“You needn’t worry. I would make the time.”
Gavan glared at the part-time traitor who was leisurely drinking his whiskey. “Quiet, Bailey. I’m doing this for your own good.” He turned his attention back to Ewan. “We cannot have Bailey hiring himself out to all and sundry.”
“Aye, we can.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We can, and we have,” Ewan said.
“I’m the earl. I can do what I want,” Gavan declared.
“Aye. If that’s how ye want it to be, ye can manage without me and good riddance to ye.” Ewan had clearly been learning new tactics somewhere.
The idea of being knee-deep in his relatives and their daily concerns caused Gavan to shudder involuntarily.
Ewan took some small pity on him. “If ye can give me one good reason”—he emphasized “good” to make it clear that they would be using Ewan’s definition of the word—“we’ll bring him back on exclusively.”
Gavan thought for a moment, before realizing that a variation on the truth would suit his ends just fine. “Bailey is the heir to a viscountancy. While we admire his industry, when he rejoins society they will not applaud him for it.”
“So?” Ewan’s brow furrowed at this unexpected direction.
“So the fewer people are aware he has taken employment the better. Who better than I to be his sole employer?” Gavan sipped his drink with triumph. “I forget he works for me all the time. When he retakes his place as a peer, it will be as if it never happened.”
Ewan closed his eyes and massaged his left temple. “Bailey, tell him ye’ve developed some great attachment to yer new employer.”
“I’m afraid I cannot.” Bailey smiled. “He has an excellent point.”
The younger man’s diabolical joviality had been a major factor in Gavan’s decision to hire the young aristocrat.
“That’s as good as settled, then. What’s this prospect you learned about during your time as a defector?” Gavan steered his easily distracted companions back to the matter at hand.
“I was contacted to see if there was interest for a rather unusual gig.”
“How unusual?” Gavan asked. Unusual was promising. He certainly didn’t want to give his first fiancée a usual gift.
“I’m not sure. He wasn’t interested, so I didn’t pursue it.”
With any luck the contraption would serve, and Gavan could surprise her with it immediately.
“I am interested,” Gavan said.
“Excellent. I’ll go have a look tomorrow.”
“Nonsense. We’ll all go take a look at it right now.” Gavan called for Magnus and gestured wildly to get everyone moving. “We can’t have my fiancée thinking her happiness isn’t our paramount priority.”
“Shouldn’t I go see if it’s worth your time first?” Bailey asked.
“And have all the fun? Of course not.” Despite being thoroughly unaroused by his present company, Gavan still found his thoughts wandering next door. Best to put some distance between them and get out of the house. “Ewan, you, too. Up you go.”
“Why do I have to go?” Ewan grumbled.
As penance for disrupting Gavan’s previously peaceful life. “Never mind. You’re right. I’d much rather negotiate the price myself.”
Ewan swore in Gaelic and followed them into the hall.
Hats and coats were handed off to Ewan and Bailey. Gavan was about to ask after his own—and score a point in the eternal game with his imperious butler—when a small boy burst breathlessly from a side door. One look from Magnus and the boy’s back became rod straight and his face impassive. Magnus nodded imperceptibly, and the boy handed his burden off to the butler.
“Will you be gone long, my lord?” Magnus inquired as he settled Gavan’s coat about his shoulders and handed him his hat. Gavan turned and pinned him with a calculating stare.
“One of these days, Magnus, you are going to slip up.”
The butler’s placid expression followed them out the door.
* * *
Gavan had been staring at the chaise in awestruck silence for a solid five minutes. The owner of the shabby little barn they found themselves inside waited patiently. Apparently this response was typical.
“How did you come by it?” Gavan asked. Curiosity alone would have prompted the question.
“I made it.”
Gavan turned to the blacksmith in disbelief. “You made it?”
