A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  Addy sat very still, because this conversation was shifting the foundations of mental edifices she’d been building for years. She felt as if, should she move, some arrow of insight would land two inches off the mark, and she was long overdue for insights.

  “If your dear Mr. Tresham limited his dealings with you to an occasional dance, some public flirtation, and sleeping under the same roof most nights—punctuated with hasty couplings any time and place he chose—would you consider that loyalty?”

  Theo’s brows drew down. “I’d consider that… I’m sorry. If it was like that, I’m sorry.”

  Addy was sorry too. Sorry she’d ever married Roger, sorry she’d sent Grey away. Regrets solved nothing, though, and time was of the essence.

  “I have a call to pay,” Addy said, rising. “I can walk you home.”

  “The hour is early for paying calls. I didn’t want unkind talk to bring you word that Casriel was at the Quinlans’ last night.”

  “I can hear about it from the earl himself,” Addy said. “You didn’t see an announcement of any engagement in the morning papers?”

  “I doubt matters have progressed that far, but there’s something else you should know.”

  Addy was in a tearing hurry to see Grey Dorning, to let him know that a lady had changed her mind, and a gentleman was not to argue with her. They’d muddle through the financial mess, put Aunt’s little bequest to work, economize, spend a few years living cheaply in Paris…

  “What else do I need to know?”

  “Casriel was alone with Miss Quinlan in the library behind a closed door, and the young lady rejoined her guests at the end of the interview smiling like a cat who’d puzzled out how to open the birdcage. Her father and Casriel apparently had some discussion thereafter, though nobody knows whether any agreements were reached.”

  “Then there’s still time,” Addy said, striding for the back door. “I still have a little time, and I must call upon Grey this instant. May I borrow your traveling coach if the need arises?”

  Theo stopped her at the door to the house and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Of course you may. You absolutely may take every vehicle in my carriage house.”

  When Addy arrived to Casriel’s town house, she was received by Mr. Sycamore Dorning, who ushered her into the same cozy parlor where she’d called upon Grey weeks ago.

  “He’s not here,” Mr. Dorning said. “I can ring for tea, I can offer you biscuits, and discuss the weather if you insist, but Casriel left at first light.”

  “Left?” Now? Where would he go and why? “He left Town?”

  “He was in a tearing hurry to get back to Dorning Hall.” Mr. Dorning studied the parlor’s molding, which could do with a good dusting. “You know he attended the Quinlan soiree last evening?”

  Such kind eyes he had, much like Grey’s, and how that gaze hurt Addy’s heart. “I’d heard as much. And now his lordship has quit Town?”

  Mr. Dorning looked as if he longed to offer confidences but he refused to betray his brother. “I doubt Casriel will return here in the immediate future, my lady. Mind you, he didn’t confide the whole of his plans to me, but I gather his reasons for tarrying in London no longer apply.”

  Grey was engaged then, or as good as. Hope died, for no gentleman would ever, ever cry off once his suit was tendered.

  “I am too late,” Addy said, rising. “Thank you for receiving me.” The heartache was spreading through her again, more painful and heavier than before. Grey was lost to her, truly and forever.

  “Shall I escort you home, my lady?”

  The youngest Dorning brother had learned from Grey’s gentlemanly example after all. “No thank you. I came by carriage, and can see myself home.”

  Addy didn’t even cry after Thiel had handed her up into her town coach. There was nothing left to do, but return home and resume packing.

  “He’s come home,” Oak said, pushing aside the curtains in the study. “That’s Casriel galloping up the drive, or Sycamore has stolen his lordship’s horse this time instead of his coach.”

  Sycamore had descended from London like the wrath of Boudicca and put the fear of a certain prospective countess in his brothers. The sum Ash had produced from the Pletchers wasn’t likely to have warded off disaster, but perhaps it had given Casriel some time to develop alternatives.

  Ash had racked his brain for what more they could do, but every scheme and plan required Grey’s imprimatur, and he was off waltzing to his doom in London.

