She nodded. “It did. I have an aunt. My mother’s aunt, actually. She has left a bequest for me, but I can only claim this bequest as a marriage portion. Apparently, she was greatly concerned that my mother’s weakness of character and poor judgment might be inherited.”
“And you’ve no one to marry? No special beau who might persuade you to the altar?” he asked. He was far more invested in her answer than he wished to be. He was certainly more invested in it than was wise.
“No, there isn’t… but the truth is, I’m not sure I want to be married. I’m as terrible as an employee as I was at being a student. I find it very difficult to tolerate being told what to do, my lord. And as such, I’d make a terrible wife,” she admitted. There was something rather forlorn in her tone that indicated she might regret that opinion.
“Then we have a great deal in common, Miss Burkhart, as I have often considered that I would be the worst of husbands… for much the same reason,” he admitted, just as the carriage slowed and the horses drew to a halt.
They had arrived at Number Ten, South Audley Street. For his part, Val wished they might have circled the block a few times. He was not eager to face his grandmother, but he was less eager to see an end to his time with Miss Burkhart. Opening the door, he climbed down and then reached back in to aid her.
Helping Miss Burkhart out of the cab, he instructed footmen to see her up the stairs. It was a better option than him carrying her, not only because his grandmother would disapprove, but because holding her so closely had affected him in ways that made being in his grandmother’s presence very uncomfortable.
As Miss Burkhart disappeared from view, he returned the butler’s assessing gaze. “Is there something you wish to say, Netherford?”
“Only that it was remarkably good fortune that in Miss Burkhart’s hour of need, who should appear but the grandson of her employer. Most fortuitous for the young lady, my lord.”
He’d never liked Netherford and Netherford, for his part, had never especially liked Val. It seemed their enmity was to continue indefinitely. Pinning the man with a cold stare, Val said, “Hardly remarkable. We were both traveling to the same location, after all, making it quite likely that our paths would cross. I know you certainly didn’t intend to imply that perhaps Miss Burkhart or I engineered such a meeting for some nefarious purpose. Did you, Netherford?”
The butler, a stick of a man with a shock of white hair that defied any attempt to tame it, merely regarded him coolly. “I would never dream of making such an implication, my lord. But others might.”
“Then I can trust you to disabuse them of that notion. Can’t I, Netherford?” Val demanded as he stepped closer to the butler, towering over him.
Relenting, Netherford ducked his head. “Certainly, my lord. The dowager duchess awaits you in the drawing room. I shall have more tea sent in as the first pot has likely grown cold.”
Ignoring the implied censure, Val went in search of his grandmother. If he was going to get a dressing down, it would come from her and not from her lackey. Entering the drawing room, he noted that his grandmother looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel, her head tilted and an expression of disapproval on her face. Her thin lips pursed as she pressed them to the tea cup in her hand and took a long sip of the still steaming liquid.
“You are late, Valentine,” she said. “If this is how you treat all women, it is no wonder you are as yet unmarried.”
“There was a situation involving your companion, Miss Burkhart. She was injured by a careless coachman and required my assistance,” he said.
“What sort of coachman? Was that girl in a carriage with someone? Mark me, I hate to judge a book by its cover but, from the look of her, it’s impossible not to think her fast,” the dowager duchess said.
“She rode in a hack with me from the park to here because her ankle was sprained when a reckless driver nearly ran her down,” Val lied as he took his seat beside her and pressed a kiss to her lined cheek. “How wicked your mind is, Grandmother!”
“What on earth was she doing in the park?” his grandmother asked. “Meeting some man, I suppose. Likely a footman. They’re no good, I tell you! Footmen cannot be trusted, no matter how handsome they look in livery!”
Hoping to distract her, Val stated, “You say that as if speaking from experience! No, never mind. I don’t wish to know.”
