Sherbourne simply lacked the humility to accommodate the earl, so he provided Brantford instructions, much as Charlotte Windham would have.
“I am a busy man, Brantford, with many demands upon my time. I haven’t the luxury of idling about like some blushing debutante who hopes you’ll get around to asking her for a minuet. I conduct business in a businesslike manner or not at all. You either make and keep an appointment with me, or you find another project to grace with your coin.”
Brantford studied him while laughter erupted from a table that included two earls, a baron, and a ducal heir. Sherbourne hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t attracted notice in any way, but he’d reached the limit of his manners.
“And that,” Brantford said, a slow smile breaking over his features, “is why your endeavors are notoriously profitable. Shall I come by Tuesday at two of the clock?”
Better. “Two o’clock will suit.”
Brantford rose and extended a hand. “Until next we meet. A pleasure, Sherbourne.”
That gesture was as unexpected as Brantford’s smile. Sherbourne rose and shook hands—without smiling—but when he reached the street he did toss his hat into the air and catch it on the end of his walking stick. He had enormous work to do before he was accepted by polite society, but that achievement would come closer to fruition if an earl became involved in the mining venture.
And if Sherbourne were accepted, then his children might find themselves not merely tolerated, not simply accepted, but included among the best families in the realm.
Provided he could equip them with the right mother.
* * *
Hour by hour, Charlotte was talking herself into accepting Lucas Sherbourne’s marriage proposal. He would provide well. His property marched with the Duke of Haverford’s, meaning Charlotte would be neighbors with her sister Elizabeth.
Sherbourne wasn’t stupid, arrogant, or idle, as Charlotte’s previous suitors had been.
She took another turn down the stable aisle, the horses eyeing her as they munched their hay.
She could mail bank notes from any location, provided she had a little discreet assistance from a loyal staff.
“I’m not being entirely fair,” she informed Her Grace’s bay gelding. “Mr. Sherbourne is quite bright, confident without being an ass, and he brings a sense of energy with him as some women wear a signature scent.”
He was also attractive.
“Attractive,” Charlotte admitted to her own chestnut mare, “is not the same as handsome.”
Handsome was commonplace. Every ballroom in Mayfair was full of handsome. Lucas Sherbourne commanded attention—one wanted to know where he was, what he was about, because he was no respecter of meaningless conventions. His movements, thoughts, and decisions were unpredictable.
Witness, he’d chosen Charlotte Windham for his bride.
“So you’re visiting the stables in the grand Windham tradition.” Her Grace of Moreland, silhouetted in the stable doorway, cut a dash in a fine blue driving ensemble. “Would you like to tour the park with me today?”
Sherbourne wouldn’t be caught dead gossiping under the maples at the fashionable hour. “No, thank you, Aunt.”
The duchess stroked a gloved hand over the mare’s nose. “Are you avoiding anybody in particular or the whole lot of them?”
“The whole lot. I have been taken into dislike by several of last season’s unclaimed blossoms. I’m leaving them a clear field. What do we know of Lucas Sherbourne?”
“Come outside and we’ll talk.” Her Grace chose a bench in the sun, the afternoon light bearing that blend of mellowness and sharp contrast unique to early autumn. “I have consulted with Aunt Arabella and a few of her friends, because Mr. Sherbourne is something of a puzzle.”
“You read the history books, so to speak.” The duchess was clearly not surprised that Charlotte was curious. Would she be surprised if Charlotte became Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne?
“When His Grace of Haverford put in a word for Mr. Sherbourne, I decided some research was appropriate, and the tale is interesting. Mr. Sherbourne’s grandfather, Optimus Sherbourne, was engaged to marry a daughter from the Haverford ducal line. She fell in love with another, and Optimus took the slight badly. He married a banker’s daughter, became appallingly wealthy, and set about ruining the successor to the Haverford title.”
“His attempt at a feud failed,” Charlotte said. “The St. David family thrives, and Haverford Castle is lovely.” If quaint. Elizabeth would soon have all in hand, though.
