Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (34 page)

“Cook has dinner done. Cold collations, because the heat is miserable and Mr. Benton doesn’t like her having to use the summer kitchen or heat up the house.” 

“Thoughtful of him.” Trent started on a biscuit, savoring the combination of fragrant tea and delicate spice, and glad for the cool of the kitchen. 

“Is Imogenie telling her ma she’s calling on me?” 

“She’s told her father, in any case. I gather that’s a Banbury tale?” 

“It’s a lie. Her parents ought to know I wouldn’t be passing the time of day with Wilton’s light-skirt.” 

“She’s a girl, Nancy. A foolish young girl who needs whatever kindly advice you can give her, and she isn’t the first to believe the earl’s blather.” 

“Nor the last, God help us. I’ll say something to her, does the chance arise. How is Master Darius?”

Trent regaled her with nonsense about his siblings, until the tea and biscuits were nearly gone and Cook had poked her head out of the servants’ parlor, like a squirrel assessing the sky. 

“I’m about to be shooed off.” Trent filched a final cinnamon biscuit and wondered whether Ellie might like the recipe.

But…no. 

“I have letters from my staff at Crossbridge to their confreres here. Shall I give them to Cook?” 

“Best do.” Nancy rose slowly. “I’ve work to do, and I’ve tarried long enough. You give my love to the children, Master Trent, and watch Wilton. That man is up to something, mark me.” 

“We are watching him.” Cook stood in the door, rolling her eyes at Nancy’s dire tone, and Trent recalled that Wilton had spies most everywhere. “But who’s watching you, Nancy Brookes?” 

“We all keep an eye on Miss Nancy,” Cook chimed in as she disappeared into the pantry. 

“Nancy?” Trent posed his question, knowing Cook might be overhearing. “Why didn’t Wilton ever send you packing? You kept his house for years, but he had to know your loyalties were with my mother.” 

“They were with you children. Your mother left me a competence should I ever leave Wilton’s employ.” 

“A sum?” 

“Interest income for life. Wilton has no doubt pilfered the principal, meaning it’s easier for him to keep me in the traces while he spends my money. Where would I go anyway?” 

“Crossbridge.” Trent battled a spike of weary loathing for his father. “Depend upon it, or to Darius’s estate, or Leah’s. I’m without a housekeeper at present, so say the word, and we’ll hitch up the traveling coach.” 

Nancy’s gnarled hand went to her throat. “And me never once leaving the shire in all my born years.” 

“Baggage.” Trent hugged her again, carefully, winked at Cook and tucked the last biscuit into his pocket. “I mean it, Nancy. You want to shake the dust of Wilton from your feet, you have Aaron Benton send a pigeon.” 

He was gone, leaving Nancy to exchange a smile with Cook. 

“That boy.” Nancy swept crumbs from the table. “As if I could ever write more than my name on a good day, much less see what I’d put on the page.” 

Chapter Eighteen 

“Louise isn’t working out very well?” Benton passed Trent a glass holding two fingers of brandy. 

“She cooks competently, but she wants me to be the kind of petty tyrant my father enjoys being and uses her position to push me in that direction. I am amenable to persuasion regarding many things, but not when it comes to following in my father’s footsteps.” 

Benton poured himself a more generous serving, which Trent did not begrudge him. “A cook has more power than one thinks. What will you do?” 

“She’s on her last chance, and then she’ll get what she wants. I’ll summarily turn her off.” Not as summarily as Wilton had.

“High-handed, indeed.” Benton settled his long frame onto the library’s sofa. “Now what is this hare-brained scheme to bring your sister down here next month?” 

“I’m beginning to think it isn’t hare-brained,” Trent mused, peering at his drink. He would rather have had lemonade garnished with mint. “Emily hasn’t spent time here for years, and she’s soon to be fired off, so this will be her last opportunity to sashay around the shire as Lady Emily.” 

Benton’s expression was not cheerful, though he was himself a viscount’s nephew and looked utterly at home in the elegant comfort of the Wilton library. “She’s an earl’s daughter. She’ll always be Lady Emily.”

“She’s not such an earl’s daughter as all that. She’s seventeen, but looks younger, because she has these great blue eyes and… What?”

“I’ve met her.” From his tone, the occasion had not been happy. “When I first came to your town house in London with Bellefonte. Lady Leah and Lady Emily were outside in Bellefonte’s vis-à-vis on their way to the park. She blushed when I bowed over her hand.” 

