Barefoot in Hyde Park (The Hellion Club Book 2)

by Chasity Bowlin

  “Fenton, is that walking stick still in with my things? The one I never use because it’s too short?”

  “Yes, my lord. I have it in your dressing chamber.” “The dressing chamber which you also never use” was implied by the servant’s wounded tone.

  Poor Fenton was a servant who needed a more conventional master. He would ever be disappointed in him, Val thought. It was a sad state for them both as Fenton managed to suffer in silence more loudly than anyone he’d ever encountered.

  “Excellent. My grandmother’s companion injured herself earlier. Please inquire with one of the servants here to see about getting it to her for the duration,” Val said. “The poor girl can’t just limp about from one piece of furniture to the next.”

  “My lord, you do recall that it is a very specific walking stick which is capable of far more than simply aiding one to walk?” the valet asked, his face a mask of horror.

  It was, in fact, a concealed rapier. But it also had a next to impossible locking mechanism on it, one of the many reasons that Val himself chose never to carry it. The last thing he needed was an unreliable and stubbornly inaccessible blade. “As neither of us can get the blasted thing open, I suspect Miss Burkhart will have no better luck. We will all be quite safe with it in her possession. Lame as she currently is, I daresay we can outrun her if necessary.”

  The valet sniffed his disapproval. “I will see to it, my lord, though I am certain an item so fine will be refused. To accept it would imply inappropriateness between you and the young woman in question.”

  “Then you will keep your mouth shut and tell no one where the girl got it from,” Val hissed out between clenched teeth. “My God. The girl has sprained her ankle and is living in a house that consists almost entirely of stairs. Not to mention, we all know my grandmother will not let her rest for long. Are you really so fixated on propriety, man, that you would wish to see her injure herself rather than utilize something I possess that only serves to collect dust?”

  “It is just simply not done, my lord,” the valet insisted.

  “Well, it will be. I’ll not be dictated to by anyone, and certainly not my own servant,” Val continued. “See to it, Fenton, and if you so much as sneer in disapproval at that girl or the maid you instruct to deliver the item to her, I will toss you out personally.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the valet replied, suddenly meek.

  When the man had gone, Val followed soon after. As he neared the drawing room, he could hear his cousin, Elsworth, regaling their grandmother with some tale or other that had the old woman laughing. Not chortling or cackling with actual glee, as that would have been terribly improper but which he could, on occasion, coax her to do. Instead, she was laughing behind her hand in that very dignified manner that matrons of high society had long since mastered. Like so many things about the world they lived in, it was utterly false. He knew as well as anyone that she couldn’t abide Elsworth. Only Elsworth himself seemed to be ignorant of the fact.

  Taking pity on her in spite of her hypocrisy, Val stepped inside. “Good evening, Grandmother. Elsworth.”

  His cousin smiled, a tight and pinched expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “Valentine… how nice to see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence. It’s been ages. No doubt the actresses of Drury Lane, only the lesser ones of course, are gnashing their teeth and tearing at their hair in mourning at your absence.”

  Val raised his eyebrows at the censorious tone. Was the arrogant pup actually trying to undermine him in front of the dowager duchess? “I really couldn’t say what’s happening at Drury Lane, Cousin. Most of my dealings with actresses occur at private events. As to the great length of time that has passed between our visits, well, it never seems that long until we’re together again. But I’ve had business that has kept me in town and, as we both know, our dear grandmother prefers the country.”

  “Yes, yes… your business. And who have you fleeced this week?” Elsworth asked, all charm and fake smile.

  “No one who didn’t need it,” Val replied. It was going to be a very long evening. Interminable, actually. “Is there anything to drink here other than that awful sherry?”

  His grandmother raised her eyebrows imperiously. “Is our company so painful for you that you must drink yourself into oblivion to bear it?”

  “Yours isn’t,” Val replied with a grin. It earned him a disapproving glare from her, but there was a sparkle in her eyes even as she pursed her lips in that manner.

