“I will make very sure that Brantford and I belong to none of the same clubs,” Haverford said, making a slow descent while holding a book in his hand. “The man lacks couth.”
Looking down on the duke and the marquess, Sherbourne’s first thought was that he was being subtly rebuked for having associated with Brantford. Another hypothesis suggested itself: The duke and the marquess were ashamed of Brantford, ashamed that a peer of the realm had acted so disagreeably.
So dishonorably, to use Charlotte’s term.
“I apologize for inflicting Brantford on you both,” Sherbourne said, closing the book of recipes. “If I could refund his investment and send him on his way, I would.” The apology was as rare as it was sincere, and yet, more words marched forth into the comfortable elegance of the ducal library. “His lordship threatened litigation if I failed to interpret the terms of our contract liberally. He reminded me that his cousin is a judge.”
His dear cousin.
Her Grace had towed Sherbourne all over this library countless times in recent weeks, but today was different, because he was an invited guest. Ten feet below, Haverford passed Radnor the book. The view from the mezzanine suggested Radnor would go bald before Haverford did—even that indignity apparently respected the order of precedence.
Radnor glanced up from the book. “Brantford threatened you with a lawsuit not a month after agreeing to do business with you?”
“The earl was subtle enough to leave a margin of ambiguity,” Sherbourne said, descending the steps. “He is not happy with the terms he agreed to, though I’ve guaranteed him at least as good a return as the cent per cents, and my own investment will be repaid on the same terms. I’m to improve those terms for him or deal with his displeasure. He awaits correspondence from me confirming my renewed understanding of our association.”
Haverford took the reading chair by the fireplace and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Does he want his money back?”
“I asked him that, and he laughed. He invested in my works, and now I’m to make him rich.”
“Somebody ought to make him humble,” Radnor said. “The man’s a disgrace.”
A lingering residue of self-doubt wafted away with Radnor’s words. Sherbourne had confidence in his own commercial abilities and confidence in his grasp of the law. He worked hard and had a fair degree of common sense. Where he’d erred was in assuming that a man born to wealth, title, and standing would also claim the integrity that should accompany such blessings.
Radnor and Haverford confirmed that Sherbourne’s expectations had been reasonable, not na?ve, not stupid.
“Brantford is my disgrace for now,” Sherbourne said. “I cannot risk litigation or scandal, or even his lordship’s enmity in the clubs. I’ve recently married well above myself, and my liquid resources are at low ebb. If I do as his lordship wishes and make him a fortune, then I benefit as well.”
Haverford scowled at his drink. “I could not be that rational, that pragmatic, or mature in the face of such arrogance. He doesn’t need another fortune, and investing with you was hardly taking a great risk. I’d be tempted to plant such an audacious creditor a facer.”
Haverford was every inch the duke at his leisure. His Sunday attire was pristine, beautifully tailored, and adorned with his signature touches of lace and luxury. Despite his rank, he was merely commiserating with a neighbor and in-law over a turn of bad luck.
A cat leaped into Haverford’s lap, inspiring the duke to swear affectionately and set his drink aside. Purring rumbled forth as His Grace scolded the cat and scratched its chin.
I must get my wife a kitten.
That thought—which brought Charlotte to mind—was followed closely by another: I owe Haverford an apology.
“I was an ass,” Sherbourne said, before caution got the better of him. “As a creditor, I was an ass, Haverford. I am sorry for it. I should have shown you how to restructure your notes when you came into the title, should have written off the old duke’s obligation.”
Radnor apparently found the view out the corner window fascinating.
“The old duke should not have been such a profligate spendthrift,” Haverford said, “and by failing to accelerate delinquent notes, you essentially did restructure them. What do you suppose the ladies are gossiping about?”
“Feminine mysteries,” Radnor said, turning from the window. “Names for babies. Glenys is honestly considering Galahad if it’s a boy.”
The expectant fathers fretted about odd names that might befall their offspring. When a child was saddled with six or eight names from birth, much nonsense could creep onto the list.
Sherbourne sipped his drink and missed his wife. Charlotte would know if Haverford had accepted Sherbourne’s apology, rejected it, or simply been embarrassed by it. Sherbourne didn’t particularly care. He’d tendered the apology that honor demanded, and that was what mattered.
Charlotte would be proud of him—which also mattered—and that might give him the courage to rub her feet.
Chapter Eighteen
“Does Mr. Sherbourne know what you’re about?”
Miss MacPherson’s tone was polite but firm, such as a senior servant used on a child found outside the nursery at an odd hour. She’d come upon Charlotte making a Monday morning call at the Caerdenwal household, and had accepted a ride back to the village.
“Mr. Sherbourne is too busy with the colliery to be bothered with my social schedule,” Charlotte replied. “He has his charitable undertakings, and I have mine.”
“He’s putting the steeple to rights,” Miss MacPherson said, retying her bonnet ribbons. “Papa will be very wroth if Mr. Sherbourne withdraws his support from that project.”
Old anger stirred, startling in its intensity. “Do you mean that putting a pretty steeple on the church is more important than seeing Maureen Caerdenwal’s baby thrive?”
“I mean that we can’t have masonry plummeting from the heavens onto parishioner’s heads, Mrs. Sherbourne.”
For about a quarter mile, the only sound was the hoofbeats of the gelding in the traces, and the crunch of the gig’s wheels on the lane. The fine weather had held, perhaps the last of the year. Along the tree lines, each breeze sent more leaves twirling down to join the carpet below. The undergrowth was dying back with brilliant reds and yellows among the somber browns.
The day was beautiful, and Charlotte made up her mind to take her husband a picnic lunch once she’d delivered her passenger.
“You doubtless surprised the Caerdenwals with your generosity,” Miss MacPherson said. “I hadn’t thought to collect fabric for them.”
Infants needed clothing, and even scraps could be stitched together into quilts and dresses. “Winter approaches and the child must be kept warm.”
Charlotte had barely set both feet over the cottage threshold, staying only long enough to introduce herself and leave a basket and a bundle. Maureen had been terrified into near speechlessness, while her mother had accepted Charlotte’s offerings with quiet dignity. Poverty had been evident, in the household’s painful tidiness, threadbare carpets, and empty quarter shelves in the front room.
No cut work, no framed embroidery, no charmingly amateurish sketch of the baby, no embroidery half-finished in a work basket.
But for the half-dozen plump hens in the yard, Charlotte might have started crying. Griffin had kept his word, and in the coming cold weather, his generosity might be all that kept the child healthy.
“You ought to tell Mr. Sherbourne where you’ve been,” Miss MacPherson said as she climbed down from the gig outside the vicarage. “I’ve no business presuming to give you advice about your marriage, but Mr. Sherbourne isn’t the greedy brute some people would believe him to be.”
“Miss MacPherson, you insult my husband even as you defend him.” And yet, Charlotte was just as outspoken as Miss MacPherson when the need arose.