His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I have begun a few inquiries,” Worth said. “I’ve set my clerks to making others. They will gather the best intelligence, from other clerks, opera dancers, moneylenders, and pawnbrokers. If Leggett’s rolled up, he’s done a damned fine job of keeping it out of the clubs.”

  Hessian rose, for the dog would let him scratch her belly until Michaelmas. “If he’s rolled up, won’t that become apparent during the settlement negotiations? Thanks to my brilliant brother, I have no need to marry an heiress.”

  Worth took up tummy-scratching duty. “But you should marry wisely, Hess. If Lily is an heiress, where’s her fortune? If her fortune is gone, where did it go? Does Leggett have a gambling problem? Does Lily have an aunt in the care of a very expensive, discreet institution in Northumbria? You’ve waited this long to take another wife, you can wait a few more weeks.”

  Hessian plucked a sprig of honeysuckle from below the balustrade. “I am torn between appreciation for your caution and impatience with what feels like needless dithering. I’m marrying Lily, not her dratted relations.”

  The scent of the flower was sweet and soothing and put Hessian in mind of his baby niece.

  “Hessian, at the risk of provoking your considerable contrariness, you aren’t marrying anybody yet. First, you must make an appointment with Leggett, then the appointment must go well, then the courtship ensues, and finally the lady—why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because you’ve grown up. I daresay you gave the protocol not a single thought when you courted Jacaranda, but God forbid my nieces encounter a suitor such as you were. You’re saying the situation could become messy.”

  “Very. Leggett doesn’t smell right.”

  Lily’s fragrance was even sweeter than the honeysuckle. “Very well, take some time to turn over a few rocks and poke about beneath a few hedges. Why are we out here getting the stink of dog all over our hands when we could be in the nursery making my infant niece smile?”

  Worth rose, and the dog, apparently sensing that the conversation was headed elsewhere, wiggled to her feet.

  “Why, indeed? By all means, let’s make a raid on the nursery, though I suspect it has been overrun by Vandals or Yahoos or the 95 th Rifles.”

  With the dog panting at Worth’s side, they returned to the house. Worth’s manner was subdued, for him, though perhaps it was more the case that Hessian’s mood was unsubdued. To begin every day kissing Lily, truly kissing her. To pour her tea, hold her chair…

  Hold her babies.

  Hessian contented himself with holding Worth’s firstborn for the two minutes that her papa allowed him the privilege. The Queens of the Nile had taken over the schoolroom and used blankets and desks to put a canopy over their royal barge, beneath which they consumed exotic fig cakes.

  The fig cakes bore a strong resemblance to crumpets, which Hessian knew better than to remark.

  He also knew better than to fuss when Worth demanded possession of the baby. Papas could be jealous where their daughters were concerned.

  And throughout all of the children’s laughter and the baby’s smiles, Worth remained oddly quiet.

  “Something is troubling you,” Hessian said as they closed the nursery door. Daisy had elected to spend the afternoon with Avery, which decision gave Hessian a pang.

  “You didn’t want to leave Daisy in your own brother’s keeping, Hess. Not even for two hours.”

  And that was a dodge. “Even in Cumberland, I doubt Daisy had many friends. The neighborhood is sparsely populated and Daisy’s station is above that of the daughters of the yeomanry.”

  Then too, Lady Evers had been enormously attached to the girl, her only daughter.

  Worth paused at the top of the steps. “Who are Leggett’s friends?”

  “Good God, you’re like a hound after a lame hare. How would I know who Leggett’s friends are when I’ve spent the last ten years rusticating in Cumberland?”

  Worth started down the steps. “You’re playing cards with Rosecroft, Tresham, Kilkenney, and Hazelton?”

  “I have played cards with them.” Three earls and a ducal heir who squabbled over farthing points like biddy hens over their corn.

  “Make a few inquiries, sniff at a few hedges yourself. Leggett will expect that. I have something for you.”

  “Did one of my investments take a turn for the worse?” Though with Worth minding the ledgers, that was unlikely.

