“Evander’s English and his Latin are both progressing,” Charlotte said. “His French is hopeless.”
Sherbourne plucked the letter from her hand. “All boys have hopeless French, until they realize that the ladies speak it quite well. Are you recovered from your parents’ leave-taking?”
Sherbourne hadn’t recovered from his in-laws’ holiday visit, but then, one didn’t recover from being married into the Windham family. One coped as best one could with good fortune of a magnitude that surpassed description. Charlotte’s cousins and in-laws had responded en masse to her request for assistance where Brantford had been concerned, and the earl and his countess had taken an indefinite repairing lease in Portugal.
Brantford had requested permission to write to his son, which petition Haverford, Radnor, and Charlotte were considering.
Sherbourne was considering the various queries and hypotheticals her cousins had also posed by letter: Did Sherbourne think steam would render canals obsolete? Was steam a viable means of powering navigable craft? Had he an opinion on the commercial potential of indoor plumbing?
Indoor plumbing, for God’s sake? That question had been posed by the ever practical Earl of Westhaven, and Sherbourne had joined him in investing in copper piping. This flurry of correspondence was Charlotte’s doing, for even before the whole business with Brantford had been resolved, she’d sung the praises of her husband’s commercial genius—her word—to any Windham she’d been able to reach by post.
Charlotte tugged her husband down beside her onto the sofa. She’d made a small chamber on the third floor her personal parlor, claiming that she wanted to be able to see clear to the colliery when she couldn’t be there in person. The view was lovely, and if the perspective was elevated, well, that didn’t seem to bother her of late.
“Mama and Papa are a force of nature,” she said, stroking the kitten in her lap, “but yes, I am recovered from their visit.”
The beast’s name was Beowulf, and he’d been among Sherbourne’s holiday gifts to Charlotte.
“Your parents will be back,” Sherbourne said, for he was learning to read Charlotte’s moods. “With not one but two grandchildren on the way, we won’t be able to keep them from a return visit.”
And that was…that was lovely. If half the cousins and sisters and in-laws who threatened to visit showed up, Sherbourne Hall would need an entire wing of guest rooms…Rather like a castle.
The butler rapped on the door jamb.
“Come in,” Charlotte said. “I was about to order Mr. Sherbourne a pot of peppermint tea. My parents’ departure has left his nerves in a state.”
“Another pot of tea. Of course, madam, and His Grace of Haverford has come to call.”
Haverford strolled in, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his hair windblown. “We announce family now? That will prove problematic when the shire is overrun with Windhams at next summer’s house party.”
“Not another house party,” Sherbourne groaned. “Scavenger hunts, kite flying, piquet, and whist until I’m bilious—”
“A house party would be delightful,” Charlotte said, rising and kissing the duke on the cheek. “Have a seat, and stay for a cup of tea.”
Haverford sent Sherbourne an unreadable look, but he sat beside Charlotte like a good duke. “I come bearing news.”
“Who’s expecting now?” Sherbourne asked.
“In a sense,” Haverford replied, “you are.” He placed a folded sheet of vellum on the table before the sofa.
Charlotte picked the paper up and smoothed it out. “This is…” She blinked rapidly. “Oh, Haverford. You didn’t.”
Was that a happy you didn’t or an upset you didn’t?
Charlotte threw her arms around the duke and delivered a crushing hug, while the kitten scampered off with an indignant hiss.
“Oh, you are awful, Haverford,” Charlotte said. “You are the worst duke ever, and I will name my firstborn after you.”
“We’re not naming our firstborn Dunderhead,” Sherbourne said, picking up the paper. “This is merely a list of names.” Though reading the list sent an odd sensation shivering over Sherbourne’s skin.
“That is the New Year’s honors list,” Haverford said. “Congratulations, Sir Lucas.”
Sherbourne’s gaze lit on his own name. He dropped the paper on the table and crossed the room to throw himself into the reading chair by the window.
“I have no need of a baronetcy. I don’t want a baronetcy.” Sir Lucas Sherbourne. His father and grandfather were probably dancing a jig in heaven for a baronetcy was hereditary. “I have no need of anything. My colliery is coming along, I have an assistant engineer who can jolly Mr. Jones without offending him and keep track of all three pairs of his new spectacles, not that Jones needs jollying now that’s he’s remarried. I’ve sold my damned bank shares. My in-laws pronounced me a fine addition to the family. What need have I…?”
Charlotte was regarding him, her eyes shimmering, her gaze enough to set Sherbourne’s heart thumping. To the casual observer, she was the same woman who’d shot top hats from randy bachelors. To her husband, she had blossomed as autumn had turned to winter. Her figure was changing, of course, but she’d also gained a sense of true confidence where bravado and sheer courage had been before.
“Besides,” Sherbourne went on more softly, “I have my Charlotte. With Charlotte to love, what else in the whole world could I possibly need?”
She blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and touched his fingers to his lips.
“You’re worse than Griffin and Biddy,” Haverford groused. “Sherbourne, think of your lady, who I’m sure wouldn’t mind having a lady’s title. And don’t blame me for this development. Elizabeth set the wheels in motion, and it is to her you will express sincere gratitude. Your library scheme found favor with the sovereign, who, like most worthy people, thoroughly enjoys a good book.”
“The dratted libraries,” Charlotte said, beaming at her husband. “You could still call me Mrs. Sherbourne when we are private.”
“I’m leaving,” Haverford said, rising. “If I have to swill another cup of peppermint tea, I will go barking mad. Congratulations, Sir Lucas.”
The duke was making a good show of irascibility, but Sherbourne knew friendship when he saw it. He shook Haverford’s hand, slapped him on the back, and let him escape before the dreaded peppermint teapot made another appearance.
Which in subsequent years, it did regularly.
In later life the baronet became a baron, and the coal mine which he eventually conveyed to Evander Porter was an example of the best, safest, most modern practices. Sherbourne became hopelessly wealthy, in part because his lady wife was a fiend for calculations.
Charlotte established a charitable undertaking of her own, one that found safe havens for young ladies in difficulties. She relied on a vast network of family and friends of means to ensure that every child brought to her attention was well cared for and well loved.
And Sir Lucas considered it his greatest privilege to ensure that Charlotte was also well cared for and well loved—very, very, very well loved, indeed.
Keep reading for a peek at the first book in the Rogues to Riches series.
Coming in Fall 2018.
Chapter One
“You isn’t to be hanged on Monday!” Ned declared. “Old Fletcher’s got the bloody flux. Can’t stir but two feet from the chamber pot. Warden says no hangings on Monday!”
Joy was the first casualty in the earthly purgatory of Newgate prison. When Ned came bounding into Quinn Wentworth’s cell, the boy’s rare, angelic smile thus had a greater impact than his words.
An uncomfortable, unfamiliar emotion stirred, something Quinn might once have called hope but now considered a useless reflex.
“You mean I won’t be hanged this Monday.”