“Bother your reports! Dante needs you, the children will miss you, and I—”
Hector’s future hung on her next words, for never in his wildest imaginings had he envisioned that Margaret might object to his departure.
“And you?”
“I understand ambition,” she said, her back to him as she fussed with a small table tree adorned with red ribbons. “I have some myself, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m not like Rowena, though. Simply because I have ideas for how to better manage mills staffed almost entirely with females, that doesn’t mean the world owes me a mill.”
“I’d love—I’d like to hear your ideas, all of them.”
She turned, a small red bow in her fingers.
“Well, you won’t, because you’ve some fool notion that another employer will offer you greater opportunity for advancement than Dante will. My brother thinks the world of you, relies on you, and has taken great pains to bring you into every facet of the mill’s operations, when another employer would have never—”
The bow in her fingers came unraveled, or unraveled the rest of the way. Margaret flounced over to the desk and began opening drawers, one after another. She set the little ribbon aside and piled the usual accoutrements of correspondence on the desk—paper, penknife, ink, sand, documents, more documents.
“What are you looking for?”
“Needle and thread. This bow isn’t stitched like the others, and that’s why it has come unraveled.”
Hector moved closer to the desk, intent on knotting the dratted bow around a tree branch tightly enough to put the discussion back onto relevant topics. “I’ll see to it, but you can’t be rummaging about in—What’s that?”
“A bank draft,” Margaret said, apparently satisfied that needle and thread were not among the desk’s contents. She would have returned the documents to their original locations, but Hector swiped the bank draft, ribbons forgotten.
“This is made out to the company that insures the mills.”
“And quite a sum it is,” Margaret replied, tucking away everything she’d just found inside the desk. “I’m surprised Dante left it sitting about.”
“What’s today?” Hector’s voice sounded far away to his own ears, and pinched with dread.
“Boxing Day, December 26. It ought to be called Sore Head Day, given how quiet the menfolk are. For the children we could change the name to Naps and Bellyaches Day, but for me, Out of Patience Day might serve.”
As Margs nattered on, Hector stared at the bank draft, his entire future staring back at him, bleakly.
“We’ll send it by special messenger,” he muttered, “but it will be late by several days. As long as no losses occur during the lapse, the policy will likely be reinstated. I’m sure this happens all the time, the post being unreliable, holiday schedules upsetting everything.”
But this lapse, this failure to see funds where they needed to be, exactly when they needed to be there, was indicative of an unreliability nobody would tolerate in a business manager.
And Dante had reminded him to get the damned thing sent off.
“You needn’t tell Dante,” Margs said gently. “It’s one bank draft, Hector. You’ve seen a hundred of them safely on their way, and this one will be no different.”
Margaret was generous and kind, the two qualities Hector valued in her most. He was about to tell her as much when Balfour came striding into the library, followed by some rough-looking fellow Hector did not recognize.
“There you are. Miss Hartwell, good morning. MacMillan, this fellow has a telegram for your employer. Says it’s a business matter. In Hartwell’s absence, I thought to direct him to you rather than Lady Joan.”
“Telegram for you, sir,” the fellow said. He was a harried sort of man, tall, gaunt, weary. “I was told to see it delivered personal, and wait for a reply.”
“Open it,” Margaret said. “Dante would want you to open it, Hector. If it’s urgent, he won’t be able to tend to it until he’s concluded his business in Edinburgh.”
Hector took the telegram, knowing in his bones the news had to be bad.
And it could not have been worse.
He read the words, read them again, then passed the slip of paper to Balfour, who offered a short, dirty oath in Gaelic.
“There’s been a fire at one of the mills, Miss Hartwell, on Christmas Eve. The loss of the structure is complete. MacMillan, you’ll want to remove to Edinburgh immediately. If you hurry, you can intercept Lady Joan on her way back from the station.”
Margaret leaned heavily against Hector, who put his arms around her, as much to comfort himself as her, while the insurance payment lay on the desk directly under the wilted mistletoe.