  “That is Grey,” Valerian said, joining Oak at the window. “Sycamore hasn’t as good a seat. I do hope our brother has not been sent packing by the fair heiress.”

  “I hope he has,” Ash retorted. “Cam described her as a horror of the first water.”

  “Casriel would not comport himself in any manner a lady could object to,” Thorne said. “Not on purpose.”

  Perhaps Grey hadn’t had a choice. Ash kept those words to himself, because he well knew the guilt that came with disappointing a woman who’d done nothing to deserve it. Lady Della Haddonfield had written to him—not quite a breach of propriety, given the family connection—and hoped he was well.

  He was not well, though his affliction was of the mind rather than the body. Perhaps he should simply tell her that.

  “Casriel’s been riding hard,” Oak said as the horseman cantered into the circular driveway. “Dusty from head to foot, the horse lathered. I suspect he has an announcement, and the Hall is about to get a thorough cleaning in anticipation of the nuptials.”

  “We can’t clean away a leaking roof,” Thorne muttered.

  A groom scampered out of the stables and took Casriel’s horse, which would require walking for some time. The day was warm and sunny, and the plume of dust Casriel’s arrival had raised on the drive drifted in a mild breeze.

  Dorning Hall was so pretty, and yet, it was also beginning to feel like a prison. Did the other brothers feel the same way? Would they admit as much even to themselves?

  “Let’s greet the prodigal,” Thorne said. “He doubtless has news for us.”

  Did he have news of Lady Della? Another letter, perhaps? Ash followed his brothers down the main staircase and out onto the drive. Grey sat on the mounting block removing his spurs, for a gentleman did not wear spurs indoors.

  “Welcome home,” Thorne said, whacking Grey on the back. “We left the Hall standing despite all temptation to the contrary. The corn’s doing well after all that rain, but the hay came in on the stemmy side.”

  “Have you news?” Oak asked, taking the dusty hat Grey passed to him. “Sycamore dispensed all manner of doom and gossip, then tore back to London without so much as a by your leave.”

  Grey rose, for once looking less than dapper and well turned out. His face below where his hat had been bore a fine coating of dust, as did the creases of his riding jacket. His boots were a disgrace—even for him—and his linen was positively wrinkled.

  “I have news,” he said. “Give me five minutes with a basin and a towel, and let’s meet in the study. I’m exhausted, famished, and filthy, but it’s wonderful to be home with my family.”

  He passed Ash his spurs and strode into the house, bellowing for Rawley to send enough sandwiches for an army up to the estate office, then draw a bath, and for pity’s sake lay out clean clothes before a man expired from his own stink.

  “He’s back,” Valerian said, staring at the front door. “He’s back for two minutes, looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge in a high wind, and already, the Hall feels more lively. How does he do that?”

  “He loves this place,” Ash said. “He loves us. He meant what he said. For him, it’s wonderful to be here.”

  Thorne started up the steps. “Let’s hope his countess feels the same way, for increasingly, I do not.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Grey would rest later, but for now, he needed to begin as he intended to go on. Addy sat in London in her house of mourning, which at least would keep gos
sip from reaching her ears.

  Perhaps.

  Even those who mourned attended services, and churchyards were nothing if not filled with talk. Grey had tucked a note for her among his outgoing correspondence—ostensibly a condolence, which anybody was allowed to send to the newly aggrieved—but he hadn’t had time to say much.

  Off to Dorset. Back soon. Will call when I return. Ever your servant, Casriel.

  He’d had more than a hundred miles to berate himself for such a pathetic epistle, but had he started on anything more substantive, he’d still be in London crossing out I love you and blotting over please forgive me.

  A leaking roof waited for no earl.

  He took time to change his shirt and wash off. His clean clothes smelled fresher at the Hall, because the laundresses laid his shirts on the lavender borders to dry. The cedar-paneled wardrobe was scented with sachets from their own meadow gardens, and the air was free of London’s coal smoke.

