“I keep captain’s hours and hoped to catch you alone.”
The curtains, drawn against a raw, grey day, left the room dim in firelight, so Nick motioned to Blakeley to open the drapes. Leaving the sheers closed, the butler tied back the burgundy velvet covering the French doors to the terrace overlooking the garden.
Huntleigh took a deep breath and the lines on his face twisted in distress, enough to make Nick ponder whether he were in physical or emotional pain, or both. When he saw the man lean more heavily on his walking stick, Nick gestured him to a seat.
Huntleigh offered Nick a brief look of gratitude, quickly swallowed by profound anxiety, and slowly lowered himself onto the claret-colored horsehair sofa, stretching his bad leg before him. “It is of grave concern, Sir.”
“Wellbridge. Please. May I offer you coffee or tea? I find brandy or ale in the morning makes me sluggish, but if you would prefer…?”
“Thank you, coffee would be most welcome if it is no trouble, although we may both require brandy before I am finished.” This did not bode well from the abstemious Lord Huntleigh.
Blakeley prepared and served coffee, with Huntleigh making much of the ivory coffee pot Nick had acquired in Burma and the cups from Canton. When Nick admitted he had imported the coffee from South America, they were quickly caught up in discussion of trade crops, but it did not take long for the placeholder topic to be exhausted. Nick dismissed Blakeley and closed the doors behind him.
“Care to explain what might require brandy in the morning?” he asked, as he traversed the reddish-brown Persian carpet.
Huntleigh breathed deeply again, and screwed up his face in an even more alarming manner. Surely his heart must be failing, Nick thought, wondering if he should have someone call for a physician.
“I must beg your forgiveness for the discomfort of the topic at hand, as I am compelled by deep affection for my wife.”
Nick stiffened and stopped halfway across the room. He had assumed he could be called out for his behavior—that was not unusual—but the earl had a reasonable, courteous tone in his voice. Perhaps he didn’t really know anything.
“What has your wife to do with me, Lord Huntleigh?” Nick asked casually, taking a position across from his caller in his favorite armchair. He leaned back into the red leather upholstery, swirling a dish in his hand to cool the hot coffee, admitting nothing by word or deed.
Beneath Lord Huntleigh’s fixed stare, however, he found himself squirming.
“It seems you have developed an affection for my Bella. A tendre, perhaps?”
Nick stayed silent, shoulders tensed, stomach in a froth. He hoped, quite sincerely, this had not become a problem in her lap. If he were shot at dawn, it would only be what he deserved, but reprisals for Bel—Lady Huntleigh—were another question entirely.
Huntleigh shifted slightly in his chair, screwing up his face against a twinge that visibly tensed his thigh. “I will not live much longer.”
He twisted to find a more comfortable position for his bad leg, so Nick located his late brother’s gout stool in a corner of the room and set it down before his guest, who carefully used both hands to drape his leg over the tufted cushion.
“My thanks, Wellbridge. It is Hell getting old. If it weren’t for the alternative, I’d suggest you never do it.” Huntleigh was more relaxed with his leg now more comfortable, but with troubles still drifting across his face.
“I have perhaps half a year, Lord willing,” Huntleigh continued, “but not much more. Of course, we can never know the hour of our demise, but mine approaches.”
“I am certain Lady Huntleigh will be devastated.”
“Perhaps. Though perchance not as a wife for a husband. You and I are men of the world, Wellbridge. We have seen deep passion, and my marriage is no example, although I confess tremendous fondness.”
Nick had to admit, he instinctively preferred Huntleigh acting fatherly toward Bella than in the role of jealous spouse, though fathers were far more difficult to bamboozle than husbands. It was just so distasteful imagining him lecherous.
The fire popped and spat, so Nick rose to add coal and stir the flames. It was uncanny how much Huntleigh reminded him of his father’s father. He remembered his grandfather banning both Northope boys from this room when David was eight and Nick was only four, after David’s dog came in behind them and piddled in the corner, no more than three feet from where Huntleigh was now seated. The look on Huntleigh’s face was exactly the same as the late duke’s had been during belated discussion about taking responsibility for one’s pets—part angry, part resigned, and part frustrated that little boys weren’t yet adults.
