A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

Memories assailed Sherbourne, of Jones rubbing his temples, taking anything he had to read outside into bright sunshine, of Jones taking off his spectacles and holding them several inches away from a treatise Sherbourne cited regarding the optimal elevation of tram lines.

  Several of the various stacks of documents were weighted down with quizzing glasses.

  “Eyesight wanes as we age,” Sherbourne said, though he suspected the reality was worse than that. “Jones might be having difficulty with his vision.”

  Charlotte looked up from her orange. “That would make sense.”

  That would make…a disaster. Sherbourne ate his orange, cut the cheese and a pear into slices, and made a trencher out of a book about building terrace homes. Charlotte deserved better, but he hadn’t better to offer, which made him perversely annoyed with her.

  “I could ask Mr. Jones to reconstruct his calculations.” Charlotte took a slice of proffered cheese and got up to pace. “I could ask him to explain the engineering to me. That wouldn’t be any bother.”

  “Then you too would be contributing to the enrichment of the Earl of Brantford. Will you blame me for that as well?”

  Charlotte stalked back to her seat, scooped up the orange peels, and tossed the lot into the parlor stove.

  “You, sir, are being impossible.”

  Sherbourne wanted to apologize for ruining the meal, such as it was, but he could not apologize for having taken on an investor whose past had included a quiet scandal years ago. Investing in a mine wasn’t an application for ordination.

  “Charlotte, if I could find a way to untangle Brantford from this colliery, I’d do it. I simply don’t see how. Perhaps he’ll untangle himself when he learns I’ve hired a blind engineer.”

  In the normal course, Charlotte would have corrected that overstatement—Jones wasn’t blind, yet—but she sat two feet away, staring at her hands.

  “Griffin said something about sums being pleasing because they have one right answer. He called it a just-so answer. I have considered our situation from every possible angle and have reached such an answer.”

  Her answer did not make her happy. “What have you concluded?”

  “If you could extricate yourself from Brantford’s clutches, you would, and it’s not a lack of business acumen that prevents you from doing so. The problem is the money, isn’t it? You paid too much for me, and now you haven’t room to maneuver with Brantford. I’m the reason you cannot act as your conscience dictates, and you have been too decent to point out the obvious to me.”

  You paid too much for me. Never in Sherbourne’s most private self-indulgent rants had he connected Charlotte’s settlements with Brantford’s greed. Brantford’s arrogant sense of entitlement, his conviction that all rules should be rewritten to benefit him was the root of the problem.

  Sherbourne mentally stopped short of admitting that, like Charlotte’s late friend, he too was a victim of titled hubris.

  “Your question has no acceptable answer, Mrs. Sherbourne. If I admit that my finances are overextended, I have failed you as a husband. If I dissemble and expect my wife to accept untruths from me, I’m a failure as a gentleman.”

  Charlotte regarded him levelly. “We’re in dun territory?”

  Sherbourne got up to toss a scoop of coal onto the fire dying in the stove. He wanted to march straight out into the bitter air and keep going until he found Quinton, Earl of Brantford, and pounded him to dust.

  And he wanted to grab Charlotte by the shoulders and shake her for marrying a man who had nothing to offer but wealth. She deserved better of course, but so did Sherbourne. He’d glimpsed what a real marriage with Charlotte might look like—an intimate partnership full of trust, understanding, and loyalty.

  Thanks to sodding Brantford, the marriage would never have a chance to be that.

  “I am not in dun territory. I am entirely solvent and can pay my bills in the ordinary course, but I underestimated the cost of building out this damned mine. I certainly did not foresee a mudslide, and I did not foresee that my bank would encounter difficulties right at the moment I might have called upon that resource to support this colliery. Neither did I foresee an engineer whose abilities I have cause to doubt.”

  “You did not foresee that I’d impress two of your masons into working on the steeple, either. I’m sorry.”