  “What the hell was I about?” he asked his reflection in the mirror over the washstand. “London would destroy any man’s spirits.” Though, he’d met Addy there, a point forever in London’s favor.

  He shrugged into a waistcoat and clean jacket, pulled on an older pair of boots, and joined his brothers in the estate office. An enormous plate of sandwiches sat on the desk, along with a tray bearing a pitcher of cider and five tankards.

  “Am I the king,” Grey asked, taking the chair behind the desk, “that nobody can eat until I’ve been seated at the high table?”

  Thorne grabbed a sandwich, Oak and Valerian followed. Ash hung back, which was worrisome. He tended to lose his appetite when the dark mood was upon him, though his clothing was tidy and he looked rested.

  “What’s the news?” Oak asked, pouring a round of cider. “Are we to have a countess?”

  “I don’t know about a countess, but I do know you all need to be about gainful employment.”

  Uneasy glances flew about the room.

  “We stay busy,” Valerian said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I have my book, Oak paints and sketches, Thorne has been overseeing the stewards. Ash…”

  Ash had taken action, prying a small fortune loose from the Pletchers.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Grey said. “First, take these.” The bank drafts were much creased, but the signatures were still legible. “Sycamore repaid the loans I’ve made him in recent years. The Coventry is solvent, for now, and he wanted to clear his debts. I’m dividing the sum among you lot, and you are to regard it as the last largesse the earldom can spare you.”

  More uneasy glances.

  “I thought…” Oak took a reading chair and regarded the bank draft as if he couldn’t place the artist. “Did you or did you not go up to Town to marry a fortune?”

  “I found riches beyond imagining, but no fortune. I have a proposal for you gentlemen, which you may accept or reject, but either way, you will quit the Hall by Michaelmas and find other lodgings.”

  That left the brothers more than four months to find their feet. By then, Grey would either have the countess of his dreams or a broken heart.

  “You’re kicking us out?” Thorne asked, pocketing his bank draft and reaching for another sandwich.

  “I am helping you to get your start in the world,” Grey said. “If you want a recommendation as a steward, I will write you the most convincing character a man has ever penned. Oak can use his funds to set up a studio in Paris, or submit his work to the Royal Academy. Valerian can finish his book, and Ash…”

  Ash was studying the worn carpet.

  “I’ll leave,” he said. “Oak has spoken endlessly of Paris’s charms and its affordability. I’ll be gone.”

  “You are the linchpin in our new venture,” Grey said. “If you want to manage the business from Paris, that is entirely up to you, or you can leave the lot of us to muddle on as best we can, assuming you all approve of my plans. I’d take it as a kindness if you’d personally keep an eye on Sycamore, though. His head is above water at The Coventry, but with Sycamore, the calm never lasts.”

  Ash’s melancholias were temporary as well. They doubtless felt eternal to him, though. Grey worried most about Ash, when he wasn’t worrying most about Sycamore, or Thorne, or Valerian, or Oak.

  And yet, none of those worries came close to his concern regarding Addy. Had she received his note? Would she be angry with him? Would Tresham do as he’d promised and help settle Mrs. Beauchamp’s affairs?

  “You mentioned a proposal,” Thorne said around a mouthful of sandwich.

  “That involves all of us,” Oak added. “I am only good for painting and sketching and staring at blank pages.”

  “I know the horticulture and livestock,” Thorne said.

  “I’m handsome and charming,” Valerian added. “Not much of a skill, but there you have it.”

  “And Ash,” Grey said, “is handsome and charming, he is thoroughly acquainted with Dorning Hall and its holdings, his aesthetic sense is that of a gentleman, and he’s good with numbers.”

  Ash stared at his cider. “Not much to boast of. Money comes in, money goes out. Fairly straightforward. Sycamore has more of a head for figures than I do.”

  “Sycamore has a head for figures,” Grey retorted, “but I suspect you have the better head for business. You can think on a topic for days as Oak considers a composition. You can turn an idea over in your mind until it lies in pieces at your mental feet.”

