‘I’d like a bath after I’ve eaten, if you would arrange that. I’ll be better able to ascertain how much assistance I’ll require then. Oh—and if you please, ask that housekeeper for some linen bandages. I’ve a wound I’ll have to rebind.’
‘Very good, sir,’ the footman said, depositing the tray in front of him. ‘I’ll go see about your bath. By the by, there’s a chest by the fireplace and a note sent by your sister, Lady Greaves.’
Greaves? He did not even know which of his sisters had married into that name.
After being gone so long from England, his time spent at hard labour in a job for which he’d had no preparation or training, the idea that he was part of a family beyond the wooden walls of the Illustrious seemed disorienting. Not that he’d paid a good deal of attention to his closest kin before his involuntary removal from British soil. A frisson of guilt passed through him. Truth be told, he’d seldom troubled himself to think at all about the family that had pampered and sheltered him for the first sixteen years of his life, before his father and sisters departed for India, leaving him at Cambridge. He’d contacted Papa only when he needed him to call upon his Army contacts to arrange Greville’s service with the commissariat during the Waterloo campaign. And afterwards, wanting for some sort of position to support himself, he’d solicited his cousin the marquess’s help in providing one.
He shifted uncomfortably. He still had much to atone for in rectifying how that latter situation had turned out.
‘Let me have the letter before you go,’ he told the footman. ‘I’ll deal with the trunk later.’
After passing him the folded missive, the footman bowed himself out of the room. Greville’s growling stomach reminded him it had been many hours since he’d last eaten—he had only a dim memory of wolfing down some sort of stew sent up the night of his arrival. He put the letter aside, content to wait to discover which of his sisters was the mysterious ‘Lady Greaves’ until after he’d taken the edge off his hunger.
As he removed the cover from the plate, the wonderful odour of eggs, bacon, beef, potatoes, ham and kippers wafted up, along with the sharp aroma of hot coffee and the pungent tang of ale. Inhaling with rapture, he abandoned himself to the pleasure of consuming the first full hot meal he’d had since leaving England eight months ago.
The food tasted better than any breakfast he could remember. Of course, after months at sea on a diet that consisted mostly of hardtack, boiled beef and an occasional plum duff, it wouldn’t take much for Lord Bronning’s cook to impress him.
A short time later, his happy stomach replete, Greville broke the seal on the note and, still sipping the delicious ambrosia of hot coffee, rapidly scanned it.
The signature, ‘Joanna’, indicated his benefactress must be his widowed elder sister, who had obviously remarried. He vaguely recalled that she’d sent him word of her first husband’s death just after he’d taken over as manager at Blenhem Hill. Greville scanned his memory, but could not place any gentleman with the family name ‘Greaves’. Still, by adding ‘Lady’ to her name this time—more dignity than had been due her after wedding a mere younger son from the prominent Merrill family—she must have married well.
She might even rank higher now than some of the former in-laws who had snubbed her. Greville hoped so.
If Papa and the rest of the family were still in India—and he had no reason to suppose they had returned—it must have been Joanna who’d pieced together the mystery of his disappearance, then entreated his exalted cousin Lord Englemere to search for him.
Having dismissed Greville from the job he’d solicited as estate manager at Blenhem Hill for incompetence and embezzlement—the first charge deserved, the second not—Englemere himself was unlikely to have been concerned about, or even aware of, Greville’s precipitous and unwilling departure from England.
That Englemere had intervened, he was certain. Only a man with the influence and the prestige of a marquess, one who had the ear of the Admiralty board, could have effected his transfer, for the commanding officer of the Illustrious had categorically refused such a request.
He wondered how Joanna—assuming it was Jo—had discovered his abduction. The note didn’t say and his sister indicating only her relief that he was safely back in England, her hope that he would find the trunk of clothes she’d sent useful.
