Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

“A systematic approach is usually best.” Though how did one take a systematic approach to, say, Worth Kettering and his kisses and naughty propositions? “Labeling helps, unless the staff cannot read. If somebody comes to us without their letters, we teach them.”

  Yolanda left off counting the jars arranged in alphabetical order on the shelves around them. “You teach them?”

  “Mrs. Reilly helps, as does Vicar, but yes. How a maid or footman takes to their schooling helps me assess how they’ll fit in best at Trysting. Now, we should have a peek at the library. The footmen are possessive about it, but they’ll be taking their tea break the better to flirt with the new chambermaid.”

  “Muriel,” Yolanda said, opening a jar of vervain and sniffing. “She’s friendly.”

  “Also pretty, which is both a blessing and a curse. Have you any questions?”

  Yolanda took a pinch of vervain and crushed it between her fingers. “When is Hess coming?”

  Of course the girl’s loneliness would weigh more heavily than the niceties of separating spearmint and peppermint, or footmen and maids.

  “Mr. Kettering did not specify a date, but all is in readiness.”

  “Worth will be back soon then.” Yolanda said, dusting the herb from her fingers. “He won’t leave us here to receive Hess without him. That would look rude.”

  “From what I understand—”

  “They don’t get along,” Yolanda said, peering at the gray dusting the ends of her fingers. “Except they used to. At home, we have portraits of them together. They were peas in a pod, and in Worth’s diaries—”

  “You read your brother’s diaries?” Jacaranda had considered herself the only sister in the history of sisters to exhibit such audacity—and courage.

  “If Worth had been about at Grampion, in any sense, he might have stopped me from reading them, or respect for his privacy might have at least slowed me down.”

  Jacaranda led the way from the still room, which had taken on a confessional air. Or maybe the scent of vervain didn’t agree with her—it was believed to repel witches.

  “Suffice it to say I cannot approve of such an action, Yolanda, and I have seven brothers.”

  Yolanda sniffed at her fingers and made a face. “You never read their diaries? Never peeked?”

  Jacaranda would not lie, exactly. “Only the oldest has a literary bent, and one doesn’t trifle with him.” Though sometimes one defied him outright.

  They pattered on as the rest of the house was duly inspected, but it hadn’t occurred to Jacaranda that Mr. Kettering would have to come home—back to Trysting, rather—to host his brother’s visit, assuming he hadn’t waved the man off or diverted him to Town.

  The realization was mortifyingly cheering.

  * * *

  Less than two weeks at his country estate, and Worth had been spoiled for all other residences. Town was noisy, reeking and hot, and his house, which he’d always found adequately maintained, fell short of the standards at Trysting.

  The windows were clean, they did not sparkle.

  The carpets were beaten, they remained dull.

  The food was nourishing, but its presentation unimaginative.

  The house was tidy, but not…inviting.

  The shops regularly sent over flowers, but the bouquets lacked fragrance and seemed to sit in their vases like sedate arrangements, not spontaneous offerings from nature.

  Mimette raised her gaze from the quarterly statement Worth had drafted for her.

  “You’re in a hurry, ducks. You usually go over the numbers with me one by one, until I’m fair to run screaming down the street.”

  Mimette, or Mary, was a pretty little dancer between protectors at the moment. Her savings were thus of particular interest to her, and Worth had directed that a cold collation be prepared for their session at the kitchen table.

  “I’m getting ready to travel again tomorrow,” Worth said, making the decision as the words came out of his mouth. “Not being at my appointed post here in Town has created challenges.”

  Not being at Trysting created other challenges.

  She gave him a genuine smile. “Challenges for you, maybe. Jones says he’s never seen such peace at the office save for right after Waterloo.”

  “When did you hear Jones discoursing so disloyally?”

  “He comes to see us dance and brings his friends, and they’re a jolly bunch.”

  Another well-trained, competent employee would soon be domesticating. “When I’m not wreaking havoc with their fun, to hear Jones tell it. Your money is working almost as hard as you do.”

