Floyd straightened his expensive lace cuffs. “And what of your, ah, daughter? Will she like living out on the streets? Rest assured, I shall not support another man’s bastard. Or did you think to offer for Miss Haney, inviting her to take up residence in that sty you call home?”
“Leave Miss Haney’s name out of this, damn it, and climb back under your rock, Floyd. Or else accept my offer to name your seconds, if you have any acquaintances you call friend.”
Floyd merely chuckled and strolled off, making Gregory rue the hasty words that were all too revealing about his feelings. Floyd was sure to make Claire the subject of more gossip now, damn him. And damn his fancifed lace-edged shirtsleeves, too.
With dragging feet, Gregory climbed to the nursery wing, to explain to Hannah why he was leaving. She seemed to understand about debts and honor and obligations and selling one’s prized possessions. She could not understand why she must stay behind.
“Because Belle Towers is a hard ride away and half shut up, with leaking roofs and smoking fireplaces. You will be much happier here with Miss Haney and the duchess and the other children. There will be a lot of wonderful surprises, too.”
“But I have a surprise for you.”
A pen wipe, he’d wager. “And I shall look forward to having it, on my return.” They both knew he might not return at all.
“But, Papa,” she said, “it is Christmas.”
The tears in those blue eyes—eyes the same color as his—were like a knife to Gregory’s innards, twisting. “Don’t you cry,” he ordered, to cover his own misery. “You always knew our holiday could not last. It was make-believe, a pretty story like the ones Miss Maudine told. I never was your father, and never can be. If I were going to have a little girl, I would wish for an angel just like you. But I cannot take care of you now, poppet. Miss Haney can, for the time being. Maybe someday…” He offered false hope, and they both knew it.
Hannah offered him her doll.
Gregory could feel his nose growing stuffy, and it wasn’t even cold in the nursery. Valentina was Hannah’s inseparable treasure, her beloved, the only reminder of the mother she never had, yet she would part with the doll, for him.
“I cannot take your Valentina,” he said, embracing them both, being careful not to crush either of them. “She will be happier here, too. But know that I am not abandoning you, Hannah, either of you. I will always make sure you are safe, and that you will never have to go back to a place like Miss Chiswell’s, no matter what I have to sell or do. You will always be in my heart, just as your mother wrote, as I hope to be in yours.”
Chapter Eight
What a day for offers.
Claire heard that the viscount was leaving for his own derelict property the next morning, fully expecting to lose what was left of his patrimony. He had not yet lost his pride, according to her godfather, who admired Lord Bryson for turning down his loan and for not pursuing another heiress. “The chap is a fool,” Ravencroft told her, “but a noble fool for all that.
He’d make some female a deuced fine husband,” the duke hinted, “except that his honor will not let him ask a gentlewoman to share his penury, of course.”
Of course.
Claire had pride, too. She knew her worth, knew her value in the Marriage Mart, knew she could have half a dozen marriage proposals before Christmas Eve. None would be the one she wanted, however. None would be the only offer she would accept, the only one, she feared, that she could ever accept. Claire vowed to remain a spinster, despite her sister-in-law’s machinations, rather than wed where her heart could not follow. She’d have Hannah, at least, if not a child of her own.
Was pride going to brighten her days or warm her nights, though? Was pride going to be her closest companion for the rest of her days? Heavens, was she going to let Viscount Bryson walk out of her life without so much as trying for one of Cousin Maudine’s happy endings?
On the other hand, did she dare? Claire’s mouth went dry and her skin felt clammy at the thought of what she had to do. Her sister-in-law would have palpitations if she knew. Handbury would lock Claire in her room, no matter how much he loved her. No decent woman was so forward, no lady so demeaned herself. Why, it was practically begging to importune a man who showed no interest.
Gregory did show interest, Claire reminded herself, so she was not a total ninnyhammer hanging a welcome sign on her air castles. He sought her out and stayed by her side whenever he could. He laughed with her and shared his thoughts. He knew where every sprig of mistletoe was hung and made use of each, but only with Claire—and the duchess once. He never went beyond the bounds of polite conventions, but even those company kisses hinted at deeper passions, Claire knew. He felt the same spark she did when their lips met, no matter how briefly. He was interested, all right, but was that enough to counter the man’s wretched sense of honor?