  “Don’t be preposterous.” He turned into the office from which he oversaw a financial empire that included projects on four continents—South America was doubtless soon to join the ranks—and investors from several royal houses as well as several opera houses.

  A silver rattle sat atop a stack of opened correspondence. A leather leash was coiled in the pen tray. A bit of untidiness, and dear because it was Worth’s untidiness.

  “Lady Evers’s solicitor sent this for you,” Worth said, holding out a bound book. “Her ladyship instructed that you should have this journal only after you’d taken custody of Daisy.”

  A year was tooled into the book’s leather binding—eight years past. “I have custody of all the children and have undertaken correspondence with the boys. They’ll join me and Daisy at Grampion this summer.”

  And Lily would be with them too, God willing.

  Worth shoved the journal at him. “You are to read this and pass it along to Daisy if and when you think it appropriate. There are others—her ladyship was apparently a conscientious diarist—and those are boxed up and waiting for your return to Grampion. Lady Evers wanted this specific volume passed to you personally.”

  Hessian had solved the first mess of the day by sacking a nursery maid. The mess that lay on the pages of her ladyship’s diary would not be so easily dealt with.

  “Have you read it?”

  “Hess, I don’t need to. Daisy has your eyes, your chin, and your penchant for hanging back and studying a situation until she’s grasped every detail of the terrain. If you had any suspicions that she’s your progeny, to me those suspicions have been confirmed.”

  “And your observations prove nothing, because Lord Evers was also tall, fair, and of good, northern stock.” Hessian took the book and shoved it into a pocket.

  There it remained until he stashed the journal in the drawer of his night table, and tried his best to forget he’d ever seen the damned thing.

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  The music was wonderful. A violinist, a pianist, and a cellist, each performing solo, and then as a piano trio. Lily had spent the evening alternately wishing she’d had more years to study the pianoforte and wishing Lord Grampion weren’t such an eligible parti.

  Mrs. Bascombe affixed herself to his side and introduced him to every unmarried woman in her vast music parlor, while Uncle Walter remained equally attentive to Lily.

  “Deuced inconvenient,” Uncle said, “when only the older brother socializes. Worth Kettering used to be quite the charming rogue, and now we’re left with the earl, who’s hardly his brother’s equal.”

  “Grampion’s appeal lies in a different direction,” Lily said. He played a patient game of catch, took better care of his ward than some men did of their nieces, and did fine justice to evening attire.

  Only once this evening had his blue, blue eyes met Lily’s gaze, and she’d seen humor, patience, and determination in that passing glance.

  “A title is the only direction some women pursue,” Uncle said, rising. “I’m parched. Behave yourself, and we should be able to slip away in the next half hour. If Mrs. Bascombe allows you the privilege, please do further your acquaintance with Grampion.”

  He was off in the direction of the men’s punchbowl, so Lily sought the refuge of the ladies’ punchbowl in the parlor across the corridor.

  She’d no sooner accepted the glass of lemonade dipped out for her by a footman than an older woman Lily didn’t recognize appeared at her elbow. The lady had brassy blond hair, and her gown was well made but several years
out of date. A portion of lace across her ample décolletage would not have gone amiss.

  When Lily took her drink out to the balcony, the same woman followed her, which was beyond presuming.

  “Good evening, Miss Ferguson.”

  “Ma’am. You have me at a disadvantage.” Lily loathed being at a disadvantage. Her first year in London had been one tense encounter after another. Every new face had been potential disaster, every introduction a chance to blunder.

  “I am being forward, aren’t I?” The woman slowly waved a painted fan. She held the fan too low to send a breeze over her face, low enough to call attention to her bodice. “But then, I knew your mother, and in all the years I’ve seen you out and about in London, I haven’t taken the time to introduce myself.”

  Polite society frowned on people who introduced themselves, and yet… this woman had been Mama’s friend.

  “Should I recognize you?”

  “Oh, my gracious, no. I was out several years after your dear mama made her bow, but we became friends and correspondents. I’m Roberta Braithwaite, widow of the late Colonel Hilary Braithwaite. Your mother wrote me of you often.”

