A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  She went on her way, a duchess in love and also a dear sister.

  Charlotte took Elizabeth’s place on the sofa, threaded the needle with the red silk, and prepared to embroider a damned rosette on a dratted handkerchief, when a knock sounded on the perishing door.

  “A visitor, madam,” the butler said. “The Earl of Brantford. I beg your pardon. I thought the duchess was with you.”

  Brantford was here? Then where was Sherbourne?

  Charlotte remained seated. “Her Grace will return shortly. You may show his lordship in, but please leave the door open and keep yourself and our two largest footmen within earshot.”

  “Mr. Sherbourne might not—”

  “Mr. Sherbourne is from home, and I am mistress of this household. Show his lordship in, and do not think for one instant to bring us a blasted tea tray.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Charlotte got up, fetched the fireplace poker, and tucked it on the far side of the sofa. The idea of breaking Brantford’s arm, his ankle, or his nose was unaccountably cheering.

  When Brantford came strutting into the room, she was again seated, embroidery hoop in hand.

  “Mrs. Sherbourne, good day.” The earl offered her a perfect bow. “You make quite the fetching picture by the window. May I enquire as to whether your husband will be joining us? I saw no evidence of work whatsoever at the colliery, and I regret that my errand is one of business—mostly business—though a spot of tea would be much appreciated, of course.”

  He beamed a smile at her. Charlotte smiled back, because she had entrusted justice for the earl to her husband, and while everything in her wanted to bash the poker over Brantford’s arrogant nose, she resisted.

  She could not on her own hold Brantford accountable, which meant her best option was to make small talk and simper.

  I hate to simper. She hated Brantford far more.

  “Given the weather, perhaps you’d prefer a tot of brandy,” Charlotte said. “When Her Grace of Haverford joins us, I’ll order a tray if that would suit.”

  His lordship marched straight to the sideboard. “Her Grace is here? I did drop in at the castle but was told Their Graces were from home. I’ll be in the area for another day or so and must prevail upon Haverford for a bit more hospitality.”

  The hell you will. “I doubt that will suit, my lord. His Grace is, like you, traveling on business, and the duchess is biding with me here.”

  He downed an entire glass of brandy and refilled it. “I’ll content myself with Radnor’s company, then. I hope I’m not overstepping when I say that I was surprised that a Windham would end up married to such as Lucas Sherbourne.”

  He twinkled at her, sharing a jest between aristocrats.

  “Mr. Sherbourne and I are quite enamored of each other,” Charlotte said, meaning every word.

  Brantford guffawed, then treated Charlotte to an insolent inspection. “Did he tell you that? My dear, he wanted his brats playing with the children of your titled siblings. Two sisters married to dukes, and you think Lucas Sherbourne offered you a love match? Women are such fanciful creatures.”

  Charlotte’s hand slipped down to grasp the poker.

  “Insult me all you please, my lord, but malign my husband at your peril. He and I are, most assuredly, a love match.”

  Brantford studied the portrait over the fireplace, which had been done shortly after Sherbourne’s parents married.

  “Your husband comes from a long line of shopkeepers and tradesmen, and it’s all but established fact that his great-grandmother was not, as they say, Church of England prior to her wedding. You have quite married down, Mrs. Sherbourne. I suppose you know that and are putting a brave face on a mésalliance. I might have to ruin your husband, by the way, socially at least. I doubt I have the patience to ruin him financially. This is very good brandy.”

  Charlotte rose from the sofa, rage a frigid river in her veins. “You come to Mr. Sherbourne’s house, swill his brandy with all the delicacy of a great ape, insult me, insult my family, and insult my husband. The only thing that keeps me from doing you a serious injury is the fact that I esteem Mr. Sherbourne too highly to befoul his carpets with your blood.”

  Brantford chortled, until Charlotte held the poker up like a riding crop.

  “I like a woman with some spirit,” Brantford said, setting his glass aside. “Perhaps—”

  “Perhaps you’ll wish to choose your words carefully,” Sherbourne said from the doorway, “for you’re in the presence of an innocent child.”

