For All Eternity

by Heather Cullman

  His hands balled into fists. If rumors were true, and he was certain they were, the knave had fathered eleven of the score of by-blows running about the village. That he clearly intended Sophie to round it to an even dozen made it all the harder for him to restrain his violence.

  Exactly why he cared what she did, and with whom, he didn’t know. Indeed, the notion of the high-and-mighty Miss Barrington unwed and carrying a footman’s babe should amuse him to no end.

  But he wasn’t amused, not in the least. Not when he thought of the cur kneeling between her thighs and sharing her first rapture. That pleasure should have been his, blast it! He’d earned it. He’d wooed and courted her, he’d offered her marriage. And he’d be damned if he’d stand by and let that scoundrel take what he’d failed to win.

  As he glared at the bastard, wishing that looks could kill, the “Sophie Adoration Society” was approached by a pretty girl whom he instantly recognized as Fancy, the chambermaid. By the scowl on her face, she looked primed to commit murder.

  “Charles Dibbs!” she bellowed, stopping just outside the group.

  The footman looked up from Sophie, annoyance written on every line of his face. “What do you want, Fancy?” he growled.

  “Whadda I want? Whadda I want!” She crossed her arms across her chest, her foot tapping furiously as she fixed him with a blistering glare. “What I want is to know why you dinna walk me to church like you promised. I waited and waited in the bleedin‘ garden, just like you said, and you nivver came.”

  He eyed her coldly for several beats, then shrugged one shoulder. “I forgot.” Shrugging again, he shifted his attention back to Sophie, dismissing the episode as too insignificant to warrant either explanation or apology.

  Fancy, however, wasn’t about to be put off so easily. Expelling a crude noise of disbelief, she hissed, “Seems to be that you’re always forgittin’ me these days. You talk all lovey-like, beggin‘ me to meet you and makin‘ all sorts of promises if I do, then you go sniffin‘ after her — ” she jabbed her finger at Sophie ” — and forgit to come. The only time you pay me any mind a-tall anymore is when you want somethin‘ she ain’t likely to give you.”

  Charles heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes, as if enduring the greatest of trials. Then he slanted his companions a smug, sidelong glance, and smirked. Three of the four footmen guffawed and clapped his back, enjoying his mute mockery of Fancy and her complaint. The remaining footman, Terence, and the valet exchanged frowns, while Sophie stared at him as if he’d just sprouted horns.

  Despite his reluctance to do so, Nicholas couldn’t help wonder at her expression. Could it be that she’d already succumbed to the bastard’s charms and was distressed to discover that he trifled with another? He was certain that such was the case in the next instant when she breathlessly exclaimed, “Oh, Charles. How could you toy so with Fancy’s affections?”

  The footman waved aside her protest with an impatient flick of his wrist. “I did no such thing. We had a brief dalliance, that is all. I can assure you that it meant nothing whatsoever.”

  Fancy squawked, visibly outraged.

  He spared her his regard long enough to rake her length, then looked back at Sophie, adding, “In truth, my dear Miss Barton, it meant less than nothing. Females of her ilk throw themselves at me all the time. I simply took what she offered and moved on when I grew bored.”

  Sophie gasped at his admission.

  Fancy squawked again. “It weren’t like that a-tall, and you know it weren’t,” she shrieked, stalking toward him. The wall of uneasy-looking footmen parted at her approach. “I nivver throwed myself at you. Nivver! I were a good girl when I came to Hawksbury. It were you that came pantin‘ after me, moanin‘ hows you loved me and promisin‘ to marry me if I gave you what you wanted.” “Really, Fancy.” Charles made a rs&ing sound. “Why would I bother chasing after you when I have so many women clamoring for my attention?”

  ” ‘Cuz I weren’t a piece of stuff, that’s why. You said so yourself.” She came to a stop in front of him, her gaze spitting venom as she glared at him. “You said you loved me ‘cuz I were a good girl, and wheedled me into givin‘ you what I were savin‘ for my husband. You said you’d marry me if I let you have it.”