He felt another pang; absorbed in his own interests, it had never occurred to him to use the close acquaintances with young gentlemen of the nobility, acquired during his university days among them, to try to smooth his sister’s way with her first husband’s family. He was touched, and humbled, that though he’d been oblivious to her plight, she had learned about and concerned herself with his.
It would be good to visit her, he decided, a curious sense of anticipation stirring at the thought. Maybe the new Greville would learn to value family as his sister obviously did—even such a curmudgeon black sheep as himself.
He was distracted from his musings by a scratch at the door, which opened to reveal Luke and two other footmen hefting a large copper tub. They deposited it before the hearth, several others following in their wake to fill it with bucketfuls of hot water.
Greville eyed the steam rising from the tub with as much anticipation as if a naked mermaid might emerge from the mists.
Well, maybe not quite that much. Still, anxious as he was to redress that lack in his life and much as the spirit was willing, his still-feeble body probably would make better use of the hot water minus a hot-blooded, willing wench.
‘Does you need help climbing in, sir?’ Luke asked.
‘I think I can manage. Is there someone who could trim my hair and beard after?’
‘I’m a dab hand at that, sir,’ Luke replied. ‘I reckon I could help you.’
Greville smiled to himself. Lord Bronning undoubtedly possessed a valet, but such an elevated gentleman’s gentleman would probably disdain to offer his services to as unprepossessing a specimen as Greville had appeared when he’d limped over the threshold at Ashton Grove.
After a moment spent wondering what his own valet had thought months ago, when he failed to meet the man at their lodgings in London as arranged upon leaving Blenhem Hill, Greville said, ‘Thank you, Luke. I’ll ring for you when I’m ready.’
The footmen dismissed, Greville climbed carefully out of the bed, shed the nightshirt into which someone had thoughtfully changed him the night of his arrival, unwound the binding at his chest and eased himself into the steaming water. Leaning his head back against the rim, he sighed in ecstasy.
For long delicious minutes he let his mind simply drift, finally returning to conscious thought with the resolution that never again would he go through life oblivious to the simple delights of hot water and nourishing food. After living for months at the brute edge of existence, he would savour every moment of comfort.
And every delight, he thought, bringing back to mind the lovely but disapproving face of his host’s daughter.
The one pleasure he had probably missed most during his involuntary sojourn at sea was the company of women. Tall, short, slim, rounded, coy, sweet, even sharp-tongued, he appreciated them all. Though he prized most, of course, the deep euphoria of the ultimate intimate embrace, he also enjoyed the simple pleasure of feminine company.
Even with a talkative miss who was chattering her teeth off, Greville could tune out the soft voice and observe instead the rise and fall of a bosom animated by a lively discourse. Caress with his gaze the lady’s smooth skin, sparkling eyes and plump, kissable lips. Trace with his eyes the enticing curve of breast and hip. Breathe in her unique womanly scent.
Was Miss Neville a chatterer? he wondered, grinning at the notion. Somehow, he didn’t think so. No, Lady Bronning had greeted him in the hall—so Miss Neville must be her father’s hostess and chatelaine of his household. That would explain the proprietary, managing air he’d sensed during his one quick glimpse of her.
My, how perspicacious he’d become during the last
eight months, he thought with rueful humour. Transitioning abruptly from being served to the one doing the serving—with swift and severe penalties for unsatisfactory performance—taught a man with amazing speed how to discern how much authority an individual possessed.
How much more pleasant to employ that new skill in contemplating a lady! Especially a female as lovely as Miss Neville, Greville thought, running the image of her through his mind again.
So slender and petite was she, the golden curls of her coiffure would probably fit just under his chin. He could readily imagine pulling her close, filling his nostrils with the sweet fragrance of warm woman and floral perfume. Smoothing one hand around that enticing round of derrière while cupping the plump weight of a breast in the other
His palms itched with longing and his long-quiescent member rose stiffly in water, reminding him with a surge of urgency exactly how long he’d been without a woman.