  “I’d take you upstairs tonight without a thought for the money, Worth Kettering, and it wouldn’t be work neither—though something would be hard. You could do with a tupping.” Her smile was tinged with something else now. Speculation, or maybe sympathy?

  “I could.” He nearly rose to take her up on her offer, because tupping had certainly been on his mind for the past week. His cock wasn’t surging in its usual gleeful anticipation of a romp, though, so he kept to his chair.

  Mary reached under the table and experimentally groped his flaccid length.

  She took her hand away. “Whoever she is, I hope she appreciates you. Should I consider maybe taking more out of the three percents?”

  “Only if you’re willing to shift the degree of risk as well,” Worth said, grateful for something to talk about besides tupping. Her hand had felt curiously impersonal, almost unwelcome.

  He was about to send her home with a footman when he noticed the tray still held plenty of food. Nobody could eat more than an opera dancer when good, free food was on hand. Nobody. He held his interrogation until the moment of her departure.

  “Mary, is your digestion troubling you?”

  “Of course not.” She swung her cloak over her arm, an unconsciously graceful gesture more captivating than any gratuitous fondling.

  “Mary Flannery, you’re dissembling with your man of business. This is not done. Lie to your priest or your protector, but not to me.”

  She sat back down at the table, eyeing the cold, sliced meat, buttered bread, and sliced cheese with something less than appreciation.

  “Mary?”

  Her hair was flaming red, her skin flawlessly pale, and her figure curvy and fit enough to haunt a man’s most intimate dreams. She was one of seven, the oldest daughter. The boys would get the bulk of the family resources, buying apprenticeships in various trades. She sent money home for the girls, but her papa had a fondness for the bottle and for using his fists on his womenfolk.

  “You’d best tell me who the father is.” He sat beside her and slung an arm around her shoulders, wanting to howl with the infernal wrongness of the situation.

  “He said he’d keep me,” Mary said tiredly, leaning into him. “He kept me fifteen bloody minutes, tossed me a few coppers, and since then I haven’t been able to… Well, money has been tight.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “One of Jones’s friends, but don’t involve yourself. His papa’s a lord, and I was foolish.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Nobody knows, though I think Estelle suspects and maybe Fleur.”

  “Then everybody suspects,” Worth said, thinking through the options. “Are you feeling well enough to keep dancing for now?”

  “Until I show, I can dance. That’s the rule, but I’m not tall, or fat like Hera, so I’ve only a few weeks’ work left.”

  “Take the rest of this with you,” Worth said, gesturing at the tray. “You’ll be ravenous later. Promise me you won’t do anything silly while I think this over.”

  “I’m not the dramatic kind. Mostly, all I want to do is pee and nap.”

  “And shock your solicitor,” Worth added, though he applauded her forthrightness. “Before I leave Town tomorrow, I’m to make some purchases for my sister at the shops. Will you be at rehearsal?”

  “Miss rehearsal, and you get docked,” Mary reminded him. “I’ll be the
re.”

  She’d made no move to leave his side, and that more than anything else left Worth feeling inadequate, and somehow ashamed. Avery was in the country, it was a pleasant night, and Mary wouldn’t have hatched any ambitious or possessive notions had he taken her up on the offer of a simple tumble between friends. A month ago, he would have blithely tripped up the stairs with her—at least until he guessed about the baby.

  Hell and the devil. Fifteen minutes was a simple tumble. Worth’s own record was well under that, and he hadn’t even parted with a few coppers for the privilege.

  Think of your opera dancers, Mr. Kettering.

  “I will give thought to your situation, but you must not worry,” Worth said. “Thomas will see you safely home and carry the leftovers so they don’t go to waste. But tell me, Mary, can you tat lace?”

  * * *

  Because Jacaranda’s employer had not the courtesy to send a simple note warning her of his return, she did not rouse herself to greet him when she heard his boots thumping outside the girls’ rooms farther down the hallway.

