above their heads before she could finish the thought. Mary’s governess looked up at the landing and Margaret followed the young woman’s gaze.
“Lady Margaret is here!” a delighted boy’s voice shouted. A pair of nearly identical faces peered down at them from the topmost landing. Mary giggled, seemingly excited to have gained this knowledge before her brothers. The boys dashed back into a room, their old nursery, Margaret thought, which had been turned into more of a schoolroom than a proper nursery this past year. There were the scuffs of chairs and rustling of paper, followed by a genteel feminine voice whose words Margaret could not discern.
She and Mary exchanged a look.
“Even though it is their birthday, Mama said they still had to attend their lessons,” Mary said. Her oval face was composed and serious.
“Too right,” said Margaret.
“I wonder how much they have even done.” Mary did not roll her eyes, but she came close.
Feet scuffled overhead, then the twins came bursting out of their schoolroom. They each warred to be first to the stairs, shoving and pushing—but not enough to disturb the old furniture or the undated landscape painting of the Cotswolds, noted Margaret with satisfaction—until one of them claimed victory.
Daniel? thought Margaret.
It was probably Daniel. But it was impossible to tell for sure from the ground floor. Once one was acquainted with them, though, it became far easier to tell them apart. Daniel was slightly more ginger, a little taller, and had fewer freckles than Andrew, or “Drew”.
Then, as they came scrambling downstairs, Andrew—Margaret assumed—gained a small lead on his brother, and she nudged Mary gently aside to avert a collision between the three children. In the end, both enthusiastic boys managed to reach her arms at the same time. When they were older, they would be expected to behave with much more civilized manners, but she did not have the heart to chastise them now. Not on their birthday, and apart from that, she was too fond of their exuberance. The world would dim it soon enough. She banished an image of Jeremy from her mind.
“You came!” Daniel said.
“Of course,” said Margaret. “I said I would, and I’m a lady of my word.” She delivered the words with gravitas, but arched an eyebrow playfully.
“You are, indeed, Lady Hareden,” said Andrew.
He was always the more genteel of the two, taking after his mother rather than his father in that regard.
“Thank you, Drew.”
“I never said I doubted you,” said Daniel, glancing between Drew and Margaret.
“I know you never would,” said Margaret, patting Daniel’s shoulder and releasing both boys. “Many happy returns to you both.”
“You spoil them so,” said Lady Wenwood.
“Pardon?” Margaret looked to her left, meeting her friend’s twinkling brown eyes. The petite woman had come through the doors to the drawing room, walking as silently as ever. She moved like a cat.
Though meant to be worn at home, her dress belied the Wenwood fortune. It was a gorgeous thing of pale yellow silk, and the lace was very modest in comparison to what she would wear in the evening to a ball. But the dress was suitably elegant enough for receiving visitors.
“My husband has told me what you have arranged between you both. Or between the three of you, rather.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you mean, dear Maria,” said Margaret, winking.
Maria sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose slightly. “I suppose it had to happen sometime, did it not. And ten years of age is not so very young.”
Mary stared at both adults. “Young? They’re older than me,” she pointed out.
“‘Not so very young’ for what, Mama?” Daniel asked.
The Duke of Tracton, Lord Robert Wenwood, came to stand just behind Maria’s shoulder, joining them. “My sweet, Cook wants to know if you think there’s enough of the—” He caught himself when he saw Margaret standing with his children. “Ah, good morning, Lady Hareden. I trust your journey was without incident? I am sorry about the weather. At least Rosethorpe is not so far.”
He was as fair as his wife’s features were dark, and their three children had all inherited his looks. Although the Wenwoods were older than Jeremy, they were younger than Margaret. Gray had only just started to bloom in the duke’s light brown hair. He was still an attractive man with aquiline features who had not let himself go in the manner that some of his ilk did. Like Maria, he was dressed exquisitely, the knot at his neck expertly tied by his valet, his coat, waistcoat, and pants a blue so dark it was all but black.