“Optimus didn’t expect to bring down a ducal family at one go,” Aunt said. “He raised his son Alcestus to take over the task, and the present Mr. Sherbourne was apparently brought up in the same tradition. Thank the good celestial ministers that Mr. Sherbourne and Haverford have settled their differences. Some say the Sherbournes have a head for business; others declare them vulgar and vengeful.”
Lucas Sherbourne was robust rather than vulgar, and Charlotte would never judge another person who had legitimate grounds for vengeance. Had she the means, she’d have wreaked vengeance on a certain titled dandy years ago.
“What do you say about Mr. Sherbourne, Aunt?”
Her Grace’s driving habit was a soft periwinkle wool, the hems draping over smart black boots. She fussed with skirts that were tailored to arrange themselves into graceful folds even while hanging in the wardrobe.
“Mr. Sherbourne is not the average climbing cit,” Aunt Esther said, “and you never were a marriage-mad henwit. Do you fancy him, Charlotte?”
Yes. “He doesn’t put on airs.”
“Your uncle wishes Mr. Sherbourne wouldn’t put on such remarkable waistcoats.”
“I like those waistcoats. They remind me of our Scottish relations in their kilts. Only a confident man wears such noticeable attire.”
A groom brought out Aunt Esther’s phaeton from the coach house.
“Only a confident man will do for you, Charlotte Windham. I’ve admired your fortitude, you know. Perhaps Mr. Sherbourne is your reward for years of not settling for a nincompoop.”
Charlotte rose to walk her aunt to the vehicle. “When you say that word, it sounds so much more disgusted. I gather Uncle Percival wouldn’t object to Mr. Sherbourne paying me his addresses?”
“His Grace would of course consult with your parents and with you, but he wouldn’t call Sherbourne out simply for having excellent taste as a suitor. Try not to overthink the situation, Charlotte. If you like Lucas Sherbourne, then get to know him better and see what develops. Our menfolk will ensure that your settlements are handsome. You determine whether the fellow suits you.”
Aunt patted Charlotte’s shoulder and nimbly ascended to the bench.
As the phaeton clattered out of the mews, Charlotte wandered across the alley into the back gardens of the Moreland townhouse. Aunt and Uncle would reconcile themselves to Charlotte’s interest in Lucas Sherbourne, and thus Mama and Papa would too. This was good to know, for Charlotte didn’t fancy battling all of the elders over her choice of husband.
Though battle them, she would, if she accepted Lucas Sherbourne’s proposal.
The garden was going bedraggled about the edges. The chrysanthemums offered an occasional splash of purple, while the hedges were yellowing, the maple losing its leaves.
The garden was tired, and so was Charlotte. Tired of a life without friends, without kisses, without a household of her own. The weariness alone would not have daunted her, but she was also bored and lonely. Bored enough to consider daft schemes such as getting herself ruined.
What had she been thinking?
“He’ll do.” Mr. Sherbourne’s kisses would more than do. The decision felt both bold and right—right for Charlotte, if not for the typical romantically inclined Windham.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you Charlotte Windham?”
A young woman stood at the garden gate, close to the wall, as if she dared not set foot on private property. Her cloak was plain brown wool, and th
e unevenness of her hem suggested repeated mending. Her bonnet was a mere straw hat, no fancy ribbons or even a silk flower for adornment.
“I am Charlotte Windham. Who might you be?”
“My name is Miss Sharon Higgins. They said you’d help me.”
Charlotte had been contemplating marriage to Lucas Sherbourne with a combination of glee, anxiety, and excitement—for she had all but decided to accept his suit. Now this—another delicate situation arising without warning. Judging from Sharon’s pallor, the situation was desperate as well as delicate.
As such situations always were, though Charlotte hadn’t been called upon to assist in this manner for months.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?” she asked.
“Yesterday, I think. Will you help me? They said you would.”
They would have been the other maids, the laundresses, possibly a seamstress or even the vicars at the humbler London churches.
“Of course, I will help you. You’re eating for two now, so the first order of business is to find you some sustenance.”
The woman wilted against the wall. “Thank you, miss. Thank you.”
“No tears, please,” Charlotte said, leading the way back across the alley. “We have much to discuss, time is of the essence, and you’ll need your wits about you.”
