Lord Iverbrook's Heir

by Carola Dunn

  “Joshua? Yes. Apropos, what sort of man is this Crowe of yours?”

  “Old Crowe? Starchy as a dowager duchess, but he ain't let me land in the Marshalsea yet. His clerks are well fed, I’d say.”

  “Good. You shall introduce us. I’d not willingly subject anyone to Hubble. Stap me, the fellow had the gall to haul me over the coals because I freed my slaves! And this business with the Whitton woman . . . Wait a bit, I knew I’d heard the name before!”

  “I should rather think so, since your brother married one!”

  “No, no. Sir Aubrey Whitton, that’s it. A counter-coxcomb living on the fringes of society in Kingston. A remittance man, I believe, who came into the title quite recently.”

  “Black sheep of the family, eh?”

  “Could be. Or possibly no connexion at all. Now, will you go with me to see Mr. Crowe tomorrow, while Dimbury takes Joshua to a snyder?”

  After the magnificent meal he had just consumed, Mr. Hastings felt it would be discourteous in the extreme to refuse.

  “By all means,” he murmured agreeably.

  Dimbury was not so easily persuaded. At the outset of his career, Dimbury had decided that forty was the correct age for a gentleman’s gentleman. For twenty-five years now his appearance had matched that belief. He held equally strong views on all other matters pertaining to his chosen profession, the duties of which, he felt, included neither consorting with ex-slaves nor procuring raiment for articled clerks.

  Mr. Hastings prevailed. Mr. Hastings usually prevailed, for he was the sort of master of whom an ambitious valet dreamed. Exquisite taste, sunny temper, never a hair out of place, and entrée to all the haunts of the ton where his servant’s handiwork might best be appreciated.

  The next day Dimbury took Joshua shopping.

  “An eloquent young man, sir,” he reported that evening, easing off his master’s boots with gloved hands. “I believe Mr. Joshua will be an excellent attorney. He told me some very shocking tales of his life as a slave.”

  “Don’t want to hear ‘em! And if you turn political on me I’ll wear the pink and green muffler Aunt Mabel knitted me! I’ve heard nothing else from Hugh all day.”

  “Lord Iverbrook has always been subject to sudden enthusiasms, sir,” soothed Dimbury, paling at the thought of the muffler.

  “Yes, but he always does what he says he’s going to do, and I daresay he'll abolish slavery if it takes him twenty years, you mark my words!”

  * * * *

  Two days later, his business in London completed, Lord Iverbrook set out for Iver Place. His curricle had been hurriedly refurbished since his return to England, but the matched pair of greys had been out at grass for nearly two years. They trotted out of the mews with ponderous dignity.

  “Sluggards!” commented the manservant perched behind his lordship. “Take ‘em easy now, m’lord. When I fetched ‘em up to town after I carried that letter to her la’ship, they was puffing like a grampus afore we’d gone ten mile.”

  “Regular exercise will soon bring them into condition. They were once sweet goers! I look to you to take them out every day, Tom.”

  “Yes, m’lord. We’ll soon have ‘em in prime twig again.”

  Thomas Arbuckle, a stocky man with grizzled hair, was not precisely a groom. Nor would Dimbury have recognised his claim to be a valet, far less a gentleman’s gentleman. He made no such claim, describing himself as “his lordship’s man.” He kept the viscount’s clothes in order, drove his horses, ran errands, and had willingly followed him to the Indies in spite of turning green at the sight of the sea.

  “Jamaica’s pretty enough, but there ain’t nowt to beat a bit of old England,” he said as they left the city behind them.

  The road was in good condition after a week of sunshine and they had scarce twenty miles to go. In spite of letting the horses make their own pace, it was not yet noon when the carriage turned in between the brick gateposts of Iver Place.

  To either side of the well-kept gravel drive purple heather bloomed, scattered with clumps of oak and silver birch. This land would grow no grain, nor even pasture for cattle, though there were short stretches of wiry grass where a few sheep grazed, raising their heads to watch the curricle go by. The only hint of the source of Lord Iverbrook’s wealth was a faint, nose-wrinkling aroma, borne by the breeze.