Seventeen
Edinburgh observed the tradition of Boxing Day, when gifts were delivered to servants and tenants, and the better families received callers by the hour.
Dante took advantage of tradition and joined the polite throng in the Valmonte formal drawing room, declining a liveried footman’s offer of champagne, wassail, or rum punch.
“Mr. Hartwell,” Valmonte said, sauntering forward. His lordship was pink about the ears, suggesting his choice had been the rum punch, probably for most of the afternoon. “A pleasure and a surprise. Is your new wife with you?”
In spirit, she certainly was.
“I’ve been entrusted on her behalf to discuss some sketches with you, Valmonte.”
“Proper address would be ‘my lord,’ but in a display of holiday cheer, I shan’t quibble. Did you bring the sketches with you?”
Dante patted his battered traveling satchel when he wanted to backhand his bloody lordship into next year. “I have documents with me right here.”
“Some privacy is in order,” Valmonte replied—quick study that he was. “My personal office will do.”
Dante followed Valmonte past servants rushing in all directions, past a small parlor where an argument was in progress between Valmonte’s mother and uncle, into what looked more like a sitting room with an escritoire than any office Dante had seen.
“May I offer you a drink?” Valmonte asked.
He lifted a glass stopper from a cut crystal decanter, his every gesture imbued with languid grace.
Dante closed the door. “My mother’s people were Brodies. Do you know what their clan motto is?”
Valmonte poured a drink, apparently for himself, which was all to the good, for he’d need it.
“Alas, clan mottoes are not something I’ve studied at any length. I assume that’s the Brodie plaid you’re wearing?”
“My wife gave me this kilt for my Christmas present. She sewed every stitch herself, and it fits beautifully, though she took not a single measurement.” She’d tucked him into it that morning and pronounced it his lucky kilt.
Valmonte swirled his drink, his smile sly. “Very talented, our Joan.”
That knowing, coy smile and the equally offensive use of the plural possessive almost undid Dante’s self-restraint, but Joan had forbade him to do murder. As Valmonte lounged against a sideboard, the cost of which would have fed a Highland village for a year, Dante was grateful for Joan’s prohibition.
“The Clan Brodie motto is simple: ‘Unite.’ My wife’s brother reminded me of that, and you’re right about my Joan. She’s exceedingly clever, brilliant even, and she’s also brave and honorable.”
Two qualities Valmonte lacked. He must have sensed some point was being made, for he left off grinning at his drink.
Brandy, from the scent of it, not even a good Scottish whiskey.
“She sews well,” Valmonte said. “An accomplishment most women of her rank wouldn’t be caught dead admitting, but I consider Joan a dear friend and conclude she can’t help herself. Some people must gamble. Joan must stitch. You’ve brought me some sketches, Hartwell?”
No, Dante had not. He’d brought paperwork. A more astute businessman would have noted the difference.
“Joan is brave, honorable, and loyal to those she loves,” Dante
said, limiting himself to the most relevant of her virtues. “She hates you.”
And well she should. This parasite had had the gall to attend Joan’s wedding, to threaten her at her own wedding breakfast after taking shameful advantage of her, violating her trust, and exploiting her vulnerabilities.
“The creative souls are often at the mercy of their passions,” Valmonte said with a shrug. “You might remind Joan I said as much.”
He took a delicate sip of his drink, while down the corridor, the argument escalated, and Lady Valmonte ranted about her station having certain expectations a glorified clerk would know nothing about.
“You’ll forgive my mother,” Valmonte said, his lordly congeniality acquiring a forced quality. “The holidays are a strain on her.”
Dante appropriated the seat behind Valmonte’s elegant little escritoire. “Did your dear mama approach the holidays worrying about whether her ruin at the hands of a gentleman she trusted would become common knowledge?”
Valmonte did not set his drink down. He positioned it, carefully, on a black lacquered tray encircled by a green dragon.
