They would have remained thus, touching but not exactly embracing before the fire, except Charlotte took the initiative and stepped closer, resting her cheek against Sherbourne’s chest. They had not had a pleasant evening together, though neither had it been unpleasant.
Charlotte mentally began composing a note to his lordship, Quinton, Earl of Brantford—a cheerful note—though it puzzled her that an eighth earl would be named Quinton. A fifth earl might have such a name, while an eighth would more likely be Octavius.
She fell asleep beside Sherbourne an hour later and dreamed of calligraphy written in twine, his lordship’s initials all tangled up with the colliery, the tram tracks, and Sherbourne’s stockings. When she woke in the middle of the night, she was not entwined with her husband.
He was not, in fact, even in the bed.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m reduced to delivering notes,” Radnor said, passing along Haverford’s epistle to Sherbourne. “If you ever sought revenge on Haverford for past slights, he’s suffering mightily now.”
Sherbourne broke the seal and read what Radnor probably already knew:
Sherbourne,
Brantford will join you for a tour of the works tomorrow at three of the clock, rain or shine. If you were to invite him to dinner thereafter, my duchess would be ever in your debt.
As would I.
Haverford
PS: Her Grace expects to be struck down—even bedridden—by a terrible megrim no later than sundown tomorrow. She will, alas, decline any invitation to join your household for supper. I will remain loyally by my duchess’s side, offering what comfort I can.
Brantford had spent three days underfoot at Haverford Castle, three days during which Sherbourne had rehearsed optimistic speeches, refined detailed estimates, and watched the rain dribble down the library window panes.
“His lordship is not good company?” Sherbourne asked.
“Unlike you, Haverford has probably been troubling himself to be a decent host.” Radnor lifted a glass from the tray on the sideboard. “May I?”
“Of course, but the noon hour has passed. I was about to ask if you’d prefer tea or a tray before the fire.”
Sherbourne hadn’t been about to ask any such thing. Failing to offer a guest libation was a gross oversight, and he could not afford to be making gross oversights. Making more gross oversights.
“I am a bit peckish,” Radnor said. “You aren’t joining your lady wife for a midday meal?”
“Mrs. Sherbourne is off to the vicarage.” Or avoiding her husband. “She and Miss MacPherson are hatching up some plot or other involving the widows of the parish.”
Radnor tossed back a nip of excellent French brandy. “Will you order us lunch, or will it appear with a lift of your eyebrow?”
Sherbourne went to the door and gave the footman instructions. “If you’d also like to dictate the specific menu, Radnor, I’ll send for the housekeeper, who will relay your wishes to Cook. Did Haverford have anything else to say regarding Brantford?”
And would it have been too much to ask that the ducal fundament grace a saddle to pay a call on nearby family to convey that information in person?
“His Grace had much to say.” Radnor poured another glass of spirits and brought it to Sherbourne. “None of it fit for polite ears. He’s a newlywed, and yet he takes his duties as a host seriously. I expect the duchess has had to ambush him in the conservatory a time or two.”
Sherbourne accepted the drink and set it aside. “His Grace is not newly wed, Radnor. He’s recently married, relatively. The only gentleman in this valley who is yet enjoying his honey month is myself.”
Radnor took a sip of his brandy, smallest finger extended. “You have a point, as usual. How is married life?”
“Married life is lovely.” The problem was, married life with Charlotte truly could be lovely. She was both a well-bred lady and a restless mind that enjoyed challenges unbefitting of her station.
Such as being married to Sherbourne, for example.
“Your tone leaves me to question your veracity, Sherbourne. Early days can be trying.”
Though Sherbourne rarely partook of strong spirits during daylight hours, he allowed himself to sample the brandy.
“You are such a lord, Radnor. You’ve been married only a handful of weeks yourself, and you’re already an expert on the institution. You must point out to me that Haverford too is newly married when I attended the ceremony myself. You come bearing a note that tells me little, except that I’ve incurred a debt to Haverford, and I’m supposed to thank you for the courtesy. Why are you really here?”
Radnor set his glass on the mantel. “If you exhibit such faultless hospitality to Brantford, he’ll withdraw his funds from the mine before Monday next. Is that what you want?”
Maybe. “If he withdraws, I’ll be hard pressed to move forward at all. Is that what you want?”
“You’ll abandon the project you fought for years to bring into this valley?”
Sherbourne could not abandon the mine, not if he expected to support his wife and eventual children in the style they deserved.
“I’m part owner of a bank,” Sherbourne said. “The bank has recently come into some difficulties.”
“A bank in difficulties is not good.”
“Your lordly acumen is raining down like manna from heaven today.” While outside, the sun was attempting to pierce the clouds. For Charlotte’s sake, Sherbourne was happy to see some decent weather. For his own sake, the longer he could put Brantford off, the better.
Radnor stalked away from the mantel to stick his nose in Sherbourne’s face. “Permit me to visit upon you a short history lesson. I am a marquess.”
“My condolences on your misfortune.”
“The marquessate of Radnor, like most marquessates, was established to honor the contribution of a lord of the marches, one granted many privileges beyond those given to mere earls and barons.”
“Long-windedness among those privileges, obviously.”
“The marquesses of Radnor keep the peace,” Radnor said, jabbing a finger at Sherbourne’s chest. “I want your damned mine to succeed, you idiot, just as I want Haverford’s flocks and farms to flourish. Why is your bank failing?”
“The bank is not failing,” Sherbourne said. “It’s in difficulties. Five years ago, the other directors insisted on lending money to a canal scheme. I was against it.”
“Why? Canals can be quite profitable.”
“We have enough canals, and steam power will soon connect what few canals need connecting. The mines have already started using steam to haul ore from the collieries to the iron works, and that trend will only continue.”
Radnor smoothed his fingers over Sherbourne’s cravat and stepped away. “Is that why you’re so hell-bent on this damned mine? You want to see our horses put to pasture by steam locomotives? Nasty odoriferous things, if you ask me.”
Sherbourne hadn’t asked Radnor. “Your horse’s fragrance is unfailingly delightful? Perhaps he’s an equine marquess.”
Radnor fetched his glass. “I sold off my last canal shares when Wellington got Boney buttoned up. Steam interests me. Can’t deny that. I gather it doesn’t interest your bank.”
“If I can make good use at the colliery of current science where steam is concerned, the other directors will get their minds out of the past. A great deal of money is to be made by facing forward, but my directors are almost as bad as Haverford, clinging to—”
A tap on the door heralded lunch. Three footmen brought in a procession of trays, setting them down on the low table before the sofa. They bowed quite properly and withdrew.
“The bowing is new,” Sherbourne said. “My wife has taken the staff in hand.” The staff was thriving under the direction of a lady of the house who knew all the rules and when to bend them.
“Is Mrs. Sherbourne taking you in hand?” Radnor asked, seating himself before a tray. “This is quite a feast. Do sit down. Running the world is hungry work. What will it take to bring your bank right?”
“Time,” Sherbourne said. “I’m a conservative investor. I choose projects that will yield a sure, steady return. Better than the cent per cents, and unlikely to fail. The mine was supposed to be such a project.”