by Bliss Bennet
Haviland laughed, waving a hand about the room. “And so you find the English solicitor in his dusty native milieu. A far cry from the ballrooms and gaming hells of London, I’ll wager. But not all gentlemen are suited to a life of leisure, no matter how much my father wishes it were so.”
Theo grimaced in sympathy. “Yes, I had the pleasure of a call from Sir John earlier today. Not so happy with your choice of profession, is he?”
“Do not think too hard of him, my lord. I have proven to be a disappointment to his greatest hopes.”
Ah, yes. Haviland still had the habit of apologizing for the gaucheries and unkindnesses of his father. Well, Theo would not argue with him, no matter how irksome he found Sir John’s behavior himself.
“And what do you mean by all this ‘my lording’?” Theo exclaimed, throwing a light punch at Haviland’s shoulder. “Surely such old friends need not be such high sticklers, especially not in private. Why not come and dine with me? I want to hear all about this plan your father and the rector are hatching to do away with the Oldfield village feast.”
Mather glanced back at the piles of foolscap littering his desk, his brow wrinkling. “You’re very kind, Theo, but I’ve still so much to do. Revising these tenant agreements for Mr. Paulus, and the new will for old man Wilson—”
“Wilson’s making yet another will?” Theo interrupted. “Hasn’t he run out of nephews or cousins by now? Who is he to leave his fortune to this time, his favorite pig?”
“Oh, he doesn’t let a lack of relations stop him. As soon as one displeases him, he takes up another, forgetting the offenses that made him cut the fellow out before.”
“Well, whatever the identity of the lucky gentleman, both he and Mr. Wilson can wait a few more hours. Even a solicitor must eat.”
Haviland smiled tiredly. “But first, he must earn the coin to pay for his meal.”
“Yes. But if he can eat and earn simultaneously, all the better.” Theo set an arm around Haviland’s shoulders and guided him toward the door. “For I, too, have a matter of business I wish to discuss. And wouldn’t it be pleasant if such a discussion took place over a tankard of ale?”
Haviland stared back at the piles of paper on his desk, then shook his head. “Why is it I can never say no to you, Theo? Even when I know I’ll regret it in the morning?” He snatched up his coat before Theo could push him out the door.
“Because your days would be far too tedious without someone to shake a little life into you every once in a while. Now tell me, which tavern has the better cook, The Lion or The Arms?”
Theo leaned back in his chair, basking in the hum of human life suffusing the Red Lion Tavern. The pub was small, but did a thriving business, drawing not only Market Rasen’s professional men and artisans, but the farmers and laborers who had come in from the surrounding countryside to attend the town’s weekly Tuesday market. Many had stopped at their table to pay their respects to Haviland with a tip of the hat or a brief chat about the weather or predictions about the yield of this year’s crops.
Some had even recognized Theo before being introduced, though he’d seldom been able to give them the same courtesy; he’d never been good at recalling what names went with what faces unless he came up with some alliterative association to jog his memory. Farmer Franklin with the furrowed forehead and Tavernkeep Tabard with his tufted brows would be easy to recall, but he’d have to be a little more imaginative with some of the others if he intended to remain in Lincolnshire much longer.
He couldn’t remember any such friendly interactions between Saybrook’s neighbors and his father. But then the late Lord Saybrook had rarely taken the time from his political doings to visit his own holdings, let alone take in a meal in a local pub.
Father hadn’t realized what he was missing.
“I think it a wise choice to bring in an outside auditor,” Haviland said, breaking in on Theo’s contentment. He waited for the tavern maid to clear away their empty plates before adding, “No matter how trustworthy your employee, small errors will creep in. If you can catch them early, then they won’t have a chance to grow out of hand.”
“So you think it could be just a matter of a few simple accounting errors? Even with an amount as large as four thousand pounds?”
Haviland frowned. “I am having difficulty believing Mr. Atherton could overlook such an immense sum. But is the alternative any more likely? That a man who has served your family with such loyalty for years has suddenly taken to thievery?”
