When Brantford came strutting into the room, she was again seated, embroidery hoop in hand.
“Mrs. Sherbourne, good day.” The earl offered her a perfect bow. “You make quite the fetching picture by the window. May I enquire as to whether your husband will be joining us? I saw no evidence of work whatsoever at the colliery, and I regret that my errand is one of business—mostly business—though a spot of tea would be much appreciated, of course.”
He beamed a smile at her. Charlotte smiled back, because she had entrusted justice for the earl to her husband, and while everything in her wanted to bash the poker over Brantford’s arrogant nose, she resisted.
She could not on her own hold Brantford accountable, which meant her best option was to make small talk and simper.
I hate to simper. She hated Brantford far more.
“Given the weather, perhaps you’d prefer a tot of brandy,” Charlotte said. “When Her Grace of Haverford joins us, I’ll order a tray if that would suit.”
His lordship marched straight to the sideboard. “Her Grace is here? I did drop in at the castle but was told Their Graces were from home. I’ll be in the area for another day or so and must prevail upon Haverford for a bit more hospitality.”
The hell you will. “I doubt that will suit, my lord. His Grace is, like you, traveling on business, and the duchess is biding with me here.”
He downed an entire glass of brandy and refilled it. “I’ll content myself with Radnor’s company, then. I hope I’m not overstepping when I say that I was surprised that a Windham would end up married to such as Lucas Sherbourne.”
He twinkled at her, sharing a jest between aristocrats.
“Mr. Sherbourne and I are quite enamored of each other,” Charlotte said, meaning every word.
Brantford guffawed, then treated Charlotte to an insolent inspection. “Did he tell you that? My dear, he wanted his brats playing with the children of your titled siblings. Two sisters married to dukes, and you think Lucas Sherbourne offered you a love match? Women are such fanciful creatures.”
Charlotte’s hand slipped down to grasp the poker.
“Insult me all you please, my lord, but malign my husband at your peril. He and I are, most assuredly, a love match.”
Brantford studied the portrait over the fireplace, which had been done shortly after Sherbourne’s parents married.
“Your husband comes from a long line of shopkeepers and tradesmen, and it’s all but established fact that his great-grandmother was not, as they say, Church of England prior to her wedding. You have quite married down, Mrs. Sherbourne. I suppose you know that and are putting a brave face on a mésalliance. I might have to ruin your husband, by the way, socially at least. I doubt I have the patience to ruin him financially. This is very good brandy.”
Charlotte rose from the sofa, rage a frigid river in her veins. “You come to Mr. Sherbourne’s house, swill his brandy with all the delicacy of a great ape, insult me, insult my family, and insult my husband. The only thing that keeps me from doing you a serious injury is the fact that I esteem Mr. Sherbourne too highly to befoul his carpets with your blood.”
Brantford chortled, until Charlotte held the poker up like a riding crop.
“I like a woman with some spirit,” Brantford said, setting his glass aside. “Perhaps—”
“Perhaps you’ll wish to choose your words carefully,” Sherbourne said from the doorway, “for you’re in the presence of an innocent child.”
Charlotte lowered the poker. “Mr. Sherbourne, greetings.”
Clinging to Sherbourne’s hand was a small blond boy. The child had Fern’s chin and her nose, though Brantford’s contribution was apparent in the flaxen hair and blue eyes.
Haverford strolled into the room. “Perhaps I should take the boy to the kitchen, where we will ask Cook to make us a pot of chocolate.”
The child’s gaze bounced from Charlotte to Haverford to Brantford. “I’ve never had chocolate.”
The boy spoke Welsh, so Charlotte replied in the same language. “Chocolate is a very rich drink, so be sure to add a dash of sugar. Your mama always took it with a dash of sugar.”
His smile was entirely Fern’s. “You knew my mama?”
Charlotte nodded rather than trust her voice.
“Civilized people speak English,” Brantford snapped.
Sherbourne knelt so he was eye-level with the boy. “Haverford will steal all the sweets if you let him,” he said in Welsh. “He has a very pretty duchess who might join you in the kitchen. She’ll make sure you get your fair share of biscuits.”
“I heard that,” Haverford said—also in Welsh. “And you heard the lady, Sherbourne. Mind the carpets.”
“We’ll talk later,” Charlotte assured the child. “I’ll tell you all about your dear mama.”
Then they were gone, the boy flicking one mildly curious glance over Brantford before taking the duke’s hand and skipping off to the kitchen.
Brantford gulped down the remaining portion of his brandy. “I haven’t the least notion what that farce was about, Sherbourne, but you and I will come to terms regarding my investment in your little colliery, or I’ll see you ruined down to the nineteenth generation before next year’s season begins.”
“We’ll renegotiate,” Sherbourne said, thrusting his hand into a pocket. “Let’s start with an explanation for this miniature, given by you to my wife’s best friend—her late best friend, who was the mother of your only begotten son.”
*
How do I hold Brantford accountable for his sins, while keeping every single groat of his money, and denying my darling wife the pleasure of drawing his lordship’s cork?
Brantford stared down at the miniature Sherbourne had placed on the sideboard. “You claim that is a likeness of me?” He reached toward the portrait, but withdrew his hand—his shaking hand—without touching it.
“You initialed it,” Charlotte said. “Look at the back.”
He managed to pick up the miniature and stared at the back, while Charlotte glowered at him. Brantford sank into the chair before the hearth and held the miniature out to Sherbourne.
“Take it. Take it, please. I never want to see it again.”
Sherbourne remained beside his wife, lest that good woman start laying about with her iron poker.
“I recognize your penmanship, Brantford, having seen it on the contract you signed. You gave that portrait to one Fern Porter, whom you enticed into a liaison, though she was a vicar’s daughter and innocent of men prior to her association with you. After you proposed marriage to her, she conceived a child and informed you of her situation. You struck her, turned your back on her, and married another.”
Brantford set the miniature on the low table. “I was young, not much more than a boy.”
“You had finished university years earlier,” Charlotte spat. “You were an adult, she was just out of the schoolroom, and you ruined her. Promised her undying love, promised her marriage, and played her false.”
Brantford took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “She should not have—”
“Don’t,” Sherbourne said.
Charlotte had raised the poker. She shot a quizzical look at her husband.
“I spoke to the earl. You, Mrs. Sherbourne, must do as you see fit. I admonish his lordship not to compound his sins by minimizing his own faults, lying, or casting blame. He ruined a young woman, made no reparation for the harm done, and now she’s dead, leaving an innocent child all but orphaned.”
“I wasn’t sure,” Brantford said, using the handkerchief to mop at his brow. “How was I to be certain she wasn’t deceiving me? How is a man to know?”
“Mr. Sherbourne,” Charlotte said, passing the poker over to Sherbourne. “I cannot trust my self-restraint in the presence of such vile, cowardly, spineless, dishonorable, disgraceful, weak…the entire language lacks enough adjectives to convey my contempt for you, my lord. Your son is lucky that he’s growing up without a hint of your presence in his life.”
Brantford hunched forward, as if Charlotte had struck him physically.