Pleased as he was at this evidence that his body was finally recovering, still it would be best not to let his thoughts drift in this direction. Though in the past he’d not been above seducing a willing miss, this particular miss was gently born and his host’s daughter to boot. He didn’t debauch innocents.
Well, not often. And anyway, that part of his life was over. The new Greville, the better Greville he’d promised the Lord to become if he survived his time at sea, didn’t intend to indulge in debauchery at all. No, sir.
Now, if there happened to be a willing widow in the neighbourhood…
He hardened further at that arousing possibility. Then Greville pulled his clean, refreshed body out of the rapidly chilling water. Wrapping a towel about his naked hips, he took a few experimental turns about the chamber.
He could feel a pull to his wound as he paced, as though the lacerated muscles of his chest were somehow directly connected to his legs, but the discomfort was not as severe as the last time he’d attempted walking. Pausing in the strong light before the window, he inspected the cutlass slash, deep across his ribs where the ship’s surgeon had stitched the edges together, shallower where the weapon’s tip had caught his arm. The wound hadn’t stung when he immersed it in water, he realised suddenly. Thank the Lord, it must finally have closed completely.
The stitched edges were still a deep pink, but no longer fiery red and pulsing with torment. He’d put on more of the salve the ship’s surgeon had sent with him and had Luke help him bind it up again, but more to keep his garments from rubbing it this time than from a need to protect his clothing from its suppuration.
He moved from the window and took two turns about the room. He felt weak and light-headed—not surprising after having been fevered and confined to a hammock or cot for so long—but the knee he’d wrenched after he’d gone down in the fight was much improved, causing him barely to limp. All in all, he felt a sense of renewed vigour he’d not experienced in all the dark days since leaving England.
Stopping by the chair where Luke had deposited the trunk of clothes sent by his sister Joanna, he opened it and inspected the contents. The garments were new and of good quality, but hardly fashionable. As he removed each one and shook it out, he found himself grinning again.
Greville Anders had been famed since Cambridge for his sartorial flair. Possessed of impeccable taste, he sported the finest inexpressibles, wore immaculate linen and knotted the most complicated cravats at the neck of beautifully tailored coats that fit him like a second skin.
A year ago, he would have rejected everything in the chest with a disdainful sniff. But after months garbed in the cast-off gear from the sea trunks of deceased sailors, he’d become much less finicky.
And much more appreciative, he thought, sending his absent sister a mental thanks. Without Joanna’s intervention, he’d have been forced to put back on the soiled, bloodstained tatters he’d worn off the ship, he thought, grimacing with distaste.
It was only then that he noticed the small pouch at the bottom of the chest. Snatching it up, he opened the loop to find winking back at him a small cache of coins: pence, shillings, pounds, even a few golden guineas.
Swallowing hard at such unexpected largesse, he vowed to send his sister a written note of thanks as soon as he could obtain pen and paper. Of course, he’d arrived here penniless, possessing not even the few coins the servants would expect as the vails normally given by a guest. The service that could be expected by one who neglected to bestow such small tokens of appreciation would be dismal—and the respect he was accorded even less.
Filled with a renewed appreciation for his sister, he slipped into the small clothes, breeches and shirt, then rang for Luke. Though he was reasonably sure he could put on the coat without assistance—one benefit of wearing one that did not fit like a second skin—he’d have to wait until after his shave to don it, and tying the cravat was problematic. He feared his left arm would still be too tender to lift high enough to manage it.
Luke arrived a moment later. Though Greville had been initially dubious about the servant’s claim of expertise, the footman showed himself to be quite skilled with both razor and scissors and possessed a deft hand with the cravat.
When he complimented the man, Luke told him he hoped to be a valet some day, and cast him a lingering glance, as if implying he thought Greville might be able to assist him in that desire.
Might he? Greville wondered. His immediate goals not extending beyond mastering stairs and having the stamina to walk further than three circuits about the room, he wasn’t sure yet what the future would hold for himself, much less for the ambitious Luke.