Most of all, Claire did not know if she could stand the mortification if Gregory laughed at her proposition or made light of it—or if she could stand watching him leave without her. She practiced her words all afternoon, knowing he would come to her sooner or later.
*
Gregory had one more farewell to make, one more leave to take, one more soul-rending, gut-wrenching good-bye. He’d sooner cut off his arm. That might be less painful than parting from Claire.
“I suppose you have heard by now that I am leaving in the morning.”
Claire had brought her courage to the sticking point. Unfortunately, it was sticking her tongue to the top of her mouth. She could only nod.
“I spoke to the duke. His Grace has, ah, graciously agreed to stand as guardian to Hannah until I, that is, if I…” Gregory was having trouble of his own, trying to form the right words.
“My lord, Gregory, I—”
“I know you offered to keep her, but as soon as you are out of mourning, you will take up the social rounds once more, eventually forming a family of your own. You will make a wonderful mother, but I think Hannah will do better without being uprooted again and again. If you could look in on her when you can, while you are here, I would be more than grateful.”
“I would like to do more than that. I—”
Gregory had to interrupt again. If he did not say the words now, he might never get another chance. “She adores you, you know. Thinks you are top of the trees, in fact. We both do. You are the finest young lady of my experience. Because of that, I cannot, must not, let you sacrifice your future for us.”
“But that is what I have been trying to say. I wish to share my future with—”
“Claire! There you are, impossible girl.” Lady Handbury rushed into the room, nearly shoving the viscount aside as she stepped between him and her sister-in-law. Or between Claire and social ruin, as she saw it. Warned by her maid, she had hurried through her toilette, leaving one curl paper still tucked in her hair. Now she wrapped her fingers around Claire’s wrist like an owl clutching its supper mouse, and started tugging her toward the stairs. “The dressing bell rang long ago, and your maid is frantic. I want you to look particularly fetching tonight, for the Ravencrofts’ neighbor joins us for dinner and cards. Lord Amblemere is a baron, as rich as Croesus”—she raised her voice lest Gregory missed a syllable or the warning—“who needs a mother for his three adorable children. Or is it four? No matter. Come along, do. I had your maid lay out that lavender silk with the ecru lace. With your mother’s pearls”—which Lady Handbury felt ought to have come to her, as the heir’s bride—“you are sure to catch his eye, even if you do insist on holding to half mourning. What with the holidays, I truly believe you could go to colors, but I will say no more on that head. Oh, and good day to you, Lord Bryson.”
Looking over her shoulder as she was chivied from the room, Claire did manage to say that she would speak to his lordship again after dinner.
Not if Lady Handbury could help it, she would not.
Before the gentlemen could join the ladies, Claire’s sister-in-law volunteered her to play the pi
anoforte for the company, and made sure Lord Amblemere reached her first, to turn the pages. When they divided up for cards, Claire found herself partnered by the same worthy but dull gentleman, or the very young Sir Nigel, or the married Mr. Macomber. All too soon the tea tray was brought in, after which the duchess decided to retire for the night, forcing the other ladies to seek their chambers also. Claire could not remain with the gentlemen, nor lurk in the corridors waiting for the viscount to go to bed, so she asked to be awakened at dawn, to make certain she saw him at breakfast. She doubted she would fall asleep, anyway.
Once the ladies had departed, the stakes at the card tables were raised. Gregory found himself playing in elevated company, too: Ravencroft, Lord Handbury, Lady Susannah’s father Earl Blakenthorpe, that neighboring baron Amble-something, and, unfortunately, his cousin Floyd, who was winning, as usual. They all had deeper pockets than Gregory—hell, the butler had deeper pockets—and were more frequent players. The company and the stakes were too rich for Gregory’s taste or purse, but at the duke’s urging, he stayed on until the end of another hand, which he won. And the next. He had the suspicion, after the ordinarily canny Ravencroft made a blunder, and Lord Handbury mis-played his hand on the following deal, that the two gentlemen were letting him win. He appreciated their kindness, but could not accept charity. He tossed down his cards and collected his winnings. Floyd had a bigger pile of coins and pound notes in front of him, but the other players claimed they wanted a chance to recoup their losses.