  “I have come to apologize,” he said, pausing in her sitting room doorway, the dust of the road still on his person.

  As opening lines went, that traveled some distance toward mollifying her. To proposition one’s housekeeper merited at least a personal apology. It did not merit belaboring.

  “Apology accepted,” she said, setting aside the first decent cup of tea she’d had all day. “Shall we send a bath up to your chambers?”

  Now that he’d apologized, she wanted to devour him with her gaze, also to ignore him. Staring at her tea cup was a nice compromise, but really, to think such a scandalous proposition was to be forgiven with a few meaningless words...

  “I should have sent a note,” he said, inviting himself into her sitting room and appropriating the middle of her sofa. “Mind if I have a cup?”

  “You apologize for the lack of a note?”

  “Not well done of me, I know.” He poured for himself, and Jacaranda was compelled to stare at his hands. Long, elegant fingers and broad, strong palms. They were warm, those hands, and knowing.

  But their owner hadn’t the sense to apologize for his brazen overtures.

  “Not well done of you, indeed,” she managed. “Help yourself to cream and sugar.”

  “I don’t suppose you could order us a tray?”

  “It’s tea time.” She rose and went to the door to signal a footman. “I am the housekeeper, I can conjure a tray of victuals on occasion. Your sister and your niece will want to greet you.”

  While Jacaranda abruptly did not.

  “I want to greet them, too, but first I wanted to inquire as to how soon we can accommodate my brother.” He downed his cup of tea in one swallow, his throat working while Jacaranda tried not to stare at that, too.

  He was the most aggravating man.

  “I’m ready now,” she said, not liking the sound of the words as they hung in the air.

  “What constitutes ready?”

  “You’ll interfere?”

  “I’ll take an interest,” he said, holding his cup out for a refill.

  Jacaranda obliged, willing to consider he might have apologized as artfully as he knew how.

  “May we tour the state rooms, say, tomorrow morning?” he went on. “The stable master ought to be notified he’ll have extra teams to deal with.”

  “Roberts knows,” Jacaranda said, adding cream and sugar to his tea. “I’m sure Simmons told him, or Reilly. The extra linens have been washed and the curtains beaten and rehung. The good silver is polished to a shine, the lace table runners aired.”

  “Lace table runners?”

  “All of them, because we don’t know how long your brother will be joining us.”

  “Probably only long enough to collect Yolanda and assemble his entourage again.”

  “What if Yolanda doesn’t want to go, but would rather stay here in the south?” Jacaranda asked, giving his tea a stir.

  What was wrong with older brothers? They always assumed they knew best, always marched out smartly with their plans, never asked even an opinion, much less permission of their sisters.

  He scowled at the tea she offered before accepting it from her. “If Yolanda wants to stay in the south?”

  “With you.”

  He took a turn staring at his tea cup. “I run a bachelor establishment in Town. I always have, and I’m not connected, as my brother is.”

  “Your bachelor establishment boasts at least one small female child and her nanny.” Jacaranda stirred her tea slowly, though it needed no stirring. “You may not be titled, though I suspect you could easily be knighted if you chose, but you are most assuredly connected. Wickie says you’ve paid several calls at Carlton House.”

  “Any pair of deep pockets is welcome to call on Prinny, and I’ve been considering Avery’s situation. She’s legitimate, or I think she is, though with the French these days, one can hardly tell.”

  Jacaranda’s ire at his disrespectful proposition, at his abrupt absence, and his lack of warning regarding his return fueled her rising irritation at his dunderheaded notions of family.

  “You are not thinking of sending that dear little child north with a stranger who’s never so much as patted her head?”

  “He’s an earl, and he’s her uncle.” Mr. Kettering rose but kept his tea cup. Jacaranda suspected he did so in order to have something to stare at. “If Yolanda goes, it really won’t be that much of an adjustment to add Avery to the earl’s household, too.”