  He snorted. “Why in blazes would I marry the likes of you? I told you that I plan to buy a commission in the army someday, and elevate my station to that of gentleman.”

  Fancy sniffed. “So? I don’t see what that’s got to do with us gittin‘ married.”

  He eyed her with open contempt. “Then, you are stupider than I thought.” Ignoring her indignant squeal, he ruthlessly continued, “As a gentleman, I shall be afforded opportunities to make my fortune, which I, of course, fully intend to take. Once I am wealthy, I will naturally want to enter society. In order to do so, I shall require a refined and genteel wife — ” he cast a meaningful glance at Sophie ” — preferably one of noble birth. You, Fancy Jenkins, are a slattern and thus do not meet my requirements.”

  Rather than look relieved by the bastard’s hint at a proposal, Sophie appeared stunned, and not with delight. Nicholas found her reaction baffling to the extreme. If she had feelings for Charles, as he suspected, she should

  be pleased to learn of his honorable intentions. True, he was only a footman, but ruined as she was, his offer was the best she could expect. Surely the chit knew that.

  He shrugged. Oh, well. Whatever it was that disturbed her, it couldn’t be the man’s churlish treatment of Fancy. Not after the vicious manner in which she’d spumed him. If anything, Charles’s coldhearted conduct should show her how eminently suited they were to each other. Why —

  “Colin?” A gloved hand waved before his eyes. Nicholas blinked twice, then looked at his father, who shook his head. “Best to let the servants sort things out among themselves. Isn’t that so?” The marquess peered at his companions for confirmation, who instantly dipped their heads and gave it.

  Sir John Gibbes, an elderly knight, continued bobbing his bald head like a puppet with a loose string. “Right you are, Beresford. Bad thing to meddle in the affairs of inferiors. Very bad indeed. Causes resentment.” “And problems,” interjected Sir Basil Coutts, a crusty baronet of at least eighty. “Makes them act above themselves to pay them personal notice.”

  “B-besides, s-s-servants don’t know anything ab-b-out fishing,” Miss Mayhew chimed in.

  Before Nicholas could figure out exactly what fishing had to do with settling quarrels, the church bells rang, summoning the milling congregation to worship.

  His father offered Miss Mayhew his arm. “May I have the pleasure, my dear?” She brayed a grating response and accepted. Giving her small hand a fatherly pat, he nodded to his companions and inquired, “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?” to which they again dipped their heads to the affirmative.

  All except for Nicholas, that is. He couldn’t help stealing another peek at the group beneath the tree. As he did so, he saw Fancy make what he recognized as an ancient curse sign at Charles, and heard her spit, “Quim-sticker! I hope you cop a dose of dripsy-stick and piss fire.” Despite the fury of both her words and tone, he heard heartbreak in her voice.

  As she turned on her heels, Charles grabbed her arm and jerked her back around. His handsome face ugly with rage, he viciously cuffed her across the cheek. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, you slut. Do you hear me? Never!” Slapping her again, he hurled her to the ground.

  Nicholas growled and started toward them, enraged beyond all reason by the scene. Letting the servants sort things out among themselves was one thing; standing by while a footman abused a chambermaid half his size was quite another.

  “Lyndhurst.” Someone latched onto his arm, halting him.

  He shot that someone an impatient look. It was Sir John Gibbes who frowned and shook his head. “Trouble, boy. You’re asking for nothing but trouble.”

  “I’ll chance it,” he bit out, pulling his arm free. Without sparing the
old knight so much as a parting nod, he marched over to the embattled servants. As he did so, he saw that Terence stood toe-to-toe with Charles, his hands clenched into fists and his youthful face contorted with wrath. From what he could discern from their hissing exchange, the younger man was intent on defending Fancy’s honor.

  Nicholas admired Terence’s bravado, for despite his manly height, he was little more than a boy, a fact readily evidenced by his smooth cheeks and spindly build. That he would champion the maid against the physically mature Charles displayed a gallantry that was as laudable as it was foolhardy.

  Coming to a stop opposite the squared-off pair, he barked, “Charles! Terence!”