He assessed the man and could not reconcile him as the creator of the chaise. The blacksmith was a burly fellow with a liberal layer of grime about his person. His face had a stubborn set to it, and he had a tendency to hawk tobacco juice with little regard for what or who existed in its trajectory. Bailey’s pant leg had already been assaulted, inspiring the younger man to retreat a safe distance away in the dooryard.
“Yup.” A stream of dark liquid landed in the dust a few feet from Gavan’s boots.
“It seems a bit outside of the purview of traditional blacksmithing,” Gavan said. More than a bit.
“Well, I done it anyway,” the smith said mulishly.
“May I ask why?” Gavan began circling the vehicle again, this time with its origin in mind.
“Some high in the instep gent came down the pub, slummin’ it. Had a mouth on him. Bet me two hundred pounds I couldn’t do it.” Another stream sailed toward Ewan, who expertly sidestepped. “Would have ignored him, but he got my girl going on about it.”
“Women,” Gavan commiserated, and some of the surliness in the man defused.
“Went to collect, but it turns out the cove is under the hatches. Didn’t have the two hundred, never mind the scratch to pay for it. Now I’m on the hook for the lot, and the bounder’s hiding out, so I can’t even plant him a facer for my trouble.” The smith’s hands clenched and unclenched.
Gavan did not predict a positive outcome if this mystery gentleman and the blacksmith crossed paths in the future. “I daresay, even if he hadn’t already been insolvent, the materials cost alone would have put him under.”
The smith grunted his agreement. A weak ray of sunlight shifted through a crack in the barn, and they all had to look away from the sudden illumination. Gavan had known the chaise was perfect the moment he saw it. The story of its origin and the sheer unlikeliness of its creator only deepened his surety. He turned away from the magnificent contraption and squared off with its maker.
“We’ll take it,” Gavan declared.
Poker was clearly not the smith’s game. His surprise and relief were evident.
“My cousin will sort out the particulars. Ewan, try to quell your miserly inclinations long enough to see this man makes a profit for his troubles.”
“Ye actually want to buy this monstrosity?” Ewan didn’t bother with tact.
The earlier tension returned to the smith. Bet or not, this man was proud of his work.
“Monstrosity! It is perfection personified. If I had commissioned it myself, it could not have turned out more suitably.” Gavan nodded at the craftsman to reassure him.
“Are ye mad? Look at it.” Ewan glanced dubiously at the vehicle.
Gavan followed his gaze and was almost speechless again. “Oh, I have. In great detail. It is exactly what is called for.” He clapped the blacksmith on the shoulder in a moment of camaraderie.
“Miss Howard is a sensible lass. She’ll never take to it.” Ewan circled the chaise now with the very real fear that they would end up taking it home.
“While my fiancée may seem practical, she is a romantic in her heart. All women carry within them a secret self, Ewan, and it is not bound by anything as dull as practicality.”
The blacksmith nodded in agreement, clearly thinking of the troublesome woman who had started the entire ordeal. Gavan sent a silent blessing her way. Without her interference, this excellent collision of necessities
would never have occurred.
“Forgive me if I dinnae take yer word for it. The smith isnae likely to take it back when she refuses it, and I’m nae keen to pay a fortune so it can collect dust in our carriage house instead of his.”
The smith stiffened under Gavan’s outstretched hand. The idea of someone trying to send it back had clearly not occurred to him.
“If she can’t appreciate its perfection,” Gavan said with another reassuring nod to his new friend, “then I will drive it myself.”
Ewan turned from his perusal of the vehicle. “Oh aye? Shall we order ye a bonnet to match so ye can race about with yer ribbons flying in the wind?”
Gavan was not the man to turn down such a challenge. “If Miss Howard doesn’t love it on sight, I will drive it—in matching bonnet—through the park. However, when she adores it, you must not question my expenditures for the rest of the year.”
“You’ll drive it at the high time, when all the other fancy folk will be there to see ye?” Ewan reached out and stopped his hand inches from the shake that would make it official.
“Of course.” Gavan closed the distance and shook his cousin’s hand with confidence.