“Bella is half my age,” Huntleigh continued. “There is only so much we will ever have in common. She feels tenderness for a man who treats her kindly, gratitude for me showing her the world, sadness at my deteriorating condition.”
“I’m sure she—”
“Please do not patronize me, Wellbridge. I did not enter into my marriage seeking romance, was fortunate to find an abiding friendship, and that is enough for me. Bella has been a remarkable wife, better than I deserved.”
Nick chuckled, “I’m sure the king reminds you so daily.”
“In fact, I do my best to remind him. It is my hope his regard will make her life that much easier when I am gone.”
Nick sipped his coffee, listening to the ticking of the long-case clock in the corner, making no claim to knowledge of the king’s plans for Bella. He was quite certain there were none to romance her, as he had delicately broached that subject. At least he had thought he was delicate, until Prinny said slyly, “No, Wellbridge, she is witty, of course—always interesting things to say—but far too ugly for me. Since you only bed hideous-looking women, you can have her when Humdrum is finished—if you cannot accomplish the deed before then.”
“The regard of royalty is fickle,” Nick observed.
“Which brings us neatly to the subject at hand.”
“Yes?”
Huntleigh’s silence sat like wet toweling between them. Finally, he started, “In not so very long, thanks to His Majesty’s beneficence and my own business acumen, I will leave a gentle wife too clever for her own good, with a title that sits uneasy on her, at the mercy of every fortune hunter in Europe. I would be happy to see her future settled before such time as she may need the protection of another man.”
Nick nearly spit out his coffee, and managed to slosh a considerable portion onto the knee of his pantaloons. “You are trying to marry off your wife?” Huntleigh passed him a handkerchief, but Nick had already snatched a table napkin from the tea cart.
“In a manner of speaking,” Huntleigh said, sitting back into the cushions and adjusting his seat again, tugging pointedly at his immaculate waistcoat, while Nick swabbed at the coffee, hardly able keep his manners.
Nick sopped up the thankfully cooled spill, annoyed to find an additional stain on his new coat. “She will not thank you for that.”
“I am aware and intend it anyway. She was saddled with an old man while still a girl, and I find it engenders guilt in me now. The next time she marries, I will do my part to ensure it is for love and will protect her interests as her father should have done.”
Nick sat back, sliding his chair away infinitesimally. Knee twitching, he forcefully quelled the urge to tap his heel against the carpet and stopped his fingers drumming against his thumb. Each and every perfect model ship his brother had ever built caught his attention one after the other, dozens to distract him, some in shadow boxes, some in niches; a spectacular three-mast clipper ship sailed under glass on the marble mantelpiece above the columned fireplace.
Huntleigh’s eyes grew sharper, and after one quick glimpse, Nick avoided his stare by studying the curios.
“I am old enough to be Bella’s father—and old enough to have played cards with yours—so you may consider this a fatherly request to clarify your intentions and define the precepts for your courtship, should you be con
sidering such a pursuit.”
Nick coughed and sat forward, shaking his head, not quite sure if his ears were failing him. “You are defining the precepts for my courtship of your wife?”
“I am doing my best. As lovely as my Bella is to me, I know her appearance is not quite the fashion. I find it unlikely many men will display your sort of enthusiasm, unless they are feigning for love of her fortune, which you are not.”
Nick repeated, “I’m sure I haven’t—”
“You needn’t deny your attraction, Sir, nor hers. I am not the only person who has seen it. The king himself has noticed.”
Nick felt himself blushing, possibly for the first time in his adult life, so he played for time, forcefully demanding, “If we are to continue in this vein, Huntleigh, I absolutely insist you call me Wellbridge.”
