To Wed A Viscount (23 page)

With a sigh, Griffin pushed away from his desk, stretched out his legs in front of him, and thought about how peculiar these circumstances were.

A commotion sounded in the hallway, interrupting his reflective thoughts. Griffin straightened and watched the door handle slowly turn. Since there had been no knock he knew it could not be a servant and assumed it was a family member. Probably one of his sisters.

But when the heavy door swung open it was Georgie who stood uncertainly in the doorway. The viscount smiled at the boy, who immediately began fidgeting. He knew the decidedly masculine study held great interest for the child, for Georgie had told his father more than once that he thought it was the grandest room in the house.

Apparently the boy especially liked the glass eyes of the stuffed boar's head staring down from the walls, a confession that had both startled and impressed the viscount.

Secretly he was proud of the child's bravery, for Griffin had always thought the stuffed animal heads rather intimidating when he was Georgie's age. Perhaps the child did not realize the heads had once been attached to large, living beasts.

“I was looking for you,” Georgie said at last.

“Is that so? I was unaware that I was lost.” Griffin grinned at his son, knowing the boy would not understand the subtlety of the humor but hoping to coax a smile.

Georgie had been told not to disturb his father when he was working and the expression on the little boy's face clearly stated that he knew he was doing something wrong.

The child did not smile. He glanced down at his foot and rubbed the tip of his shoe into the fringe of the carpet. Then he lifted his face and shot Griffin a wary look.

Puzzled, the viscount stood up and motioned for the child to come forward. With a strangled cry, Georgie eagerly raced toward him. Griffin caught the child in a hug and swung him up in the air. This action usually brought peals of laughter from the boy, but not today.

Griffin noticed a slight trembling in the small body he held against his chest. A stab of fear shot through him as he slowly allowed Georgie to slide down to the floor.

The boy gazed up at him with wide, troubled eyes, and Griffin's suspicions were confirmed. This was not an impulsive visit, a chance to beg for a closer look at the impressive crossbow that was displayed in the glass gun cabinet or the dueling pistols locked inside a gleaming mahogany box. This was far more serious.

“You must come to the drawing room right now,” Georgie announced solemnly. He placed his small hand in his father's and held on tightly. “There is a bad man and a mean lady who came for tea and they made Faith cry.”

“What? I was unaware that there would be company for tea. Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Georgie nodded his head emphatically. “Faith wiped her face real fast, but I saw her eyes leaking tears. She looked so sad. The bad man was talking in a loud voice that hurt my ears and waving his hands all around. Like this.” Georgie flayed his arms wildly to demonstrate.

“And the mean lady said that good little boys stay in the nursery not in the drawing room with the adults and told me to leave.” Georgie tilted his head. “Aren't I a good boy, Papa?”

Griffin stepped forward and took hold of Georgie's arm. “You are the best behaved little boy I know and my very favorite son.”

Georgie took a deep breath. “Please make the bad people go away, Papa. I don't like them.”

Griffin moved a little closer and focused on Georgie's face. He had never seen the child look so miserable, not even after his beloved nursemaid had sailed back to the Colonies. Whoever these mysterious individuals were, they had certainly made a strong impression on his son.

“By any chance, do you remember the names of this man and lady?” Griffin asked.

Georgie shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“Is anyone else in the drawing room with Faith? Aunt Harriet or Aunt Elizabeth perhaps?” Griffin questioned.

“No.” Georgie grabbed the edge of Griffin's coat with his free hand and twisted the material nervously. “Will you send them away now, Papa? Please?”

“If they are acting as you say, then they will be gone before you can say ‘Napoleon is a rat' three times fast.”

That final remark brought a weak smile to the boy's lips. Though the child's account of these odd events seemed sincere, Griffin could not help but think that Georgie had somehow misconstrued what he had seen and heard. Yet the boy was not prone to melodrama.

