A Woman of True Honor: True Gentlemen Book Eight Read online

  “Perhaps, but there’s merit in giving Jenny’s account the credence it deserves, Grey, and to letting Rutledge know his misbehavior won’t be tolerated. When you dismiss the charges against Jenny, put the fear of God into Rutledge for provoking a young maid into defending herself. Would you like to bide here tonight?”

  Grey would like to bide at the cottage for the next week, where no empty corridors made the hours drag and no whining neighbors could bother him with their squabbles and disgraceful behavior.

  “I will take myself home. This is exceptionally good cake.”

  “I wanted to try the recipe I translated to make sure I got it right. My cook/housekeeper has the Sabbath free in addition to her half day, so I had the run of the kitchen.”

  “You cooked this meal?”

  “I like to cook, and I wasn’t about to serve the Earl of Casriel cold sandwiches and ale for a Sunday meal.” Valerian corked the wine, portioned a quarter of the remaining cake into a bowl, and rose. “Some sustenance to see you through tomorrow’s ordeal.” He walked Grey to the front door, as a considerate host should.

  “You mentioned Miss Pepper,” Grey said. “How is she settling in?”

  Valerian put aside the cake and wine to hold Grey’s coat for him. “It’s early days. Dorset is not Mayfair, and Pepper Ridge requires a lot of attention.”

  And that was a telling dodge. “You were seen walking with her at yesterday’s picnic.”

  “Hawthorne cannot keep his mouth shut, while Oak sees much and says little. We are blessed in our brothers.”

  “Does one conclude that you and Miss Pepper are congenially disposed toward each other?”

  Valerian passed him the cake and the wine. “I like her, I suppose she likes me. I also like a pleasant meal, a ramble across the fields, a lively fiddle tune. She is in want of allies, and I know how that feels. Try not to eat all the cake on the walk home.”

  He bowed Grey into the night air, and while Grey still missed Beatitude terribly, the ache had dulled to a patient misery. Half the remaining wine and a few nibbles of cake on the walk home helped soothe even that discomfort.

  Not until Grey was preparing for bed an hour later did it occur to him to wonder how a man with eight devoted, loving siblings could know what a want of allies felt like.

  * * *

  The Sunday crème cake had been an extravagance, but Valerian had been in a self-indulgent mood since leaving Emily Pepper at the Summerton picnic on Saturday. He’d taken his plunge in the mill stream—a near-daily ritual of late—and then trudged home to resume kicking himself for offering to teach Miss Pepper the country dances.

  “Because I am an idiot,” he muttered, turning his gig down the lane that led to Pepper Ridge.

  The London publisher who’d shown an interest in his manuscript had been merely polite. His note had been nearly perfunctory. No talk of subscriptions, serialization, or—damn it all to hell—money. Sycamore had either ignored or missed Valerian’s hints that he was available to assist in the management of Sycamore’s club, but then, Ash was fulfilling that role quite well.

  Leaving Valerian to man the exalted post of dancing master without portfolio.

  Pepper Ridge rose up at the end of the drive, an edifice that to outward appearances exemplified the stately country home at its finest. The interior told another tale, much like a well-dressed bachelor’s empty pockets contradicted his fine attire.

  Valerian brought his horse to a halt at the foot of the terrace steps and handed the reins off to a groom. “Clovis might appreciate a bucket of water. I should not be long.”

  “Very good, guv’nor. Come along, horse.”

  Valerian had arrived early. Having two sisters, he was well acquainted with a young lady’s notion of time when an outing required dressing for the occasion. To his surprise, Miss Pepper received him almost immediately.

  She bobbed a curtsey, frills and flounces flapping at her hems and bodice. “Will I do, Mr. Dorning?”

  God save the poor woman. “You would do superbly for an evening at Almack’s.” Her dress bared most of her arms and a considerable expanse of her décolletage—not the done thing for an informal late afternoon gathering—and the heavily gathered and embroidered underdress was overlaid with a silk demiskirt that fell to about six inches above the underhem.

  The dress was both too much and not nearly enough.

  Miss Pepper smoothed a hand over her skirts. “We are not bound for Almack’s.”

  “Shall I be honest?”

