by Allison Lane
“But discussing strategy and offering advice to a manufacturer is not the same as working in his mill. And owning a ship is different from selling the products it carries.”
“True. And an architect does not actually build houses. Setting designs on paper is a far cry from digging holes and pounding nails. I see nothing wrong with it. Architecture has long been an appropriate interest for gentlemen. A century ago, the most influential architect in England was Lord Burlington, who used the power of his government position to change architectural fashion overnight.”
“Not for the better,” growled John.
“I know you dislike Palladianism.” Alex returned to his chair. “But no one thought his activities smacked of trade. And he designed public buildings as well as private.”
Not well. But John kept the thought to himself. And to be fair, it wasn’t Burlington’s fault that he had failed to anticipate the fashion for gowns too wide to pass between the close-set columns in his York assembly rooms.
“Never forget that architecture is far more genteel than poking one’s nose into private affairs or exposing family secrets to public scrutiny – which is what I often do.”
“But it takes time if done right.”
“True.” He paused. “If I might make a suggestion…”
John nodded.
“Keep your office open. Can your assistant run it?”
“Yes.”
“Check on him, of course, but let him do most of the work. That will give you time to learn about the Westfield dukedom. It is very extensive, wields much power, and produces a considerable income. In truth, its fortune is one of the largest in England, double what it was when your father died, despite Chester’s depredations. As a businessman, you understand why you must learn about it. But every lord has stewards, bailiffs, secretaries, managers, and other employees who oversee daily operations. Once you are comfortable and have installed overseers you trust to manage those aspects that don’t interest you, you can accept whatever architectural projects you wish. You might find it easier not to use the income for yourself, though. If it were me, I would create a scholarship fund for talented young men who cannot afford proper study – perhaps administered through the Royal Academy.”
John pursed his lips. It was an interesting suggestion. “Is that what you do?”
Portland nodded. “Income from my office goes to one of my wife’s benevolent societies.”
“I will think on it. As you say, there is much to consider.”
“For now, we’ll call on the herald. The sooner you are proclaimed duke, the sooner your inheritance will be in good hands.”
“What does Westfield own besides Westcourt Park?” John asked as they headed downstairs.
“You’ll have to ask the trustees. That information wasn’t pertinent to my investigation. But Westfield House in Grosvenor Square is part of the dukedom. Chester has lived there for nearly thirty years. Are you familiar with it?”
“Not by name, though my moth— Francine enjoyed walking through Mayfair on Sundays, often as far as Hyde Park, so I’ve seen most of the buildings.” She’d used those excursions to familiarize him with the upper classes and their environs. That’s Lord Alvanley, she would say, pointing to a young macaroni. He is friend to the Prince of Wales. And there’s Lady Beatrice outside the modiste shop. A formidable gossip, or so I hear. Nothing happens in aristocratic circles that she doesn’t know.
That remained true. Age hadn’t diminished Lady Beatrice’s sharp mind. It amazed him that she didn’t know all of Westfield’s secrets.
Why had he never questioned those Sunday walks? Not once had he asked how an unfashionable seamstress’s assistant knew so many lords and ladies. Nor had he wondered why she took such pains to never draw their notice—
“Westfield House is the largest house on the south side of the square,” continued Alex. “Classical façade with six columns.”
A lump rose in John’s throat. That had been his favorite house on those long-ago treks. Three times the size of its neighbors – which were large by London standards to begin with – it had spoken to him. Just as Westcourt spoke to him.
Now he knew he’d been inside. He’d accompanied his parents whenever they went to town. The duchess had refused to leave her son behind for even one night.
He’d sketched Westfield House for the first time at age eight, then spent hours poring over books until he could name every element of its façade. That building had triggered his love of architecture…
After his mother had died, there had been no time to walk the streets of Mayfair, so he’d not seen the house again until last fall when he chanced to be in the square. It had hurt deeply to discover that it had fallen into disrepair. Chester again. That must change.
It was time to claim his birthright. Severing Chester’s ties to Westfield couldn’t happen too soon.
Chapter Nineteen
Chester would banish me is he could. I’ve never seen anyone so angry. But at least Goodman took him away so I can grieve in peace. If only I could prove that Chester killed Richard… But I can’t. The man Richard commissioned to watch Chester lost track of him that day…
Duchess of Westfield, July 14, 1787
Faith finished breakfast, then retired to her room to consider her options. They weren’t good.
She should not have agreed to stay even an extra hour, but she couldn’t renege on her word. John needed more than moral support and a prod in the right direction.
Chester would be even more dangerous once he learned John’s identity. His problem with Bitstaff and the list of debts John had found proved that he’d counted heavily on Westfield’s fortune. Using John’s renovation proposals to squeeze money from the trustees was now impossible. With his expectations shattered, his creditors would demand immediate payment unless John disappeared…
So John was in deadly danger. Portland could protect him for the moment. And while they were busy, she could keep Chester from sneaking inside to set traps. But once John had the title in hand – which could be as early as today – he must watch his own back. At that point, staying would hurt him, so she must leave. In the meantime, she would work on her wardrobe and arrange funds.