  The trees grew closer and soon they were in a wood of mixed oak and beech. The dappled air was full now of grunts and squeals, and the odour was growing stronger.

  “Devil take those pigs,” muttered his lordship, nostrils twitching.

  A small boy with a stick urged a large sow off the drive as they approached. He stood watching them pass, openmouthed, then whistled shrilly and shouted: “‘Tis my lord come home!”

  Half a dozen barefooted boys appeared, accompanied by twice as many equally curious swine. Finding the fuss was unrelated to food, the pigs trotted back to their foraging among the acorns and beechmast, while the viscount dug in his pocket for a few sixpences.

  The boys raced to open the gate at the end of the wood, and grinned shyly as he distributed the silver coins. “Thank ‘ee, sir,” said one, bolder than the rest, and breaking into giggles they scattered among the trees.

  Lord Iverbrook gazed down the hillside at the home of his ancestors. Iver Place was a long, low house built in the local brick and flint style. A singularly ugly example, his lordship thought, not for the first time. Succeeding generations had added wings here, courtyards there, until strangers needed a map to find their way from bedchamber to parlour, and food invariably arrived cold after travelling the endless corridors from kitchen to dining room. Hugh and Gil, as small boys, had had their games of hide-and-seek frustrated by too many hiding places. The seeker generally gave up in despair.

  The small park was neatly mowed, and the house had an air of peace and prosperity. As his lethargic team drew the curricle up to the front entrance, the viscount noted a pair of topiary pigs among the lions and peacocks carved by careful hands from the yews in the shrubbery. He sniffed the air. Nothing but the green smell of new-cut grass reached his nose. At least his stepfather had had the sense to build his breeding yards downwind of the house and out of sight.

  Tom jumped down from his perch. He ran up the brick steps and tugged on the huge brass bellpull, then went to the horses’ heads.

  The butler who swung open the door had aged visibly during Iverbrook’s long absence, but his gaze was as steely as ever. His “Welcome home, my lord,” held no hint of warmth.

  “Hello, Prynn,” said the viscount, then found himself explaining his arrival on his own estate. “My mother’s expecting me, I believe.”

  “Her ladyship has been awaiting your arrival for some hours, my lord. Her ladyship is not, at present, as robust as one might wish.”

  Lord Iverbrook at once felt guilty for being late, though his letter had not specified any particular hour, and for not having yet enquired after Lady Lavinia’s health. “Is she in her boudoir?” he asked. “I’ll go to her right away.”

  “Yes, my lord. Surely your lordship does not intend to appear in her ladyship’s presence in your driving apparel?”

  “Certainly not. Have I not already given you my gloves and my hat?”

  Before the servant could respond with more than a shocked look, the angry viscount strode across the cavernous hall and took the stairs two at a time.

  Several hundred feet of draughty passages and stairs, hung with insignificant portraits of insignificant forebears, cooled his temper. By the time he tapped on his mother’s door, he was once again calm and resolved upon his course of action.

  The door opened immediately and into the lifeless air of the corridor wafted a potpourri of heavy scents. A gaunt, grey-haired female, at least as tall as he, confronted him with an accusing glare.

  “You needn’t knock loud enough to wake the dead! Poor Lady Lavinia, not a wink of sleep all night, aching head all morning, and now her own son has no more compassion than to
come battering down the door!”

  He had forgotten his mother’s companion.

  “Hugh?” came a weak voice from the dimly lit room behind the gorgon. “Is it indeed you, my darling boy? My head is quite better, Agnes. Pray draw the curtains back so that I can see my darling boy.”

  Hugh crossed the room, fell to one knee beside his mother’s couch, and kissed her hand and powder-perfumed cheek. As daylight entered, he saw that she was dressed in a flowing, mist grey robe, with a tiny wisp of a lace cap adding to her appearance of fragility.

  “Still pretty as a picture, Mama,” he said. “How are you?”

  She clung to his hand. “You have been gone so long, Hugh. And I am never well when you are gone, I fear. I have been quite worried about you. It was very naughty in you not to write more often.”