  “Somebody had better be. Briggs claimed this was precisely the outfit to make a fine first impression.”

  “That shade of soft blue is lovely, the material is gorgeous, and the workmanship exquisite.”

  “Put me out of my misery, Mr. Dorning. I’ve chosen poorly, haven’t I? Poorly for Dorset.”

  “You have chosen well for a London formal dinner.” Though even for an occasion such as that, the ensemble was overdone and not particularly flattering. “Let’s have a look at your dressing closet. I’m sure we can find something better suited to rural socializing. How do the renovations proceed?”

  “I have no idea.” Miss Pepper took off up the stairs at a good clip, lacy trim fluttering. “I look in on the job at the end of every day, and the head carpenter claims they are proceeding quite on schedule. If that’s so, shouldn’t I hear hammers banging and saws sawing?”

  “Incessantly.” Grey was preparing to demolish the family wing of Dorning Hall, and even that effort resulted in a ceaseless din.

  “The master suite is three doors down on the left,” she said when they’d reached the top of the stairs. “Note the silence. By this hour of the afternoon, the workmen usually bestir themselves to make some sort of racket, but much of the day I’m not sure what goes on in there. They have removed the old wallpaper, taken up the worn carpets, removed the fixtures and the wainscoting, and carted those away, too, but that has taken them nearly two weeks.”

  That list of preparatory tasks should have taken a competent crew a day, possibly two. “Let’s drop in, shall we?” Valerian started for the master suite before his hostess could stop him. “Our dower house at Dorning Hall was struck by lightning last autumn. I oversaw the selling of the salvageable brick, stone, timber, glass, and fixtures. I can assure you, tearing down a single set of rooms for refurbishing should not take two weeks.”

  He opened the door without knocking and interrupted what appeared to be a game of dice.

  “Taking a break, gentlemen?”

  “So we were,” a tall, spare man with thinning blond hair said, getting to his feet without any apparent haste. “The afternoon break, as it happens. Back to work, lads. And who might you be, sir?”

  The lads glanced around, then produced awls, hammers, and nails.

  “Let’s have this discussion in the corridor,” Miss Pepper said as one of the men began to pound a nail in what Valerian was certain was a random location. Miss Pepper marched out, her fancy dress earning stares all around.

  “Mr. Dorning, may I make known to you Mr. Prentiss Ogilvy. Mr. Ogilvy, Mr. Valerian Dorning.”

  “From Dorning Hall?” Ogilvy asked.

  “The very same. You’ve been at work for the past two weeks, as I understand it.”

  The Dorning name took some of the shine off Ogilvy’s arrogance. “Give or take. These old houses can’t be hurried, I always say. We’re making fine progress, though, like I tell the miss here.”

  His speech wasn’t that of the Dorset countryside, and Valerian hadn’t recognized any of the men working for him.

  “Where do you hail from, Mr. Ogilvy?”

  Ogilvy winced as a crash sounded from the master parlor. “Over Portsmouth way. We go where the work is, and Mr. Pepper was powerful eager to get this job started.”

  “And when will that be?” Valerian inquired.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “When will you start on the job? From what I can see, you’ve been sitting about for two weeks, d
oubtless swilling some fine Pepper Ridge ale, and pretending that a day’s worth of demolition takes a week to complete. Perhaps between rounds of dice, it does.”

  Ogilvy grasped his dusty lapels. “Now see here, Mr. Dorning, the Ogilvys has been carpenters and masons since Good Queen Bess’s day, and if the structure isn’t to be damaged in the stripping down, then care must be taken.”

  The ale on Ogilvy’s breath would have knocked Valerian’s horse onto its muscular rump. “You disposed of rugs and fixtures for Miss Pepper. How carefully did you account for the proceeds?”

  Ogilvy’s gaze darted to Miss Pepper, who was remaining admirably silent. “Proceeds, sir?”

  First the invocation of Good Queen Bess, now the echoing. The man was a crook and a stupid one.

  “I’m sure the contract you signed obligated you to account for any salvage sold on behalf of the owner. You are entitled to a commission—fifteen percent is the highest I’ve seen—but not to loot the premises. Where is your accounting?”

