Seducing Mr. Heywood (10 page)

“What would you know of working for a living, Tom?
You’ve lived off your daughter for years. You’re more a pimp than a father.”

Dunhaven’s face turned an alarming shade of puce. “You go too far, sirrah,” he warned, his voice full of menace.

“I could never go as far as you. You were lucky that all Lady Sophia had in her hands last night was a sherry glass. If she’d had a pistol—”

“Ah, Sophia…” the earl chuckled, as if relishing the image of his daughter, Amazonlike, brandishing a weapon. He sipped his hot coffee. “She was never so high-spirited as a child. Used to worry me, it did. Such a bookish little thing she was, always reading. Her governess was teaching her Greek!” He snorted. “What nonsense was that, teaching Greek to a young girl? She was ruining the girl with that bluestocking faradiddle. I couldn’t get rid of that hag soon enough, I tell you.” The recollection made his eyes glitter.

Brent ignored Dunhaven’s tirade. “I don’t know how you have the gall to intrude into her life here, Tom. Nor could I understand, last night, how you continued to laugh with the sherry dripping down your neckcloth and coat. It was hardly a laughing matter!”

Dunhaven set his cup down so quickly that coffee splashed out, staining the white linen tablecloth in long brown streaks. “You have no right to meddle in family affairs, sirrah. My daughter is finally an Eliot, spirited, hot-tempered, her father’s girl at last. I am proud of what she has become. Do you seriously think she does not want me here?”

“Yes, I do. I think she wants you at Jericho, Tom, the sooner, the better.” Brent set aside his plate of food, rising from the table. “Unfortunately, I believe she would have me there also, to my regret.”

“Sit down, man! Do not worry overmuch about Sophia’s temper. I know her, believe me. She will come around. And when she does, she will see what a handsome young devil you are, what a fine figure of a man.” Dunhaven’s eyes narrowed. “You are just the kind of man my daughter has always favored. In fact, you remind
me a great deal of her first husband, Rushton. A good fellow, he was, died too young. She’ll favor you, soon enough! Trust me in this. Sophia is partial to handsome men.”

Brent thought about his early morning ride, of his pursuit of Lady Sophia and her coldness toward him. It would take a large miracle for that lady to see him in a favorable light. Dunhaven was caperwitted—or did he really know his daughter better than it appeared? He had, after all, arranged three favorable marriages for her. Taking his seat again and picking up his fork, the younger man reconsidered. Perhaps he should not be so hasty in his judgment of the earl.

“Whatever you do, Tom,” he said between mouthfuls of salty Yorkshire ham, “do try, I beg you, to be more diplomatic. The lady is in charge here, and you should respect her status as chatelaine of the manor.”

Dunhaven was too busy shoveling eggs and sausages into his mouth to respond. Brent frowned and began to pick away at his breakfast. The food was excellent, but he seemed to have lost his usual hearty appetite.

Mrs. Mathew was in high alt, directing her kitchen staff much as a well-organized general directs seasoned troops. She was Hannibal crossing the Alps, Julius Caesar conquering the barbarians, Attila the Hun bringing Europe to its knees. The mistress had left the dinner menu in her capable hands, as usual, and she was preparing asparagus soup, trout in red wine, ragout of cucumber, rabbit fricassee, potato pudding, and chocolate cream for dessert. She was displaying her skills for the Earl of Dunhaven, Lord Brent, and, of course, the vicar. The young lads had already been served their supper in the nursery.

The Hall’s cook and the vicar’s housekeeper were bosom bows and also fierce competitors in the culinary arts. Mrs. Chipcheese, alas, did not have the resources at the vicarage that were available to Mrs. Mathew at Rowley Hall. It was a point Mrs. C. invariably made when Mrs. Mathew boasted of her elaborate dinners, which was often and at length.

Her broad face flushed with the kitchen’s heat and her nervous concern that all must be perfect for Lady Sophia’s guests, Mrs. Mathew clapped her pudgy hands, “Lizzie!” She called the maid of all help. “Inform Mr. Bromley that dinner is ready to be served.”