  “Stop it. Both of you,” the dowager duchess said. “I’ll not have you sniping at one another like petty, jealous children. Valentine, you may ring for the servants to bring you brandy. I would normally never permit such a strong spirit in my drawing room, but if that is what is necessary for the two of you to be civil to one another, then I suppose needs must. Miss Burkhart will be joining us for dinner.”

  Val paused mid-stride. “Is that wise? She is injured, your grace.”

  “Only her ankle. I certainly do not see how it inhibits her ability to chew or make conversation,” the old woman snapped. “We cannot have an uneven number at the dinner table and while she is only my companion, her manners are impeccable. Given the way the two of you behave, her presence can only elevate the evening.”

  Val had just reached a chair near the fireplace when the door opened and Miss Burkhart entered. She was dressed in another truly atrocious gown. While it was of fine silk, the hideous shade of olive made her appear quite sickly. It did nothing for her complexion and nothing for her rather exotic coloring with her dark hair and blue eyes. He also knew that gown had once been his grandmother’s. She’d put the poor girl in her hideous castoff that had surely been altered to hide every curve of her figure. And sadly for him, even in a color that would flatter no one, that sack of a gown could not hide her beauty. He wanted to see her in silk the color of midnight, draped in pearls that rivaled her skin in luminescence and diamonds that flashed and winked as her eyes had that morning.

  What the bloody hell? He didn’t wax poetic about women, not even those he could actually take to his bed. Innocent young misses employed by his grandmother should definitely not spark such thoughts.

  Cursing himself for a dozen kinds of fool, Val rose to his feet once more as she hobbled in, leaning on the walking stick that had been provided for her.

  “That’s an interesting piece, Miss Burkhart,” Elsworth noted. “Where on earth did you get it?”

  “I sent it to her,” the dowager duchess said abruptly, even as she glared at Val. “I knew the poor girl couldn’t possibly get by without it. Really, Elsworth! Should I have had the footmen cart her into the dining room like Cleopatra to Antony?”

  Val didn’t challenge the lie and neither did Miss Burkhart. Perhaps she didn’t know.

  “Thank you, your grace,” the girl said with a smile. “It was most kind of you.”

  “You’re welcome, my dear,” the dowager duchess said imperiously. “I am always kind to those in my employ.”

  Val hid his bark of laughter behind a cough. But Elsworth was not about to let such an opportunity pass him by.

  “Is the brandy too much for you, Cousin? One would think with the regularity with which you imbibe, it would be like milk to a babe.”

  Val wasn’t going to take the bait. It was just what Elsworth wanted, after all. “It’s far better quality than I’m used to. In the back alleys and hovels where I normally imbibe, it’s typically watered down or cut with a cheaper imitation. You understand cheap imitations, don’t you, Elsworth?”

  *

  Lillian watched the exchange between the men. No blows were exchanged, no weapons were drawn, but she would hardly call it bloodless. They skewered one another with words and all but tangible dislike. The weight of tension in the room was nearly unbearable.

  “Your grace, that gown is rather lovely. The embroidery on it is simply divine,” Lillian said, hoping that if she could engage the dowager duchess in a bit of inane conversation, the ten
sion in the room would subside at least a bit. Otherwise, dinner was to be a miserable affair for all of them.

  “It is. I’ve had it for ages, but rarely wear it,” the woman said. “It was gifted to me by my husband many years ago and then dyed black after he’d passed. I didn’t see the need in obtaining an entirely new wardrobe afterward. It seemed wasteful and terribly extravagant, and as I never intended to marry again—it’s a terrible state for women, Miss Burkhart. If you can manage to avoid it in your life, I urge you to do so. At any rate, I never expected to shed my widow’s weeds so there was little point in not taking the items that I enjoyed so much and making them useful in my widowed state rather than relegating them to the rubbish pile because they were not of a somber enough hue.”

  “That must have been quite awful for you. I’m so terribly sorry to have brought up such a painful topic,” Lillian said, feeling as if she’d once more put her foot right in it.