The blacksmith watched the entire exchange. Gavan was certain they weren’t improving the man’s opinion of the nobility.
“We’ll take it,” Ewan said to the smith with a gleam in his eye. “Let’s talk price, laddie.”
“Work out something for repairs as well. I’d hate for it to lose its shine.” Gavan strode out of the dingy little barn and raised his arms to the sunlight. It was a good day.
“Next up is cattle, Bailey. We must find equally magnificent animals to pull it.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Everything is going our way. Can you feel it?”
Chapter 6
Hannah tapped her foot soundlessly. Even the plush luxury of the Aubusson carpet couldn’t defuse her irritation. The breakfast dishes had been cleared away for over an hour with no sign of the Earl of Rhone. Hannah had sent a boy to let him know they were ready to leave but had not received any response. The infuriating man lived twenty feet away! How difficult could it be to send a message?
Hannah tried emulating Jane’s demure patience. They had taken up positions in the sitting room, doing needlepoint to pass the time. Hannah hated needlepoint. Never an elegant embroiderer to begin with, her irritation with Rhone was causing her stitches to be angled sharply and too widely spaced. The contrast to Jane’s well-ordered little flowers was marked.
If only she could impale her absentee fiancé instead. How dare he get her hopes up by kissing her senseless and being decent only to disappoint her by making plans and then not show?
Jane’s quiet cough brought her back to herself, and she realized she was violently stabbing her canvas. The stitches pulled through, and the underlying material was ravaged. She tossed her hoop onto the table in frustration.
“I’m sure there is a perfectly good reason,” Jane offered consolingly.
“I’m sure there isn’t!” Hannah got up and started pacing the floor. “I’m sure he’s either drunk, or asleep, or forgot altogether and isn’t even home. Probably all of those in concert!”
Hannah made a sharp turn to begin a new lap and nearly collided with her chaperone. Lady Hawthorne had a striking resemblance to her niece, with Jane’s same porcelain skin and enviable height. It this woman was any indication of what the aging process had in store for Hannah’s friend, she was lucky indeed.
“Lady Hawthorne. I am so sorry. Please excuse my carelessness.”
“Oh dear. Call me Mattie, or Mathilda if you’re feeling formal. Lady Hawthorne reminds me of a time when I had to answer to a husband.” Mathilda’s shawl slipped off one shoulder as she moved into the room. She sat next to Jane on the settee, pulling her feet up under herself as she settled in. Hannah realized she was barefoot.
“Aunt Mattie, really. You say it like Uncle Harold was some sort of tyrant. He worshipped you.” Jane reached over and straightened her aunt’s clothing with small, efficient gestures.
“Of course he did. That’s why I married him.” Mathilda winked at Hannah as if they were old friends.
“Mattie it will be, then, and you must call me Hannah.” She smiled back at her new chaperone as she retook her seat. “These blasted petticoats make pulling my feet up impossible, otherwise I’d join you.”
“Don’t they, though? I don’t go in for undergarments. Too restrictive,” Mathilda declared.
“Aunt Mattie!” Jane exclaimed. Her apologetic noises were interrupted by the fascinating older woman.
“What? We’re all women here.” Mattie leaned toward Hannah conspiratorially. “This one is perfect. Model of propriety, never a hair out of place. Perhaps while we’re here you can help me loosen her up a bit.”
Mathilda anticipated the next “Aunt Mattie!” and said it in unison with her niece, in feigned shock. The mockery produced a perfectly proper little frown from Jane. Mattie responded by crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue, which managed to draw a half smile from Jane.
Hannah watched the exchange and couldn’t help feeling a pang of longing. Even in their reduced circumstances, the Baileys had such an easy affection for each other. She wondered how different things might have been if Sir Thomas had a sister.
“So tell me, what had you steaming like a teakettle when I arrived?” Mattie said seriously.
The rapid change in tone surprised Hannah and brought her back to the frustration of a few moments ago. “Rhone. He was supposed to take us to the modiste after breakfast. He hasn’t arrived, and he hasn’t responded to my note.”