Sharon cried anyway, and—as usual—Charlotte’s wits were the only ones available to prevent what could all too easily become a tragedy.
Chapter Four
“Gold or silver?” Turnbull held up two waistcoats, both heavily embroidered. The sunlight streaming through the bedroom window revealed them for the works of sartorial art they were.
“I’m paying a courting call,” Sherbourne said, “though you are sworn to secrecy. I want to look like a man who can be trusted with the last prize in the Windham marital vault.”
Turnbull said more with silence than most bishops could communicate in an entire sermon. On one occasion, when he’d been extremely disappointed with his employer, he’d turned in his notice. The memory still gave Sherbourne nightmares.
“If you are off to plunder treasure from a ducal family, wear the gold. By all means, the gold, sir. An earring wouldn’t go amiss either, and a clean cutlass—no blood—though I venture to say that an eye patch might be a bit too much.”
Not the gold, then. “If you were about to ask for Charlotte Windham’s hand in marriage, which waistcoat would you wear?”
Turnbull returned both the silver and the gold to the wardrobe and stood with his back to Sherbourne while surveying the other possibilities. A Scottish marquess with military inclinations had come across Turnbull on a Caribbean island, bought his freedom, and taken him home to the Highlands. Either Turnbull had grown weary of the northern cold or life as valet to the Scottish marquess had given him an appetite for challenges.
Turnbull’s wages were exorbitant, his knowledge of etiquette and fashion beyond price.
“This one,” Turnbull said, laying a rather dull choice across the bed. “She’ll be intrigued by the uncharacteristic subtlety.”
And his scolds were exquisite.
“The embroidery has neither gold nor silver threads,” Sherbourne said. “It’s boring.”
“On a burgundy velvet waistcoat lined with black silk, I see purple, red, green, and white embroidery with teasing dashes of yellow and orange. By your standards, it’s a bouquet of gentlemanly understatement, and there’s not another like it in all of London.”
The pattern was a paisley intertwining of flowers, vines, and leaves, a bouquet in truth. “You say there’s not another like it in all of London?”
“If the Deity is merciful, there isn’t another like it in all the world.”
Turnbull would not allow Sherbourne to go abroad in anything other than the first stare of fashion, despite his commentary on the occasional waistcoat.
“Fine, then, subtlety for the suitor. I’ll likely have to toss back the congratulatory tot with old Moreland, and he wouldn’t know a splendid waistcoat if his duchess modeled it for him.”
That thought brought to mind Charlotte Windham wearing the gold waistcoat and nothing else. Thank heavens she wasn’t inclined to a tedious courtship.
“You are assured of the lady’s acceptance?” Turnbull held out a hand for Sherbourne’s dressing gown.
“As assured as any man can be where the ladies are concerned. She likes me but not too much. I respect her and will provide for her as lavishly as her good taste allows. She’ll bring connections and polish to the union, and I’ll give her children. I think a ruby for today’s cravat pin. The biblical connotations are quite the clever association, if I do say so myself.”
She is more precious than rubies, and all the things thou canst desire cannot be compared unto her.
“No jewels when calling during daylight hours, sir. Will you make the young lady happy?”
“I’ve promised her I’d try,” Sherbourne said, passing over the dressing gown, “but that’s about as much of a swain as I can honestly be. Charlotte deals only in honesty, for which I’ll doubtless worship her before our first anniversary.”
When Sherbourne had been dressed from top hat to toes, he had to admit that Turnbull’s suggestion, as always, had been perfect.
“I look like a sober London gent until one takes a closer look. The waistcoat is subtle, you were right.”
“Thank you, sir, and what flowers will have the honor of accompanying you on this most important call?”
The call was a formality, a gesture to Charlotte Windham’s pride, though a gesture Sherbourne was pleased to make. Demanding that he wait three days for an answer was her prerogative, one of few a lady could claim. Polite society loved its little rituals, and Sherbourne loved the idea of marrying a duke’s niece.
He was also—this did not sit entirely well with him—fond of Charlotte, and more than fond of the fire she brought to even a brief kiss.
