He shook his head at that. She hadn’t been here long enough. Only one day, two at the most, by his reckoning. He was in time to save her from the nobleman’s lascivious intentions.
She would have succumbed to him, Arnold, if not for that damnable brat, Theo, interrupting him on the stairway. Oh, yes, he’d get them all back and then remove the little monsters from Lily’s influence, and her from theirs.
It had taken him two hours of examination, subtle and smooth as could be, of course, to get Gertrude to remember the viscount’s existence. He, a man of the world, of course, had known that the viscount would live in London. Locating him upon his arrival had been ridiculously simple. He wondered what Lily would say when she saw him.
Arnold Damson knew he wasn’t a superb specimen of manhood. He wasn’t one of the vaunted arrogant Corinthians or a superb horseman or a renowned athlete. But he was the children’s uncle. He controlled the purse strings. He held power over their futures.
And that made up for all his shortcomings.
He marched up to the impressive dark oak doors and rapped smartly with the highly polished brass handles.
The door opened and he found himself staring at a rather plump man who was very short and very bald. Who would hire a paltry fool like this?
“Yes?”
“You will take me to Lord Castlerosse, my man.”
Duckett smiled. A country squire, full of his own importance, slightly cowed by his surroundings, and contemptuous of a man of shorter stature than he. He was neither old nor young, Duckett saw. He was too thin and too sallow and his clothes were poorly cut, but he did have a beautiful full head of light brown hair. He also looked as if he pouted a lot—a discontented man who in all likelihood made those around him thoroughly miserable.
Duckett’s perusal required only a split second. He said gently, “Who did you say you were? One of his lordship’s bootmakers?” Duckett decided to enjoy himself. This pathetic specimen would have no knowledge of the incomparable bootmaker, Hoby. “Or perhaps you wish to sell his lordship a new brand of hair pomade? I regret to tell you that his lordship doesn’t use such things, but you might like to speak to his valet. I can see if he has time for you. He is a rather flighty fellow, but he might be able to find a moment for you.”
Arnold was flustered. “No,” he managed after a moment. “I don’t want to see the damned valet. I am the children’s uncle. I demand to see Knight Winthrop.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Damson. Arnold Damson.” Arnold wished desperately at that moment that he had a “sir” in front of his name. It was too late to make up one now.
Duckett gave Arnold a wide smile. “Do come in, Mr. Damson. I will see if his lordship wishes to receive you.”
He left a properly chastened Arnold in the entry-way and took himself off with a slow and stately stride to the library, slower and statelier than usual. The viscount was dictating correspondence to his secretary, Trump Dickie.
After Duckett informed the viscount of his visitor, he waited. Knight looked startled, then began to smile. He rubbed his hands together and his smile bordered on the evil. Duckett was fascinated. “Ah, send him in, Duckett. Trump, do take yourself off for, say, half an hour.”
When Duckett showed Mr. Arnold Damson into the library, Knight was on his feet, a wide smile on his face.
“How do you do,” he said politely. “It is a pleasure to meet Tris’s brother-in-law.”
Left with no choice but to return the civility, Arnold dutifully responded with what manners he could muster, but he didn’t like it. He’d known the viscount was a young man. Gertrude, the stupid cow, had remembered that he was Tristan’s junior by many years. But the man wasn’t the soft, pampered, flabby specimen he’d pictured in his mind. He was tall—the top of Arnold’s head came to his chin—and damnably well formed: wide shoulders, narrow waist—no paunch for this fellow—and long legs thick with muscle. He was, in short, a sportsman. His face would interest women, Arnold thought, bringing all his critical faculties into the fray. He was forced to admit that the viscount was, at the very least, a moderately acceptable-looking man. It was assuredly a revolting development.
Knight kept himself from laughing aloud at Ugly Arnold’s intense scrutiny. He wished he could ask him what his final conclusion was. He said instead, “You are newly arrived from Yorkshire, I see.”
Arnold didn’t know how his lordship could see anything of the sort, but he said quickly, “Yes, my lord. Damson Farm is near Harrowgate. A fine holding.”