The first step towards that discovery couldn’t be taken until after he presented himself to the Coastal Brigade office. Though he intended to make an appearance downstairs in the parlour today, he knew he wasn’t recovered enough to tolerate a several-mile jolting drive.
Luke offered him a mirror so he might inspect his new haircut in the glass. His reflection when he first glanced into a mirror before his bath had shocked him so much he marvelled that Lord Bronning had not taken one look at him and immediately had the coachman heave him back into the coach and spring the horses, dispensing with rubbish as quickly as the cook’s assistant tossing the crew’s refuse overboard.
Looking at himself now, he could not help being pleased at the improvement. Oh, he was still but a shadow of his former handsome self, he thought wryly. But with the beard gone, his auburn hair washed and trimmed, and wearing the clothing Joanna had sent, loose on his emaciated tall frame but quite respectable, he looked much more the sort of gentleman who might be invited as the guest of a rural baron.
Another thought struck him then, prompting another rueful smile. A year ago, he would never have considered accepting an invitation to a Devonshire estate that, from his hazy recollection, was rather remote, unless said estate came fully stocked with game for shooting, spirits for drinking and willing wenches for amusement.
Even his former meticulous self couldn’t have faulted the elegant appointments of this room, though, he acknowledged, giving the vast chamber an admiring glance. Bronning might be merely a baron, but he was clearly a rich one.
How would he find the rest of the estate? Probably a good deal better managed than the one that had been given into his charge, he reflected with another painful flash of honesty.
Greville’s lofty opinion of his own worth had taken as much of a beating during his time at sea as that pirate ship the Illustrious had boarded. He’d had months marooned within the small confines of a naval vessel with nothing to do but reflect, as the grit he holystoned over the deck cut into his knees or he took his turn hoisting sail or cranking the bilge pumps.
Those eight months had carved a divide as wide and deep as the cutlass gash in his chest between Greville Anders, pampered only son of minor gentry and distant cousin of a great peer, and the man he was now.
Along with his status as ‘gentleman’, the sea wind and grinding labour had worn away his former opinions, attitudes and values to such an extent tha
t the face now gazing back at him belonged to a wholly different individual. One who’d gone from fury at his fate, to resignation, to a growing sense of pride as, with hard work and dogged persistence, he proved his worth to a sceptical crew…and to himself.
Not that he was sure yet what he’d do next, once Lord Englemere persuaded the Admiralty to release him from duty as a landsman with the Royal Navy. He did know, however, having lived among men who pledged their efforts and their very lives to a cause greater than themselves, that he could never stomach being idle again. He could not drift from estate to estate of his wealthy university friends, as he had after leaving Cambridge, his company valued as an amusing fribble who enlivened every party with his wit, his expertise at the gaming table and his ability to charm the ladies.
In addition to consulting Englemere about a new position, he had assurances from Captain Harrington that his former commanding officer would enquire about a place for him with his contacts in the Admiralty. On this fever-free, sunny English morning, Greville felt confident he’d find some honourable employment suitable for a gentleman’s son. Exactly what was a puzzle he didn’t need to solve this moment, he thought with an echo of the insouciance with which he used to dismiss all problems. His only task now was to discern his true level of recovery by exiting this chamber and investigating his temporary residence.
‘What is the routine of the household?’ he asked the still-hovering Luke. ‘I should like to see Lord Bronning and apologise for my rudeness in remaining two whole days in my chamber.’
‘Don’t expect that were a problem. I imagine his lordship was happy to have you stay put. And heal, I mean,’ he added, the tips of his ears reddening.
Greville bit back a grin. Servants in a grand house being as fiercely proud of their master’s home and status as the owner himself, the reception of a man who looked as much like gallows-bait as he had upon arrival had no doubt been greeted with as much disapproving speculation belowstairs as above. He’d wager his host—and hostess—were thankful he’d remained abed, sparing them the dilemma of what to do with him.
Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman Page 3