She gasped, and then immediately slapped her closed fan on the back of his wrist. “Naughty, wretched boy! Enough about my companion and whatever unsavory characters she chooses to spend her half-day with—you included! What I want to know, Valentine Augustus Somers, is when you mean to marry and begin producing the next generation of the Somers line! You’re past your prime, you know!”
He arched his own brows at her, unaware of just how much alike they appeared in that moment. “Really? I’ve been assured by very well-informed sources that I’m quite firmly in my prime, Grandmama.”
“Wicked boy,” she hissed out. In a less scandalized tone, she continued, “Don’t think to distract me with being scandalous. You must marry, Valentine, and you must do so before the year is out! I’ve reached the end of my patience with you and my resolve in this matter is quite firm. You shall not charm me out of it.”
“It’s October, Grandmama,” he replied indulgently. It was a familiar refrain from her. “Late October at that. How on Earth am I supposed to secure the hand of some deb by then?”
“Well, go and ask someone,” she replied, as if perhaps his faculties were in some way compromised. “It isn’t as if they’d say no! You’re to be a duke, for heaven’s sake! Heavens, put a notice in the Times that you need a suitable wife and they will line up around the block!”
“Really? Impending dukedom aside, being past my prime and all, it’s hard to be certain,” he replied, leaning indolently against the back of the settee. It was not the first conversation they’d had about her desire to see him leg-shackled. It would likely not be the last.
She whacked him with the fan once again, more firmly this time, as if she actually meant it. “I’ve already seen my solicitor, Valentine. I mean it. I’m quite serious this time, whether you choose to believe me or not. Your grandfather, God rest him, was ten kinds of a fool… until it mattered. He chose, against the protests of all who knew us, to leave me in charge of my own finances after his death and those of the rest of the family. Of course, he only did it because I’d been in charge of them while he lived. Had I not, we’d have all been paupered. I’ve trebled the family coffers in my lifetime, as well you know. And it will take Elsworth less than five years to spend through it like sand through an hourglass. But I will leave it to him. Mark my words, I will! The new will is drawn up and I have but to sign it. Present me with your viscountess by the stroke of the New Year, or be disinherited from all that is not entailed.”
Val took in the stubborn jut of his grandmother’s chin and the hardness of her gaze. She meant it, he realized. His grandmother was capable of doing anything, and she did not make idle threats.
“You don’t have to leave the money to me,” he said. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t leave it to Elsworth!”
“Why not Elsworth?” she demanded. “Next to you he’s the most entitled to it. He is blood after all. He’s a Somers, God knows. He certainly inherited all of their foolish tendencies. Thank heavens you got your intellect from me, Boy, or the future generations—assuming there are ever to be any—would have no hope at all. So Elsworth it is, unless you can give me some reason not to proceed. Hmmm?”
Because he is a traitor. Because he’s sold secrets to France to support his gambling debts. Because if you leave the money to him, it will all be seized by the Crown anyway. It was all there on the tip of his tongue, but as he looked at his grandmother, he saw something he hadn’t seen before. The slight tremor in her hand which wielded her fan like a club. Her cheeks were gaunt. And while her white hair was impeccably styled, it was thinner than it had been in the past. In short, she looked frail
in a way he’d never seen before, in a way that wasn’t just a manipulative affectation but a true product of her age, which even her iron will could not stave off forever. His cousin’s treason would kill her.
“Because he’s an addlepated clod,” Val muttered finally.
“Well, of course, he is! He’s just like his wretched father. Your wastrel uncle was very nearly the death of me. We won’t even discuss the scandalous method in which he departed this world!” She paused then, taking a deep breath that hinted at attempts to battle back her own grief. Stupid as he’d been, Betrand had been her youngest child and a more stupid man had never lived. He’d died falling from the bedroom window of his married lover. He’d lost his balance trying to hastily don his trousers before his lover’s husband entered the room. The attempt to avoid scandal had instead mired the family in it for years. But she’d loved him regardless. That was his grandmother’s true weakness. Behind her hard shell, she had a soft and tender heart.