  Charlotte lowered the poker. “Mr. Sherbourne, greetings.”

  Clinging to Sherbourne’s hand was a small blond boy. The child had Fern’s chin and her nose, though Brantford’s contribution was apparent in the flaxen hair and blue eyes.

  Haverford strolled into the room. “Perhaps I should take the boy to the kitchen, where we will ask Cook to make us a pot of chocolate.”

  The child’s gaze bounced from Charlotte to Haverford to Brantford. “I’ve never had chocolate.”

  The boy spoke Welsh, so Charlotte replied in the same language. “Chocolate is a very rich drink, so be sure to add a dash of sugar. Your mama always took it with a dash of sugar.”

  His smile was entirely Fern’s. “You knew my mama?”

  Charlotte nodded rather than trust her voice.

  “Civilized people speak English,” Brantford snapped.

  Sherbourne knelt so he was eye-level with the boy. “Haverford will steal all the sweets if you let him,” he said in Welsh. “He has a very pretty duchess who might join you in the kitchen. She’ll make sure you get your fair share of biscuits.”

  “I heard that,” Haverford said—also in Welsh. “And you heard the lady, Sherbourne. Mind the carpets.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Charlotte assured the child. “I’ll tell you all about your dear mama.”

  Then they were gone, the boy flicking one mildly curious glance over Brantford before taking the duke’s hand and skipping off to the kitchen.

  Brantford gulped down the remaining portion of his brandy. “I haven’t the least notion what that farce was about, Sherbourne, but you and I will come to terms regarding my investment in your little colliery, or I’ll see you ruined down to the nineteenth generation before next year’s season begins.”

  “We’ll renegotiate,” Sherbourne said, thrusting his hand into a pocket. “Let’s start with an explanation for this miniature, given by you to my wife’s best friend—her late best friend, who was the mother of your only begotten son.”

  * * *

  How do I hold Brantford accountable for his sins, while keeping every single groat of his money, and denying my darling wife the pleasure of drawing his lordship’s cork?

  Brantford stared down at the miniature Sherbourne had placed on the sideboard. “You claim that is a likeness of me?” He reached toward the portrait, but withdrew his hand—his shaking hand—without touching it.

  “You initialed it,” Charlotte said. “Look at the back.”

  He managed to pick up the miniature and stared at the back, while Charlotte glowered at him. Brantford sank into the chair before the hearth and held the miniature out to Sherbourne.

  “Take it. Take it, please. I never want to see it again.”

  Sherbourne remained beside his wife, lest that good woman start laying about with her iron poker.

  “I recognize your penmanship, Brantford, having seen it on the contract you signed. You gave that portrait to one Fern Porter, whom you enticed into a liaison, though she was a vicar’s daughter and innocent of men prior to her association with you. After you proposed marriage to her, she conceived a child and informed you of her situation. You struck her, turned your back on her, and married another.”

  Brantford set the miniature on the low table. “I was young, not much more than a boy.”

  “You had finished university years earlier,” Charlotte spat. “You were an adult, she was just out of the schoolroom, and you ruined her. Promised
her undying love, promised her marriage, and played her false.”

  Brantford took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “She should not have—”

  “Don’t,” Sherbourne said.

  Charlotte had raised the poker. She shot a quizzical look at her husband.

  “I spoke to the earl. You, Mrs. Sherbourne, must do as you see fit. I admonish his lordship not to compound his sins by minimizing his own faults, lying, or casting blame. He ruined a young woman, made no reparation for the harm done, and now she’s dead, leaving an innocent child all but orphaned.”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Brantford said, using the handkerchief to mop at his brow. “How was I to be certain she wasn’t deceiving me? How is a man to know?”

  “Mr. Sherbourne,” Charlotte said, passing the poker over to Sherbourne. “I cannot trust my self-restraint in the presence of such vile, cowardly, spineless, dishonorable, disgraceful, weak…the entire language lacks enough adjectives to convey my contempt for you, my lord. Your son is lucky that he’s growing up without a hint of your presence in his life.”

