The Convenient Arrangement (18 page)

“So mayhap I should not continue work in this direction.”

“Don't be absurd!” She clasped his hands and smiled up at him. “Simply share it with her at a time when she can enjoy it in privacy.”

“Her?”

“Do not be coy with me, Lorenzo. I have eyes that can see what is right before them. I think you are being very wise to consider this way to win Miss Oates's heart as well as her respect. Write your poems and have them delivered to her instead of bringing them yourself.”

“Why?” He could think of nothing else to say. He had not thought Valeria's reaction would be this. Then he recalled how she had agreed to act as his best friend tonight. Mayhap that was what she was trying to do.

“So she might have the opportunity to savor each word and sentiment when no one else can see. That allows her to decide when and how she will share this special honor with the rest of the world.”

“You women are a most complicated breed. I would have thought that the presentation of a poem in person, mayhap even reading it aloud, would be preferable.”

She came to her feet and squeezed his arm. “Lorenzo, trust me on this. A woman wants to savor what is special for a while until she can contain her happiness no longer and must share it with others.”

“All women?”

“All I have met.” She gave a delicate shiver. “The night is too chilly for me. Shall we return inside?”

“Go ahead. I want to make sure these nascent poems are secured so that there is no chance of them falling out at an inopportune moment.”

Lorenzo sat where she had been sitting and stared up at the moon. He should have listened to his instincts. Then he would have stayed at Moorsea Manor tonight, and his life would not be cascading into this abyss of absurdity.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Tilden Oates meeting Valeria at the door of the music room. Miss Oates had been eager to tell Lorenzo earlier that his brother was bored with Exmoor and hoped to spend more time in London … exactly as Valeria would want if a match was made between them.

Valeria's suggestions about his poetry tonight had been wonderful, he had to own, save for one small problem. The inspiration of the poems had not been Miss Mary Oates. The inspiration had been Valeria Fanning.

Reaching under his coat, he pulled out the pages. He slowly shredded them before tossing the pieces into the bushes below. The ever-present breeze sent some of them soaring and catching the light like fallen stars ascending once more to the heavens before they dropped back onto the grass.

He rose and walked away without looking back.

Eleven

“He's going to marry you off in ripping time. He just wants to be rid of us.”

Valeria regarded her nephew who was slouched in his chair and glowering at her. She wanted to argue that was not true, that Lorenzo was glad to have them at Moorsea Manor, but she would not be false with David. “We do disturb him when he wishes to have serenity.”

“But I don't want to leave here.”

“You don't want to leave? I thought you despised this place.”

He stood and stamped from the hearth to the settee and dropped on it so hard that the wood creaked. “There are so many parts of Moorsea Manor that I haven't been to yet.
He
still refuses to let me go out into the old wall.
He
thinks I'll get hurt, although I wager
he
would be glad if I went out there and broke my neck.”

“David! What a horrible thing to say!”

“Didn't you tell me I should always be truthful?”

“But that's not the truth. Lorenzo would be very upset if something happened to you.”

“And then
he
would dance a jig, glad I was gone.”

“Don't be absurd!” Valeria rose and put her hand on his shoulder. “And don't fret. I have no plans to buckle myself to anyone now.”

David hunched down into the settee. “You'll have to marry if
he
decides you will.”

“Lorenzo is a reasonable man.”

He arched a brow, and Valeria pressed her hand against her chest. Was being able to raise a single brow a masculine skill intended to belittle a woman? She had grown to despise it from Lorenzo, and now David had begun it. Or—and she knew better than to voice this question which would rile David—was it a habit he had obtained from being in Lorenzo's company?

“I'm not going to leave here until I have seen every inch of this house.” He folded his arms before him and scowled. “He can't force me to, and neither can you!”

“David, remember your manners.”

“Why should I?” He jumped to his feet again, making her dizzy with his ups and downs. “He's going to marry Miss Oates and then bundle us off to Oates's Hall when he insists you leg-shackle yourself to Sir Tilden.” His nose wrinkled. “That house is only twenty or thirty years old. It's not fun like this house.”