Griffin left his study and strode quickly through the hall, with Georgie on his heels. The viscount scarcely noticed the sound of hammering, scraping, and banging being created by the various workmen he passed. Though the renovations to the first floor had been completed at the end of the summer, there was much additional work needed on the second and third floors, and the men hired to attend to those tasks were busy laboring.

When he reached the closed doors of the drawing room, Griffin motioned for Georgie to remain outside. The child nodded in understanding and took up a position near a large potted palm.

Griffin yanked open the door, entering unannounced, and indeed discovered two strangers having tea with his wife. A middle-aged man and woman, just as Georgie had said.

At his entrance, all conversation ceased. Three sets of eyes swung his way, but Griffin's main concern was his wife.

The gray light of the rainy afternoon etched Faith's features in a soft illumination that could not conceal their tautness. She sat unnaturally rigid, her mouth set in a grim line. Yet she was still the picture of grace and nobility. Under fire?

There was certainly enough tension and undercurrents of distress in the room to suggest that might be possible.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” Griffin said, going immediately to Faith's side.

He lifted the limp hand settled in her lap and kissed it in formal greeting. Her fingers were cold as ice. Griffin felt a twinge of irritation. If she was upset, she should have called for him. Or thrown these two upstarts out on their ear.

“I was unaware that we had company,” the viscount continued in an even tone. “You should have summoned me.”

Faith turned her head and gave him a valiant smile. “I did not wish to disturb you while you were working,” she replied softly. “My cousin and his wife have surprised me with a visit. They have come from London to discuss some family matters.”

“Yes, family matters,” the man muttered hastily, his eyes shifting to the corner of the room.

“Family matters? Well, then, I have arrived just in time.” Griffin replied smoothly, deciding he did not like Faith's cousin. “However, I am not acquainted with your relations. Would you do the honors, my dear?”

She hesitated, bit her lower lip, then inclined her head fractionally.

“This is my cousin Cyril and his wife Amelia. Upon my father's death Cyril inherited the title. He is the new Baron Aston.”

Ah, now it made a bit more sense. Griffin remembered that one of the reasons Faith had been so adamant about marrying him was to keep her beloved Mayfair Manor out of her cousin's clutches.

Faith cleared her throat. “Lord Aston has expressed some concerns over the validity of our marriage. As it pertains to my father's will.”

“Has he now?” It was the most congenial, restrained response Griffin could force past his clenched teeth. “Then why did he not address these concerns directly to me?”

“My solicitor advised against it,” Lord Aston replied. “However, I felt it was only fair to inform Faith of our intentions to have her father's will overturned. After all, we are still family.”

“How generous of you.” Griffin's mouth curved up, but it really wasn't a smile. “What precisely do you find objectionable about our marriage, Lord Aston?”

“Everyone knows you aren't the right Viscount Dewhurst. Her father wanted her to marry your brother. Not you.”

“Well, since my brother is not here to object to the marriage, I see no reason that you should.” Griffin raised his brows with an exaggerated motion, as if a new thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Unless you are hoping to gain possession of Mayfair Manor by challenging our marriage?”

“Are you daft, man?” Lord Aston snorted in disgust. “The title is useless without the property. I have bills to pay, a family to provide for, not to mention a higher standard of living to maintain now that I am a baron. The only way I can do that is by assuming ownership of what is rightfully mine. Mayfair Manor.”

“Yes, the manor is rightfully ours,” Lady Aston chimed in. She moved closer to the edge of the lavender satin chair she sat upon to emphasize her point.

Griffin noted that the fabric of the chair clashed horribly with the bright yellow day gown she wore and gave her severe features a pinched, sallow look. Her mouth was set at a mulish angle, her brow wrinkled in a scowl.

Griffin immediately decided he liked her even less than her husband.

“I suppose the fact that my wife has fulfilled all the legal requirements of her father's will is to be ignored?”