When she continued after that brief pause, her voice was firm again, any hint of emotion other than disdain completely obliterated through sheer force of will and innate stoicism. “Though, I daresay your own father isn’t much better. Gallivanting all around the globe while you, his only son, run wild about the city like some sort of Robin Hood of the gaming hells! Where is he now? India? Egypt? Living like some heathen in a tent—as if he hadn’t been raised a proper Englishman!”
“Somewhere in China, I believe,” Val said. “And no doubt he’s still a proper Englishman no matter where he is.”
“He should be home tending to the estates instead of doing heaven knows what in heaven knows where! He’s another wicked, wretched boy!”
Val didn’t tell her that his father would never tend to the estates so long as she lived because he would never do so to her satisfaction. No one would. Her own supreme competence was also the root cause of her greatest disappointments. “He is, Grandmama. He is.”
“And you’ll move in here so I can monitor your progress in obtaining a wife,” she said. “None of that living in rented rooms like some impoverished second son. You’ll reside here like a proper gentleman.”
It would give him the ability to watch over Elsworth more readily. And Miss Burkhart.
“Fine. I shall send for my valet and a few things and have everything else sent over tomorrow. In the meantime, I find I’m a bit fatigued from my late evening at the card table.”
“Your late evening with that actress, you mean!” his grandmother said. “I know who you’ve been keeping company with.”
He had been keeping company with an actress, but they had parted ways. She’d become a bit too clinging, determined to envision a future for them where none existed. She’d been angry at him, accusing him of snobbery. But it hadn’t been the fact that she’d been treading the boards which caused his affections to wane. It was that he’d grown bored in her company. Oh, in bed, she’d been energetic and inventive. But conversation had been stilted and one dimensional. Even her rather remarkable figure and unmatched carnal skills could not combat that.
“Stop sending Netherford to spy on me. It’s impolite and most assuredly not standard duties for a butler of his caliber,” he cautioned.
“I’ve more spies than my butler,” she snapped. “And tell him to send Miss Burkhart to me. I need to have a word with her.”
“Absolutely not. She cannot be traipsing up and down the stairs on that ankle. If you wish to speak with her, you’ll have to go to her instead,” he replied.
The old woman’s face took on an expression of shock and rage. “I do not dance attendance upon my own servants! This is not to be borne!”
“You are not going to sack her, Grandmama,” he said firmly.
“And what if I am? What concern is it of yours?”
“She’s a young woman alone in the world,” he said. “And through no fault of her own, she was injured. Surely you could not be so cruel as to dismiss her for that?”
“Fine. She stays… but you’ll steer clear of her. I’ll not have anything like that in my household!”
“I can’t imagine what you could possibly object to! Being a Good Samaritan? Offering assistance to an injured person? Tell me, Grandmother, what is so terribly scandalous about that?” Val queried as he rose and made for the door.
“Do not mince words with me, young man! I might be a wrinkled old bat now—and do not think I am ignorant of how all young people view all old people—I was not always so. I know precisely what all young men have on their minds when presented with a pretty girl. I should never have hired her, to be honest. But she is from the Darrow School and despite her rather shocking appearance, there is an element of cachet about that.”
Val continued toward the door, rolling his eyes as he did so. “Certainly, Grandmother. And we all know how important cachet is. I’m in my old suite, I presume?”
“Well, of course you are,” she said. “Where else would I put you?”
“Then I shall see you at dinner. It has been a long night followed by a longer morning. And despite my youthful appearance and general depravity, I do require rest,” he said. “Being past my prime and all.”
“Then get it… and leave my companion be,” his grandmother warned. “If she finds herself sacked and on the street, Valentine, the fault will lay at your doorstep and not mine!”
*
Lilly winced as one of the maids wrapped a rather foul-smelling poultice about her ankle. “I’ll stink to high heaven for a week,” she said.