  Brantford hunched forward, as if Charlotte had struck him physically.

  Sherbourne held his peace, because clearly the lady had more to say.

  “Fern suffered,” she went on. “She suffered scandal and disgrace, she suffered through a confinement with no physician to attend her. She suffered an awful birth, her pangs going on for days. She suffered yet more knowing she would not live to see her child grow up, knowing nobody—not her, not the miserable coward the child must claim as his father—would love this child the way he deserved to be loved. So much of her suffering is your fault, and I hope you are repaid tenfold for your despicable selfishness.”

  The winter wind was balmy compared to Charlotte’s tone. She sent Sherbourne a look, then made a grand exit from the parlor.

  Finish the job, that look said. Find justice for Fern and for the child.

  “Haverford has offered to aid me in arranging your ruin,” Sherbourne said, setting the fireplace poker just so on the hearth stand. “Radnor will want to do his part, and my lady wife counts any number of well-placed relations on her family tree. I suspect she has written of your irresponsibility to every one of them. I cannot put a bullet between your eyes—that would be too easy, and make the boy an orphan in truth—but I can make you regret your treatment of Fern Porter every day of your miserable, titled life.”

  Brantford sat up and put away his handkerchief. “Might I have some brandy?”

  “You came here expecting to all but extort funds from me. I owe you nothing in the way of hospitality, much less fairness.”

  His lordship studied the miniature on the table, his gaze growing sly. “I’ll just collect the lad and go. Keep the damned money. I don’t need it.”

  “And the boy does not need you.”

  “Now see here, Sherbourne. That child is my blood, my only begotten son, you said it yourself. The likeness is undeniable, and I’ll not have you interfering.” Brantford drew righteousness around himself like presentation robes, his sense of entitlement so ingrained, not even shame could dislodge it.

  “You denied any responsibility for him,” Sherbourne said, “and in the face of your callous disregard for the child, my wife provided for him. She convinced an uncle to take in both mother and child, saw to Fern’s safe travel from London, and has been sending money for the child since before he arrived into this world. You have no claim on that boy, legally or otherwise.”

  Brantford rose and jerked down his waistcoat. “He is my son. I am a peer of the realm, and you will not deny me a father’s rights.”

  Thank a merciful God that Charlotte wasn’t on hand to witness this hypocrisy. “You are a perfect donkey’s arse. Sit, Brantford. Now.”

  His lordship evidenced a modicum of prudence and sat. “You don’t understand, Sherbourne. I haven’t any other children.”

  “Such a pity,” Sherbourne marshaled his best imitation of Haverford in a genteel rage. “The child had only the one father who might have made his mother’s circumstances easier, a father who could have seen to it she had proper care and assistance at her lying in. That same father might have spared a few coins for the child, might have given the child his name. Alas for the boy, the one father responsible for bringing him into the world is too busy being a peer of the realm to be a decent human being.”

  “Damn it, Sherbourne, there won’t be any other children. The physicians don’t come right out and say it, but a touch of the French pox can have lasting consequences. That child…he’ll never have the title, but I could acknowledge him, eventually.”

  Had Brantford asked anything about the boy—his name, his present state of health, his uncle’s financial situation—Sherbourne might have weakened, but Brantford clearly saw his offspring as proof of virility, a social accessory or an ornament.

  Truly, young Evander was better off without that version of a father’s interest.

  “This is how we shall proceed,” Sherbourne said. “You will place your shares in the coal mine in trust for the boy now, and sign them over to him at age eighteen if they haven’t been liquidated.”

  Brantford wrinkled his nose. “An illegitimate Welsh pauper has no use for shares in a mine.”

  “He has no use for a negligent father. The trustee managing those shares will be His Grace of Haverford. If Haverford is for any reason unable to serve as trustee, Radnor will step in. They will further acquaint their ward with the details of his birth at an appropriate time. You will be given quarterly assurances of the child’s good health and educational progress.”

