The relief of having Hannibal Jones exonerated for the tunnel collapse felt to Sherbourne like an omen, an indication that determination and hard work—and some hard riding—would see his problems solved.
Determination, and a bit more help from His Grace.
Over excellent food and piping hot tea, Sherbourne detailed the situation with Brantford. Haverford listened while doing his part by the comestibles and asking the occasional question.
“So you have come here to avail yourself of a handy duke,” he said, when the teapot was all but empty.
Haverford had been honest, he’d listened, he’d believed Sherbourne’s recitation even when it reflected badly on a peer.
And Haverford was family.
“No, actually,” Sherbourne said. “I’ll settle for a mere duke if that’s the only aid I can find, but I’d hoped my cause might instead merit the support of a friend.”
Haverford brushed nonexistent crumbs from his breeches. “A friend. Well.” He looked around as if hoping his duchess might rescue him. “A friend, whom you will owe for all eternity, even more than you already do. You do realize it’s colder than hell’s root cellar out there?”
“The fresh air will put roses in our cheeks. Come along, Haverford, while there’s still a sliver of daylight to guide us.”
Muttering and cursing, Haverford came along as any friend would.
Any good friend.
*
The damned snow had made the footing treacherous enough that Dalrymple had called a halt to the hunting after the morning run. The post had brought no word from Lucas Sherbourne regarding the colliery contract, and the buxom maid hadn’t bestirred herself even once the livelong afternoon to see if a guest might want for some female companionship.
Brantford was paying his third call of the evening on the decanter in Dalrymple’s library when the door opened, and the maid who’d been least in sight all day appeared with a bucket in each hand.
“Do come in,” Brantford said. “Can’t have the fires going out when winter has announced its arrival.”
The library was empty, every other gentleman having gathered in Dalrymple’s game room for another evening of cards, drink, and bawdy jokes. Footmen would attend that company, else the gathering would descend into outright debauchery.
What did it say about Brantford that outright debauchery had lost its appeal?
“Evening, milord,” the maid said, setting both buckets before the hearth and bobbing a curtsy. She added a scoop of coal to the blaze and replaced the hearth screen. “Shall I light another candle for you, sir?”
Though her manner was deferential—Dalrymple himself might stumble through the door at any moment—her question held innuendo.
Not invitation, exactly.
“In another half hour, you can bring some extra candles to my bedroom. I’m in the mood to read on this cold and lonely night.”
“Won’t be any trouble a’tall, sir. Shall I bring a tea tray as well?”
He didn’t want tea and biscuits. He wanted to roger the daylights out of the insolent baggage. “Just the candles.”
She collected a tray’s worth of dirty glasses from the sideboard, bobbed another curtsy, and headed for the door. Before she withdrew, she cast Brantford a look he’d occasionally received from his wife. Exasperation and long-suffering, along with a dash of superiority.
She’d offered to bring a tea tray so that she might end her day with two cups of good China black—none of the reused gunpowder the staff was likely to get—and a plate of shortbread, in addition to the coins Brantford would have given her.
Not a stupid woman, though slyness in a domestic was unattractive.
“What’s your name?” Brantford asked, before she was out the door.
She stopped, her back to him, and turned slowly. “My name?” She’d given him a romping good time, but this request made her cautious.
“How are you called?”
“Veronica, sir. My name is Veronica.”
Damned if she didn’t look like Veronica, too. Good breeding figure, dark hair, and that expression.…
“Don’t bother coming to my room. Send the footmen up with a bath, and let the stable know I’ll need a sound riding horse for tomorrow.”
“You’ll be leaving us, then?”
Was she relieved? “If I have business to tend to or a call to pay on His Grace of Haverford, that is none of your affair. Be off with you before you let all the warmth out of this room.”
She curtsied again, the tray of dirty glasses balanced against her hip, and withdrew.
Swilling Dalrymple’s brandy and swiving his help was all well and good for a diversion, but Brantford had come to Wales to do business. Lucas Sherbourne would soon realize that a failed colliery was only the start of the troubles Brantford would cause him, if that business was not satisfactorily concluded.
*
“Haverford will prevent matters from degenerating into violence,” Elizabeth said, holding her needle up to the light. Yesterday’s snowfall gave the afternoon sunshine a brilliant quality, making the landscape beyond the window almost too bright to behold.
And yet, Charlotte had spent most of her day staring out the window.
“I want matters to degenerate into violence,” Charlotte replied. “Mr. Sherbourne would give an excellent account of himself, having been on the receiving end of many an unfair blow. A pummeling is the least of what Brantford deserves.”
Elizabeth dampened a length of red silk thread between her lips and attempted to pass it through the eye of the needle. “You are worried. You sound furious, but you’re worried.”
How could Elizabeth sit there so serenely when both husbands were off on such a momentous errand? “I’m both. Why aren’t they back yet?”
Elizabeth had appeared immediately after breakfast, her workbasket in hand, and she hadn’t budged much since. She jabbed the needle into the arm of the sofa and set the thread aside.
“They had some distance to travel if they were to meet with the Earl of Brantford, and that assumes he’s still at Dalrymple’s hunting party. Might you stop pacing, Charl?”
“Pacing helps me refrain from throwing fragile objects and using foul language. I need a parlor like yours, in a high tower, so I can keep watch over the approach to my castle.”
Elizabeth closed the lid of her workbasket. “Your pacing has tired me. I must beg the use of a guest room, for a short respite will soon befall me, whether I find a bed or not.”
“The fatigue hits me the same way,” Charlotte said, nudging a candlestick to the exact center of the mantel. “One moment I’m fine, my thoughts trotting along where I send them. The next, I can’t keep my eyes open, and my mind has turned to a quagmire. I’ve put a guest room in readiness, because you will please spend the night here if the men aren’t back by supper.”
Elizabeth rose. “Charlotte? What are you saying?”
Gracious angels. “Nothing, until I’ve had a certain discussion with Mr. Sherbourne.”
Elizabeth hugged her. “As it should be. Then you will have a certain discussion with me. Biddy and Lady Radnor will join us, and we’ll be merry and quite frank. Then our menfolk can have a turn cosseting us.”
She went on her way, a duchess in love and also a dear sister.
Charlotte took Elizabeth’s place on the sofa, threaded the needle with the red silk, and prepared to embroider a damned rosette on a dratted handkerchief, when a knock sounded on the perishing door.
“A visitor, madam,” the butler said. “The Earl of Brantford. I beg your pardon. I thought the duchess was with you.”
Brantford was here? Then where was Sherbourne?
Charlotte remained seated. “Her Grace will return shortly. You may show his lordship in, but please leave the door open and keep yourself and our two largest footmen within earshot.”
“Mr. Sherbourne might not—”
“Mr. Sherbourne is from home, and I am mistress of this household. Show his lordship in, and do not think for one instant to bring us a blasted tea tray.”
“Yes, madam.”
Charlotte got up, fetched the fireplace poker, and tucked it on the far side of the sofa. The idea of breaking Brantford’s arm, his ankle, or his nose was unaccountably cheering.