Months later, Benton recalled this chance meeting? 

“She would blush at true gentlemanliness, though when Nick aims all his flummery at her, she knows it’s purest flummery.” 

Benton left the couch and went off on a progress around the library—a room he could visit twelve times a day if he so chose. “Would Lady Warne accompany her, or would you reside here with her for the nonce?” 

The idea of being far from Crossbridge, and Trent’s children—and Ellie—sat poorly. “Her own father is here. She hardly needs a chaperone beyond that.” 

Benton paused before the shelf that held a collection of earthy Scottish poets whose works Wilton kept on hand for vanity rather than verse. 

“I’d rather someone besides Lady Emily’s father see to her welfare. He cannot be trusted.” 

Which phrase should be the earl’s middle name.

“The one exception to that rule is Emily. If Wilton loves anybody or anything besides his own consequence, it’s Emily.” 

Benton abandoned the poets for medical treatises, also on display for vanity. “If you say so. When shall I expect her?” 

“The middle of next month, assuming she’s willing. Wilton can claim he’s passing up the hunting this fall to prepare for Emily’s arrival, and Emily and Lady Warne can finish up with the house parties.” 

The steward’s expression went from not cheerful to resigned, and he gave up inventorying the shelves. “Where shall we put her?” 

Somebody had consumed Trent’s drink in its entirety. “She was a little girl the last time she was here. I’ll poke around in the family wing and let you know.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Such enthusiasm. “You yourself said Wilton is testing his boundaries, and nothing will bring him to heel like the threat of consequences to Emily.”

Or so Trenton dearly hoped. 

Benton put his half-full glass on the sideboard. “I see two flaws in your reasoning: First, you love the girl and would never truly impose undeserved consequences on her. Wilton isn’t stupid, and he’ll sense you’re bluffing should you threaten to send your sister off to a convent.” 

Fair enough. Around Emily, Trent would simply have to act more like his father, and hope to survive the impersonation. “The second flaw?” 

“He can hurt you through her, as he was wont to hurt you through Lady Leah, and I suspect, through your wife, children and brother.” 

“That was a long time ago, Aaron.” And as close as Trent’s most recent nightmare. “Emily is too canny to be used that way, though I’ll be mindful of your warning.” 

“See that you are. By then, harvest will be upon us, and serving as nursemaid to your baby sister is not on my list of things to look forward to.” 

Trent appropriated the remains of Aaron’s drink, puzzled, because Aaron was seldom hard to read, and yet the steward hadn’t been entirely forthcoming.

As Trent had not been forthcoming with Ellie,
or with himself
for that matter.

If this visit to Wilton Acres had proved anything, it was that Trent was ashamed of his patrimony—too ashamed to expect a second wife to cope with it, for eventually the Wilton heir would be expected to dwell at Wilton Acres.

Yes, he was concerned for Ellie’s safety, but the notion of Wilton’s snide comments, philandering, and cruelty in the same household with Ellie…not even for love, money
and
a title would Trent expect a woman to put up with Wilton. 

On that daunting realization, Trent set Aaron’s empty glass aside and took himself up to his quarters, not at all satisfied with the day’s accomplishments. He made short work of his bath, then belted on his dressing gown and headed back to the library in search of a book.

As if a hard day must end on the worst possible note, Wilton was already in the library helping himself to a drink. 

“Wilton.” Trent offered the slightest sketch of a bow. 

“Amherst.” The earl didn’t even incline his head. “What has you skulking about past your bedtime?” The earl was flushed and smug, and his heavy-handed attempts at insult were tiresome. 

“I’ll find a book and leave you to your solitude, sir.” 

“Thought to stage a sneak attack this time, did you?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Trent perused the poetry simply for an excuse to turn his back on his father while he endured further aggravation from his father. 

“The quarterly bills aren’t due yet. You must be down here thinking to catch me out in some violation of the terms of my parole, but here I am. So, alas, your trip was for nothing.” 

Trent took down a copy William Blake’s
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
. “In truth, I care less and less what you get up to, my lord, as long as you leave me and mine alone and keep your fingers out the family coffers.” 

“What would I find in those coffers to trifle with?” 

“Nancy Brookes’ pension, for one thing. You’ve doubtless pilfered the principal, just as you stole from my siblings. I’ll bid you good night, sir, and pleasant dreams.” 

Trent tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door, though sleep was likely a lost cause after this exchange.