“Yes, I remember Tris telling me about it some years ago. He mentioned that it belonged to his sister, Gertrude. That was, of course, before she married you. How odd that you should change its name. As I recall, it was called Oberlon Grange. After a Winthrop of long ago.”
Arnold didn’t like this at all. The viscount—arrogant bastard—was making him feel like a cheap interloper. “I prefer my name to another man’s,” he said and managed to raise his chin a bit.
A weak chin, Knight thought, not changing expression. Perhaps he should recommend a beard. It would help.
He showed Arnold a chair and seated himself opposite, crossing his legs at the ankles. He looked to be filled with the milk of male camaraderie. “Now, would you like to tell me what I can do for you, sir?”
“I am here to fetch my niece and nephews and their mother.”
“I see. How very interesting.” Knight flicked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve before looking up to add, “Whyever should you wish to do that?”
“I am their closest relative. Lily had no excuse to leave Damson Farm in such a hurly-burly way, and all because of a silly misunderstanding. The children, and their mother, of course, are my responsibility, after all.”
“I see,” Knight said again, and indeed he did see. He couldn’t really blame Ugly Arnold for his infatuation with the lovely Lily, but to come all the way to London to saddle himself with three children, merely in the hope of getting her into his bed—the fellow had gone to a good deal of difficulty, and he’d done it very quickly. He deserved some hope. “This sounds extremely logical. If it is convenient with your plans, Mr. Damson, I should like for you to come to dinner.”
Arnold didn’t quite know what to make of that. He’d expected the viscount to be arrogant, perhaps treat him with condescension, but he’d found him entirely affable, much more so than that bald butler of his. And he seemed in agreement with Arnold’s claim. Now an invitation to dinner.
“Will Li—the children’s mother be present?”
“Should you like her to be?”
“Since she would probably insist that she accompany the children back to Damson Farm, it is entirely appropriate.”
“I do agree,” said Knight, his face entirely straight. “Now, my dear sir, I suppose that you have much to occupy your time. Tonight, say around eight o’clock?”
Arnold found himself on the doorstep a minute later, not really understanding how he’d got there so quickly. And so politely.
Betty was giving Lily another message upstairs.
When Lily knocked on the library door, she heard a very mellow “Come in, Mrs. Winthrop.”
She quietly opened the door, wondering what awaited her. Perhaps he would send her about her business now. The debacle at lunch still made her head ache. Sam had deserved to have his ears boxed. She just hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. He had given her his unrivaled orphan look and, as usual, she’d succumbed. Little heathen.
“Hello,” she said and took only two steps into the library.
“Shut the door, Lily.”
She did as he bade her.
“Now, I have some excessively interesting news for you.”
“News?” She looked at him blankly. “You—you’re not angry? About the children? Luncheon? Sam and Francis Bacon?”
“No. Just a bit numb. Actually, I’m feeling quite entertained. I was able to put off vastly boring correspondence with Trump—my secretary—in favor of a
visitor who wasn’t completely unexpected, but rather, here more quickly than I’d anticipated. He’d come such a long way and was so bent on getting what he wanted. In short, Lily, you and I are going to have the pleasure of dining with the one and only Ugly Arnold tonight.”
“Oh, no.” Her hand went to her throat, and she knew she’d paled to the color of his cravat. All the implications burrowed through her brain. Arnold would tell him that she wasn’t really Tris’s widow, that Laura Beth wasn’t her child, that she had only the claim of being Tris’s betrothed. She stared at Knight, feeling hopelessness flow over her. They had been here but twenty-four hours. And now it was all for naught. She saw that Knight was smiling. Perhaps he’d made this up to punish her?
“No,” she said, “Arnold can’t be here. I didn’t tell him anything about you, not a thing. You’re making this up, aren’t you, because of luncheon? Oh, please say it is merely a jest!”
Knight sighed dramatically. “I do wish you could show as much forbearance for me as you do for the children. I imagine that Ugly Arnold got the information about my existence from Gertrude. He certainly has moved quickly to find you. In any case, I felt such an excess of infatuation and nauseating devotion deserved some hope. Also, after Tilney Jones has left, in about two hours from now, we will be well on the way to legalizing my guardianship of the children. I assume you will have no more, er, problems with my proposal?”
