An Unlikely Countess (11 page)

He re-dressed in front of the mirror, attempting the most respectable appearance possible. He used a damp corner of the towel to rub away a mark on his coat and another on his breeches, but there the dampness only made the leather look worse.

He should wear shoes, so he took off his muddy boots, but then noticed the state of his stockings—rubbed dark in places by his boots and with darns obvious. Why hadn’t he thought to bring his finer, courting stockings? They, alas, followed with Jeb and Auguste.

There’d be stockings in the clothespress, and Roe’s knitted stockings would fit. He considered the scene on the doors of the clothespress, in which dogs were bringing down a stag, and weighed the implications.

He wasn’t his brother and never would be.

He was, however, the Earl of Malzard, owner of everything here, including any spotless stockings. What point in denying destiny?

He opened the marquetry doors and explored the drawers until he found stockings from fine to practical, neatly in pairs, spotless as rows of saintly souls. He peeled off his own and put on a pair of his brother’s everyday ones, having to struggle a bit to stretch them over his more muscular calves.

A first step, but whether toward defeat or victory, he had no idea.

H
e crossed the bedchamber to the earl’s library, but found it empty. Perry, tactful fellow, had taken himself elsewhere. He’d ordered food, but for Cate rather than himself, because it was just what Cate would have chosen—fresh bread, slices of ham, local cheese, and a flagon of ale.

He had no appetite, however.

Roe’s room, Roe’s books, Roe’s carefully selected paintings, all shouted “interloper.” He had no doubt that if his brother was looking down from heaven, he was either weeping or gnashing his teeth. That might not have been the case before the argument, before they’d both said things to be regretted, perhaps especially because they carried truth.

Roe had sought him out to advise him on his future prospects and behavior.

Cate had resented that—resented his brother’s assumption that he had a duty, a right even, to advise him, and that Cate needed it. He’d not intended an argument, however, but it had all spun out of control.

Roe’s true opinion of him had spilled out. Feckless. Selfish. Care-for-nothing. Insubordinate. Oh, yes, the army gossips had done their work.

He’d counterattacked—that his brother was spineless, petty, and incapable of achieving anything not handed him on a plate by his being the firstborn.

“You think you could do better?” Roe had snapped. “You must delight in my lack of sons, then.” Cate had protested that, but Roe had hardly seemed to hear. “I suppose you held a feast when the one died.”

Cate had been stunned, for news of a newborn son’s death had never reached him. He’d said that, apologizing, offering condolences, but he’d not been believed. His silence had been taken as satisfaction, and that wound had festered to the point that his brother was deaf to all argument. If he’d tried harder to persuade Roe of the truth could the grand explosion have been avoided?

As it was, their words had grown more bitter and he’d stormed out of the house in a rage. He’d taken a horse from the stables and ridden to Northallerton with only the coins in his pocket, and never spoken to his brother again.

The door opened and his mother walked in.

Shocking rage swelled. Plague take it, this was the earl’s sanctum, the place where no one intruded except by invitation. If he had to be the damned earl, he would have that respect, at least.

His mother’s suddenly wide eyes stopped him. As if she saw danger. He stoppered up the fury, forcing down the bung, but knowing that if he spoke, only vitriol would pour out.

His mother licked her lips, and perhaps words were hard for her, too. “Your brides,” she said, thrusting some sheets of paper at him.

He took them, saved by the oddness of the moment. The first sheet held six annotated names, the second twelve, and the third four.

“A harem?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, perhaps as relieved as he to reach familiar sparring ground. “Choice, Catesby. Choice. You’ve been out of the country for years and I doubt your recent adventures have taken you into circles where you’d meet eligible young ladies.”

How surprised you’d be, Mother. As long as eligible included the widows and daughters of rich cits
.

“Thus, I have listed the candidates.” Despite her plumpness and lack of height, her deportment always suggested someone taller. Now she could have had a ramrod up her spine. “On the first page you will find suitable young ladies in this area. I know each and her family, her qualities, her character, and even the family—”

“Breeding records?” Cate supplied.

