“Because turning your back on a serpent is unwise,” Radnor said, heading directly for the sideboard. He poured three glasses and passed the first to Haverford, the second to Sherbourne.
The game room was a spacious masculine chamber. The walls were half-paneled in mellow oak, the furniture heavy and comfortably worn. The billiards table stretched like a bowling green down the length of the room, and books and stacks of newspapers lined shelves near the fireplace.
“That’s an interesting choice of portrait,” Sherbourne said. A painting of a smiling lady in powder and panniers hung over the mantel. She was more handsome than beautiful, though merry eyes and a smile that hinted of secret joys made her attractive.
“My dear mama,” Radnor replied. “Papa said of all places, her influence should most be felt here, lest drunkenness, lewd talk, or idleness be mistaken for congenial company. They were not a love match, but affection grew nonetheless.”
They had certainly loved their only son, which left Sherbourne with a question: If his own parents had loved him the way Radnor had clearly been treasured by his mama and papa, how would life have been different?
“That scowl will frighten small children,” Haverford said. “Is the brandy not to your liking?”
Sherbourne took a taste and once again found the flavor familiar. “The potation is quite fine.”
“Haverford won’t tell me where he got it,” Radnor said, tossing a square of peat onto the fire. “Gave me two bottles as a wedding present. Wants me to think he’s had midnight dealings with the coastal trade, when I know he probably got it from his fancy in-laws.”
The duke had been given this brandy by an in-law indeed. A recently acquired in-law. Haverford was studying his drink, suggesting Sherbourne and the duke were to share a secret.
A family secret—his first. “Wherever this is from, it’s excellent quality.”
“So why the thundering frown?” Haverford asked.
“Because my billiards game is rusty.” Sherbourne set his drink aside. “Upon whom shall I sharpen my skills?”
“Haverford. He’s fretful these days, owing to his duchess’s delicate condition, or his nerves, or some repair or other to his castle walls. You can distract him, and I shall cheer you on from the world’s most comfortable sofa.”
“While you’re a rock of spousal imperturbability,” Haverford retorted, taking a cue stick from the rack and rolling it across the green felt of the billiards table. “Though my sister, to whom you happen to be married, paints a somewhat different picture of your steely reserve.”
The duke and the marquess bickered their way through two games, Sherbourne winning the first, Haverford the second. All the while, Sherbourne wondered why Brantford hadn’t returned to England. The weather would become increasingly cold and difficult, excellent hunting was available closer to the earl’s seat in the north, and—
Haverford nudged his sleeve with the tip of his cue stick. “Your shot.”
“I’m considering options.” The table did indeed present several half-decent possibilities.
“You’re fretting over Brantford. I wish I could tell you he’s not worth the bother, but he was a guest in my home. The man’s a gold-plated ass.”
Sherbourne neatly potted the red ball off a side bumper. “He met certain criteria that I find useful in an investor.”
“What criteria does an investor have to meet, besides having money to spare?” Radnor asked around a yawn.
What to say? Sherbourne replaced the red ball on the black dot. “He should be sufficiently knowledgeable to grasp the risks he faces, but not so expert or meddlesome as to interfere in every detail of project management. When do we rejoin the ladies?”
“Not soon enough.” Haverford took aim at the red ball. “Charlotte lent me some books.”
“This book lending must be contagious,” Radnor offered from the depths of the sofa. “Or perhaps it’s inherited. We shall see when you both have some little darlings populating your nurseries.”
Sherbourne stifled an urge to bash Radnor over the head with his cue stick. Charlotte had decreed that there would be no babies, and Sherbourne—for reasons he could not have articulated in his most honest hour—wanted very much to raise children with her.
“What manner of tomes did my wife lend the man who until recently owned half the books in Wales?”
“Books on how to establish and manage a coal mine. She’s apparently read them word for word, though my own progress is halting at best.”
When had this occurred, and why had Charlotte done it? “Who are the authors?”
Haverford recited titles and authors, while Radnor snored quietly on the couch.
“Those are good basic texts, though they’ll soon be out of date. Did Charlotte say why she’d lent them to you?”
“She said I know next to nothing about mines.” Haverford put up his cue stick. “She’s right.”
What to say to that? Haverford hadn’t exactly admitted to putting ridiculous conditions on the colliery, but he’d come close.
“Charlotte is almost invariably correct.”
“Have you any more such books?”
What was Haverford asking? “Many. I also have some recent treatises on steam power, which will make your head spin with possibilities.”
“Does Mrs. Sherbourne read those as well?”
“If she hasn’t, she soon will.” Though given the state of the marriage, Sherbourne still hadn’t asked Charlotte to look over any of Hannibal Jones’s calculations.
Haverford took Sherbourne’s cue stick and replaced it on the wall rack. “Elizabeth is concerned about her sister.”
So was Sherbourne. “I appreciate Her Grace’s solicitude, but can assure you that my wife enjoys excellent health.”
For now. How would Charlotte fare after another six months of this arms’ length misery that their marriage had become? How would Sherbourne? They ate dinner separated by a distance as great as the billiards table, took their baths at opposite ends of the day, and barely spoke in passing. The trip to and from Sunday services was made in awkward silence, though Charlotte was polite and agreeable to anybody they encountered.
“You look gaunt,” Haverford said, “and I don’t think it’s marital devotions robbing you of your sleep.”
“Haverford, you will desist, lest I demonstrate my pugilistic skills on your damned ducal nose.”
Except that now—years after Sherbourne had beaten respect into every schoolyard bully who’d served him a bad turn—striking the duke held no appeal. Haverford was family, and Sherbourne suspected he was trying to be helpful.
The duke’s interrogation felt arrogant and presumptuous, but he was a duke, and nearly everything he turned his hand to would come across as arrogant and presumptuous. Charlotte had been quite clear on that point, and if anybody knew her way around dukes and titles, it was she.
Haverford crossed to the sideboard and poured half a glass of brandy. “Be that way, but if you think I’m difficult, just wait until Charlotte’s mama and papa come to visit for the winter holidays. Were I you, I’d get my house in order before the in-laws come to call, or Charlotte might well accompany them back to England in the new year.”
Sherbourne managed to remain standing, but Haverford’s taunt—or warning—landed on him like so much cold, wet mud.
Charlotte was being unreasonable, and yet, she was Charlotte. She would never relent, never give quarter where her sense of justice was concerned. Sherbourne loved that about her.
Loved that about her, too.
“You did know the in-laws are planning to visit?” Haverford asked. “You look as though you’ve suffered a significant blow to the head.”
To the heart, more like. “I am well aware that the in-laws intend to grace us with their presence for the holidays, and I hope they are frequent visitors. Mama-in-law loves her homeland, and Charlotte loves her mother and father.”
Did she love her husband? Could she ever love a man who did business with the likes of Brantford? Sherbourne had married expecting that attraction and respect would see him and Charlotte through well enough, but now…