  Ash brooded too, but he had powers of concentration to equal the rest of the family’s combined.

  “So what is the great scheme you’re hatching?” Thorne asked, “and will it make money?”

  “That aspect of the undertaking will depend on you,” Grey said. “All I know is London reeks. It stinks, it smells, it leaves a strong man gagging when a certain wind blows from the river in summertime. A gentleman is always clean about his person, but in London, that challenge is nearly impossible.”

  Ash looked up from his cider. “We’re going into trade? A gentleman does not get his hands dirty. We’re gentlemen.”

  “Harvesting the bounty of the land has always been a gentlemanly pursuit,” Grey said, “and I frankly do not care where polite society wants to draw lines after that. We have the most fragrant meadows in England. London has the worst stench this side of the Pit. We have enough mature medicinals to stock every apothecary in the realm, and London is the capital of illness and misery as well as the seat of government. We owe it to England to address those problems as best we can.”

  Ash plucked a sandwich from the plate. “It is a fact that the stench of London has to be smelled to be believed.”

  “Paris isn’t exactly fragrant,” Oak said. “We have acres of herbs and flowers, though. Casriel is right about that.”

  “Don’t say that.” Valerian brushed crumbs from his cravat. “Don’t say Casriel is right about something. He’ll get a swelled head.”

  “All I ask you to do is think about it.” Grey snatched a pair of sandwiches and left his brothers bickering, which they could do without any help from him. In fact, they would have to learn to bicker without him, because he had an earldom to see to, and—God and Lady Canmore willing—a countess to cosset.

  Thorne trailed him into the corridor.

  “What about the great heiress hunt?” Thorne asked. “We still have no dower house, the vicar is clamoring for a new roof, and the Hall needs work. We can set up a scent, sachet, and soap business, but that will take time.”

  “We can have products on the London shelves well before Yuletide,” Grey said. “The salvage from the dower house can be used to construct the workshop, and the women from the village will likely be happy to earn some coin there.”

  “Women?”

  “They work hard, they have delicate noses, and they are less likely to squander coin on drink and gaming. Why not women?”

  Thorne took a sip of his cider. “I like women well enough. What other ideas has this trip to London germinated in your fe
rtile brain?”

  “I have many ideas. What bricks and beams we don’t use to construct a workshop should be sold for coin. Our dear neighbor Mr. Bulwaring, who has enough blunt to build a conservatory with Papa’s Italian glass, can also take on a portion of the burden of repairing the church roof. With my brothers housed elsewhere—Complaisance Cottage sits empty, for example—I can demolish the family wing, which has never been quite sound. I’ll sell the salvage to any local builder and be able to undercut London prices substantially.”

  Thorne studied him, and Grey had the sense his brother was seeing him anew, as Grey had been seeing anew since leaving London.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier simply to marry money?” Thorne asked. “It’s done all the time and allows families with means to become families with titles.”

  “Then you do it,” Grey said. “You talk yourself into plighting your troth for coin, to the point that your mind ceases to see every other opportunity for you or your family. You accept the rote answer to maintaining aristocratic standards, though it means your soul is forever tarnished and cheapened. When I finally set aside the notion of an advantageous match, only then did I see the wealth we have, Hawthorne.”

  “Sycamore was right, then.”

  Grey needed to soak in a hot bath, he needed to write a true letter to Addy—a love letter—and he needed to catch up on all the business of the estate.

  “Sycamore is frequently right. We simply ignore him much of the time. In what particular way was he correct?”

  “The young lady whom you had chosen to court must have been a true nightmare.”

  That wasn’t fair. Sarah Quinlan was likely exactly the daughter she’d been raised to be, which wasn’t her fault. Grey was also the son he’d been raised to be, or he had been for too long.

  “It’s more accurate to say that the lady whom I have chosen to court is the woman of my dreams. I and Dorning Hall must be worthy of her esteem, or I have no business asking for her hand.”

  Thorne shoved Grey’s shoulder and offered a rare smile. “I can’t wait to meet her.”