“I am sorry, gentlemen, but I am not a dedicated gambler, and I need to make an early start in the morning.” He started to tuck his winnings into his pockets. “But your coins will go to good use.” They were not enough, he estimated, even with his bank savings, to make the January payment for Belle Towers, unless he found a Rembrandt in the attics or a Shakespeare folio in the library.
“One more hand ought to go further,” the duke urged.
“Unless you have not got the stomach to try,” Floyd taunted. He tossed back the lace at his cuffs to bring a glass of brandy to his smirking lips.
“I have the stomach, but not when my tenants’ children’s are empty. When a gambler cannot afford to lose, he should not play.”
“Hear, hear,” Blakenthorpe commended, raising his own glass. “Fellow’s got a good head on his shoulders. Too bad about m’daughter. Still, are we here to play or to spout philosophy? Whose deal is it?”
It was Lord Handbury’s, who passed the cards after exchanging a look of chagrin with Ravencroft. They’d tried to help Claire’s beau.
Gregory sat, watching the play while he finished his drink, for he did not have much to pack, after all. The stakes went higher yet, and so did Floyd’s pile of winnings. The viscount could not stand to see his cousin victorious, so he stood to leave. When he did, a few coins slipped from his pocket to the floor. If they were at White’s or one of the other gentlemen’s clubs in London, tradition would have left the money on the floor, for the major domo and his staff. Gregory was certain the duke’s butler was amply paid, though, and those were sovereigns shining on the carpet, not shillings. He bent to pick up the fallen coins while Floyd dealt the next hand.
Under the table, something else shone besides the coins, a flash of white amid the sea of dark-colored pant legs. It seemed that Gregory was not the only member of the Bellington clan who was not a gambler, because Floyd was not taking chances on this night’s card game, either, not with three white cards in his lap. The dirty-dish cousin was cheating, and likely had been all night, if not forever. With a roar of outrage, Gregory tipped the whole table away, sending cards and coins and drinks and the duke flying to the floor.
“What the devil?”
The others shouted, then they looked where Gregory was pointing.
“They fell when the madman overturned the table,” Floyd cried, leaping to his feet. Unfortunately for his alibi, another ace fell out of the lace at his wrists.
At first the other gentlemen were dumbfounded, then they were furious. Floyd Bellington would never turn another female’s head when they were finished with him. Her stomach, perhaps, but no father would let the cad get that close. Floyd was finished. He would not be allowed into the clubs or welcomed in polite society—if the duke and his friends did not see him clapped in prison. Instead, they dragged him into the estate office at the back of the house.
To save Gregory the ignominy of having a swindler for a relative, they gave Floyd the gentleman’s option: a closed door and a loaded pistol. Why anyone would think that a confirmed cardsharp would take the honorable course was a mystery. Floyd took the pistol, along with two silver candlesticks and the duke’s petty cash. Then he took to his heels, out the window.
“It is better this way,” the baron said when they realized what had happened. Amblemere was the local magistrate and ought to know. “No gunshots to explain, no dead bodies in the middle of the night. No inquiries.”
“And no stains on my carpet,” the duke agreed. “We’ve seen the last of the dastard, anyway, without the public scandal. He’ll never show his face in England again.”
They all drank to that happy outcome, from the tray Ravencroft’s butler brought. The man also carried in a Sevres bowl filled with money, collected from the card room floor.
“Duece take it, we’ll never straighten out the accounting,” Lady Susannah’s father grumbled.
The duke had the perfect solution. “I say we give the pot to young Bryson.”
“Me?” Gregory protested. “But I had already taken my own winnings.”
“Nonsense, we’d have lost the blunt anyway, if not for you,” Lord Handbury was quick to say.