  Two of his best masons, because a steeple was a difficult undertaking. “They’re almost finished with the steeple, but you’re right. Being short-handed hasn’t been helpful, the rain hasn’t been helpful, and Brantford prancing around the works wasn’t helpful. Now I’ve reason to question Jones’s faculties. That’s very unhelpful.”

  Charlotte rose and pulled on her gloves. Sherbourne thought she’d plunk her bonnet on her head and leave him to his woes, but she instead took the last slice of cheese, nibbled a bite, and passed it back to him.

  “I am consoled to know that you are determined to make a success of this colliery for many reasons, not simply to impress Brantford. If you are in dun territory, then we are in dun territory. Let’s be very clear on that.”

  “We are not.” Sherbourne finished the cheese because he didn’t know what else to do with it. Already the food tasted like coal dust and dirt.

  Everything tasted like coal dust and dirt, and now Charlotte was lecturing him about some damned arcane point or other.

  “I don’t care a rotten fig for Brantford’s opinion,” Sherbourne said, an oddly liberating truth. Six weeks and several Sunday dinners ago, the cachet of having an earl’s money to fund the coal mine had been gratifying. Now Sherbourne wished he’d never met the man.

  Charlotte stepped closer. “Can you abandon the works long enough to drive me to the posting inn?”

  What was she going on about now? “As long as you’re not taking the stage for London.”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but Charlotte was too astute for that. She patted his lapel. “I blame myself, you see. You can’t know how little store I set by your money, because I’ve done nothing to make that plain to you. You hold my hand, you don’t laugh at me when I’m terrified. You have faith in my numbers, and you have settled your differences with Haverford, all because of me, or at least in part because of me.”

  She grabbed his lapel and glowered up at him. “I do not care half a rotten fig for your money, Lucas Sherbourne. It’s you I married, and you I love.”

  Her kiss conveyed a no-nonsense declaration of possession and not a shred of relenting.

  But she had kissed him, and she had said…the most outlandish words. Sherbourne cast about for a reply, but Charlotte had already moved away.

  She had said…

  She had said words in the midst of a fraught exchange, and he would not hold her to them. He would consider later what it meant when a woman who never stooped to manipulation or subterfuge let fly with such a sentiment.

  “You asked me to drive you to the posting inn?”

  Now, when he needed to see Charlotte’s eyes, she put her bonnet back on. “If you please. I expect correspondence from various family members, and heaven knows what the weather is about to do.”

  Sherbourne banked the coals in the stove, grabbed his hat, gloves, and scarf, and left instructions with his foreman to send the crews home until further notice, for by the time Charlotte was sitting in the gig with a thick robe over her lap, the sky was pouring snow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brantford slapped the maid gently on her bare bottom. “Be off with you. I’ve correspondence to see to, and then I must be downstairs in time for a hand of cards before dinner.”

  She tossed him a disgruntled sigh, but left the bed like the well-trained domestic she was. “That’s always the way with you lot. You spare your horses more care than you do the ladies.”

  She was no lady, though nature had endowed her with generous curves, lustrous dark hair, and a wide, clever mouth.

  “My horse knows better than to give me sassy talk when the ride is over.”

&nb
sp; She pulled a worn chemise over her head and grinned at him. “Then your lordship can cuddle up with a horse the next time you’re in the mood to roger.”

  Brantford laced her up, gave her a few coins, and let her tarry at the vanity long enough to tidy her hair and don her cap.

  “Same time tomorrow, my lord?”

  Her tone suggested the question was a matter of complete indifference to her. She’d as soon spend the afternoon on her knees rubbing beeswax into a chair rail as pleasuring him.

  “If this weather clears up, I’m sure we’ll be out with the hounds.” Brantford’s host, Sir Cheevers Dalrymple, was hunt mad and pleased beyond telling to count a genuine earl among his sporting guests.

  The maid pulled the covers over the bed. “The weather won’t clear up. We’re in for it. First real winter storm, right on schedule. The grooms are scrubbing down the sleighs, and Cook has out her recipes for syllabubs and toddies. If you’re of a mind to roger, let old Harrison know you’d like me to come by with a spare bucket of coal. He’s the most discreet butler you’ll ever meet.”