  Both men swung around at the sound of his voice and instantly snapped to attention. Murmuring, “My lord,” in unison, they sketched stiff bows. The other footmen and valet hastily followed suit, while Sophie gaped at Fancy, who lay weeping on the ground.

  Firmly controlling his urge to throttle Charles, Nicholas snapped his fingers at the neighboring servants. Accepting the gesture as the dismissal it was, they scampered off toward the church, visibly relieved to be excused from the brewing conflict.

  When they were well out of earshot, Nicholas fixed the object of his ire with his implacable gaze, and ground out, “I am, by all accounts, considered a tolerant man. Like all men, however, there are limits to my forbearance. You, Charles, have exceeded those limits with your ungentlemanly conduct.”

  “Ungentlemanly conduct?” Charles echoed, visibly taken aback. “Excuse me, my lord. But I don’t know what you mean.”

  That the man obviously thought it acceptable to abuse women incensed Nicholas almost to the point of eruption. Shaking from the effort it took to contain his fury, he growled, “Then, listen and know, Mr. Dibbs: I cannot and will not suffer the presence of a man disposed toward striking women. Because you have proved yourself to be such a man, I hereby dismiss you from your duties. You shall return to Hawksbury this instant and pack your bags. I want you gone before I return from church.”

  It took several moments for Charles to fully absorb the impact of his words. When he did, his eyes narrowed and he countered, “Begging your pardon, my lord. But I am in your father’s employ, not yours. It is he, not you, who must determine whether or not I am to be sacked.” By his tone, it was clear that he expected a different ruling from the marquess.

  Nicholas regarded him coolly for several moments, then gave a brusque nod. “As you wish. We shall take the matter up with my father after church.”

  The triumph in the footman’s eyes was unmistakable. Dipping his head in victorious assent, he murmured, “Thank you, my lord. If there is nothing else you require, I would like to be excused.”

  “But of course.”

  The man sketched a formal bow, then started to saunter off. He’d taken only a few steps when Nicholas stopped him. “Charles?”

  The footman paused, but didn’t turn to face him. “My lord?”

  “Before you go, I feel it only fair to warn you of my father’s harsh views on striking women.”

  This time Charles did turn, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, my lord. But I am certain his views will soften once he hears of Fancy’s insolence. Your father is a reasonable man.”

  Nicholas returned his smile in kind, ignoring the barbed insinuation of his last remark. “I am glad you find him so, though I doubt the servant he dismissed last year for a similar offense would agree.”

  The footman shrugged. “I am certain that he will rule differently after hearing my defense. If he doesn’t — ” another shrug ” — what will I have lost in trying?” “Perhaps your livelihood.”

  Yet another shrug. “I shall find another place easily enough.”

  “I said livelihood, not place.” Nicholas’s smile broadened a fraction. “You see, Charles, not only did my father dismiss the servant, he saw him shunned from every respectable house in England. Last I heard the poor bastard was employed at one of the less — ahem! — savory taverns near the docks. They say he’s taken to drink to ease the misery of his lot.”

  Charles paled a shade at his words, but otherwise showed no outward sign of alarm. It was while viewing his military-perfect stoicism that Nicholas hit upon a fitting punishment for his crime. Resisting his impulse to grin, he added, “I want you to know that while I agree with the man’s dismissal, I do not believe that he deserved to be ruined.”

  The footman stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then he cleared his throat and croaked, “Are you saying that my references will remain unsullied if I accept your dismissal here and now?” His hoarse voice held a note of hope.

  “I said that the man was undeserving of ruin, not that he should have been allowed to remain in service.” Charles frowned. “What you’re saying makes no sense. A servant banned from service has no livelihood, and thus faces sure ruin.”

  “There are other livelihoods, you know.”

  “And exactly which one of them would you suggest I pursue? My only experience is in service.”

  “I was thinking of one that would keep you away from women and hopefully cure your unfortunate tendency to strike them.”

  The other man eyed him suspiciously. “You aren’t suggesting that I be shipped off to Italy or Spain to become a monk, are you?”