“It doesn’t linger, Miss,” the girl assured her. “It’ll take the swelling down, and then you’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
Another waft of the atrocious aroma reached her already offended nose and Lillian fought back the urge to retch. “I hope you’re right, Mary. Thank you for helping me. I know most of the girls below stairs will not think kindly of you for it.”
The maid grimaced. “Bunch of foul tempered busybodies, they are! I know you’re not one of us, not with your fancy ways of talking, but I reckon you’re not one of them either,” she said and gestured toward the corridor which would lead to the family wing. “And if them girls don’t like it, they can just lump it, now can’t they? You work here same as us and you’re laid up with a bad ankle. I’d take care of them just the same, I would.”
“You are very good, Mary, and I am very appreciative… even if I do complain about the smell.”
The maid giggled. “It is right awful. I won’t say different, but it does work, so smell or no, you leave it where it is for now. All right?”
“Quite right,” Lilly agreed. She vowed to do something nice for the girl. Perhaps she could find her a ribbon for her pretty red hair, something to brighten up the unrelieved black that the girl was forced to wear per her grace’s instructions.
When the girl had gone, Lillian leaned back in her narrow bed and thought about the turn her morning had taken. Lord Valentine Somers, Viscount Seaburn. “It’s a ridiculous name for a ridiculous man,” she murmured under her breath and tried desperately to convince herself it was true.
He was not at all what she’d expected him to be given what the gossip rags said of him. And she knew those gossip rags inside and out because her grace insisted that Lillian read them to her every morning over breakfast. Even in the countryside, she’d said it was important to know what was happening in London lest one inadvertently put a foot wrong when they returned to the city after a long absence. It was imperative, the old woman had said, to know to whom one must give the cut direct.
Like so much about high society, it seemed impossibly silly to her. One should speak to whoever one wished to speak and that should be the end of it. But still, those gossip rags had mentioned Viscount Seaburn on numerous occasions. They called him Viscount Chance on account of his remarkable skill with cards. It was reported regularly that he’d fleeced some sharp or other, saved some worthless and wet behind the ears puppy who hadn’t the sense not to play with those that could b
est him easily. And there had been talk of his mistresses, as well. They did certainly love to dissect his every move, but nothing they said of him seemed especially wicked. Most of it seemed rather noble even if somewhat unorthodox in method. Still, he was a titled gentleman in possession of a substantial fortune with the promise of greater fortune still to come. It was little wonder they followed his every move like a cat chasing a fly. He wasn’t just eligible, but prized above all others. Dukes were not exactly thick on the ground. Young, handsome and wealthy heirs to dukedoms were worth their very weight in gold, if not more.
With her injured foot propped on pillows, Lillian struggled to get herself into a seated position on the small bed. She couldn’t just lie there looking at the ceiling and mooning over a man so far beyond her reach it was laughable. Instead, she reached for the writing box that was tucked onto the small shelf beside the bed and endeavored to write her half-sister and explain the strange events of the day. Even if she couldn’t talk to Willa and hear her reply, putting the words down with the intent to send them to her would at least help her to know her own mind and what she ought to do about the prospect of finding a husband so that she might claim her fortune. A suitable husband for her station and her needs. Not him, she thought. Most definitely not him. Even if it were possible.
Chapter Four
Val dressed for dinner. His valet looked on disapprovingly. But then, he was used to that. He’d grown accustomed to fending for himself in most ways during his army days and, other than the occasional too fitted coat or a stubborn pair of boots, he’d continued to do so. Fenton could see to his clothes all he liked, but his person was very much off limits, especially when it came to shaving. A man in his position, with his skills and his knowledge, would be foolish to let anyone so close to his neck with a blade. Val was many things, but he was no one’s fool.
As Val tied his cravat into a simple knot that likely made his servant want to gnash his teeth in frustration, he thought of Miss Burkhart and how she might fare navigating all the many stairs in the family’s townhouse. It was certainly not a house designed for an invalid, even a temporary one.
Barefoot in Hyde Park (The Hellion Club Book 2) Page 3