  “Oh, no! Not painful, at all. The boys both know I held their late grandfather in no esteem at all. Why, he was a foolish, foolish man. He might as well have thrown coins like rose petals to walk upon as terrible as he was with financial matters. I did what I could to counteract that, you know? But if he hadn’t died when he did, I daresay our fortunes would look very different today,” the old woman replied, her lips firming into a thin, tight line as she shook her head.

  It just keeps getting worse, Lillian thought. No matter what she said, the situation did not improve. Thankfully, the dinner gong sounded and she was spared from having to make any further attempts at conversation.

  “Elsworth will escort me,” the dowager duchess said. “It’s a breach of etiquette, I know, given that you outrank him, Valentine. But I cannot abide the smell of brandy. It reminds me of your worthless grandfather. And I daresay that given Miss Burkhart’s injury, she may require someone of a slightly more strapping physique to aid her than poor Elsworth.”

  With that, Lillian stood there, leaning heavily on a walking stick that most assuredly had not come from her employer and waited on the man who had rescued her twice already that day to step forward and lead her into a dinner that would surely be on par with one of the seven layers of hell in Milton’s great work.

  “Buck up, darling girl,” he said, offering her his arm as he drew near. “She won’t send you packing just yet.”

  “You’re foxed,” Lillian said, shocked.

  He grinned, a wicked expression that showed no remorse at all and was far too appealing for her peace of mind. “Not yet. But if I have my way, I will be before the fish course is served. Come on, then. Let’s not keep the old dragon waiting.”

  Lillian was still sputtering under her breath, uncertain whether to laugh, cry or simply beg off and go hide in her chamber as they entered the dining room. He showed her to her seat and then made his way to his own, just across from her. His cousin, the Honorable Mr. Elsworth Somers, was seated next to him. She could feel the weight of both their gazes, one admiring and curious, one speculative and disapproving. She couldn’t afford for Elsworth Somers to speculate about her. Not yet. Not until she found a way to claim her bequest.

  “Tell me, Miss Burkhart,” Elsworth began, “about this school of yours that my grandmother speaks so highly of. The Darrow School, I believe?”

  “Yes, that is correct, Mr. Somers,” Lillian answered. At least that was a safe topic, Lillian thought. “The Darrow School is for girls only. It’s operated by Miss Euphemia Darrow. She takes girls in that have difficult situations or a lack of close family and she trains them to be governesses and companions, offering instruction in all areas that young ladies and gentlemen who will enter society would require. Upon completion of one’s education, she assists with finding gainful employment. She’s very good at what she does.”

  “And how long does one stay at the Darrow School?” he asked. “I assume this course work would be more extensive for some than others, depending on aptitude and what manner of deportment and etiquette they began with.”

  Lilly kept smiling, but she was beginning to see that Mr. Somers’ line of questions was very specific. “Some girls are there for only a few years. Others, such as my half-sister and me, are there for significantly longer. It depends on the needs of the child, as you surmised, in terms of their education, but also their living situation and their age when they come to Miss Darrow’s attention.”

  “That’s a very practiced answer… their living situation,” Elsworth said. “And where does she find these children precisely?”

  “Some are brought to her, others she becomes aware of through her charitable works or through family members of the child,” Lilly answered.

  “And you and your half-sister… how were you discovered, Miss Burkhart?” he asked, his gaze calculating and cold.

  “She found my half-sister and me at another school in the north. It was… not a good place,” Lillian answered, being intentionally vague.

  “This half-sister of yours that you speak so freely about, where is she now?” Elsworth continued. “I assume she’s serving with some other family?”

  “Is this dinner conversation, Cousin, or is it an interrogation?” the viscount demanded.

  “I’m only trying to ascertain the true character of a woman who spends so much time with our dear grandmother, Valentine,” Elsworth said with a sneer. “Surely it behooves us to have a better understanding of her nature?”