As they stood in the drawing room waiting to dine, drinks in hand, Charles did not know what to make of the Earl of Dunhaven. He was a handsome man, with the striking coloring shared by Sophia and her children, the same pale blond hair, those unusual cerulean eyes. There was, however, something not right about him. Even if Charles had not known that the baron had sent a Bow Street Runner to investigate the earl, he would have felt similar twinges of unease. Charles trusted his instincts and his instincts told him that Sophia’s father was not a good man. The Bow Street Runner’s report had also made that clear.

Though Charles, armed with the knowledge of that report and what he saw with his own eyes, did not want to be uncharitable, Dunhaven was a man lacking nobility and without a modicum of aristocratic bearing. It distressed the vicar to come to such a quick, harsh opinion about another human being, but the man was coarse at the edges; his face bore the ravages of heavy drinking. Charles knew individuals who had succumbed to drink, and their faces were similar in appearance. There was a blurring of features, a looseness that betrayed their vice.

The earl possessed a drink-ravaged face. And something more, something worse.
By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes
, Charles murmured to himself. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up; he tried to shake off the distressing feeling. It made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Charles turned his attention to Sophia, who was in good looks. She wore a silk frock in a dazzling shade of peach, a color that complemented her eyes and hair and creamy complexion. Her magnificent chest was set off by the low-cut, clinging design of the gown and an unusually intricate articulated necklace of cut steel. It was comprised
of links of shiny, faceted cut metal, riveted onto a setting that supported a dozen larger steel drops.

The shimmering, glowing light from the many candles in the room reflected upon the necklace like many mirrors, mocking the brilliance of diamonds, and drew the eye to Sophia’s lovely bosom. Charles unwillingly remembered her naked breasts, full and round, tipped with rosy— Heat flooded his torso and he wished that they could be alone in the drawing room. The space was too crowded, with the earl and his friend—especially the friend, Lord Brent.

Sipping the late baron’s fine sherry and willing his treacherous body to cool down, Charles acknowledged that Brent was extremely handsome. He was the type of gentleman Sophia was no doubt used to, large, muscular, good looking and well-dressed. He wore his hair a trifle long, but it was thick and dark, and his brown eyes missed nothing. Right now, those smoldering dark eyes were fixed on Lady Sophia. Charles bristled with annoyance, his hand gripping the stem of the wineglass tightly.

The boys had told him when they were fishing in the brook earlier in the day, that Lord Brent had gone riding with them, and that he was a bruising rider. They admired his stallion, a large gray, and he had let them ride the horse. As they were mad about horses, Brent had swiftly ingratiated himself with them, Charles thought. Had he charmed their mother, as well?

“Cook told me that she is poaching the trout you and the boys caught today for our dinner, Mr. Heywood.” Lady Sophia intruded into Charles’s thoughts. He was quiet this evening, seeming uncomfortable with her father and his friend. Sophia granted that her father would make most decent people uncomfortable, but she wondered what it was about Lord Brent that made the vicar uneasy.

“We…uh…managed to land a few fat ones, my lady,” Charles replied, stammering slightly. Sophia smiled. Although it had exasperated her at first, the vicar’s hesitancy and occasional stutter were now endearing,
part of his sweet and unique personality. She was cross about the way he had behaved in the rose garden, but that story was still to be continued. Her seduction had suffered a temporary setback only; she was not through with the handsome clergyman. She smiled at him, her eyes half-hooded, and delighted in the flush that covered his cheekbones.

“I vow,” she said, her voice a bit husky, “that the boys enjoy Greek as much as they do fishing. John was repeating the speech by Achilles, his argument with King Agamemnon that he had recited for us several nights ago. He was asking if his pronunciation was correct. The piece concerning the slave girl, you remember?”

She spoke in flawless Greek. “How can the generous Argives give you prizes now? I know of no piles of treasure, piled, lying idle, anywhere. Whatever we dragged from towns we plundered, all’s been portioned out. But collect it, call it back from the rank and file? That would be the disgrace. So, return the girl to the god, at least for now. We Achaeans will pay you back, three, four times over, if Zeus grants us the gift to raze Troy’s massive ramparts to the ground!”

Charles was astonished. She did understand Greek! How on earth?