She inhaled.

“Why be mealymouthed?” he asked. “The matter at hand is the succession.”

“Very well, it is. And I expect you to do your duty.”

“I assure you, Mother, I intend to do my duty as Earl of Malzard in every
conceivable
way, but to bring the wrong countess to Keynings would distress you even more than it would distress me.”

“Hence the lists. There is no one on there I could not tolerate.”

So, you intend to live out your life here
, Cate thought.
No dower house for you.
He’d promised her that, but it settled on him grimly. They’d always rubbed each other the wrong way.

“The second sheet is of great heiresses throughout the land,” she continued. “The estate isn’t in want, but an additional fortune is never unwelcome. However, few of them are known to me. Such a shame you weren’t home before Diana Arradale was snapped up.”

“The Countess of Arradale?” he said, scanning the lists, recognizing family names but no individuals. “She’d hardly have been interested in a second son. Who snapped up her and a large chunk of Yorkshire?”

“A southerner. The Marquess of Rothgar.” A sniff announced her opinion of that. “I’ve sent out discreet inquiries about the others. The third sheet is of ladies from families of great political influence. There is, of course, some overlap. I assume you intend to play your part in the House of Lords?”

“I suppose I must, though I’d be happy never to see London again.”

She frowned. “You were always a mystery to me, Catesby.”

“You’re a mystery to me, Mother. You must have begun this work within hours of Roe’s death.”

Her round face twitched. “Not within hours, but soon. I see the urgency, even if you do not.”

Cate remembered how his father had made clear his situation as second son. In this room. Direct, practical, and ruthless.

“You and Father must have been well suited.”

“We were. And it was a match arranged by our parents, just as Sebastian’s was to Artemis. If you wish . . .”

“No! I’ll choose my own bride, Mother, but I thank you for your assistance. I’ll look over the lists most carefully and decide how best to proceed.”

Her features pinched with exasperation. “Promise me you will choose well, Catesby.”

“What, precisely, do you mean by ‘well’?”

“A suitable Countess of Malzard.”

“Then I have every intention of doing so.”

“Good,” she said, but still doubtfully. With a final sigh, she left.

Cate looked at the neatly written sheets, realizing he didn’t know whether the writing was his mother’s or a clerk’s. There’d been no occasion for her to ever write to him. The letter bringing news of Roe’s death had been written by Roe’s secretary, Mount.

Had he inherited Mount too? Probably. It would be like the quiet, middle-aged man to hold back until summoned.

If the neat, firm writing was his mother’s, he found it repellent, given that it had been written when her beloved older son was hardly cold.

Cate made himself see the other side. As well as suffering shock and grief over the unexpected death, his mother must have seen herself as clinging to a crumbling edge with only Cate—impulsive, reckless, care-for-nothing Cate, as she saw it—between her and exile from her home of forty years.

If the right marriage made his mother’s world safe again, it was little enough to ask, but he found himself strangely reluctant to choose a bride from one of these carefully considered lists.

 

The next morning Cate woke in the earl’s large and very comfortable bed. He rolled onto his back, looking up at the complex pleated sunburst radiating out of a gilded boss on the underside of the bed canopy. He couldn’t imagine why his brother had bothered with a decoration that no one but he would see.

And Artemis, perhaps. That summoned depressing thoughts about the names on his mother’s list. If there were a way to turn back the clock and restore reality, he’d do it without hesitation. Alas, there was not.

He’d visited Roe’s grave and read the carved inscription added to the great stone plinth, trying to come to terms with the change. But he still expected his brother to storm in, furious at this usurpation of his place.

He rolled out of bed and went to the window to raise the curtains. The sun was only just rising. In London, fashionable life went on well into the night, sometimes till dawn, and the day began again after noon. Last night, however, early to bed had been his only escape, one Perry had also taken. Cate had been exhausted enough to sleep, but for only so long.

