Unease settled deep inside him. Discussing the specific day they’d exchange their vows made him feel as if he were being crushed in a vise. Slowly. Painfully. Needless to say, he’d avoided it thus far, but time was running out. Decisions needed to be made in order to reach his father’s deadline.
“Samantha mentioned it might be as soon as the beginning of next month. If so, much needs to be done.”
“You mean you and Samantha have much to do.”
“I am certain you’d like to have a say in some of the details. You seem quite opinionated on other topics.” She sent him a disgruntled look.
He could only stare at his mother in surprise, wondering where her outspokenness had been when his father had said ugly things to her as well as to her children. If she’d spoken her mind when he’d been a young boy, perhaps their lives would’ve been far different.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
Once again, he couldn’t help but think of how alike she and Samantha were. That sounded like something his fiancée would’ve said. He shifted, uncomfortable at the thought.
He couldn’t help but ask what was on his mind. “Why didn’t you ever say such things to Father?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She cast her gaze over the crowd as though searching for a reason to end their conversation.
“I think you do. He often said terrible, hurtful things. To me. To Nathaniel. To you. But you said nothing.” He couldn’t set aside the idea that she should’ve at least tried to stand up for herself and her sons.
“He was my husband. Such behavior wouldn’t have been tolerated.” The tightness in her expression was the only sign that his comments might be upsetting her.
“Perhaps it would’ve made him stop.” He said the words quietly, more to himself than her. He well knew that as a woman, she had few rights. When she married, she basically lost any say under the law to her husband.
At that, she turned to face him fully. “Do you think I never tried doing so? It only made him all the more hurtful, especially to you and Nathaniel.”
He studied her in surprise. That was the most she’d ever said on the topic. Normally she acted as though their childhood had been perfect.
“What I said had no merit. He made that very clear.” Pain flashed in her eyes.
“I apologize. I never realized you tried.”
Suddenly, he pictured his mother as a young woman, not so different from Grace. Chivington had easily suppressed Grace’s fledgling independence, forming her into the wife he wanted, rather than allowing her to grow into the woman she could be. Perhaps it had been much the same for Tristan’s mother.
He couldn’t imagine suppressing anyone’s individualism in that way. Especially not his wife’s. The stronger and better of a person she was, the stronger and better he would be.
At least, that was how it should be—a partnership of sorts.
Could he somehow break the cycle in which he found himself? His grandfather had been much the same as Tristan’s father. Tristan had been at the receiving end of his biting comments on more than one occasion prior to his death.
He hated that his heritage was dictating his behavior, just as it gave him his hair and eye color.
“Good evening.” Samantha greeted them both, interrupting his thoughts. “What a lovely gown,” she complimented his mother.
It amused Tristan how hard Samantha tried to get into his mother’s good graces. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she needn’t bother. His mother only wanted him to marry. It didn’t seem to matter who.
“We were just discussing a date for the wedding,” his mother said, ignoring Samantha’s attempt at flattery.
Perhaps his gruffness didn’t come from just his father.
As the women discussed possible dates, Tristan did his best to ignore the burning sensation in his stomach. Why did the topic cause him such unease?
Once the dates were narrowed to two, the conversation turned to Samantha’s favorite topic—gossip. The dialogue was rather one-sided as Samantha tattered on about this person and that one, his mother nodding occasionally.
“Did you happen to learn anything about Charles Stannus?” he asked when Samantha paused to take a breath.
“Only that he and Viscount Chivington didn’t care for each other.”
That information came as no surprise from what Tristan knew of both men.
The conversation turned once again to the wedding, and Tristan decided he’d had enough.
“If you’ll both excuse me, I see someone with whom I must speak.” In truth, he had no desire to discuss anything more about the wedding. The topic made him ill.
His preference would be to delay the nuptials as long as possible. Though he still believed Samantha’s strong personality a good fit for his brusque temperament, he was beginning to have doubts as to whether marrying her was the right thing for either of them. The thought of starting a family—of subjecting a son or daughter to the same environment in which he and Nathaniel had been raised—was repugnant.
Unfortunately, he was still uncertain if he could change himself to the level needed. Until he knew, his time would be better spent on his quest for information on Stannus, to speak with Lord Jackson, and determine a way to investigate the advertisements. Anything to avoid discussing wedding plans.
“Good morning to you, my lady,” Mrs. Foley said as she entered Grace’s sitting room the next morning. “’Tis a lovely day.”
“It certainly is.” Grace smiled at the older woman, appreciating her friendly nature all the more after the sternness of the housekeeper at Witley Manor. Mrs. Foley was fast becoming more like a doting aunt than a paid servant.
“I understand you and Master Matthew have already been for a walk in the garden.” She set a silver tray carrying several notes and letters on the table beside Grace.
“We have indeed.” Grace no longer questioned how the woman knew everything. “The flowers there are gorgeous. What is all this?” She eyed the tray warily.