Courtesans wore scandalously low-cut gowns that were often nearly transparent. It would take time and money to acquire the expected clothing. In the meantime, she would alter her existing garments.
It was a daunting prospect. She pulled out her oldest gown as a practice piece. It was a worn muslin that clung shamelessly if donned without petticoats. No one would consider it fashionable, but it would teach her how to modify the others.
Not until she searched all three trunks did she realize that her workbag remained at Westcourt. She’d taken it to Cook’s room while sitting vigil Sunday night, but she’d been too grief-stricken to sew. When Polly had relieved her, she’d left the bag behind. In the haste of packing, she’d forgot it.
Sighing, Faith fetched Francine’s needles and pins. John would be furious if he found out, but she had no choice. She could hardly explain her dilemma to his housekeeper.
Collecting her funds was not so easily solved, though. She’d intended to use her inheritance to purchase a coach ticket to York and support herself until she found a protector. Unfortunately, despite the excuse she’d offered Reginald yesterday, she had no idea how to take possession of the money. Mr. Goodman had invested it in shares before sending her to Westcourt. Her quarterly payments came from a bank, but guardianship of the money would have passed to the new trustees along with the duke’s other affairs. After all, Westfield was her guard—
She collapsed, suddenly swamped in hysterical laughter. Several minutes passed before she could control herself.
John was her guardian. Not an anonymous duke, but John. It hadn’t penetrated her head until now.
Sucking blood from the finger she’d poked with a needle, she considered this new complication.
Despite that she’d long since reached her majority
, her guardian still held considerable power. Especially financial power. While widows faced few restrictions, unwed ladies weren’t so lucky. She could not buy or sell shares, for example. The trustees could do so, but even before Westfield’s return, they would have refused – or at least consulted Chester before agreeing. Now they would leave the decision to John.
John would refuse. He was so convinced that honor required marriage that he would deny her the means to leave.
Damn him! She would have to abandon the income from those shares, too. Leaving her direction with the bank would let him find her.
If only she’d paid attention to the statements that accompanied her quarterly drafts. She should have noticed that they had started coming from a different bank two years ago. Anyone of sense would have asked why. If she’d questioned the change, she would have discovered Goodman’s death and might have found a way to hire her own man of business.
Maybe.
Don’t be a dolt, her conscience snapped. How can you hire anyone when you make only twenty pounds a year? Who would be interested?
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t go back, so regrets served no purpose. But without access to her inheritance, her only assets were her parents’ knickknacks and the pieces Ned had slipped into her cloak. She’d intended to return them. Now she must pawn them.
How did one pawn things?
Setting aside that problem until later, she concentrated on lowering the neckline. If ladies could not pawn valuables, she was sunk.
* * * *
John returned to the house at three, frustrated beyond belief. He’d run into bureaucratic inertia and nitpicking before, but never to this extent. If not for Chester, he would consign the title to hell and move to America.
Faith was curled up in his study, reading the book on Italy. Pulling her close generated enough heat to dissipate the fury of listening to supercilious voices for hours on end. Only when the knots in his shoulders began to unravel did he bend to kiss her.
“Did your meeting not go well?” she asked when he released her mouth.
“As well as could be expected considering the situation.” He nuzzled her neck. “The herald is a sober man who accepts nothing without a hundred proofs. The Committee of Privileges is worse – at least Lord Cunnington is; he’s their representative in this matter. They would rather hold a title in abeyance for centuries than hand it to the wrong man. Never mind the damage such uncertainty inflicts on his dependents or how it affects his possessions.”
“But stripping a man of his title if someone with a better claim suddenly appeared would wreak worse havoc,” she reminded him. “What if they’d accepted the preponderance of evidence and given it to Chester after Waterloo? He might have lost everything at the gaming tables by now.”
“I know!” He paced to the fireplace and back, raking his hair with his hands. “They aren’t completely convinced that I am Westfield, though everyone agrees it is likely. I did learn a great deal about the dukedom, though. It seems I own nine estates, forty-seven other properties, three Caribbean plantations, and a weaver’s consortium that has expanded into a thriving woolen mill since any duke last saw it. God knows what the trustees have inflicted on those concerns, to say nothing of Chester. Alex claims my wealth is double what my father held, but he knows no details. No one does. I’ve no idea if doubling it in thirty years is good or bad, though I would have expected a better return, given the state of the economy. Nor do I know how much of that wealth rests in investments. Only the trustees can answer that question, but they’re not here.”
“They should return tomorrow.”
“Why? Alex hasn’t told them about me. Untangling Westcourt’s problems could take days, if not weeks.”
She glared. “Everyone in town will know about you by sundown. One of the trustees’ secretaries will send a messenger. What did the herald and Cunnington say?”
“They suspect that I am Westfield but need more evidence before they will rule on the question.”
“What sort of evidence? Portland already found more than I thought existed.”