  The bed was quickly made, no sign of an hour spent romping on the mattress, and the maid was soon on her way.

  Romping was supposed to be enjoyable, and yet Brantford felt none of the good cheer and lassitude he was entitled to after his exertions. The maid’s charms had been insufficient to inspire his passion until she’d used her mouth, and then matters had progressed well enough.

  Veronica’s weekly letter sat on the mantel, a cheerful recitation of Cousin Henry’s latest humorous toast and Cousin Lillian’s satirical poetry. Of Cousin Tremont—the best-looking of the lot—there was again no mention.

  Brantford cast himself onto the mattress, wrinkling the freshly made up covers. “I miss my wife, which is the outside of too much.” The point of this excursion was for Veronica to miss him. She was to long for the pleasure of being escorted around town by her lordly husband and cease pretending that galloping across frozen fields was a boon equal to his company.

  Near Veronica’s letter was a far less sanguine epistle from her father. The creditors were circling, and Brantford, of course, was to wave them all off.

  Which he could do, for a time.

  This was all Lucas Sherbourne’s fault, of course. If Sherbourne were applying himself in his customary manner, repayments of Brantford’s investment—with interest—would start as soon as the first of the year.

  Brantford rose and rang for a footman to build up the fire. Sherbourne had yet to reply to a letter sent earlier in the week, or to one sent almost two weeks ago. Another reminder was in order, and then perhaps Brantford would write to dear Veronica and regale her at length regarding the fine hunting and lovely company to be had in Wales.

  And tomorrow, if the weather proved disobliging, Brantford would spend two hours with the friendly maid. The fire was roaring merrily, and the earl had fortified himself with a bumper of good brandy when he noted a slight flaw in his plans.

  If he sought to romp away his afternoon tomorrow, he was to ask the butler to send the dollymop along with a bucket of coal, except…as Brantford had explored the treasures hiding beneath the maid’s skirts, he’d forgotten to ask the woman for her name.

  * * *

  The gig rode more smoothly when Sherbourne sat beside Charlotte, and the frigid weather wasn’t as uncomfortable. He was big, solid, warm, and Charlotte loved him.

  Her great declaration hadn’t merited any reaction from him besides a willingness to drive her to the posting inn, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Sherbourne feared she was on the verge of leaving him.

  Did he want her to go? Was their present difference of opinion truly insurmountable?

  “I have done something I should tell you about,” Charlotte said.

  “This sounds dire, Mrs. Sherbourne.”

  The weather was growing dire. The snow had already left a white coating on the grass, bracken, and rooftops, and now it was sticking to the rutted lane as well.

  “I don’t know if it’s dire or not, but I’ve done it, and there’s no undoing it.”

  The village came into view, a tidy collection of Tudor, stone, and thatch buildings, with the church steeple forming a focal point among the rooflines. The village was pretty in warmer weather, but now the shuttered dwellings and snowy streets looked bleak and empty. A lean tabby cat whose fur was dotted with melting snowflakes skulked along the top of a garden wall, then disappeared over the far side, leaving a trail of paw prints in the dusting of snow.

  “You might as well tell me what you’ve done, Charlotte. We have privacy, and I must remain attentive to the horse rather than shout and pace about in an undignified manner.”

  “I’ve written to my family.”

  He brought the horse to a stop right in the middle of the lane and sat very straight on the bench beside her.

  “What God has joined together, Charlotte Sherbourne, no meddling Windhams will be putting asunder. I know we’re having a rough patch, but I will deal with Brantford eventually. I’ll sell the whole damned mine once it’s turning a profit, or I’ll liquidate other assets to buy him out. You will keep your family away from our marriage.”

  Indignation vibrated through every syllable, which warmed Charlotte’s heart, despite her hackles rising at Sherbourne’s preemptory tone.

  “Windhams are born to meddle, which you should have realized before you married one, but I haven’t written a word to my cousins about the situation between us.”