His Grace added: “Think of it as a reward for ridding Ravencroft of vermin. I’m sure half the gentlemen in London will second my gratitude. Asides, you’ll need it to take care of the mawworm’s mother. She won’t be able to hold her head up in Bath, you know. Too many servants know what happened here tonight, too many other guests will hear about it with their morning chocolate. My duchess will never let me hear the end of it if I leave her friend Elvira without support. No, you’ll need the blunt for that Belle Towers of yours, to make it comfortable for the old dear.” He lowered his voice and said, “Else I’ll be stuck with her here.”
“And you saved me from considering that felon as a future son-in-law,” the earl said. “It’s worth the cost, to have one less fortune hunter on Susannah’s trail.”
“And we can give out that Bellington lost his fortune to you, so left the country. It won’t be believed in every quarter, but enough.” Lord Handbury raised his glass in salute to the duke. “It will serve, Bryson. So swallow your brandy, and swallow your damned pride.”
Chapter Nine
“My aunt wishes to leave Ravencroft,” Gregory told Claire the following morning. “I suppose you heard why?” At Claire’s nod he continued: “So I have decided to delay my departure by a day, and to take Hannah along. My circumstances have changed, for the better, thank goodness, except for the new blot on the family escutcheon. I was wondering if there was any chance, that is, if you would not mind, although Christmas is nearly here and you would most likely rather be with your own family— Dash it, Claire, will you come along with us? The place is a mess, and I do not know if I can keep it longer than the next quarter day, but I would value your opinion, your woman’s touch. That is, to see if it might be made respectable, someday, if you think it might be suitable. Someday.” He pulled at the knot of his too-tight neckcloth. “Unless you think you could not, or worry that people might see your visit as something you do not wish them to see, which it is not, until you see the place for yourself. Thunderation, I am saying it all wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Deuce take it, I know I sound like a blithering idiot, and I have been practicing all morning.” He took a deep breath and started over. “What I wish to say is—”
“Yes.”
“—that I would be honored if you joined my family at Bell
e Towers because it is Christmas, and I would like to share it with you. Share them. Hannah and Aunt Elvira and Belle Towers and Christmas.”
“Yes, dear sir. I have said it three times. Shall I say it again? I would be pleased to accept your invitation. And I am half packed, because Hannah invited me this morning as soon as she heard she was to go along.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Luckily there was a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the doorway, so Gregory had an excuse to kiss Claire. He had an excuse for the first kiss, anyway.
*
The Bellington family seat was in worse condition than when Gregory had left it after the summer. Houses and gardens and driveways all deteriorated without attention or money for repairs, and Belle Towers had had little of either in decades. Now the place seemed abandoned, with vines covering boarded windows and goats doing the only grass cutting. Still, when Hannah got down from the carriage, she declared it just right. Not too big, so a person did not have to worry about getting lost, like at Ravencroft. Not too small, like the rooms in London, which could have fit in the entry hall here. Not too fussy, with the valuable pieces sold long ago. Not too plain, especially with the tall rounded towers at each corner that made the place appear enchanted.
“It is perfect, just like home,” she said.
Gregory was watching for Claire’s reaction as she took in the dilapidated structure, half afraid she would refuse to step inside. “I know it needs work,” he started to say. Lud, anyone could see that. And if the house was bad, the barns and stables, the outbuildings and the tenants’ cottages were ten times worse. He would not have lied to Claire, even if her own eyes were not telling her the truth. She was used to Handbury House and Ravencroft, not a ramshackle residence for rats and bats and down-at-heels aristocrats. She smiled. “It will be perfect. Just like home.” Three days later, Gregory was not so sure. He’d hired servants from the village to assist the Hapgoods, the old couple he’d left as caretakers, so more of the rooms were livable every day. Deliveries kept arriving of the coal and candles he’d ordered there, too. The kitchen was well stocked, and Mrs. Hapgood proved a good cook who specialized in pastries, it seemed, to Hannah’s delight. Now they were comfortable, if exhausted. Claire had taken over the female staff, directing the maids and working right alongside them with the soap and beeswax. Aunt Elvira mended sheets and curtains and chair cushions. Gregory toiled with the men, clearing vines, repairing the roof, shoring up the old stable’s walls so the pair of workhorses were sheltered from the cold. And he visited his tenants and rode the farms and studied the ledgers.
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