“I had hoped,” Sherbourne said, shifting the angle of his top hat, “that you, as the most competent valet in all of creation, would have the matter of flowers well in hand.”
“If I were choosing the bouquet, I’d equip you with saffron,” Turnbull said, holding out a pair of white kid gloves. “The message it symbolizes is ‘beware of excess.’”
“Symbolism is involved? I have no patience with symbolism, Turnbull. I’m not philosopher, I’m a suitor.”
“Snapdragons, then. Very colorful.”
And likely very expensive, given the time of year. Sherbourne pulled on his gloves. “What do they symbolize?”
Turnbull closed the doors to the wardrobe with priestly solemnity. “Presumption.”
Turnbull was never wrong.
With a single word, he’d given Sherbourne pause. Charlotte Windham was closely connected to three dukes. A brief review of her family tree also revealed a marquess, a marquess’s heir, four earls, and a smattering of courtesy lords.
And Sherbourne expected Charlotte to settle for a Welsh commoner? “I do like the woman—rather a lot—and I’ll be faithful and considerate. She’ll never want for anything, and Charlotte’s the managing type. She won’t be bored with me.”
Turnbull sighed like a weary, disappointed godmother.
“I’ll do my best, Turnbull.”
“A bouquet of snowdrops, speedwell, and jasmine awaits you in the foyer. Good luck, sir.”
Coming from Turnbull, the good wishes were ominous. Sherbourne straightened the angle of his hat and prepared to become an engaged man.
* * *
“Esther, refresh my memory. What does speedwell signify?”
Her Grace joined Percival at the window overlooking the front walkway. “Fidelity. The snowdrops are for hope, and jasmine—if that’s what Sherbourne is carrying—is for grace and dignity, presumably Charlotte’s grace and dignity, and her suitor’s fidelity and hope. A tasteful combination.”
Love’s handsome delight stood on the front steps, back to the doorway
, as if taking a moment to rehearse a speech or a proposal.
“Young people today are so precipitous.”
Esther kissed the duke’s cheek. “Says the man who couldn’t make it through a house party without offering for me. I hope Charlotte accepts him.”
“If he’s here to propose, then he’s jolly well courting my wrath. I’ve heard not a word from Mr. Sherbourne about paying his addresses, esteeming Charlotte greatly, and all that other folderol. Even I asked your papa’s permission.”
Esther gave him an amused look.
Well, yes. He’d asked her father’s permission after gaining Esther’s notice, to put matters delicately. Her intimate notice.
“I was an idiot,” Percival said. “Charlotte is a sensible girl.”
“Charlotte is not a girl, my dear. She’s done it again.”
Percival wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t care for the worry in his wife’s eyes. He drew her down beside him on their cuddling couch.
“Done what? Cut her hair? I don’t favor the mannish styles, but hair grows back.”
“Percival, she’s taken on another poor soul. I saw the whole business from my parlor window yesterday afternoon. I’d tooled away for a round of gossip in the park but had forgotten my reticule, so I stopped out front and came back up here to remedy my error. A more bedraggled creature never set foot in our garden, and within the hour Charlotte’s maid was off to return a book to the lending library.”
Oh, damn the luck. “By way of a pawn shop?”
“Precisely. Another pair of earbobs, a bracelet, perhaps even a locket, sacrificed to buy coach fare for a complete stranger.”
A complete stranger who was doubtless with child and without husband. “Charlotte’s charitable impulses are nothing to be ashamed of.”
The duchess rose and Percival remained sitting. Her Grace needed the whole of the parlor for pacing purposes when she was in a passion, and nothing confounded her more thoroughly than her sole remaining unmarried niece.
“Charlotte doesn’t merely purchase them coach fare to whatever village they came from,” Esther said. “She decks them out in widow’s weeds, buys them a ring, manufactures letters from their supposed deceased spouses…I suspect the bulk of her spending money is cast upon the same waters, ensuring the same women have funds to raise their children. I’d commend her thoroughness, except that her scheme strays perilously far from traditional concepts of charity.”
A Rogue of Her Own Page 5