  No, she had not. “Thank you for introducing yourself, Mrs. Braithwaite. I hope your memories of my mother are cheerful.”

  Lily allowed that observation to stand alone, for she’d learned that silence was her friend. Let others prose on, leaving hints and details for Lily to stash away in memory. She’d keep quiet and avoid mistakes. Then too, Hessian had taken Mrs. Braithwaite into dislike, for the widow had she’d attempted a sneak attack on him as well.

  “Your mama was very dear,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, setting her drink aside untouched. “She was also very lively. I note that you are not plagued with her sense of adventure, shall we say?”

  The innuendo was unkind and the scent of Mrs. Braithwaite’s neroli perfume overwhelming.

  “We must not malign the departed,” Lily said. “Particularly not the dearly departed. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Braithwaite, I appreciate the introduction, but my uncle—”

  A manacle in the form of Mrs. Braithwaite’s gloved hand closed around Lily’s wrist. “Walter Leggett was the bane of your mama’s existence. In your grandparents’ eyes, he could do no wrong, while your mother was judged for every witticism and glass of wine. Her marriage was an escape, and I do believe it was a happy one.”

  Lily had barely known her mother. Periodic visits that never lasted long enough, an hour or two while Lily was supposed to play with a sister she’d found more fascinating than likeable. A few letters written to a child that conveyed equal parts loving concern and self-indulgence. Lily kept Mama’s letters with her money, and if she’d had to choose, she would have parted with the coins first.

  “Uncle says little about his sister other than to remark her high spirits.”

  Mrs. Braithwaite’s fan moved faster. “And he probably says they were her undoing, though I can tell you from experience, a widow goes slightly mad when the grief becomes too much.” She leaned closer, using the fan to shield her words. “I know about your sister, my dear—your half-sister—but your secret is safe with me.”

  Nobody, not even Uncle Walter, had ever spoken the words your sister to Lily. They sent a prickling sensation over her skin, part dread, part rejoicing.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Braithwaite?”

  “Maybe Walter thinks you’re too delicate to hear the truth, but he’s a man. What do they know of the strength women claim? You have a half-sister.”

  Lily heard Hessian’s laughter, warm and relaxed, amid the chatter coming through the French doors.

  “Mrs. Braithwaite, this is not the place to make such an allegation. My mother was the much-respected widow of Lord Alfred Ferguson. I will not hear her maligned by a supposed friend.”

  Mrs. Braithwaite closed her fan and tapped Lily’s forearm with it. “I mean nobody any harm, Miss Ferguson, though you deliver a very convincing set-down. Your mother was merely lonely, and some handsome rascal sought to comfort her grief in the most intimate manner. These things happen.”

  Lily turned from the view of the garden below, which was lit with torches and occupied by strolling couples, any pair of whom might overhear the wrong words.

  “You’ll excuse me, please. My uncle does not like to keep late hours.” She must put distance between herself and the temptation to learn more of her mother, for Mrs. Braithwaite had had years to make Lily’s acquaintance.

  This was a carefully planned ambush, and Lily should have known better than to remain anywhere private with this woman.

  Mrs. Braithwaite snapped her fan open. “I have letters. From your dear mama, revealing the extent of her indiscretion. One cannot fault her for half measures. Your sister, if she survived, would be little more than two years your junior.”

  Oh, Mama. “That is preposterous.” And very close to the truth. “Take your allegations to my uncle if you seek to gain by them.”

  Through a sheer curtain, Lily could see Hessian in earnest discussion with the evening’s pianist, a ducal son turned composer. The pianist had his lordship’s whole focus, as did any matter—or person—to whom Hessian gave his attention.

  Daisy, for example, and on a few precious occasions, Lily.

  She had never expected a fairy-tale future. Food, clothing, shelter, a measure of safety in exchange for hard, hard work had been her fondest dream. Then Walter Leggett had come along, making promises and threats, and more promises.

  “You are a sensible creature,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “So am I. We women must manage as best we can, and your uncle has nothing I want. You, however, do.”