“Apparently, word has spread of your arrival. You have several invitations to consider.”
Grace’s stomach did a long plunge. “From whom?”
“I am not certain. I’m sure you will want to open them and see.”
Grace continued to stare at the tray. Tristan had warned her that if he’d learned of her arrival, others would as well, but she hadn’t taken it to heart. After all, she didn’t know anyone here. Which meant they didn’t know her. Why would they invite her to anything when they had never met her? She’d never had an introduction to the Queen or partaken in the Season.
“Should I send for the modiste one day this week?” Mrs. Foley asked. “You’re going to want new gowns if you decide to attend any of the upcoming balls and parties.”
“I wouldn’t know which ones to consider.”
“Perhaps the earl might advise you on that.”
Her stomach did another deep dive. Would it be inappropriate to ask his advice considering he was betrothed?
What worried her far more than attending a party was the idea that Charles and Lynette would soon descend on them. She had no idea what to do about that.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” Mrs. Foley asked.
“If there was someone whom I don’t want to see, how would I go about making certain they weren’t allowed entrance?”
“You need only let Paxton and I know. We’ll be certain the other servants are aware of your preferences.”
Still Grace hesitated. Whether it had been some of Charles’s comments or her own insecurity, she didn’t know, but she felt as if she had less claim to her husband’s homes and staff than Charles and Lynette did.
“Who would you prefer not to see?”
“Charles Stannus.”
“The viscount’s cousin?” The look of doubt on the housekeeper’s face had Grace clenching her fists, digging her nails into her palms as she waited for her to refuse.
“Certainly, my l
ady. Is there something specific of which we should be aware?”
Grace relaxed her hands with relief. “I don’t care for the way he or his wife treat my son. I would prefer they kept their distance.” That was an understatement but since she couldn’t prove anything, it was the only reason she could think of.
“Tsk. Tsk. How could anyone treat Master Matthew poorly? He’s a gem of a boy. I’ll mention it to Paxton right this minute.”
“Thank you.” A seed of confidence bloomed inside her, small, but persistent. “Also...” Did she dare ask or was she overstepping her bounds?
Mrs. Foley turned back, an expectant expression on her face.
“There are a few pieces of furniture in the drawing room I’m not fond of. Would it be terribly inconvenient if they were moved out?”
“Not at all. I will have one of the footmen assist us whenever you would like to do so.” She stepped closer to whisper loudly, “Between you and me, my lady, I never cared for the way the former viscountess decorated that room. It’s a bit overcrowded, don’t you think?”
Grace couldn’t help her smile. “I would have to agree. Nor am I a fan of quite so many shades of pink.”
“Perhaps it is time for a change then,” Mrs. Foley suggested.
“How would I know if there is room in the budget for some changes?” While Daniel had always implied Matthew’s inheritance would be significant, thanks to the investments Daniel’s father had made in the railroad, Grace had no idea if that was actually true. She didn’t want to waste money on changing perfectly usable décor just because it didn’t suit her tastes.
“You will want to visit Mr. Barnaby. He’s the solicitor who has handled Chivington affairs for as long as I have been here.”
“Could an appointment be made for me to see him?”
“Of course. I will have a message delivered to him now.”
Grace followed her impulse and rose to squeeze Mrs. Foley’s arm. “Thank you so much for all of your help. I’d be lost without you and Paxton.”
“It’s our pleasure. The house has been far too quiet for far too long. Now then, I am certain the former viscount would want you and Master Matthew to enjoy yourselves while you’re here.” She gave an encouraging nod toward the pile of notes. “Perhaps one of those invitations will help with that.”
Pleased with her progress, Grace selected one of the envelopes from the tray, deciding no harm could come from opening one. If she wanted to be a better mother to Matthew, she needed to act like a proper viscountess. That meant determining which, if any, of these invitations she might want to accept. The idea of attending a party or ball by herself was intimidating, but the least she could do was sort through these invitations to see who’d sent them. No harm could come of that small step.
She smiled as she slid the silver letter opener beneath the first envelope flap. She’d made several significant steps today that should aid her goal. That made her feel positively productive.
Tristan would be proud of her progress. Her smile grew even wider at the thought. She couldn’t wait to tell him of it.
Chapter Nine
“...as a rule, the condition of the hands will enable the police to judge between the professional tramp and the working man really travelling in search of work...”
~The Seven Curses of London
“So kind of you to visit,” the ancient butler said as he slowly escorted Tristan down the hall toward Lord Jackson’s library. “He’s been quite morose since the situation with the letter. I am certain he’ll appreciate you calling on him.”
“It is terrible that he was subjected to that scheme. He shouldn’t be penalized for his generosity.”
“Tsk. Tsk. What is this world coming to that someone would do such a thing to a solitary older gentleman? Anything you can do to aid him would be much appreciated.”