“Ugly Arnold here,” Lily said, more to herself than to him. Indeed he’d moved quickly. “He wants the children?”
“No, he wants you. He’s willing to take the children in order to have you.”
“He said that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Well, he did, but not in those words. Let’s just say that what he wanted was made quite clear. I fancy our Arnold isn’t above blackmailing you to get you into his bed. That is, you may stay with the children if you succumb to his, ah, blandishments.”
He saw her flinch but didn’t soften. She said in a pitifully hopeful voice, “Perhaps he isn’t quite that bad. He is their uncle, after all.”
“He would tolerate the children. But what he wants to be is your protector. Now, what would you like to do about this? Do you find me more acceptable as a guardian? I do promise you, Mrs. Winthrop, that I won’t try to blackmail you into my bed.”
“Why should you want to? You don’t even like me.”
Goodness, he thought, staring at her, an arrested expression in his eyes. How had she come to that wonderful conclusion? “I like you well enough, ma’am. Now, what is your decision?”
She had no choice but to relinquish the reins. She rather thought that the viscount, even with all the legal power over the children, would not be much of an attentive guardian. “We shall do as you deem best.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
“Will you be their legal guardian?”
“Yes. If it’s possible, Tilney will know how to bring it off.” Knight consulted his pocket watch. “Would you like to be present? He should arrive shortly.”
Lily’s hand flew to her hair. “I should change, perhaps. I have been sermonizing—Sam is such an angel, such a sweet little boy, he really—”
She broke off at the look of absolute incredulity on the viscount’s face.
“He is. Perhaps he’s a bit mischievous.”
“He’s the devil’s own spawn,” said Knight. “I fancy the dons at Eton will cure him of his more unacceptable pranks.”
“No, he’s much too young. He’s only six and—”
“Mrs. Winthrop, please shut up. You will do as I say, or you could perhaps find yourself with Ugly Arnold again.”
“Blackmail,” she said. “You are too above that sort of thing? You are not a—”
“A prince among men? A toad among princes? A prince in wolf’s clothing?”
She laughed, she couldn’t help herself. It was her cross to bear. Even when she was at her most furious, she could see another’s point of view. Her father had taught her that; rather, he’d crossed the line so many times that she’d come to accept rage along with laughter.
It was a beautiful sound. Lilting, flowing over him like the sweetest honey or jasmine. Knight shook his head. He was fast becoming a blithering ass. The woman had laughed, that was all. At least she had a sense of humor.
“You don’t need to change your gown or comb your hair. You look like a mother should look—slightly harried, harassed, and otherwise flustered. Ah, Duckett. I fancy Tilney Jones has arrived?”
“Yes, my lord. Mr. Jones, my lord.”
Tilney Jones was a very pleasant-looking man in his middle thirties. Blessed with intelligent brown eyes, broad shoulders, and a graceful form, he was also endowed with an excellent sense of humor and a talent for telling tales that brought his audience to its knees with laughter. He was one of the viscount’s best friends. He stepped forward and shook his hand. “Now, what is all this about children, Knight? I surely must have misunderstood! You and children—it doesn’t merit serious thought. Wasn’t Trump having a jest at my expense?”
“Actually, Tilney, if you will but pay attention to your surroundings, you will have the sublime pleasure of making the acquaintance of the children’s mother. Mrs. Winthrop, Tilney Jones, my solicitor, and a fellow who sometimes doesn’t look before he leaps with his tongue.”
Tilney turned on his heel, beheld Lily standing silently behind him, and became mute. He’d expected a mother, for heaven’s sake, a woman who looked like his own mother, not this very young woman who was so exquisite. “You can’t be a mother.”
“She is, old fellow,” said Knight. “Of only one little girl, however.”
My God, he was thinking, observing his friend’s instant bemusement, I swear I will never look at a woman—any woman—and fall so obviously and metaphorically at her feet. It was humiliating and degrading.