  The old, familiar impatience rose in Hugh but he swallowed his retort. “I beg your pardon. I was very busy but I should have found the time. Now I’m home, though, I have a great deal to talk about with you.”

  “Oh, Hugh, I do hope you are not going to be dreary. If you tell me again that I must live in the Dower House, you know it will bring on a Spasm. Agnes, my vinaigrette!”

  “Yes, I know,” said the viscount grimly, moving aside as Miss Sneed bore down upon him waving a cut-glass vial. The pungent aroma made him cough.

  “Just to drive past that place gives me the vapours,” announced Lady Lavinia, revivified. “Your poor Aunt Fanny died there of a consumption and your sainted Papa vowed I should never have to live there. The house is damp. And say what you will, I cannot think of Ffinch House as home.”

  “I have not asked you to remove to either the Dower House or my stepfather’s residence, Mama. I wish to discuss your grandson.”

  “My grandson? Oh yes, dear little Peter. Such a sweet baby.”

  “I am glad you are fond of him, because as he is my heir, I intend to bring him to live at Iver Hall.”

  “What! A horrid, noisy little boy at Iver Hall? Agnes, I feel a Palpitation! Pray bring me a little hartshorn. You cannot be so heartless, Hugh. Consider my poor nerves!”

  “Lady Lavinia, calm yourself, I beg of you. Lord Iverbrook is certainly speaking in jest. No one in your delicate state of health can be expected to take responsibility for a small child. Why, I daresay it would be the death of you!”

  Hugh tried to ignore the interruption. “I shall hire nannies and nursemaids and governesses and whatever else you consider necessary, and I shall come down often from London to see him, of course. But the child is my heir and will be brought up at Iver Place whether you are present or not, Mama.”

  Lady Lavinia produced a feeble shriek and fell back against her pillows, eyes closed.

  “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth . . ." intoned Miss Sneed, casting a glance of condemnation at her mistress’s “thankless child” as she seized the vinaigrette.

  Lord Iverbrook beat a hasty retreat. He had been on the receiving end of that particular quotation more times than he could number, and had once even read through the whole of King Lear to find out just how he compared with that monarch’s ungrateful daughters. Since he had so far resisted the temptation to turn his mother out of doors, he felt that to class him with Goneril and Regan was unjust.

  He went in search of his stepfather.

  Mr. Ffinch-Smythe was leaning on the gate of his favourite sow’s pen. “What-ho, Iverbrook!” he shouted, sighting the viscount. “Come and look at Primrose!”

  His lordship picked his way through the mud and looked over the fence. A huge black pig with white feet and a white star on her forehead stared back at him, then turned around to present her curly tail.

  “She looks very healthy, sir,” he commented cautiously.

  “Aye, she’s a beauty.” Mr. Ffinch-Smythe was a short, spare gentleman. The tie-wig he wore in defiance of modern fashion lent him the air of a courtier, an impression completely at odds with his boundless enthusiasm for pigs. “See the piglets? I bred her to a Tamworth boar this time. Tamworths have lots of lean on them, fatten slowly, while Berkshires like Primrose mature early. It’ll be interesting to see what the offspring are like, what?”

  “Very interesting, sir. Speaking of offspring, I’m going to be bringing my brother’s child to Iver in a few days. He’s my heir, after all, and ought to be living here.”

  “Right you are. Last time I crossed her with a White Yorkshire.” One of the piglets started squealing and the others quickly joined in. Mr. Ffinch-Smythe raised his voice a trifle. “Great success it was. Eighteen of 'em and all doing well. If they breed true, I’m thinking of calling them Windsors, in compliment to the King.”

  George III might be known affectionately to his subjects as Farmer George, but it seemed a strange compliment to the crazy old man. He was presently confined at Windsor Castle, not six miles distant, while his son celebrated his recent appointment as Regent. The viscount opened his mouth to argue, caught himself in time, and returned to his own current obsession.

  “M’mother won’t hear of it.”

  “She won’t? Can’t think why she should object. Not as if I was going to call them after her, though it does have a ring to it: Lady Lavinia’s Own Breed, what?”

  “Not the pigs, my nephew.”

  “You want to call them after your nevvie? ‘Pon my soul, can’t even remember the lad’s name!”