  Nicholas laughed aloud, amused by the question. “No. Somehow, I can’t quite imagine you a monk.” He shook his head at the ludicrous picture of the rakish footman in rough robes with tonsured hair. “No. I was thinking more along the lines of the military.”

  “The … military?” Charles more choked than uttered the words.

  “The military,” he confirmed. “It so happens that I have a powerful friend in the army who owes me a rather large favor. What I propose to do is to call that favor due by asking him to grant you a commission. I shall, of course, inform him of your boorish conduct and charge him with the duty of mending your ways.”

  As he expected, the footman was thrilled beyond ecstasy by his proposal. “My lord! Why, this is more than I — “

  Nicholas cut him off with an abrupt hand motion. “I must warn you that your rank will not be high, an ensign at best. I shall also require you to sign a contract promising to stay in the military for not less than five years. After that time you may either remain in the army or sell the commission for your own profit. It matters not to me what you do. If, however, you leave before the end of the fifth year, the rights to the commission shall revert to me, and you must go about life as best you can.”

  “Oh! My lord, this is just too wonderful — “

  Again, he cut him off. “Do we have a bargain?” “Yes … yes! And thank you, my lord. Thank you! I shall be forever in your debt.”

  “Fine. Then, go pack your bags. I shall have the papers drawn up immediately so that you may leave for London this evening.” He didn’t have to give the command twice. “Young fool,” he muttered, watching the footman disappear among the tombstones. “I’d bet my title that he won’t be smiling after a week under Ellum’s command.”

  “Pardon, my lord?” This was from Terence.

  Nicholas slanted him a wry look. “Captain Ralph Ellum’s men refer to him as the Ball Crusher. He also happens to hold women in the highest esteem. Need I elaborate?”

  Terence chuckled and shook his head. “Bravo, my lord!”

  “Then, Charles shall be punished?” Sophie exclaimed. Nicholas shot her an irritated look. Her question clearly indicated that she thought him as lacking in judgment — as in everything else. Provoked at her for holding such an opinion and at himself for caring, he snapped, “Of course he shall. What did you expect me to do? Reward him?”

  Her cheeks flushed the soft crimson of his mother’s prized amaryllis, and as always, she promptly looked away from his face. “No … well, yes. I mean, I thought that you’d rewarded him. I mean, not deliberately, but . . She shook her head as if trying to jar her foot from her mouth. “What I’m trying to say …”

  “I
believe Miss Barton is trying to inform you that Charles has always dreamed of owning a commission, and that she thought you had inadvertently rewarded him by granting him one,” Terence cut in. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I shared her belief. I realize now that I should have known better and humbly apologize for my thoughts. Sophie, on the other hand, has been at the manor but a short time and is thus unaware of your superior — “

  Nicholas silenced him with a wave. “No apology necessary. I quite understand.” Kneeling beside the weeping Fancy, who sat using the hem of her skirt as a handkerchief, he added, “It seems that we now lack a second footman, Terence. What say you to the position?”

  “Me? Second footman?” the young man gasped. Nicholas nodded. “By your willingness to champion Fancy, you have shown yourself worthy of the advancement. I can assure you that my father will agree when

  he hears of your gallantry. Therefore, you have only to say yes to attain the position.”

  “Y-yes, my lord! And thank you. I would be honored.”

  “Good. Then, you shall begin your duties by informing my father that I have been detained and shall be along shortly.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Looking ready to burst with excitement, Terence sketched a quick bow and dashed off.

  That matter settled, Nicholas focused his attention on the sobbing chambermaid. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he murmured, “Are you hurt, Fancy? Do you need a surgeon?”

  Her face still buried in her hem, she shook her head. Nicholas leaned a fraction nearer, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Servants, he’d learned, were loath to acknowledge their injuries and ailments, especially to their employers. And with good reason. Sacking a servant for an infirmity was a common, if inhumane practice, one which both he and his parents disdained. Yet, despite their reputation for charity, some servants still remained fearful. Thus, it often fell to the Somervilles to divine their employees ills and see to their treatment.