“You could come here to visit any time you wish.”

David jammed his fists against his waist. “What will that make Lord Moorsea if you marry Sir Tilden and he marries Miss Oates? My uncle?”

“Not exactly.” She rubbed her hands together, but could not ease the cold aching across them. “David, let us speak of something else.”

“What else?” he asked with an eight-year-old's logic. “It's all
everyone
is speaking of.”

“Everyone? Whom do you mean?”

“Everyone is everyone. Cook and Gil and Miss Urquhart and the upstairs maid with the missing tooth and the blond stableboy and Kirby and—”

He continued to list names, but she did not listen. If Kirby was repeating such
on dits
, there might be some validity to them. She had to own it was a convenient solution to a problem that Lorenzo had not anticipated when he came to claim his inheritance. Tilden had been an excellent host last week, and she had enjoyed going into dinner with him. She had been prejudiced by her disquiet that Lorenzo had arranged their first meeting, an assumption that Tilden had contradicted when he told her, upon their parting at Oates's Hall, how glad he was that his sister had asked him to ride toward Moorsea Manor that day. Yes, her marrying Tilden would be an excellent solution for Lorenzo. And for her, she had to own, for he offered her everything she wanted, save for the pulse of delight she savored when Lorenzo spoke to her.

“What are we going to do?” David's voice came out in a groan of pain.

She held out her hands to him. She must think of the child, not her own unsettled future. He buried his head in her lap and wept. As she stroked his hair, wishing she could soothe his fears of losing yet another home, she whispered, “It shall be all right, David. I promise you that.”

“But how—?”

“I don't know, but I promise you that it shall be all right.”

The village of Winlock-on-Sea was a throwback to the previous century. Thatched roofs and stone walls had weathered the storms tossed up out of the sea and the sunshine cooking them on this unseasonably warm morning. Villagers sat doing chores on the steps in front of their doors on either side of the narrow road unraveling down the hill from Moorsea Manor.

As Valeria emerged with Lorenzo from a small shop in the very center of Winlock-on-Sea, she said, “Thank you.”

“I am pleased I could help you find something for young David for his birthday next week.” Lorenzo set his hat on his head and smiled. “Mayhap the toy soldiers will give him something to do but think up pranks to torment me.”

“He is just—”

“A boy, I know.” He offered his arm as they walked up the twisting street. “A most imaginative boy, which is why I hope this gift will entertain him.”

“I have never seen him play with toy soldiers, but mayhap he will enjoy these.” She looked in the window at the tin knights mounted on painted horses. The shopkeeper had assured her that they represented the great armies of the War of the Roses. The soldiers would be delivered to Moorsea Manor in time for David's birthday.

“One can only hope so.”

At Lorenzo's grim tone, she did not answer. She doubted if David would spend all his time playing with the soldiers, when he was so determined to enjoy every bit of Moorsea Manor before it was no longer his home. Nothing Valeria had said would convince the boy that Lorenzo would not force her into an unwanted marriage. It made no difference to David. Wanted or unwanted, marriage, he knew as she did, was inevitable for her, and then they would be gone from the old manor house. Her suggestion that Lorenzo might be less eager to find her a husband if they caused no problems in the house was something David ignored.

She did not want to be down-pinned today. The sky was a wondrous blue, and the air was sweet with fragrance from the flowers climbing the cottages. Even the breeze off the sea had tempered, and the only clouds were fluffy.

When Lorenzo paused in front of a building with a sign calling it
The Old Master's House
, she asked, “Is this the tavern that belongs to you?”

“It must be.” His smile was ironic. “It appears to be the sole building of its ilk in Winlock-on-Sea.” Reaching for the door, he asked, “Shall we pay it a call?”

Valeria hesitated. In London, she never would have considered entering a tavern. That was a place reserved for gentlemen or worse. While traveling here, she and David had stayed overnight at inns, but she had avoided going into the taprooms. Such an action would label her no better than a Cyprian.