A folly to miss so many sunrises.

The sun was still below the horizon, but the sky was bright with the pearly shades of dawn. A hint of mist softened the ground and veiled the more distant trees, creating a scene suited for a fairy dream.

To hell with fairies. He wanted a ride.

He dressed, but carried his boots as he went downstairs so as not to wake anyone.

Of course people were awake—the lesser servants hurrying to prepare the house before the family stirred. He was accustomed to these lowly minions, having often encountered them on his last visit when heading out for an early ride. Back then he’d been given good-mornings and even cheeky grins, but now they bowed or curtsied, averting their eyes and muttering, “Your lordship,” before hurrying on their way.

He owned everything here, but was excluded from the Keynings he’d recently enjoyed. For the first time he realized that applied to the greater world as well. He’d be treated differently everywhere he went. He’d never enter a room without being noticed. Might always suspect that people smiled at him in hope of some favor.

Thank God the stables were the same, welcoming him with the tang of horse and hay. One bay horse whinnied in welcome and he went to rub the nose of the horse he’d ridden daily on his last visit. Oakapple was a steady goer with an even pace, a mount kept mostly for use by guests. He could have ridden any of his brother’s prime horses, but he’d taken to Oakapple.

A groom came out, but unfortunately not Jeb, who was still en route from London. This one bobbed nervously with too many “your lordships.” Cate would have preferred to saddle Oakapple himself, but he let the servant do his job and then escaped into the misty beauty of the new day, alone.

For a while he simply rode, luxuriating in the pleasure of it. Riding in the parks wasn’t like riding in the country. The estate was completely familiar to him, for this had been his world as a boy, open for endless exploration. Once he was away from the house it was mostly unchanged. The lake still lapped unchanged at its reed-rimmed banks, and there would still be a secret world on the small treed island if he took a boat from the boathouse and rowed there. The old oak on the hill presented the same branches to climb. The long slope down toward the home farm would be as splendid for sliding on if there were snow.

He was pulled out of memories by a “Halloo!” and turned to see Perry cantering toward him on a showy black Arab.

“I see you chose the best horse in the stable,” Cate remarked when his friend arrived at his side.

“If you can’t see his quality . . .” Perry replied without offense, for none had been intended.

“I see it perfectly, but Oakapple is better suited to my weight. He and I are comfortable friends.”

“Othello and you are enemies?”

“He has too high an opinion of himself.” As if to show it, the horse sidled a little and preened.

“Up for sale?”

“I . . .” Cate had been about to say that he’d have to ask Artemis, but that was ridiculous. She would have her widow’s jointure, but no other interest in anything here except her paraphernalia, her personal possessions, and those of her daughters.

“I don’t see why not. He was Roe’s Town horse, for display in the parks and such, so he’ll be more at home there.”

“I knew we were suited,” Perry said, slapping the horse’s neck. “An excellent estate.”

“Mostly my father’s work. He did the major landscaping—he and an army of gardeners.”

“That the home farm?” Perry asked.

“Yes. We used to sledge down this slope when there was snow.”

“Pity it’s June.”

“There’s an oak to climb. . . .”

“That I can forgo. Rejoice—your sons will enjoy oak and hill just as much as you and your brother did.”

“Roe and I were six years apart. We didn’t play together.”

“Ah, I hadn’t realized that. Perhaps you’ll plan things better.”

“No one can plan the sex of their children, or I’d not be earl. You’re close in age to your brothers, aren’t you?”

“Less than two years between each of us, which meant we formed a small tribe in our youth.”

Cate allowed the vision of lads playing here, closer in age and nature than he and Roe, good friends and a joy to their father.

To him.

He hadn’t realized how much that would appeal to him, but children required his countess.

“My mother’s prepared a list of brides for me.”

“A harem?”

“My remark. It wasn’t appreciated. No, merely candidates. The first sheet lists six local ladies. Girls, in fact. One’s a mere sixteen.”