“Heard you’d stopped by to pester old Henly,” the earl said mildly. “A waste of time, Amherst, and beneath you. The peasantry will spread their thighs and be grateful for the attention shown them by their betters.” 

How could a man be a member of the Lords and not understand the difference between peasantry—of which England had none—and yeomanry? 

“Imogenie was a decent woman until you turned her into less than a camp follower, Wilton.” Trent knew, even as the words left his lips, that much of a retort was more than Wilton was owed. 

“A slut.” Wilton smiled slightly. “She’s entertaining for the nonce and not without her endearing qualities. I might make her my next countess.” 

“Do as you please on that score.” No time like the present to fire a few counter-volleys against the wall of Wilton’s arrogance. “I’m sending Emily down here for part of the autumn. You will not entertain your doxy at Wilton Acres while my sister is under this roof.” 

“Emily?” Wilton set his drink down, his expression abruptly alert. “You’re sending her to me?” 

“Hardly.” Trent made a show of perusing his book as he mentally improvised. “Lady Warne felt Emily wasn’t ready for the Little Season and couldn’t think of another place to stash the girl where she wouldn’t further embarrass herself.” 

“Emily Lindsey couldn’t embarrass herself if she spilled punch on her own bodice.” 

And yet, for the first time in Trent’s memory, Wilton’s bluster held a gratifying hint of uncertainty.

“Emily hardly knows how to dance. Her French is atrocious; she can’t sit a horse even to show off her riding habit; she can barely thump out a tune on the pianoforte; can’t draw to save herself; she has no address, no connections, and all because her dear papa couldn’t be bothered to spare her some decent tutors or a finishing governess. It’s no matter to me, except that if I’m to start looking for my next viscountess, I can’t have Emily a laughing stock because of your parsimony.” 

Trent snapped the book shut and prayed his sister would forgive him his mendacity. 

Wilton put his fists on his hips as he advanced on his son. “If my Emily can’t give a good account of herself, it’s because that worthless Leah was no kind of pattern card. You will not make Emily suffer for the education Leah begrudged her.” 

“Leah was, and is, her sister,” Trent said mildly. “Not her governess, not her tutor, not her father. You, and you alone, are responsible for the rough go Emily’s having in Society, so she can lick her wounds here and perhaps apply herself to dancing and French while there’s still time, but heed me, Wilton: If you don’t stop trying to find ways over, under, or through the fences set around you, Emily’s come out will be indefinitely delayed.” 

Which Emily would positively delight to hear, though Wilton mustn’t catch wind of the girl’s sentiments. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” Wilton sputtered. “Emily dotes on those brats of yours and they on her. You wouldn’t use your own sister so unchivalrously.” 

“Darius and I nearly bankrupted ourselves trying to keep Leah from your filthy machinations,” Trent said with a coldness that required no dissembling. “I will be damned if I’ll let your pet spoil the waters for me should I decide to take another bride next year. If Emily blames you for her reduced circumstances, then so much the better for me. Good night,
my lord.
” 

He closed the door behind him, quietly, because even in so small a gesture as a slammed door, he did not want to emulate his father. 

He’d spouted pure, rotten tripe and sounded so like his father in his condescension, pique, and egotism, his belly rebelled. He wanted to hurl the volume of verse against the wall, wanted to run howling into the night for the lies he’d invented about his little sister and his feelings for her. 

When he arrived to his room, he didn’t open the book, but took out writing materials and settled at the escritoire by the window. To soothe his conscience, he composed an explanatory letter to Lady Warne, then a more apologetic explanation to Emily, finishing with assurances that Emily needn’t show her face in Hampshire if she wasn’t completely comfortable doing so. 

Then his pen started on a letter to one Lady Rammel, Deerhaven, East Havers, Surrey. His pride in how Wilton Acres was thriving came through on the page, as did his frustration over Imogenie’s situation and his distaste for dealing with his father. He told Ellie he couldn’t ever see living at Wilton Acres, nor raising his children here, but Ford at least needed to learn the place and how it worked. 

He told her he missed her, and worried for her and her continued comfort as her confinement approached, and bid her to ask Andy to give Zephyr a scratch under the chin for him. 

The letter was silly, one a brother might write to a sister, or, more like, a husband to a wife of long years. He probably wouldn’t send it, but signed it and sealed it anyway, because that put a sense of closure on his thoughts. 

With a settled mind, he turned for his bed, there to toss for a few hours before he once again dreamed of Ellie Hampton and what he could not have with her. 