  “Haverford is taking a hand in this?”

  “And Radnor.” My friends, who will be guided in all particulars by my wife.

  Sherbourne went to the window, where bright sunshine had started to melt the snow. As the sun set, the lanes would freeze anew, and travel would become treacherous.

  “At least I’ll be supporting my son.” Brantford was on his feet again, the miniature in his hand. “Let it not be said that when given an—”

  “Do we add larceny to your list of transgressions?” Sherbourne asked. “That painting is not yours, and no one has given it to you.”

  That portrait was also the primary evidence connecting the child to the earl, and Brantford’s attempt to make off with it was proof positive of inextinguishable self-interest.

  “You can’t have any use for it,” Brantford retorted.

  Sherbourne prowled across the parlor, glad that he wasn’t holding the iron poker. “Put it down, Brantford, or you will suffer a bad fall on my main staircase. Drink makes any man clumsy, and there’s not a servant in this household who will say otherwise.”

  Brantford set the portrait down slowly.

  “You are not supporting the child.” Sherbourne had just now made that decision. “I am supporting the child. Haverford and Radnor are overseeing the assets you’ll convey to the trust. I want that young man to know that he owes you nothing, not one bent farthing. If he chooses to toss the mining shares back in your face, that will be his decision when he’s of age. If he chooses to write to you or visit you in London, that will be his choice. He owes you nothing, and never will.”

  Brantford huffed, he plucked at the hem of his waistcoat, he looked down his nose, or tried to, despite Sherbourne’s superior height.

  “And if I should take this matter to the courts?”

  What an ass. “Please, take this matter to the courts. My uncle-in-law has lunch with a Lord Justice at least monthly, and I can call upon more barristers and solicitors than you have hounds in your kennel. By the time you stand before a judge, the boy will be through university. But indulge in all the legal dramatics you please.”

  Sherbourne opened the parlor door and swept a hand toward the corridor. “Just know that your only son will be well cared for, despite your negligence, because my wife stood by her friend even when you—with all your means and consequence—turned your back on a
woman in need and her helpless child. Now leave, before I toss you down the jakes like the offal you are.”

  Brantford stalked out, and Sherbourne followed, waiting at the top of the steps until the earl had quit the premises, and the butler had closed the door behind him.

  “Mrs. Sherbourne is in the kitchen, sir,” Crandall said. “She said they’d save you a biscuit. Cook is having an apoplexy because His Grace is also in the kitchen, but Mrs. Sherbourne has eyes for only the boy.”

  “Let’s hope she’ll have eyes for her husband too. Did you know that Mrs. Sherbourne and I were a love match?”

  “One would conclude this, sir.”

  “I hadn’t concluded it, but I’ve heard it from the lady’s own mouth, and a gentleman never argues with a lady.”

  Sherbourne had heard a good deal of Charlotte’s tirade, but rather than the words, the utter conviction in her tone had struck him. They hadn’t been a love match, not by any stretch.

  But they were now.

  Epilogue

  “Evander’s English and his Latin are both progressing,” Charlotte said. “His French is hopeless.”

  Sherbourne plucked the letter from her hand. “All boys have hopeless French, until they realize that the ladies speak it quite well. Are you recovered from your parents’ leave-taking?”

  Sherbourne hadn’t recovered from his in-laws’ holiday visit, but then, one didn’t recover from being married into the Windham family. One coped as best one could with good fortune of a magnitude that surpassed description. Charlotte’s cousins and in-laws had responded en masse to her request for assistance where Brantford had been concerned, and the earl and his countess had taken an indefinite repairing lease in Portugal.

  Brantford had requested permission to write to his son, which petition Haverford, Radnor, and Charlotte were considering.

  Sherbourne was considering the various queries and hypotheticals her cousins had also posed by letter: Did Sherbourne think steam would render canals obsolete? Was steam a viable means of powering navigable craft? Had he an opinion on the commercial potential of indoor plumbing?