  “Worth Kettering, you have gone completely ’round the bend. Yolanda cannot be seen to disappear to the north, as if she were some eccentric spinster at the age of sixteen—or a girl in disgrace. She will need a Season, you’ve said so yourself, and she will need her family.”

  “No girl comes out at sixteen. Even I know it isn’t done.”

  Perhaps it was a measure of his upset—over not having sent a note?—that she had to point out the obvious to him.

  “In less than a year, she will be seventeen, and many girls do make their bow at seventeen. They marry at seventeen, they conceive and even bear children at that age. My own sister wed at seventeen, and very properly.”

  He set his tea cup down on its saucer hard and turned his back to her. Something like compassion reared its inconvenient head, but Jacaranda kept her lips closed. Let him squirm. He might treat her cavalierly—she was a woman grown who could hold her own—but his younger relations deserved better.

  “Hess and I will discuss it,” he said, turning back to face her after a long, silent moment.

  “You ought to discuss it with the young ladies. You propose to play skittles with their lives. Avery should at least visit the family seat before you force any move on her.”

  “She’ll love it,” Mr. Kettering said, crossing his arms and leaning back on Jacaranda’s window sill. “Hess keeps one of the best stables in Cumberland, and he’s well liked by all. The house itself is gorgeous, stately and yet still a home, and the grounds are spectacular. We never have trouble with the help. Working for the Ketterings is a plum passed down from father to son and aunt to niece. She’ll settle in at Grampion and never want to leave.”

  Worth Kettering was homesick. The longing poured out in his words, in the distant memories behind his eyes, in the wistful expression softening his features.

  “You want them to have what you’ve rejected?”

  “What I cast aside, as a youth.”

  “Let them have what you had as a youth, what you still have.” She rose, too, and stood with her arms crossed. “Give them a choice.”

  “Hess is the head of our family, and his decisions will be final.” Reciting the words seemed to settle something for him, but not for Jacaranda.

  “You are Avery’s guardian. Wickie told me so, and you are the only person on this earth who loves her like family. You came to Yolanda’s rescue when dear Hess was off shooting out of season in Scotland.”

 
; “Cut line, Wyeth. We can have this argument twice daily until Hess shows up, and it won’t make one bit of difference.”

  “Then we’ll have it three times a day. Or four, or twelve.”

  He was scowling at her one moment, and then his lips quirked up, even as he dipped his chin to hide it.

  “You are a terror, Wyeth. Did you know that?”

  “I am a housekeeper, one whose family begs her to return home with each monthly letter. You thwart family at your peril, sir.”

  When she might have disclosed that she had heeded her family’s importuning and would soon be turning in her notice, she was cut off by one footman arriving with a tray of food and another with a fresh tea service. Mr. Kettering resumed his place on the sofa, and Jacaranda settled into her rocking chair, grateful for the distraction and the distance.

  “I am famished,” he said, helping himself to a ham and cheddar sandwich. “I will show you every courtesy at dinner, but you’ll forgive me my lapses now. I stopped only long enough to water Goliath and let him blow.”

  Jacaranda took a nibble of sandwich as she considered that interesting tidbit and which lapses he referred to. Lapses. Plural.

  “How are matters in London?” Small talk, suitable to ingesting sustenance, she hoped.

  “My house is a disgrace. My steward is a conscientious fellow, but the things you could teach him, Wyeth. I’ve half a mind to send him out here for a tutorial.”

  “After your brother departs, I should have time.” Assuming she didn’t return immediately to her brother’s house. “If your steward takes his duties seriously, he’ll not quibble about a chance to discuss them with another of similar enthusiasm.”

  “You are a terror who doesn’t speak like any housekeeper I’ve known.” He was back to frowning at her. “Where is this family who begs you to abandon me?”

  “Down closer to the coast. Another sandwich?” Abandon him?

  “Please.” He regarded her in silence while she put more food on his plate. Rather than allow him to study her at any length, Jacaranda cast another lure.

  “Tell me more about your family seat. How many acres does it encompass?”