“Charlotte is dear to me as well,” Sherbourne said, “and as pleased as I am to pass the time of day with you, I’d rather spend my afternoon with her. Perhaps you’d share that specific figure before sunset?”
A footman interrupted, bearing a fortune in silver on a tea tray. The next five minutes were spent testing Sherbourne’s manners, though in fairness to Westhaven, the cakes were excellent and the tea strong. Some hosts served Sherbourne the day-old cakes and the used tea leaves, as if he’d not know a stale sweet when he bit into it.
Westhaven set about an interrogation that was doomed to brevity. Sherbourne’s family consisted of one crotchety great-uncle on the maternal side. His residential real estate was one modest dwelling of twenty bedrooms, the former dower house to Haverford Castle. He did not wager on cards or horses, or make stupid bets on the book at White’s.
“You would have me believe you are a dull fellow,” Westhaven said. “I cannot credit that Charlotte Windham would yoke herself to a drudge.”
To an untitled drudge. “We drudges tend to redeem ourselves in important regards. I will keep the lady in comfort and style, for example, and I won’t insult her with a string of mistresses whom I flaunt at the theatre before her friends. I will never break my neck riding to hounds half-drunk out of sheer boredom. I won’t gamble away her pin money merely to impress the fellows. I don’t trifle with the help. Might we discuss figures, my lord?”
“Charlotte is forthright,” Westhaven said. “One shudders to think what sort of children the two of you will raise.”
Sherbourne set his teacup beside the tray, not on it. “We will raise well-loved children, if the heavenly powers grant us offspring, and we will raise them. They won’t be packed off to public school from infancy for the ritual starvation and torture that passes for aristocratic education. Nor will they be banished to the fourth floor until the age of six, at which time they’ll be permitted to parade through the parlor twice a week spouting Latin and sums.”
Westhaven set Sherbourne’s teacup on the tray. “The parade was nigh daily, if you must know, and started when I was four. My father was a military man and in some ways always will be.”
Hence the immaculate desk, the pens laid neatly in the tray, and the compulsion to subject all new recruits to parade inspection.
“I brought a set of figures,” Sherbourne said. “I’d like to discuss them with you.”
The door burst open, and a small boy cantered—he did not run, he cantered—across the carpet. “Tally ho! Tally ho! Reynard is making for his covert!”
The boy came to a halt, confusion in eyes the same shade of green as Westhaven’s. “Excuse me, Papa. I thought you met Uncle Valentine for lunch on Mondays.”
“Uncle Valentine is working on the final movement of a new sonata,” Westhaven said, gathering the boy into his lap. “You know how he is about finales.”
The child was utterly at home roosting on his papa’s knees. “He’s awful. Aunt Ellen says so, then she kisses him. We have company.”
“We do. This is Mr. Sherbourne. He’s a friend of Cousin Charlotte’s. A good friend.”
Well, no he wasn’t. He was her fiancé. “Greetings, young sir.”
“I’m a viscount, but not the real kind,” the child said. “Cousin Charlotte doesn’t like to climb trees, but she can do sums in her head even better than Papa. Her favorite cakes are lemon, which is capital, because I don’t care for lemon.”
Sherbourne would have bet his walking stick—if he were to bet anything—that Charlotte had no particular fondness for lemon cakes, though for this nephew, she’d have told that lie.
“I hear something,” Westhaven said, cocking his head. “Do you hear it?”
The boy scrambled off his father’s lap. “Is it a fox? Do you hear the wily Reynard making designs upon our biddies? Foul dastard! You shall not menace our biddies! Tally ho! Pericles, Tally ho!”
Westhaven rose to close the door behind the first flight, pausing to smooth the carpet fringe Sherbourne had flipped.
“His brother prefers shooting expeditions in the garden. God help the pigeons if the boy ever learns to aim his slingshot.”
Foul dastard? That was not a small boy’s oath. “Westhaven, have you been riding to hounds in the parlor?”
His lordship resumed his chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “When my wife goes calling, I sometimes take it upon myself to entertain the children. About those figures?”
Sherbourne extracted a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket and passed them over. Westhaven drank another cup of tea while he studied the proposed settlements.
“Can you afford this, Sherbourne?” The question was merely curious, which was all that saved Westhaven from wearing tea on his tidily knotted cravat.
“My cash reserves are not where I’d wish them to be,” Sherbourne said, “though most would envy me my solvency. I’ve lately taken on a charitable project of considerable proportions, invested in a new mining venture, and otherwise committed liquid assets. I never involve the resources of my bank in personal obligations, nor do I allow the other directors or owners to do so.”
“That charitable project would be Cousin Elizabeth’s lending libraries,” Westhaven said. “I’ve heard something about them.”
Part of making peace with the duke next door had been indulging the Duchess of Haverford’s passion for lending libraries. Sherbourne had purchased a fortune in books—from His Grace—and in essence forgiven the rest of Haverford’s indebtedness.
The decision had seemed prudent at the time, though Sherbourne dreaded his meetings with the duchess. She was so very enthusiastic about her causes—and about her damned duke.
“The short answer is that I can afford the settlements proposed. If I acquire a sleeping partner or two for my mining venture, I’ll have more latitude, but those figures are within my means. If there’s one asset I bring to this union, it’s the ability to assure Charlotte of a comfortable dotage.”
“She’ll have a comfortable dotage with or without you, Sherbourne. The Windhams take care of their own.” Gone was the doting master of foxhounds and in his place sat the prosy ducal heir.
“Review the figures, your lordship. I’m prepared to negotiate within limits, but you will please assure me that Charlotte’s funds will be managed by you or one of your brothers, not by some paunchy solicitor whose attachment is to Charlotte’s coin rather than her welfare.”
Westhaven popped a tea cake into his mouth—the whole thing at once. “I will manage the funds personally, or in conjunction with my sister, the Countess of Hazelton. Her ladyship’s skill with investments goes beyond genius. She will like you, though her version of liking can leave a fellow feeling as if he’s been mauled by a lioness. One makes allowances. She’s married to Hazelton, after all.”
Sherbourne resigned himself to further study of the Windham family tree. No other lord of his acquaintance would liken his sister’s approval to an attack by a wild creature, and yet, Westhaven conveyed genuine affection for the lady.
“I’ll await your response to my proposal,” Sherbourne said, rising. “My thanks for the hospitality. I have one question for you.”
“Ask.” Westhaven wrapped two tea cakes in a table napkin and slipped them into his pocket, then got to his feet.
“Do you hoard food?”
“Of course not. Those are for the hunt breakfast.”
Westhaven loved his son, which reassured Sherbourne as signed settlement agreements would not have.
“Who is Charlotte’s best friend?”
Westhaven paused with his hand on the door latch. “Her best friend now? She was thick as thieves with the Porter girl, but that was years ago. The poor thing left town amid some talk, and I gather Charlotte has kept mostly to the company of her sisters since then. Why do you ask?”