Theo shook his head.
“He will probably regard such an audit as a mark against his honor rather than the standard business practice it is fast becoming. Unless you’ve already broached the subject with him?”
“No, I haven’t. He seems a bit testier than I remembered.”
Haviland grimaced. “Yes, the last few times I’ve seen him he’s been far more irascible than usual. You’d think having one’s own daughter back under one’s roof would make a man happier, but it seems only to be irritating the poor fellow. Although how a young lady as helpful and kind as Miss Atherton could be an annoyance to anybody is beyond my understanding.”
“I was surprised to discover he no longer keeps a clerk.” Theo lifted his tankard in the direction of the barkeep, gesturing for another round. “I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t some such fellow about the office, attending to the paperwork. Atherton always did prefer to be out and about on the land.”
“His last one left him about a year before his daughter’s return to Lincolnshire.” Haviland shook off the serving girl when she would have topped up his barely-touched tankard. “I understand she aids her father by transcribing for him on occasion. But a lady, even one of Miss Atherton’s intelligence, should never be tasked with writing up the accounts for an entire estate. Particularly an estate with multiple holdings such as Saybrook’s.”
Could Miss Atherton, rather than her father, be the one responsible for the missing money? If she had involved herself with the actual accounting, rather than just transcribing what her father had written, she might have introduced serious errors.
Theo had a hard time imagining it. So intelligent, she was, she fairly glowed with it. But intelligence did not always go hand in hand with upright behavior. Had she perhaps fallen into debt during her time in Brighton? Debt she thought to repay by siphoning off monies from his family’s accounts?
Or was he just wishing her at fault to make himself feel better about his own shabby treatment of her, all those years ago?
The only way to find out would be to spend more time in her company. Not a difficult chore, by any means.
“Do you know of any men who might suit Mr. Atherton as clerk?” he asked, pulling his thoughts from Harriot Atherton.
“I’ve suggested several to him, but he refuses to speak with any of them. I’ve wondered if perhaps he does not like the idea of having a young man about, with such a lovely daughter once again at home.”
Smiling, Theo reached over and gave his friend a light punch on the arm. “Lovely daughter, eh? Nursing thoughts of taking the chit on for yourself, are you, old boy?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to support a wife at this time,” Haviland said, blinking behind his glasses. “Perhaps in a year or two, once my practice has become more established. And if my father becomes reconciled to my working in a profession that can bring no glory to the Mather name.”
Haviland’s words and tone made light of his father’s disapproval, but the tight lines about his eyes and mouth told a far different story.
“No glory to the name? What, do you think the constant stream of visitors to our table tonight was due only to my handsome fizzog?” Theo rested his chin on two hands, highlighting the face in question.
Playing the buffoon elicited not the expected laugh, though, only a diffident shrug. Not the time for clowning, then.
Theo leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “I heard the respect in their voices, the gratitude in th
eir eyes, Havvy. You are making a real difference in this town. And once word of it reaches your father’s ears, he’ll come round. I’m certain of it.”
Haviland snorted. “Not if he hears you calling me by that odious nickname. He loathes it almost as much as I do.”
“Sir Haviland, then. Because with all this love thy neighbor work in which you’re engaged, knighthood cannot be far behind. ”
Yes, that made Haviland laugh. Theo had always been a bit jealous of his friend, not only for the ease with which he’d mastered mathematics, but for how Sir John spoke with such pride of him, vaunting his son’s accomplishments to everyone and anyone he encountered. But Sir John was only a knight, with no aristocratic title to pass down to his son. And despite his intellectual superiority, Haviland the adult clearly lacked the financial and social standing Theo took for granted.
Theo raised his tankard and knocked it against Haviland’s in a toast to his friend’s prospects. “And then an engagement to the lady of your choice, all in due course.”
Only a cur would begrudge a friend his tendre for Miss Atherton.