“Dear me,” he drawled. “Has Joan embellished a tale of liberties stolen and virtue compromised? It wasn’t like that. A fellow of your humble origins can’t be expected to understand that your betters must be allowed their small lapses. We don’t take them seriously, and if Joan brought some experience to your union, well, then—”
“Shut up.”
The very novelty of being interrupted likely stopped the idiot’s yawping.
“You lured Joan to your home with an invitation to tea, supposedly from your mother. You further indicated that a discussion of dress designs would be the topic of choice, and thus Joan hurried here, sketchbook at the ready, eager for an enjoyable social call. You plied her with strong drink at least, took liberties no gentleman would have taken, and then threatened to expose Joan to ruin for having become your victim. I suggest you sit down.”
Dante pointed to the chair opposite the escritoire. In Valmonte’s first display of prudence, he took the indicated seat.
“Did you have to beat this confession from your new wife, Hartwell? Joan’s fairly bright. I cannot imagine she’d confide such a tale in you willingly. She should be—”
Dante’s hand shot across the desk and grabbed Valmonte by his fussy, old-fashioned cravat. “If you say my wife should be ashamed, they might be the last words you utter, you miserable pollution of the human race.”
More than Valmonte’s ears turned red. His entire face would have gone nicely with a cheery Royal Stewart plaid.
Dante thrust him back into his chair. “You and I will transact a wee bit of business.”
Valmonte fussed the lace at his throat, which, alas, no longer lay in such tidy, pristine folds. “I can have four footmen here in a minute flat, Hartwell. Joan behaved foolish—”
Dante flexed his fist, and Valmonte fell silent.
“I will geld you before you reach that bellpull, your lordship. A belated Christmas gift to my wife. And just as you made sure there were no witnesses to your violation of Joan’s trust, your accident with the fireplace poker will also go unwitnessed.”
Valmonte’s expression became considering—respectfully considering. “You should be angry with Joan. I assumed she’d kept her—our—indiscretion to herself, and you married her none the wiser.”
“You will cease making assumptions about my marriage, my wife, or what I knew when. This is a confession of rape.” Dante laid the document before an abruptly pale viscount, and set the engraved silver pen and ink stand by his skinny wrist.
“Why should I sign this?” His voice quavered, which was some gratification.
“Your mother’s debts exceed anything she can repay from her pin money. Your house of fashion is a house of debt. Your personal finances aren’t in terrible disarray yet, but if Lady Dorcas calls off the wedding, then you won’t have her settlements to keep your aristocratic ship of mismanagement afloat for another ten years.”
Valmonte was so assured of his place in life that his arrogance amounted to a sort of innocence. He was also taken by surprise and not entirely sober.
Dante felt no pity for him whatsoever.
“My friends and Joan’s family expect you to sign that confession, in exchange for a sum certain that will cover the Valmonte personal debts. That’s not a bad plan, but I’ve devised an alternative.”
Though he hadn’t discussed the specifics with anybody, including his wife. Still, Joan had to know a confession of rape could easily redound to the discredit of the victim, regardless of its uses against the perpetrator.
“Joan told her family?”
“Spathfoy and Quinworth hate you too, and Balfour called you a disgrace to your patrimony. His sister was more eloquent than that, but the one you’ll have to worry about is Lady Quinworth—assuming you don’t have an accident with the poker and the andirons before you leave this room. Oh, and Connor, Ian, and Gilgallon MacGregor bear watching too.”
A few beats of quiet went by, underscored by the happy murmur of holiday socializing from the front of the house.
“Give me the damned pen.”
“Na’ sae fast, laddie. What my family wants is important, but what Joan wants matters more. You own a house of fashion, such as it is. I’m prepared to buy it from you.”
Valmonte blinked, looking not like a proud viscount but like a slightly drunk man going prematurely bald, who knew his overindulgences would cost him more than a clear head.