“If you would prefer not to …” Lorenzo started to close the door.

“Yes, why don't we visit your tavern?” she replied before she could halt herself. Lorenzo had been generous to her today, escorting her to Winlock-on-Sea and paying for David's gift. To balk when he was making a not outrageous request was worse than rude.

His smile widening, he held the door for her. She noted that he had to duck his head to enter the low door, which was not a surprise, for the feathers on her bonnet had brushed the top of the door frame when she walked through. The tavern was small and close with the smoke from the pipes of the dozen men crowded around its bar. A single table sat near the window where the stains left by a recent storm ran along the uneven glass as if the rain had tried to create a new route to the sea.

The men stared at her, but came to their feet as Lorenzo edged into the choke-full room. The man, who wore an apron and stood behind the bar, came forward. He was shorter than Valeria, so he had to crane his neck up to meet Lorenzo's gaze.

“You're the new earl, aren't you?” he asked in a broad accent.

“Lorenzo Wolfe.” He took off his hat before it bumped into the rafters. “You are?”

“Trenton, my lord.” Glancing uneasily at Valeria, he asked, “Can I get you and yer lady somethin' to ease yer thirst?”

“Ale for me, and a sweet cider for Lady Fanning.”

The barkeeper's eyes grew big as he looked at Valeria again. She fought not to let her smile waver. If he had assumed that she was Lorenzo's convenient, he was sadly mistaken. There was nothing convenient about anything between her and Lorenzo.

When Lorenzo's hand guided her to the single table, Valeria sat with her back to the taproom. She would prefer to pretend the men were not staring at them.

Lorenzo did not pull out his chair. Instead he peered at a frame set over the hearth. “Is this the painting of my uncle, Trenton?”

“That be the old earl.” He set the two mugs on the table and swished a damp cloth across the uneven boards.

“Which one? There are two men standing by their horses here.”

Trenton shrugged. “One be him. The other be the older earl. Not sure which is which. Paintin' was here when I came here about thirty years ago. Can I get you somethin' to eat, m'lord?”

“Whatever you have simmering will be fine.” Lorenzo pulled out his chair and sat across from Valeria. As soon as the barkeeper had gone into the kitchen behind the tavern, he added, “My uncle might have had a closer relative than me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the painting.”

She went to it. The painter had not possessed a remarkable talent, and the pose was commonplace. Two men stood stiffly in front of two horses with excellent lines. In the background was a building that was clearly supposed to be Moorsea Manor, although several of the windows were in the wrong place. “What about it?”

“Look at the older man.” He chuckled and took a deep drink of his ale, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “Does he look a bit familiar?”

Valeria squinted to make out the small faces, then gasped. “He looks much like Earl.”

Lorenzo laughed again as she took her seat. “My thoughts exactly. I suspect, although the subject has been oddly unspoken of at the manor, that my grandfather may have more than one son. Could it be that no one else has noticed the resemblance?” He grinned and leaned back in his chair. “I think I would have liked my maternal grandfather who named his by-blow after his own title.”

“Lorenzo!”

“Do not act shocked, Valeria. You have to own that it is a grand jest.” His smile faded. “I hope this was not the reason that divided my mother and her brother.”

“An illegitimate half-brother could not have been the reason. Earl's birth, even if you are right, had nothing to do with them.”

“I know, but I would like to discover what caused the schism that they never were able to bridge.”

She put her hand over his on the table. “You cannot let this tear at you, Lorenzo. That was their lives. This is yours.”

When he put his hand atop hers, he smiled. Not a brilliant smile as he wore when he was enjoying a jest. Not an exultant smile like she saw on his face when he had uncovered some tidbit of information on one piece of his uncle's collection. Not his satisfied smile when the words were coming easily for his poetry. This smile was nothing like any of them. It possessed a warmth that was both a promise and a provocation, daring her to push aside common sense and discover something most uncommon.