Theo took a deep draught from his newly refilled tankard to hide the unease he could not quite keep from his face at the thought. Though whether it was unease at his friend tying himself to a possible thief, or of the lively Miss Atherton married at all, he could not rightly say.
“And what of your own marital expectations?” Haviland asked. “Now that Miss Sibilla has wed a baronet, and Kit a—?”
“Ah, do you imagine all the ladies of the ton swooning at my feet now I’ve come into my title?” Theo lounged back in his seat with an air of carelessness he was far from feeling. If the news had not yet reached Lincolnshire that his youngest brother had taken up with a lowborn Irish radical, a former courtesan no less, and that Theo’s bungled attempt to put an end to it had only brought them closer together, well, he’d not be the one to announce it.
“And would my imagination be correct? Can’t quite picture it myself, you swanning about with the ladies at a town ball. A courtly quadrille, when you could never even remember the steps to a simple country dance?”
“Even if London’s ladies were swooning, I’d not be swooping up any of them, believe me. Two weddings is quite enough for any family in a single year.” Especially when Kit’s brought no dowry, and his sister’s demanded an outlay of funds.
Theo hefted his tankard. “Another?”
But instead of raising his own, Haviland reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a silver pocket watch. “Heavens, that can’t be the time. I really must get back to my office and finish drafting that will.”
Theo stretched with lazy ease. “What? Come now, it’s not so very late.”
“Don’t tempt me, you devil. I’m a working man, now, remember?”
“Yes, and I’ve hired you to work for me.”
Haviland laughed. “To work, Theo, not to get cup-shot and raise hell in good Mr. Tabard’s tavern. Come, now, before you’re too beastly drunk to make your way back home without getting lost.”
Theo grunted as he threw a few coins upon the table. Enough to cover their shot, he hoped. “Proper kill-joy, that’s what you’ve become, Mr. Haviland solicitor Mather. Best watch out, or only the dourest young ladies will agree to grant you a set at The Raisin’s next assembly.”
Haviland picked through the coins, returning several to Theo’s pocket. “With unmarried, careless-of-his-coin Viscount Saybrook in the room? No, all the ladies’ eyes will be on you.”
Haviland strode over and threw open the tavern door, then swept a playful arm before him.
Theo joined the game, mincing his way across the tavern’s threshold with as much hauteur as a queen leaving court.
Behind him, Haviland burst into laughter.
Damn, how good it felt, setting the zephyr of his humor to blow a friend out of the doldrums. And to know said friend would be using all the intelligence in that clever brain of his to hunt down his sister’s missing dowry.
CHAPTER SIX
“Miss Atherton,” a low, friendly voice called from behind Harry on the path to Oldfield Village. “Might you take pity on a solitary pedestrian and provide him company during his perambulations?”
She paused on the top of the stile she had been climbing to glance over her shoulder. Theo Pennington, his beaver hat gleaming in the summer sun, strode up to her and reached out a hand, poised to help her down.
She fought against the smile that rose without her willing at the sight of his engaging grin. It was simply not fair for a thoughtless, irresponsible man to be graced with such an attractive, inviting countenance. Or perhaps the two qualities went hand in hand—his handsome face and lively air leading all he met to be satisfied by the outer shell and not care if the inner core was not sound.
But Harry knew better. To spend four days on one’s estate without once inquiring into the health of one’s tenants, or the state of their housing or fields or livestock! Her father insisted proper deference always be shown to an employer. But if she were Saybrook’s steward, she would find a way to point out his shortcomings as a landlord, no matter his rank or station. Or how winsome his smile.
But perhaps showing him the consequences of ignoring his responsibilities might be even more effective?
“Lord Saybrook. How kind of you. I am on my way to Oldfield, and would welcome your company if you do not mind my making a few stops first.”
“I am at your service, my lady.”