  “I haven’t even pin money,” Lily said, “and I refuse to discuss this situation where anybody might overhear.”

  Another tap to her arm. “Such dignity. Your mother would have been proud of you. The more public the venue, the greater the privacy. You’d know that, if you had a tenth of your mama’s penchant for mischief. In any case, you have influence over Lord Grampion.”

  Lily’s mother would not be proud of her. Her mother would be endlessly ashamed, as Lily was ashamed.

  “Say what you have to say, then, and be done with it.”

  “Grampion has recently become guardian to my niece, a dear little creature by the name of Amy Marguerite. I want the rearing of her, and he’s being contrary. I respect his sense of duty, but that girl belongs with me.”

  Mrs. Braithwaite spoke like an ambitious horse trainer: I want that filly. She’ll fetch a pretty penny once she’s schooled over fences.

  Nothing about Roberta Braithwaite was remarkable, for London in spring abounded with pragmatic widows. Her eyes, though, struck Lily as her most honest feature. Calculation gleamed from their depths, and a coldness that would destroy a child like Daisy.

  Hessian had taken Mrs. Braithwaite’s measure better than he knew. “If you seek a role in your niece’s life, you should approach Grampion. He’s nothing if not reasonable.”

  Mrs. Braithwaite slapped her closed fan against her palm, like a testy headmaster with his birch rod.

  “I’ve tried to reason with Grampion, and he was nearly rude. I’m to await his consideration while the little imp gets her hooks deeper into his sense of honor. My sister was the same way—had an instinct for how to wrap a man around her finger.”

  Bitterness lurked in Mrs. Braithwaite’s words, perhaps the bitterness of a woman scorned.

  “I have no influence with his lordship,” Lily said. “He is a man of independent judgment.”

  Mrs. Braithwaite’s smile would have been well complemented by a forked tongue sampling the evening air.

  “Nonsense, Miss Ferguson. You are your mother’s daughter, and she never wanted for male attention. You curry the earl’s favor, grant him a few liberties, compromise him into marriage, and then insist he evict a troublesome child from your nursery before his heir arrives. I’ll be loyally standing by, ready to dote myself silly over the girl.”

  Th
e violinist, a willowy brunette with dark eyes and dramatic brows, had joined the conversation with Hessian and the pianist. She was a gorgeous woman, the daughter of some Italian count and an Englishwoman. Men had been giving her appreciative glances all evening, while Hessian, his profile to Lily, gave the violinist a respectful bow.

  Mrs. Braithwaite had an asset Lily lacked. Why hadn’t Mama bequeathed Lily even a dash of ruthlessness? A hint of a spine? Surely a woman who flouted convention so boldly could have passed on some courage to her daughter?

  “You want money.”

  “I need money, vulgar though the admission is. Grampion has money, his brother has even more money, and they can spare a bit for Amy Marguerite’s widowed aunt. In exchange, I’ll take adequate care of the girl, and Grampion can send her flowers on her birthday. Your task is to convince him that Amy Marguerite is better off with me, which she will be.”

  “And if I cannot convince him to surrender the girl to you?”

  Mrs. Braithwaite snapped open her fan again. The pattern painted on the panels was a knight serenading a damsel, thorny pink roses vining around the damsel’s stone tower.

  “Personal correspondence is so easy to mislay,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “Who knows what might happen to your mother’s old letters, or to your sister, should those letters fall into the wrong hands? Your sister is the by-blow of a man with a respected title, you know. Your mother let that much slip, though she didn’t name names. I have my suspicions, though.”

  And those suspicions would remain beyond Lily’s reach, unless Daisy took up residence with Mrs. Braithwaite. Mama had never mentioned who Lily’s papa might be, only that the law prevented a union between Lily’s parents.

  “I have no proof anything you say is true, Mrs. Braithwaite. Not a glimpse of a letter, not a shred of gossip ever to corroborate your wild stories. I very much doubt I would have gone my whole life with a younger sister about whom I know nothing.”

  She had gone her first five years without meeting Annie.