The earl broke into Charles’s thoughts, his tone irritable. “God’s blood, Sophia, do you still remember that nonsense from your governess? That bluestocking! Filling your mind with such faradiddle.”

Brent interrupted his friend, ignoring the profanity. “My lady, you speak as well as my tutor at Jesus College,” he remarked. “A Grecian could do no better, I vow.”

Dunhaven snorted, then seemed to think better of the situation, stifling his comments into an incoherent mumble.

Charles leaped into the breach. “You shame me, my lady. My own efforts pale beside yours. I congratulate you.” The lady never ceased to surprise him. She was so much more than she appeared to the world at large, the shallow world of the
beau monde.

Lady Sophia peered into her wineglass as if calling up an old memory from its dark ruby depths. “I had a governess named Clarissa Bane, the daughter of a country vicar. Her father taught her Greek and she taught it to me.” She raised her eyes. “She left when I was scarce sixteen, Mr. Heywood, and I have always regretted that loss.”

Charles registered the pain and grief in Sophia’s glance. He had a sharp desire to embrace her, notwithstanding the presence of her father and Brent, a feeling cut short by Bromley’s announcement that dinner was served. Moving to offer her his arm, Charles found that Lord Brent was too fast for him. Instead, he found himself walking in to dinner with the earl, who seemed more than a little foxed from his pre-dinner imbibing of spirits.

Dunhaven, the vicar noted, had an odd look on his face. Was he annoyed, or was it something more? It was a furtive, guilty look. Did the man now think he’d been foolish to denigrate his daughter’s education, seeing that Brent admired her facility with Greek? Charles suspected something else was afoot. Dunhaven’s remark about the governess had been telling, but what exactly did it say? There was an inference there.…Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him, but he felt ill at ease.

The trout was served from two cunningly designed porcelain tureens, their covers realistically painted fish that appeared ready to leap off the table in a showy arc. The handles resembled twisted green seaweed resting on the long, fish-shaped bowls, which were in turn set on round platters decorated with painted scallop shells and sea grasses. Brent remarked on the fine pottery.

“It is from a dinner service commissioned by George’s mother from the Derby pottery, my lord. She had an eye for lovely dinnerware; we have many examples of Bow, Derby, Chelsea, and Spode at Rowley Hall, enough to serve a houseful of guests.”

“Your late husband was not much of a party-giver, if I recollect, Sophia,” Dunhaven commented.

Sophia toyed with her fork. “No, that is true. George preferred a more solitary life.”

“He was not an antisocial man,” Charles hastened to defend his deceased patron. “But, as he aged, it was a strain on him to entertain large groups. He did have many visitors, nonetheless, who dropped in to inquire after his health and well-being.”

“I gather you were rather thick with the old boy,” Dunhaven remarked.

Charles recalled the last time he’d sat at dinner with the baron. It seemed so long ago, though it was only a few months. “We became friends, yes,” he replied.

“I’m glad you were here for him, Mr. Heywood.” Sophia’s voice was barely above a whisper. She took a quick sip from her wineglass.

Her father frowned; talk of the late Baron Rowley was not his favorite subject of conversation.

The boys had told Charles, when they were fishing, that their mother and grandfather did not seem to be on the best of terms. They’d learned from a footman that there had been an argument in the drawing room the night before. Bless those lads! Charles chuckled to himself. Like their father, they were on easy terms with the servants. There was nothing the staff would not do for the boys, including supplying the latest gossip.

Sophia was wary. She had noted the change that seemed to come over her father. He was making an effort to be pleasant, attempting to stifle his own unpleasant comments, making small talk, even paying her a charming compliment or two, and he’d not drunk any more wine. His behavior was as transparent as the clear crystal glasses on her table; he was up to something.

She sighed. She wanted to be rid of him and his friend, but she could not forcibly evict them from her home. If he would not voluntarily go to the Cock and Bull in Roslyn, she could not make him do so. He was her father and the boys’ grandfather. Much as she disliked doing so, much as his presence made her uncomfortable, she felt she must endure his visit as graciously as possible. There were no warm father-daughter feelings between them, and she sensed he had little interest in his only
grandchildren, but the rest of the world did not need to know those details.