She set her hand in his, only to snatch it back at the shock of naked skin against her own. Why had she taken off her gloves and stuffed them in her reticule for the walk? In Brighton, one never went outside without one’s hands carefully encased in cotton or silk, no matter the temperature. But since returning to Lincolnshire, she’d often granted herself this one small indulgence, the heat of the sun on a palm, the rasp of a leaf or a petal against a fingertip. But Great Aunt Lucretia had been right when she insisted one never knew who one might encounter, even in the loneliest of landscapes.
“What a pity you’ve lost your glove,” her companion noted, the innocence of his tone belying the mischief in his eyes. “Would you like to borrow one of mine?”
“I did not lose mine,” she said as she yanked her own pair from her reticule. “Did you yours?”
The last time she had touched a man’s bare hand, it had been—
No. She would not think of it, or of him. Another charming, careless man, just like the one beside her.
“Oh, I have mine both here,” he answered, grinning as he patted his pocket. “I am so rarely in the countryside though, that when I am, I cannot resist the temptation to reach out and touch everything about me without impediment. Is it that way with you, too?”
Of course he was an entirely sensual creature. She ignored his impertinent question, and his outstretched hand, jumping down from the stile without assistance. Stepping purposefully down the path, she pulled her hands tight behind her back and clasped her now-gloved fingers together. She would use that sensuality against him, force him not only to see, but to smell and hear and touch the deplorable conditions of own his tenants’ cottages. She would start with Mrs. Hawley’s, only a few minutes walk down the lane.
“Tell me about your life in Brighton,” her companion demanded before she had the chance to mention their intended destination. “After I finish my business here, I might toddle down to the seaside. It’s been years since I’ve visited, but you, you were a witness as Mr. Nash transformed Prinny’s modest villa into the Royal Pavilion. All opulence and luxury, the expense be hanged.”
“The Prince’s liberality certainly provided work for the local tradesmen and laborers of the area. And for the shopkeepers and other businesses in the town.”
“Many in London were not happy with the Prince’s Brighton extravagances, though.”
“But without his patronage, Brighton would still be a backward, impoverished fishing village. Do you not think other landowners would do well to f
ollow his example?” she hinted. “Invest in the local economy, rather than spend so profligately in far-off London?”
“Oh, Prinny is as spendthrift in the capital as he is at the seaside. But his example may do more harm in Brighton than in London, I fear. Do not many of that city’s residents attempt to ape his extravagant ways, and end up spending beyond their means?” He turned questioning eyes on her. “Even a young lady as level-headed as yourself might find herself in financial straits if attempting to follow such a profligate example.”
“Happily for me, longing for finery and fripperies has never been amongst my besetting sins.”
He flitted his fingers across the grass lining the edge of the road, bending the tall stems then releasing them to bounce back into place. “No? You were never tempted by Brighton’s dazzling array of shops? One might amass quite an account at the Royal Bazaar, or the New Steyne, and become veritably sunk in debt before one even knew the extent of it.”
“If one were of a self-indulgent, lavishing nature, perhaps,” she answered, frowning. Was this his way of hinting at a financial difficulty of his own? “My aunt far preferred spending her mornings at the lending library than at any of the bazaars.”
“I have heard one might do more than read at some of Brighton’s libraries. Gaming with dice and wagering on cards and the like. Did you ever partake?”
Harry stopped in her tracks, her hands on her hips. “If that is the type of pleasure you seek, my lord, I would not recommend you frequent my aunt’s preferred institution. One is hardly likely to fall in with gamesters at Whittemore’s Religious, Moral, and Entertaining Library.”
Rather than take offense at her set-down, Theo Pennington burst out laughing. And, oh, merciful heavens, what a delicious laugh he had! Deep and loud, replete with promise of joys she could only too easily imagine.
“Can you picture it?” he asked. “A poor knight of the elbow, stumbling amongst the upright and pious readers of yon library, searching in vain for a single fellow with whom he might indulge? And being handed all manner of improving tracts for his trouble? I could almost wish myself a gamester if it would guarantee me a peep at such a ludicrous sight.”