  “The, um,”—Ogilvy ran a finger around the inside of his wrinkled neckcloth—“the carpets and such haven’t sold yet. I sent them to Portsmouth to get a better price.”

  “Did you send the books too?” Miss Pepper asked, all eager good cheer.

  “Them books are in the stables in crates.”

  “Because,” Valerian said, “storing old books in a horse barn is sure to safeguard their value, but for the attentions of the rats, mice, and other vermin, to say nothing of the damage stable cats can do. You may go back to work, Mr. Ogilvy.”

  As Mr. Ogilvy slipped through the door, the noise coming from the master suite spiked, then receded to a thumping din.

  Miss Pepper paced off, skirts swishing. “I told Papa that a crew available on short notice was a crew with little to recommend it. I told him to read the blasted contract, because I haven’t had the time. The salvage was to be sent to Dorset, not to a booming port town nearly seventy miles away. Portsmouth has access to every trade route frequented by British ships. Nobody there has need of my old carpets or door latches. I had no idea that I was due the proceeds of the salvage.”

  “Miss Pepper?”

  “I knew better than to trust Ogilvy. I knew better, and I did not listen to my own instincts.” She stalked up the corridor, coming to a halt outside a door with lambs and geese carved into the panel. “I sat in that stuffy parlor and let Briggs lecture me on the finer points of pall-mall, which I have no intention of ever playing, and which she has not played for at least fifteen years. I am good at reading contracts—very good—and I should have been…” She rested her forehead on the door, the wind abruptly dropping from her sails. “Forgive me, I am in a temper.”

  “I adore your temper.”

  Temper put a little color in her cheeks and fire in her eyes. Temper cut through her careful manners and the subtle watchfulness she carried beneath her polite behavior. Perhaps she had kissed Valerian in a temper of some sort, for kissing also animated her.

  “You do not adore my temper.”

  “A gentleman never argues with a lady, but in this case, I must. What’s to be done about Ogilvy?”

  “Nothing will be done. Papa is too pleased to be once again embroiled in his mercantile adventures, and I am to entertain myself with putting the house to rights. If Ogilvy takes a year to do a job that should last only a month, Papa won’t mind.”

  She pushed open the door and led Valerian into a sitting room done up with gold and azure fleur-de-lis wallpaper, dark blue velvet curtains, and the delicate, ornate furnishings popular in the previous century.

  “My dressing closet is through the bedroom,” she said. “Briggs will be horrified that you’re in my private apartment, but she’s very likely having her nap at this hour. She’s perpetually horrified lately. Dorset doesn’t seem to agree with her.”

  Miss Pepper’s movements were brisk, her tone equally matter-of-fact, and yet Valerian was certain he was in the presence of an upset female.

  “Do you want to spend your time refurbishing the house?”

  “So the likes of Ogilvy can condescend to me and deceive me while wasting Papa’s money? He has done little in the two weeks he’s been here, as you noted, Mr. Dorning, and this house has more than two dozen bedrooms. The thought of spending years… No, I do not want to spend my days pretending I have authority to refurbish this dratted hulk of a dwelling.”

  Not merely an upset female, a furious female. “If you don’t want to take the house in hand, what do you want to do?”

  Valerian had followed her right into the confines of the dressing closet, a room about eight feet square. With rows of dresses lining two walls and trunks and wardrobes on the other two, the space was crowded indeed.

  “I am a dab hand at business, if you must know, Mr. Dorning. Lately, Caleb and Tobias have taken over the jobs I used to see to in that regard. What I want…” Miss Pepper stood close enough that her light floral scent blended with the lavender sachets fragrancing her wardrobe.

  “Yes?” Such soft brown eyes she had, and such storms brewed in her gaze.

  “Is to kiss you again.”

  Chapter Three

  The Dorning family members were noted for their striking eyes. On some of the siblings—Emily had met a half dozen of them—the shade was nearer that of periwinkles or bluebells than a plain blue. On others, the hue was cerulean, more brilliant than northern summer skies.

  Valerian’s eyes were a regal blue, the hint of purple so subtle, it likely changed with his attire or his mood. More impressive than the color, though, was the force of his gaze. When he looked at Emily, he gave her his attention with a calm, complete focus that said she’d captured his interest utterly for as long as necessary to convey whatever sentiment she pleased.