His and Maria’s marriage was one of genuine love and affection. As such, it was as unfamiliar to Margaret’s experience as any of the languages of the Far East. Maria, whom she had met at a charity event some months before the twins’ birth, mentioned that her own family did not believe the marriage was taking place until the duke himself arrived at their home to speak to Maria’s father. A true romantic, Lord Wenwood had asked Maria first.
Before meeting her new friend, Margaret had possessed mostly abstract notions of love within an aristocratic union. But then, this was not a purely aristocratic marriage.
“No, no, the rain was not so bad as to cause trouble,” she said to him.
“Splendid. I am happy to hear it. It shall be a very intimate affair, today—just you and us.”
“I do hope it does not feel too small,” said Maria. She offered a wry, warm smile. “I thought that a birthday was not the time to make a society splash, so to speak. Not while Daniel and Andrew are still boys.”
“Such things should be for bosom friends and family,” Margaret reassured her. There had been some talk during her last visit about the boys being too precocious and off-putting to others their own age, so perhaps the decision was not as casual as it seemed, but she did not want to discomfort them by asking if any other children of their acquaintance were going to come.
“How is Lord Hareden?” Robert asked, taking Mary into the crook of his arm when she sidled up to him. “I saw him the day before last at White’s and he said he had been keeping himself busy, and I reminded him that he was most welcome to accompany you today.”
The boys, who had been fairly patient throughout the adults’ exchange of pleasantries, shifted eagerly at the question.
“I wanted to see his stump more closely,” proclaimed Daniel.
Drew said, with a scoff, “I’m sure Lord Hareden is not in the habit of pulling his sleeve down for just anyone, Daniel.”
“But he once explained to me why he was using his left hand! He showed me his right! There’s only a stump left. He just didn’t say what happened—I only want to know how he lost his hand!”
Their father reined them in judiciously after smoothing his expression of horror at their candor. “Boys, I’ve explained this—it’s impolite to ask that a man show you such things. It’s a war injury, not an exotic animal to be gawked at.”
Maria said to them, with an apologetic glance at Margaret, “If hi
s grace wishes to discuss it with you, he will, but you must not pressure him. It cannot be a pleasant thing for him to recall.”
The adults knew the circumstances of Jeremy’s injury and how it had transpired to become an amputation, but today was not the day to explain that to the children, and certainly not to Mary.
“He is fine, but busy,” said Margaret diplomatically, understanding that the best thing would be to ignore Drew and Daniel’s speculations. She wondered if either adult Wenwood had heard anything about Isabel recently. Perhaps she would ask them later in private. “He is still doing his work as an advisor and barrister, as I’m sure you know.”
Nodding, Robert said, “I’ve often commended him for it. What a refreshing perspective—the idea that one might be helping manage one’s estate through also managing his tenants’ legal affairs, even if they cannot afford it.”
“Shall we relocate to the first parlor before we become too engrossed in conversation?” Maria suggested, tilting her head at her husband. Then she raised her eyebrows and pitched her words toward the twins. “Boys, do tell Miss Masbeck that she is free to do as she wishes for the rest of the day.”
Another oddity of the Wenwood household was that they always set their children small tasks. Whereas nearly everyone else Margaret had ever met would have told the governess, who was lingering unobtrusively near because Mary was still here and she had not been dismissed, or summoned a maid to speak to Miss Masbeck, neither Maria nor Robert balked at having a child do it.
Robert had once remarked that this habit meant his boys particularly would be able to deal with a great many types of people. Margaret knew that as a politician, he valued his own skills of communication and compromise, and held that persuasion came from those two things, not force.
Maria’s parents had been City merchants, so she had not grown up with the same models of behavior and retinue of servants as either her husband or Margaret. But she took to running the Wenwood household with aplomb because she had always helped run something, in effect. The two indubitably suited one another in temperament, in Margaret’s opinion.
Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3) Page 4