  “My mother objects to my plans for bringing my nephew here,” said his lordship loudly and clearly. “She kicked up the devil of a dust when I mentioned it.”

  “We can’t have that,” his stepfather frowned. “I’ll tell you what, Iverbrook, you went about it the wrong way. It never does to go mentioning plans to Lady Lavinia. Upsets her. Gives her Spasms and such.”

  “It did.”

  “What you have to do is present her with a Fate Accumplee. That’s French for no use crying over spilt milk. I went on the Grand Tour in my youth, you know, before this upstart Napoleon made it impossible, and I must say the French have some excellent pigs. Italians too. Neapolitans and such. I wonder . . .”

  “So you think I should just bring the boy here, without saying any more about it?”

  “Let her think you’ve forgotten about it. And be sure to wear knee breeches to dinner! Wish it was as easy to bring hogs from Naples, but with Boney’s brother-in-law on the throne I daresay it ain't to be thought of."

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Thank you, I’ll take your advice.”

  “Knee breeches always put her in a good mood, you mark my words. Primrose don’t set any such store by fashion, do you, old girl?”

  Primrose honked a reply, and Lord Iverbrook left them to commune with each other in peace.

  He had been wondering how to announce to Miss Whitton that he was about to remove her charge from her care. Best, he now decided, to swoop down and carry the boy off before she had time to be cast into high fidgets. He would request the honour of an interview with her on Monday afternoon, take the child to an inn in Abingdon for the night, and be back at Iver on Tuesday. Then, duty fulfilled, off to Brighton with the luscious Amabel.

  A spring in his step, Lord Iverbrook strode back to the house and called for pen and paper.

  Chapter 3

  “I can read a new word,” announced Peter at breakfast. The morning sun, pouring through wide open windows, gilded his hair; he looked positively cherubic.

  “Clever boy! What word is that?” asked his aunt Selena with a smile.

  “Anise. I know what the rest of the label says too. It says ‘For Flatulence’. That means it stops you belching, doesn't it, Grandmama?”

  Lady Whitton looked up guiltily from the finger of toast she was dipping in her comfrey tea. “Yes, Peterkin, but not to be mentioned at table, pray!”

  “Mama, can you not teach him to read from his primer, or the catechism?” Selena demanded, frowning.

  “I spend a good deal of time in the stillroom at this season, dearest,” said her mother apologetically. “And Peter doe
s so like to help me. But I agree, he must bring his book with him in future.”

  “I do not like my primer,” the child declared. “It has dull words. When I grow up I’m going to write all Grandmama's labels for her.”

  “You are excessively peevish today, Selena,” observed the fourth member of the family, slathering a muffin with butter.

  Selena sighed. “You’re right, Dee.” For the hundredth time she wondered how her younger sister managed to look so delicately romantic even while munching a muffin. Delia’s long, straight, ash blond hair was smooth as silk, and her dark brows and lashes over blue eyes added piquancy to her dreamy face. Selena's equally flaxen hair was a mop of curls, and while her lashes were dark enough to be visible, her eyebrows were so fair she might as well have had none. Add a figure like a beanpole and the freckles inevitable to her outdoor life, she thought, and it was just as well she had no romantic inclinations.

  Sighing again, she pushed her chair back and stood up, tall and slender in her faded blue riding habit.

  “I’m sorry I was snappish, Mama. Of course it will not harm Peterkin to learn the names of your herbs, though you must admit he does come out with the most disconcerting prescriptions! I am a little worried about the weather. The wind is in the west, and clouds are building up in that direction though you cannot see them from here. I had hoped to start cutting the barley today.”

  “Can I come with you, Aunt Sena?” clamoured Peter. “I’m ever so good at barley. You said so when I was four, ‘member?”

  Selena smiled, and her hazel eyes twinkled. "You should be even better now you are five. Let us make a bargain, then. You will study your book with Nurse this morning, and this afternoon I’ll take you harvesting.”

  “We have to shake hands to make a bargain,” said the child solemnly. “Timmy Russell says so. Please, Grandmama, may I get down? I have to shake hands with Aunt Sena.”