The butler announced Tristan then held the door for him to enter the library. Books lined shelves from floor to ceiling, ranging from old ones with tattered bindings to new ones that appeared untouched. A sitting area was near the banked fire. The ember glow chased away the damp chill, which never seemed to leave England, no matter the season.
Lord Jackson sat at his mahogany desk at the opposite end of the room, staring blankly out the window as though he’d forgotten the butler had announced Tristan’s arrival. His grey hair was overly long with bushy mutton chops covering most of his jawline.
“Good morning,” Tristan greeted him.
Jackson turned, his eyes going wide. “Adair?”
The old lord studied him for so long that Tristan grew uncomfortable, especially since he had a guess as to why. Many of his father’s friends had a similar reaction.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” Tristan said at last, hoping to jar the man from his trance.
“God’s blood, man.” Jackson placed his gnarled hands on the chair arms to push himself to his feet. “You look so much like your father that I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“The resemblance is strong, I know.” Tristan couldn’t keep the scowl from his face.
“Even your voice sounds exactly like him.” Jackson shook his head. “Remarkable.”
“You mean terrible,” Tristan muttered.
“What’s that?” The older man leaned forward with a hand cupped around his ear.
“Nothing.”
“What brings you here today?” He gestured for Tristan to sit in one of the red velvet wing chairs before the desk and lowered himself into his.
“I wondered if you might share some information with me.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of information?”
“I am doing research on professional beggars in London, and I understand one recently wrote to you.”
The lord looked away as though embarrassed. “Word has spread, has it? Foolish Lord Jackson was taken in by a cleverly worded letter and an appealing photograph.”
“Word has indeed spread, but I think it is because people are concerned they might find themselves in the same position as you.”
“Oh?” Jackson’s brown eyes met Tristan’s, still doubtful.
“Some of the professional beggars are going to great lengths to trick others into handing over their money. I would like to do what I can to make others aware of the various ploys they use with the hope of preventing future problems.”
“Interesting.”
“I am also researching to see if there are one or two individuals behind these schemes.”
“You mean they might be organized?”
“They are going so far as to advertise in the news sheets and write letters to lords like you. That shows organization and determination and a certain amount of cleverness. It seems unlikely that they’re all that resourceful. Wouldn’t it be more logical to think that a few are behind such activities?”
“It’s outrageous.” Jackson shook his head. “The whole incident makes me want to refuse considering any donations from now on. I will keep my money instead.”
“No doubt I’d feel the same as you. But there are still many worthy charities out there, and people who need our help.”
“There are even more crooks.”
“It’s difficult to separate the legitimate ones from the scams. But if those of us who often donate share some of the information we’ve discovered with each other, then we could avoid those who have made a profession out of begging.”
“Hmm...” Tristan could see the idea taking hold in Jackson’s expression. “That is a clever idea, though it would surely take considerable time and effort.”
“Have you read a book called The Seven Curses of London?” Tristan wished he’d thought to bring a copy along.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I’ll send it to you. You might find the author’s thoughts of great interest. He put together a list of seven of the worst problems plaguing London. Many of them are occurring within a mile or two of where we live.”
“Only seven you say?”
Tristan couldn’t help but smile, as that had been his reaction when Nathaniel had told him about the book as well. “I thought the same thing. My brother, Captain Hawke, has taken one of the problems on personally. I suppose that has inspired me to do the same.”
A light appeared in Jackson’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Didn’t your brother join the Navy? Came home wounded, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes.” Tristan would be the first to admit how proud he was of Nathaniel. But he was also envious. Serving his country had given Nathaniel a purpose in life that Tristan longed for. But as the heir, his duty was to the estate and keeping it intact and healthy for future generations. That meant marrying.
“Which of these seven curses is your brother fighting?”
“Neglected children.” At the lord’s look of interest, Tristan decided to tell him more about Nathaniel’s endeavors. Perhaps hearing of others’ actions would draw his attention away from his own woes. “He discovered girls as young as nine and ten were being taken from workhouses and placed in brothels.”
“That is terrible.” The outrage on Jackson’s face matched how Tristan had felt when he’d first learned of the atrocity.
“He’s been working with another lord you may know, Viscount Frost, to put an end to the activities. Apparently the criminal behind it had many interests, as he also ran a ring of thieves.”
They conversed for several more minutes, Jackson’s mood seeming to lighten as they spoke. He stared at Tristan for a long moment until Tristan raised his brow. “Is something amiss?”
“Perhaps you’re not as similar to your father as I thought.”
Tristan waited, wondering if he’d expand on his remark. Hoping he would.
“Your father never would’ve bothered to become involved in this Seven Curses book. He would’ve dismissed it as nonsense. He didn’t care to help those less fortunate. He always thought I was a fool for my charitable work.” Jackson shook his head. “One of the worst disagreements we had before he died was on that very topic.”
“Oh?” None of his father’s friends had ever said anything like this to Tristan before.
Rescuing the Earl (The Seven Curses of London Book 3) Page 10