  “It behooves you to cease this immediately,” the viscount snapped. “You’re being impossibly rude.”

  Elsworth turned back to her then, ignoring his cousin altogether. “Your half-sister, Miss Burkhart, where is she?”

  “With her husband, sir,” Lillian answered, her tone crisp. “She is no longer in service at all, but has married and is in the country with her husband.”

  “A farmer, then? How quaint,” he said with an obvious sneer.

  “Not exactly,” Lillian said and there was a note of triumph that she could not quite mask in her voice. “She married Lord Deveril. I think he can be called many things, Mr. Somers… but farmer is not one of them.”

  The dowager duchess smiled at that. “Indeed. I read all about them in the papers… I didn’t ask you to read those sections to me, Miss Burkhart, as I thought that might be somewhat awkward for you. Your half-sister… what was her name again?”

  “Wilhelmina Marks, your grace,” Lillian replied.

  “I see you have different fathers,” Elsworth said.

  He had managed to pique her temper to the point that Lillian no longer cared if the dowager duchess fired her. If he wanted to know what scandals lay in her past, well, she’d let him. “No, Mr. Somers. In point of fact, we did have the same father, William Satterly. No doubt you know him and have socialized with him on many occasions. Sadly, he failed to prove himself in possession of any honor at all and never married either of our mothers. Do you have any further questions about my parentage or is that information sufficient?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Miss Burkhart,” the dowager duchess warned. “My grandson’s lack of manners is no reason to forget yours.”

  “Why the devil shouldn’t she be?” Seaburn interjected. “Elsworth certainly had no trouble being impertinent, impudent, and utterly rude. I apologize on behalf of my relatives, Miss Burkhart. Your command of etiquette and, I daresay, basic human kindness exceeds us all.”

  “Oh, do stop, Valentine,” the dowager duchess said. “And now that we’ve exhausted the topic of Miss Burkhart’s lineage, we need to address the pressing matter of your finding a bride!”

  Lilly felt his gaze on her for a long moment, then she saw his lips quirk slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but a smirk. There was a challenge in his gaze, a question, as well. No, she thought. No! He would not.

  “I’ve already found one,” he said. “Miss Burkhart, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  He did.

  Chapter Five

  Chaos was the only word that could be used to des
cribe the scene. Complete and utter chaos. Mr. Elsworth Somers and the dowager duchess were all speaking at once. The footmen stationed about the room were whispering to one another frantically while the butler made every attempt to shush them. One of them had apparently run down to the kitchen the moment the news was relayed because a great clattering, as if an entire shelf of pans and crockery had been overturned, rose to clang throughout the house. And in all of it, Lord Valentine Somers, Viscount Seaburn, remained perfectly still, almost like he was carved from marble. No, she thought, not marble. It was too cold. He’d been fashioned from bronze, from heat and sweat and labor.

  “You cannot possibly do this!”

  “I forbid it! How on earth will I find another suitable companion?”

  “It’s preposterous! You’re only doing it get a rise out of me… marrying someone of her standing. Really, Cousin!”

  “Elsworth isn’t wrong. We’ll be the gossip of the town! The ton will turn its back on all of us because of your impetuous behavior! How could you be so cruel, Valentine?”

  “Surely, Miss Burkhart,” Elsworth said to her. “You will call a halt to this foolishness, certainly?”

  Lillian eyed him with his cajoling tone and suddenly conspiratorial expression. As if they were on the same side, as if he hadn’t been hounding her about her background only moments before and they were now allies against his cousin’s impetuous nature. “Really, Mr. Somers, I feel under the circumstances that the only person to whom I owe any answers at this moment is Viscount Seaburn.”

  “Well, answer him then!” the dowager duchess snapped.

  Lillian glanced at her employer. Well, her employer for the moment. No doubt, after the debacle of dinner, she’d find herself unemployed soon enough. Still, there was something in the old woman’s expression that didn’t quite ring true. It was almost as if she were enjoying the entire drama as it played out.