*** 

“What are you doing here?” Peak pushed dark hair back off tired eyes and glared at Cato as he took up a perch on the end of Peak’s cot. 

“Missing you.” Cato offered a smile by way of apology. “Again.” 

Peak yanked the covers up higher. “You are to be at the manor, protecting the children, Mr. Spencer.” 

How he loved to hear his name in those tones. Not his title, but “
Mister
Spencer” as only Peak could render it.

“Nonsense.” Cato eased back, propping his shoulders against the wall. “I’m doing penance up there—separated from you but reminded each minute of the comforts I’ve left at home in Ireland. Amherst knows what he’s doing.” 

“He’s tempting you into leaving?” 

Amherst wasn’t applying temptation so much as guilt. “He knows what it means to carry a title and to shirk those responsibilities. Knows it isn’t something lightly done.” 

“You won’t give up on this, will you?” 

Cato’s gaze held Peak’s in the wavering light of the lantern. “We can go back, though not as long as you insist on being stubborn.” 

“You’re stubborn, too.” 

More stubborn than Peak, Cato hoped. Stubborn enough to best somebody who would never know the meaning of surrender. “But I’m stubborn because I’m right, Peak. You know you’re wrong.” 

“I don’t want to go back there.” Peak rubbed strong, slender arms, though the night was mild. 

“You miss home as much as I do. You simply don’t want to face anybody, but it wouldn’t be like that.” 

Peak thumped the pillow a few times with a callused fist. “If you need to go, I’ll tag along to make sure you don’t get up to foolishness, but as for the rest of it, you won’t wear me down.” 

Cato rose, before the sadness in Peak’s eyes inspired him to foolishness. “I will wear you down.” 

“You’re not staying?” Peak resumed slamming the pillow as soon as the words were out, but Cato heard the consternation and silently rejoiced. 

“I’ve been reminded of my duties.” Cato stretched to his full height. “I’m off to protect innocents from mischief, while you dream of me and home. But think on this, Peak: If you came home with me, on my terms, you’d seldom sleep alone again.”

He sauntered out, knowing it was cruel, but his mind was made up. He and Peak had drifted along, content to mind Amherst’s stables, and put off facing the inevitable. Amherst had been the one to suggest a solution, and Cato had had enough of hiding with a muck fork in one hand and a knife in the other—more than enough. If he took away Peak’s pleasures, they’d come to an understanding eventually.

Provided Cato could deny himself those same pleasures as long as it took to overcome Peak’s stubbornness.

*** 

In five years of marriage, Ellie hadn’t received a single letter from Dane. She’d had notes. “I’ll be down end of next week. Hope you’re keeping well. Rammel.” Or, “Blasted stinking rain won’t let up. Might stop by for the weekend. Rammel.” Or, one she’d particularly treasured at the time: “Need a short repairing lease. Will hope to see you end of this week. Missing the comforts of home. Rammel.” 

But Trenton Lindsey had sent her a letter, both sides of an uncrossed page, recounting his frustrations, his joys, and his plans, as well as his list of admonitions to her: 

“Be sure to put your feet up at every opportunity and rest often.”

“Keep your flowers near to hand, for they seem to cheer you.” 

“Don’t skimp on the peppermint tea, it soothes the digestion.” 

Worst of all, the man had had the temerity to address the letter to “My Dearest Friend.” 

This letter wasn’t romantic, boasted neither a line of verse nor a florid analogy in the whole thing. The prose wasn’t the work of a callow swain or a lovesick boy. The words were from the pen of a lonely man and a caring man. 

“What has put that expression on your face, Elegy?” 

“Good morning, Minty.” Minty, whom Ellie hadn’t heard approaching in the corridor beyond her sitting room. “I’ve a letter from Trenton Lindsey.” 

Minty settled in to her customary rocker all too comfortably. “A letter from a gentleman. Not quite the done thing, even if you are a widow. What does it say, or shall I read it myself and assess his penmanship while I’m about it?” 

Ellie passed the letter over. 

“Lovely hand. Not at all like a man’s.” 

“I think he likes to sketch.” Ellie sipped her peppermint tea. “His father wouldn’t let him have a drawing master, though. Said it was a female waste of time, sketching and the like.” 

“When Andy does it, it’s a waste of time. This reminds me of the letters my papa would send my mama. Very…comfy.” 

“Comfy?” 

“As if he were cuddled up beside her at the end of the day or maybe brushing out her hair.”