Huntleigh nodded. “I also know, Wellbridge, you have no need of her inheritance from me, and can be counted on to manage it for her benefit. I expect it will not be difficult to arrange a proper settlement.”
Nick coughed again, then said, weakly, “Should it come to that, I’m sure it will not be difficult.”
He stood and walked to his desk, which allowed him to face away to collect himself, if it were even possible. He wished he had taken up snuff when he was younger, or pipe-smoking, or cheroots, or some other vice that might provide a distraction. He wished he had gone to Ireland as soon as he had received the correspondence from his agent. He wished it weren’t half-nine in the morning, so he could have a glass of brandy.
“Would you care for a glass of brandy, Huntleigh?”
Huntleigh’s laugh was very nearly a wheeze. “No, Wellbridge, none for me, but you may wish to drink mine, too.”
Nick nodded and strode to the decanters as though he had a purpose. The Irish crystal decanter pinged against the matching tumbler, both probably made near Rathemore. He poured a short drink with a trembling hand while Huntleigh continued the most ridiculous line of reasoning Nick had ever heard.
“As I believe romantic love requisite for her happiness, your salacious intentions alone are not sufficient to my purpose.”
Nick swallowed the brandy and poured another, not so short this time, managing to leave half in the glass after a very large gulp.
“I hope very much she will not confuse love with… baser emotions. If your purpose is only seduction, I will remove her from London while it is still in my power.”
Nick finished the drink. “She would prefer to leave.”
He sat down at his desk, across the room from his guest, and placed the brandy carafe and his glass within reach. He took some care as he slowly poured another, knowing he might need to pace his intake to make it through the rest of this interview.
“As this will be the first and last time my opinions are solicited in Parliament, I will be here at least until the close of The Lords. I can insist she go now, and she will comply under protest, but if I send her away, she will spend her days anxious and fretful for my well-being. After half a lifetime of it, I do not wish to cause her any further distress.”
Nick sipped the drink in a much more courteous manner. “She loves you more than you think, Huntleigh. Your matchmaking will turn your wife shrewish.”
“I will take that risk.”
“I know Lady Huntleigh well enough to appreciate it is a very big risk.”
“I know her well enough to make the judgment, Wellbridge, and you do not,” he snapped. “I will thank you to allow me the benefit of my fifteen years’ experience with her when I make decisions on her behalf, which it may never be your right to do. Before such a possibility is even placed within reach, I have further conditions which may sway your decision.”
Nick took up the crystal glass and waved it toward Huntleigh, “Pray tell.”
“I will not countenance you taking liberties with Bella while I am alive.”
Nick swilled the second half of the drink and took the stopper out of the decanter, dropping it on the desktop without regard for chipping the crystal or staining the wood. As he poured another and sat back, he apologized, “Forgive me, Huntleigh, I am not at all known for being foxed before noon, but today may become an exception.”
“Quite right. Drink up, young man. This discussion will be worse before it is better. As I was saying, inappropriate behavior on your part may bring scandal down upon my Bella that even the king’s favor cannot overcome. London is difficult enough for her without that. Further, I will certainly not beget an heir at this late stage of my life and would prefer not to give my name to your by-blow. Frankly, that should be your preference too.”
“I’m not in the habit of fathering bastard children.”
“One need not be in the habit, but your word will be sufficient to set my mind at ease on that score. If you act the gentleman until I am gone, I am willing to quietly stand aside in your favor as you woo my wife between now and my demise.”
Nick stared interminably at a tall stack of books yet to be catalogued by his part-time librarian. Once he had determined Bella’s taste in literature, he had gone on something of a spree, buying up scores of recent novels and poetry to ensure topics of conversation guaranteed to keep her interest.
“I am certain there must be opium in this brandy. Or this is a fever dream.” As though to test the theory, he held up the glass and stared into it a few moments, then tossed back the lot and dropped the tumbler onto the leather desktop.
Huntleigh just looked at him with raised eyebrows and a half-smile.