Knight said very gently, “Now, Tilney, say, ‘A pleasure, ma’am. Forgive my impertinence. I am certain your children are wonderful specimens.’ You may speak now, Tilney.”
Lily had had enough experience in her young life with reactions like Mr. Tilney Jones’s. She simply ignored it. It meant nothing to her, nothing at all. She smiled and gave him her hand. “Pay him no heed, Mr. Jones. I am delighted to meet you and I trust you will see to the solution of our problem.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tilney, unable to take his eyes off her.
“Tilney, do get yourself together. You’re embarrassing Mrs. Winthrop, and me, of course.”
Lily pulled her hand from Mr. Jones’s grasp.
“Shall we proceed?” asked Knight at his most sardonic.
NEAR HARROWGATE, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 1814
“Aye,” said Monk Busch, “we’re ’ot on ’er trail now, Boy. ’Er and the brats. We’ll get ’em.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Boy, running his dry tongue over his bushy whiskers. “And ’ungry.”
“Ye always are. Skinny as a gallows tree, ye are, and eat like a bloody fat whore. Jest shut yer trap. We’ll go to this Damson Farm, make sure Tris’s little lovebird is there, then ’ang back a bit.”
Boy took up his familiar refrain. “We don’t know she’s got anything to do with it, Monk. Old Tris could have ’id ’em anywhere. Jeez, back in Brussels, for all we know.”
Monk gave his partner a look of acute dislike. “We tore up ’is damned house, looked everywhere, even in the mouse hole. Nothing. And ’is little tart takes off with the brats awful soon after ’e’s shoveled underground. No, she’s got the goods, aye, she does.”
“Then why she’d come ’ere? To a relative’s? Why doesn’t she set ’erself up, what with all the stuff?”
That bothered Monk as well. “Don’t know,” he admitted. “Don’t matter anyways. She’s a smart piece, that one. Tris was head over arse in love with her, let it slip once, ’e did, when ’e was deep in ’is cups.”
“She’s a looker,” said Boy. “I wonder if poor Tris got in ’er before ’
e croaked.”
“Poor Tris? You’re a booby! ’E double-crossed us, Boy, bribed that damned magistrate, and left us to rot in a stinking Frenchie prison! ’E deserved the skewer in ’is back! As for ’is little piece, she was living with ’im, wasn’t she? For Gawd’s sake, she was living and sleeping in ’is house…looking after ’im and ’is brats. Tris weren’t no monk—”
“No, not like you!” exclaimed Boy, pleased with his witty effort.
“Shut yer trap, Boy. I don’t find ye at all amusing. Ye’re a bloody dolt. Now, maybe this little piece will want to do for us. Ye know—we let ’er keep a bit of the goods in return for a tumble or two in the ’ay.”
“She’s a looker,” said Boy again. “I wouldn’t mind plowing my rod in ’er, I tell you.”
“Ye don’t have enough between yer legs to make it worth ’er while, not like me. But why not? Another thing, Boy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she told Tris to do us in. A looker like ’er. Sees ’er chance and takes it.”
Monk was rather pleased with this analysis and continued after a moment. “Yep, she took in poor Tris. I’ll bet ye it were all ’er idea to buy off them coves and ’ave us in-car-cer-ated in that damned prison.”
“She ain’t as smart as we are,” said Boy. “Come right to England, she did; didn’t even try to cover ’er tracks. Gawd, every man from Brussels to York remembers ’er, and it ain’t just because of the three brats cutting up their peace. No, remember what that coachman said? Just rolled ’is eyes, ’e did, and licked ’is chops.”
“She thinks we’re in prison. She ain’t worried, not at all. Old Tris was jiggered by footpads, that’s wot the watch believes, that’s wot she believes. Nobody will ever be the wiser.”
“How do we get ’er off this Damson Farm place?”
Monk shrugged and his eyes narrowed. He looked mean and cruel and determined. Boy shivered, just a bit; he couldn’t help himself. Monk was a serious cove, bent on getting what he wanted. Boy thought of himself as being filled with the gin of human kindness, or whatever the saying was. He wasn’t like Monk. No, sir. He would be very polite to everyone once he was rich.
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