Hannah tried to keep her disappointment from seeping out with her irritation. It wouldn’t do for people to think she’d let him hurt her feelings.
“What a cad! You should go over there and give him the sharp side of your tongue.”
“Aunt Mattie!” Jane turned to her aunt in genuine alarm.
“She should!” The older woman defended her opinion.
Jane smoothed her skirts. “You are a terrible chaperone.”
“I’m progressive,” her aunt sallied.
“You’re incorrigible. What was Charles thinking?” Jane’s role as the angel on Hannah’s shoulder was endearing to the extreme, especially in counterpoint to her aunt’s devilish disregard for convention.
“Oh, calm down. I’m only here for appearances. They’re already engaged.” It was clear from Mathilda’s tone that she and her niece had engaged in a multitude of discussions on the elder’s lack of propriety.
“Not for long, if she listens to you.” Jane was genuinely concerned over the possibility of Hannah receiving unwise counsel.
“She can’t just sit back and let him ignore her. What sort of a marriage would that be?” Mathilda’s exasperation was equally genuine. Hannah was once again enraptured by their exchange.
“The usual sort, and you don’t know he’s ignoring her.”
“The insufferable sort.”
“Not every woman can end up with a husband like Uncle Harold, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Then they shouldn’t marry at all.” The older woman turned to address Hannah. “Harold was short and balding with an uninspiring estate, but he promised to adore me every day for the rest of our lives, and he meant it.”
The touch of sadness in her eyes gave lie to the dismissive tone she used when she spoke about her husband and her marriage. Mathilda had clearly returned her husband’s regard.
“Aunt Mattie was an instant success during her Season. All of the most eligible bachelors offered for her. London went wild with gossip when she chose plain old Uncle Harry.” Jane recounted the tale with dreamy reverence.
The affection shared by Lord and Lady Hawthorne and the situation she found herself in with Rhone could not be further from each other in sentiment.
“I’m going
to do it. I’m going over there.” When her father died, Hannah promised herself she wouldn’t wait for things to happen to her anymore. A man had stepped in for all of two days, and here she was, back to sitting around.
“Oh, Hannah, you mustn’t! What if he becomes furious?”
“I told you, he isn’t like that. I’ve called him every horrid name I could think of, and blackened his eye, and he’s never even raised his voice to me.”
“That certainly sounds promising. Unless he lacks passion. Is he a good kisser?” Lady Hawthorne queried from the settee.
The instant blush appearing on Hannah’s face was apparently all the answer Lady Hawthorne required.
“Oh my. Promising indeed,” Lady Hawthorne exclaimed as Hannah left to confront her fiancé.
* * *
It only took a moment for Hannah to reach Number Fifteen, but the change in mood was palpable. The frazzled young man who had admitted Hannah left her standing in the foyer, presumably to go in search of someone who might know what to do with her.
When a loud crashing came from upstairs followed by raised voices, Hannah decided to let her initiative carry her a bit further. As she mounted the stairs, the voices clarified into one she recognized and one she didn’t.
“Take your goddamn hands off me,” Rhone growled.
“I’ll let ye loose when ye get control of yerself.” The other man’s thick brogue was full of emotion, some of it anger and some of it something else.
“Control? Why would I possess any control? I certainly couldn’t have inherited any.” The slur in the words confirmed that the earl was drunk, but the raw vitriol was startling. This was not the jovial egotist from her drawing room.
“Oh aye? Is that all we’re to be, then? A monument to the sins of our fathers?”
“Why not?” he responded venomously. “Let’s not leave out mothers, either, if we’re counting sins.”
Sins of their fathers and mothers? Who had Lord and Lady Rhone been that their son would speak of them with such derision? Hannah was so wrapped up in listening, she let out a small shriek when her view was suddenly filled by the front of a crisp livery. She stepped back and craned her neck until she could see the austere face it belonged to.
A Convenient Engagement Page 6