“Your marriage is a sham,” Lord Aston sneered. “There are servants employed at the Sign of the Dove Inn where you spent your wedding night who will swear that you didn't stay together in the same room for more than an hour.”

“Idle servant gossip? Is that what you are basing your case upon?” Griffin shrugged his shoulders expressively. “It shall be laughed out of court. If it even comes to trial.”

Griffin saw Faith pause, her teacup halfway to her mouth. She took a huge gulp of air, set down the cup in its saucer, then picked up the teapot. She poured a fresh cup of the brew and added one lump of sugar.

She extended the cup toward him, and he grabbed at it quickly, to hide the rattling of the china.
Devil take the baron!
Faith was obviously very upset, probably because the man had managed to uncover an unsavory bit of truth.

Griffin immediately placed his tea on the table. He did not want his hands encumbered with delicate china if he felt the sudden need to put his hands upon Lord Aston and toss him from the room.

“There are those among the beau monde who have unusual marriages, but once the true circumstances of yours becomes known, society will be vastly amused,” Lord Aston predicted in a dire tone. “I'm sure Faith would prefer to avoid the gossip and humiliation that—”

“Have a care, sir,” Griffin interrupted with deadly calm, not allowing the baron to finish his sentence. “You are speaking of my wife. Anything you say about her reflects directly on me. I protect what is mine, with any means necessary.”

The viscount advanced steadily on the baron as he spoke, coming close enough that he could smell the mutton and sour wine Cyril had consumed for lunch.

Aston held his gaze and shrugged his shoulders, as if this were of little concern to him, but Griffin could see the tension creep into his adversary's shoulders.

“I must say,” Griffin continued in a droll tone, “that a man so enamored with the goings-on of another couple's bedchamber activities must not have much of interest occurring in his own to keep him occupied.”

There was a gasp of outrage from Lady Aston. Her red-faced husband's nostrils flared as he tried to sputter a reply, but it was Faith who spoke.

“My cousin has brought a document he wishes me to sign,” she said hesitantly. “Designed to save me from any sort of ridicule.”

“Yes.” Lord Aston gasped for a moment, fumbled in his breast-coat pocket, and pulled forth a rumpled document. “My solicitor has drawn up the papers stating that you will not oppose my suit against the will.”

Griffin drew an audible breath. “If you think that I would allow you to come into my home and bully my wife into signing over a property that is rightfully hers, then you are even more of an imbecile than I first thought,” he said.

“Now, see here,” Lord Aston sputtered.

But Griffin would not allow him to continue. “You should consider yourself most fortunate, sir, that I have been so excessively restrained this afternoon,” Griffin declared. “When I saw how much you distressed my wife and upset my son, my first inclination was to slam several hard blows to your face.”

“Such savagery!” Lady Aston admonished.

Griffin did not react to the comment. Instead, he strolled casually to the drawing-room door and placed his fingers on the polished brass handle. “I shall have my butler summon your driver immediately. Good day.”

Lord Aston opened his mouth to protest, but Griffin held up a staying hand and looked from the baron to his wife with careful disdain.

“I am certain that you do not wish to push my temper beyond its limit,” Griffin continued. “I can assure you, with no false modesty, that my reputation with both sword and pistol is accurate and well deserved.”

Lord Aston turned a bit pale, but he puffed out his chest with a great show of bruised dignity. He held out his arm, and his pinch-faced wife attached herself to it. They stalked to the door, pausing briefly at the threshold to glare at Griffin.

“This is far from over, Dewhurst.”

“Oh, but it is, Aston.” Griffin looked assessingly at his opponent. “I suggest strongly that you enjoy your new title and status and content yourself knowing that it is all you shall be receiving.

“For I give you fair and clear warning, though you hardly deserve it. If you pursue this matter in any way that upsets my wife, I shall take great delight in stripping from you all manner of luxuries you currently enjoy and do everything within my power to ensure that you are forced to live in the poverty you now claim to be experiencing.”