“You wish me to seduce your wife, but remain chaste until we are married. As though she were one of the debutantes my sister is dangling.”
“That’s right.”
“Unless I hoped to marry, there would be little value for me in such a plan.”
“That is true,” Huntleigh agreed, right hand tugging at his ear.
Nick refilled his glass again, slowly placing the stopper back in the carafe. “My sister is the one who would like me leg-shackled, not I. I cannily avoided that deathbed promise to my mother.”
Huntleigh sipped his coffee, then leaned forward to pour another cup. “I have heard.”
Nick took a small sip of the brandy, reminding himself to moderate his consumption so he wouldn’t end up six sheets to the wind. Then he took another. And another. Until half the glass was gone.
He realized the liquor in the carafe might not last through the entirety of the conversation, so he crossed, slowly and carefully, to the cabinet where Blakeley kept the extra supply. Behind a Joseph Légaré oil painting of angels hailing Noah and the Flood, he found a case of good French cognac, already bottled for his convenience.
As he set the carboy on the desk, he asked, purely out of curiosity: “How might such an arrangement work?”
For the first time since he had walked into the room, Huntleigh’s face began to relax. He rolled his shoulders and shifted in his chair to stretch his leg.
“You and I shall suddenly develop a deep friendship. I will provide you exclusive business opportunities. You will propose me for membership at Brooks’s. We will be seen gaming and dining together, co-sponsor legislation, and so forth. I will give you such access to my home as appropriate for a close associate. You may become acquainted with Bella under chaperone, in part by me, until such time as it is appropriate for you to pay her formal addresses.”
Nick remained standing, sipping his brandy, staring into the tumbler of liquor that matched the cherry wood furniture, watching the red flames in the fireplace flicker through the amber pool.
Nick said nothing. Huntleigh said nothing.
Behind the secretary desk where he had been working, a bay window overlooked the back garden. Nick opened the curtains to the sunshine, remembering his grandmother, then his mother, ensconcing themselves in the window seat, mending his grandfather’s, then father’s, shirts while the men tended to business.
The columns framing the window were Grecian to reflect his grandfather’s preference for Greek philoso
phers over Roman. The tapestry hanging upstairs behind his grandfather’s desk, showing the siege of Troy, had been stitched by his grandmother, in deference to her husband’s inclination. Nick stared blankly into the garden, wondering when the hyacinths had bloomed.
“Does such a plan fit your intentions?”
As he turned back, Nick considered whether it might be time to get rid of the awful rococo furniture his mother had installed. He wouldn’t mind replacing it with something much simpler, sturdy rather than stately, perhaps even modern. He could have something plain knocked together on one of his estates or another, or he might consider an American cabinetmaker.
Perhaps he should saddle Blakeley with the task. Or put aside consideration of furniture until he had a wife to see to the details.
“I do not know my intentions.”
“Do not know or will not say?” Huntleigh asked.
“I do not know.”
At the suddenly vicious tone, Huntleigh poured himself more coffee, surely now cold, and sat back, obviously giving Nick room to explain himself.
“I am many things, Lord Huntleigh, but not a liar.”
Nick’s hands clasped behind his back and he turned to gaze out of the window again. “You know my reputation—everyone knows—but you may not be aware it is half mythos.”
“Which half?” Huntleigh asked quietly.
Nick spat, “The half that says I set out to ruin women, which has never occurred at my hand.” As he turned back toward his suddenly unwelcome guest, he felt like a vulture going on the attack. “My relationships are mutual, genuine, and circumspect, not based on misrepresentation or deceit.”
Huntleigh nodded. “Other than the husband.”
Nick downed another mouthful of brandy. “Other than that. But most often, my arrangements are with women whose spouses are unconcerned about… polite indiscretions. Gads! I play cards with some of the gentlemen in question. I am a duke, Lord Huntleigh; nothing short of murder would make me unwelcome at Almack’s. I am well aware the ladies of my acquaintance do not have the same luxury.”
Royal Regard Page 16