  The snow came down, the wind soughed. The horse gave the harness a shake, sending frigid droplets in all directions.

  “If you’re not airing your grievances against me, then why write to your family?”

  Still he would not spare her a glance.

  “I didn’t know what else to do. Elizabeth chastised me weeks ago for not confiding in her regarding Fern Porter’s situation. It never occurred to me to tell my own sister, never crossed my mind.”

  Sherbourne peered down at her. He was being the shrewd, inscrutable investor, the self-contained nabob who knew many secrets and shared none.

  “You told me about your friend before we’d even finished our homeward journey. Whatever does she have to do with this?”

  “I tell you everything. You listen to me, you notice me. You are my husband, to have and to hold, and to disagree with.” I love you.

  Charlotte kept that admission behind her teeth. Sherbourne had been none too impressed with it on first mention, so why add insult to his indifference?

  He gave the reins a shake and the horse plodded forth. “Your description of holy matrimony is more accurate than the vicar’s. So what did you write to your family about?”

  “How the mine is progressing, how you envision using steam for the tram and eventually at the mine itself. How Haverford is watching the whole project closely and Radnor has made a regular pest of himself as well.”

  She’d said a bit more than that, actually.

  The gig passed between the houses at the edge of the village. The posting inn, which sat across from the church, came into view.

  “You are taking preemptive measures,” Sherbourne said. “If Brantford should slander me in the clubs, you have nocked your familial arrow and are ready to let fly.”

  Was that what she had done? “I expect Haverford and Radnor will do likewise with their associates. Brantford can go to the courts if he’s truly intent on scandal, but in the clubs and committees, he won’t get very far.”

  “Not with a dozen Windhams arrayed against him.” Sherbourne brought the horse to a halt in the inn yard, and a boy swaddled to the ears in a wool scarf came to hold the horse. “We are alike in many ways, Mrs. Sherbourne. I would never have thought to enlist your family’s aid.”

  Was that a concession, a flag of truce?

  Sherbourne climbed down and came around to Charlotte’s side of the gig. He was tall enough that Charlotte was eye to eye with her husband as she sat on the bench.

 
She tucked the end of his scarf over his shoulders. “I didn’t enlist their aid when it would have done Fern some good. They could have given her money for a physician, convinced her parents to take her in so she wasn’t banished to a Welsh backwater. I did not ask for help for Fern. I relied only on myself. I was wrong. I see that.”

  Sherbourne’s gaze was bleak. “Now you need to rely on me, and I’ve disappointed you.”

  He had disappointed her, but not in the manner he thought. “The problem Brantford poses is one of funds,” Charlotte said, “not of integrity. I wish I had reached that conclusion sooner—I do enjoy working with figures—but we will contrive, Mr. Sherbourne.”

  He stepped back, out of fussing range. “What are you saying, Charlotte? That you married a climbing cit whose actions are driven by greed?”

  “Not greed, pride. Didn’t I just say as much? I have married the most diabolically stubborn, clodpated, determined, thickheaded—”

  A movement against the silently falling snow caught Charlotte’s attention. From the belfry in the church steeple, a flash of red fluttered where no bird should be on such a wintry day.

  “Somebody’s up there,” Charlotte said, using Sherbourne’s shoulder to steady herself as she clambered from the gig. “Would the masons be working in this weather?”

  “Nobody should be in that belfry. The work isn’t finished, and until my master mason pronounces the steeple sound again, it’s no place for—”

  “That’s Heulwen,” Charlotte said, waving her arm. From high, high above the street, the maid gazed out unseeing, her red cloak a beacon in the falling snow. “Why in the world would she be up there, away from her duties without permission, and in this miserable weather?”

  In the next instant, Charlotte knew why: the shawls worn in a house that was warmer than most, the unrelenting preoccupation with a handsome groom, listlessness when the groom’s interest faded, then a mood withdrawn to the point of melancholia.

  “I’ve seen this before,” Charlotte said, dread choking her. “She’s ruined, and he cast her aside, and she’s ashamed and angry. I have to stop her.”