“Listen, Hartwell. Maison du Mode, having aspirations in artistic directions, is the only means my family has to make money without offending the genteel strata of Society we occupy. I don’t expect one of your humble origins to comprehend the strictures a man in my position endures.”
Valmonte could make longer sentences when under the influence than Dante could when dead sober.
“A man of my humble origins understands that times have changed, Valmonte. You can’t keep your mama in furs and diamonds on the land rents alone, particularly not Scottish land rents. Sell me the business, and you can invest the proceeds to generate interest income.”
Valmonte picked up the pen, a little silver business that might have served equally well as a dagger, were the man clever enough to wield it. “Mama will kill me if I sell that place.”
While buying Valmonte’s business would mean a fat mortgage on the only mill Dante owned outright.
“Your mama will kill you? And when you cower before your mother’s tantrums, does Lady Dorcas find an example for how her marriage will go on?” Rather than ask that question, Dante might as well have swung the cast-iron poker at Valmonte’s balls, and because that was a cheering realization, he didn’t stop there.
“Bad enough that you watch your family’s fortunes drain away one ball gown, carriage, or gambling debt at a time, but what will your children have, Valmonte?”
“My sons will be gentlemen, my daughters, ladies.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
Any aspiration Dante had ever held to the status of gentleman drifted up the flue like so much ash. Gentlemen could be scoundrels, sneak thieves, seducers, and cowards.
How much better to be Lady Joan’s plain, simple, devoted husband.
“Sell me the business,” Dante said. “Joan might keep the name the same, though I won’t encourage that. Remove to Paris where everything is cheaper, rent out your properties to men of my humble origins, and invest what capital you have.”
Hector could have written entire memos for the idiot about that plan, the only one that held a prayer of rescuing Valmonte from penury before his children were grown.
“That advice is my holiday gift to you, Valmonte, but my patience is at an end. This is a contract of sale, and the amount is the same. You either admit you’re a rapist, or you give up a business you’re not running very well to begin with. Choose.”
“I’m not allowed to read them?”
“How much time did you g
ive Joan to gather her wits before you stole her sketches and her good name?” Moreover, Valmonte likely could not comprehend a business document if he were given all day to decipher it, and Dante wanted to breathe the fresh Scottish air sooner rather than later.
Valmonte peered at the contract of sale, which Dante had kept as simple as such an agreement could be. The confession, by contrast, was problematic, because Valmonte could later credibly claim he’d been forced to sign it under duress.
In which case, his lordship became the victim, not Joan.
Valmonte dipped the pen and pulled the contract for sale closer.
“Sign legibly,” Dante warned, “and all three copies. Send your uncle around to Balfour’s town house to vouch for your signature.”
For Dante had already signed the documents, and had stepped off the train long enough to pass a bottle of good whiskey to old MacDeever, and to have the man and his porter witness Dante’s signatures.
“What’s the third copy for?”
Valmonte didn’t sign the documents so much as he sketched an affectation of a signature, but did this man know nothing of business?
“I’ll store the third copy in my bank vault, where moth, rust, or fire cannot destroy it, nor thieves break in and steal it.”
Nor thieving viscounts pretend the contract had never existed.
Valmonte sat back when he’d decorated the third copy with his penmanship. “Now what?”
“Now I own a dress shop with airs above its station. You’ll have a bank draft within the week.” And Dante’s mill—Love Mill—would carry a substantial mortgage too.
His first, but well worth the debt.
“It’s a house of fashion,” Valmonte sniffed. “Worthy of any of its rivals in Paris or London.”
“I’d like the key to my house of fashion,” Dante said. “Now. And lest you think to clean out the cash box or make off with the inventory, the doors to the place are under surveillance by fellows I trust who are, alas, of humble origins. If you or any member of your family come on the premises, you will be politely escorted at all times.”
Valmonte replaced the pen in its stand, his expression perplexed. “I can’t think like you do. You’re not a gentleman, and I’d never steal—”
What A Lady Needs For Christmas Page 30