“That damnable scar!” He again pulled her against him. “Cunnington ordered Alex to produce everyone still living who worked in the Westfield nursery. The herald wants to see everyone Alex interviewed – as if Alex would twist the truth!” he exploded, ignoring that he’d implied just that only yesterday.
It wasn’t the implied distrust he hated most, though. He faced baring his buttock to a steady stream of people in the weeks ahead. The prospect was unsavory.
“That’s horrible!” Terror twisted Faith’s face. “They may not decide for months!”
“Why does that matter? Do you doubt my identity?”
“Of course not. But delay gives Chester time to kill you. It will be less suspicious to arrange a fatal accident before you are proclaimed Westfield.”
“He won’t know.”
She pulled back and glared. “You may not have grown up in society, but you must know how gossip spreads. You accepted that the trustees will hear about this by tomorrow – and they’re not even in town.”
“Yes, but only because the herald will certainly notify them. Gossip is another matter, for who would start it? Alex will tell no one. Nor will the others. No one else will suspect that I am Westfield. All manner of people may have seen me with Alex today, but everyone knows he and I have been friends since I worked on his house. And they know he investigates all manner of questions. He often visits the archives at the College of Arms, frequently with friends in tow. No one will connect today’s visit with the missing duke.”
“Naïve.” She shook her head. “The herald might remain silent, as might Cunnington, but I doubt their secretaries will. And I can guarantee at least one servant overheard your meeting. The return of a duke who’s been missing for thirty years is news. Far more than a nine-day wonder. The man who is first with the tale will enhance his stature tremendously. Chester’s scurrilous rumors will make people even more eager to talk about it. What did Cunnington say about those, by the way?”
He hadn’t planned to tell her about the rumors since they were rapidly becoming ridiculous as Chester’s spite embroidered the tale into obvious fantasy, but she was too knowing to keep her ignorant. “Everyone is understandably concerned,” he admitted. It was yet another reason they wanted more evidence. “But Cunnington knows enough about Chester to discount them. And it doesn’t hurt that Chester’s fury made him careless. There are currently three versions of your debauchment making the rounds, each less believable than the last. I set their minds at ease on that point, so my own explanation should be sweeping society by now.”
“What explanation?” She looked torn between hope and terror.
“You accompanied me to London to report Chester’s thefts to the trustees and beg for pensions for the staff. Chester’s refusal to deal fairly with estate dependents made the trip necessary, but you lacked the means for the journey until I offered my help. The trustees left for Westcourt the day after we arrived in town, which makes the tale believable and explains Chester’s attempts to discredit you.”
Faith muttered something that sounded like curses.
“What is wrong? It is a perfectly logical explanation.”
“You just gave Chester yet another grievance against both of us, especially if the trustees did not tell him about your charges. When he learns that you are Westfield, you will be in deadly peril.”
“So you keep saying, but even Chester has limits. I won’t be caught in one of his accidents, and he will never attack directly. He was born a gentleman.”
“That means nothing. Think, John! Chester has wanted the dukedom since birth. He most likely killed several people in his quest for it, so he will hardly quibble at killing you.”
“By arranging accidents. Besides, I told Treburn I am not at home except to Alex.”
“That might deter curiosity seekers and toadeaters, but it won’t stop Chester. He might even arrange to have a supposedly
irate patron disrupt your office so he could slip in and shoot you.”
John paced the room, chilled by her suggestion. Francine had taught him that breeding made gentlemen different from lesser men. She’d often expounded on the virtues that made a gentleman unique.
It had been her way of teaching him what he would need to know without telling him why he needed to know it. But her lessons had been one-sided, dwelling only on the advantages of that breeding. Soane’s lessons had concentrated on the less sterling qualities that made gentlemen difficult patrons. John had observed many of those faults himself, which made Soane’s words seem nearer the mark.
But neither of his mentors had been unbiased. Francine had painted a rosy picture so he would be delighted to learn of his heritage. Soane had painted a negative picture so he would be prepared for the problems he would face trying to satisfy such men. Neither had done more than offer generalities. But some people had bad blood despite their breeding. That was true at every level. It was time he took advantage of his unique background to think for himself.
He’d lived as a member of several classes and had learned to respect people from each. So he knew that character arose from more than parentage or education. It was a radical notion to judge on behavior rather than breeding, but assuming that all aristocrats were identical – or all merchants, or all laborers – was too risky. Anything that threatened him also threatened Faith, so he must judge Chester on his own actions.
The unvarnished truth was that Chester was unbalanced. Faced with the collapse of his dreams, he might well run mad, posing a danger to John’s staff and even his students. More than ever he wished he remained simple John Lascar.
But it was too late.
“How long will he wait before he acts?” he asked, settling on the couch with Faith in his lap.
“It depends. In his fury over your interference with Bitstaff, he might have already embarked on some scheme. Even if he controls his temper long enough to plan an accident that won’t redound on him, he won’t wait long. Now that you’ve accused him of embezzlement and claimed his title, he can’t afford to. Our biggest advantage is that he knows nothing about the duchess’s diary, so he won’t expect you to understand him or to be on guard against him. Someone will watch him, I presume?”