  Better still, his eyes gave away a hint of his own feelings. When Emily announced her desire for another kiss, he neither mocked her nor turned up chilly.

  If anything, his expression became bashful. “While I am flattered beyond telling at your”—he gazed about at silks, muslin, velvets, and lace—“your declaration, a kiss shared with a man such as I can lead nowhere.”

  “Such as you? You are an earl’s son, a gentleman, a neighbor of sorts…” A handsome devil who ignored his own good looks and dealt always in honesty and decency.

  “Miss Pepper—Emily—I have no prospects. None.”

  He could have produced any other objection—I care for you only as a friend, your antecedents and mine are from different strata, my affections are elsewhere engaged, a lady of such forward manners has no appeal to a man of my breeding—and Emily would have been less surprised.

  “What need has an earl’s son for prospects?”

  The peerage made a great show of titular succession, giving the heir a courtesy title and much deference, but from what Emily had seen, the entire lot of them got on quite nicely. Officer’s commissions, government posts, mercantile apprenticeships with wealthy uncles, diplomatic engagements—if a job paid well and carried influence, an aristocrat’s younger son generally held it.

  The nobs looked after their own, and the rest of the country managed on the land, means, and business left over.

  “In my position,” Mr. Dorning said, “a man’s prospects, or lack of them, define him. Shall we find you a comfortable afternoon dress that allows you freedom on the dance floor?”

  “The afternoon dresses are in this section.” Emily gestured to the rack behind him, where a dozen lovely long-sleeved, modest creations hung side by side. “I favor the blue.”

  “Then save the color blue for the assembly itself. How about this one?”

  He’d chosen her favorite. “Briggs says that raspberry color is too worldly for me.” The shade was a red-leaning purple, like ripe berries or the last streaks of a gorgeous sunset. Emily had fallen in love with the fabric, a light cotton with a graceful drape.

  Mr. Dorning took the dress from the rack. “The color flatters nearly everybody. I have a riding jacket o
f this shade, and I cut quite a dash in it. In the country, we aren’t as particular about who can wear what hues on which occasions. If a cloak grows worn and would make a lovely underskirt, then practicality wins out over Mayfair sensibilities. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  He bowed and moved toward the door, as self-possessed as if he’d encountered Emily at some London musicale.

  “What about my kiss?”

  He stopped, turned, and approached her. “I must think on that notion—torment myself with it, if you want the truth—but until I can better reconcile the obligations of honor with the selfish clamorings of a mere mortal man…” He kissed her cheek, a soft, delicious, leisurely press of lips. “There’s a kiss. Now you cannot accuse me of denying a lady her wishes.”

  His smile held a hint of impishness, and Emily realized she had just been flirted with. Gently, subtly, and ever so charmingly.

  “Away with you,” she said, flapping the dress at him. “Or you will make us late.”

  Prattle, her lady’s maid, soon had her changed out of her fancy gown and reunited with Mr. Dorning in the guest parlor.

  “We must make haste,” Emily said. “If Briggs catches me in this outfit, she will order me to put the other on, and we will be late in truth.”

  Mr. Dorning offered his arm. “Then to horse, Miss Pepper, lest the domestic despot throw you into the fashion dungeon.”

  They had made it nearly to the front door when Briggs emerged from the family parlor and planted herself in the middle of the corridor.

  “Miss Briggs.” Mr. Dorning offered her a genteel bow. “Good day.”

  “Sir.” She nodded at him and turned a puzzled regard on Emily’s dress. “What prompted this… this departure from the agreed-upon plan?”

  More than the question itself, the tone ripped at the pleasure Emily took to be on an outing with Mr. Dorning. That he would hear her addressed like a wayward schoolgirl brought a hot flush of mortification to her cheeks.

  “The dress is quite pretty, isn’t it?” Mr. Dorning said. “One of those ensembles that might not make much of an impression hanging in the wardrobe, but is marvelously attractive on the right woman. Never fear, Miss Briggs. Though the local lads will gawk, they will be on their best behavior, or I will deal with them severely.”