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

  “I don’t know.” Valerian got to his feet as well. “I might simply rent the place out again.”

  Grey peered at him. “Hawthorne wants your southern fields. Says Dorning Hall hasn’t the drainage to grow some of the medicinals that will make us the most money. That reminds me…” Grey pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Your share of our first quarter’s earnings. Margaret’s recipe for baby soap is apparently quite popular.”

  Valerian slipped the bank draft into his pocket, the morning acquiring a sense of unreality. “Baby soap?”

  “More tallow and scent, less lye, or something. Not as harsh on tender skin. Margaret said women will claim they are buying it for their infants and godchildren, while in fact using it themselves. All quite clever, and quite beyond the imaginings of a mere rural earl. Beatitude likes it, which decides the matter.” Grey moved off toward the back door, apparently intent on walking home across the fields. “Worth Kettering says your accounting system is nothing short of brilliant, and that is high praise indeed.”

  “My accounting system?”

  “It’s certainly not mine. Don’t you recall? You sat us all down as the first load of pretty sachets went off to Town and told us in no uncertain terms that successful businesses kept accurate, detailed books. Your sermonizing inspired me to review the estate ledgers, which were admittedly a bit out of date.”

  And that was likely a euphemism. Casriel was more conscientious than the previous earl, but he was also smitten with his countess and new daughter, and more drawn to Town and socializing than Papa had been.

  “I consulted Kettering before I set up the ledgers,” Valerian said as they reached the back porch. “We need to know precisely which items are selling well, at what time of year, and where.” Any clerk could follow that logic, as could any bachelor with pockets to let.

  “Whatever you did, it’s working. Hawthorne is full of plans for more products and larger markets, but a word with him about Abbotsford would be appreciated. I haven’t your knack for dealing with sibling quarrels.” Grey paused on the porch steps. “Looks like rain. We could use a good soaking shower. Beatitude likes rainy days.”

  That nonsensical observation had his lordship smiling at his mahogany walking stick.

  “Wait here,” Valerian said, ducking back into the house. He retrieved a jar of pear preserves and passed them to his brother. “Hannah’s pear jam is not to be missed. We might consider selling some along with our plum blossom soap and rose sachets. Make gift baskets for the Little Season.”

  Grey put the jar in his pocket. “My brothers are geniuses. Why Beatitude has thrown in her lot with a plodder like me I will never know. Think about the magistrate’s post, talk to Hawthorne. I must be off.”

  He jaunted across the garden, a plodder who had nonetheless conducted a briefing on the family business, delegated a serious responsibility, and passed along some family gossip, all while pretending to simply enjoy a cup of tea.

  “I haven’t said I’ll accept the magistrate’s job, Casriel.”

  “You are taking the decision under advisement while you consider all the relevant evidence. You are perfect for the post, and you know it.” Grey touched his hat brim, bowed slightly, and let himself out the garden gate.

  Valerian resumed his seat at the table and took out the bank draft. He stared at the folded piece of paper for a moment before cursing softly and opening it.

  He had to rub his eyes to make sure he was seeing clearly. “Ye prancing unicorns. Ye rose-scented cherubs.” The sum would keep a small family of country dwellers for a year. Not lavishly, but… comfortably. And this payment was based on the first quarter’s earnings.

  Valerian’s thoughts became a jumble of emotions, with Clovis can have new shoes flitting through his mind right next to I can have new boots.

  Better than that, Hawthorne could continue to work the land, which rose to a vocation for him. Ash would have some income, so he needn’t lark about town on Sycamore’s coattails. Will, the family dog lover, could raise his offspring and his puppies secure in the knowledge that the Dorning fortunes were prospering. Will might not accept any of the proceeds himself—Valerian was having second thoughts—but he’d allow Grey as the patriarch to set up trusts for any progeny.

  Rain began to patter softly against the porch roof, while Valerian stared at his garden and considered how an estate overgrown with botanical plantings had become, against all odds, the profitable venture Grey had claimed it could be.

  Grey, the plodder, the mere rural earl.

  Hawthorne let himself through the garden gate, apparently oblivious to the rain. “Has Grey stopped by this morning?”

  “He has. How are Margaret and the children?”

  Hawthorne sat in the chair Grey had vacated. “Well. Did Grey leave you a bank draft?”

  Valerian nodded. “I am dumbstruck.”

  “I am relieved—and dumbstruck. Will you rent some of the Abbotsford acreage to me?”

  Brothers. “Probably, but first I need to consider a few matters when my head has stopped spinning. Let’s step into the parlor, shall we?”

  Hawthorne rose. “Celebrating our good fortune?”

  “Steadying my nerves.”

  For a big man, Hawthorne moved quietly as he followed Valerian into the parlor. “Margaret’s expecting. My nerves could use steadying. Why are your nerves in a state?”

  “Congratulations.” Valerian passed him a half-full glass. “You might be looking at the next magistrate, though I haven’t given Grey my answer yet.”

  “He hates that job, hates it with a dutiful, gentlemanly passion. I would hate it too. What’s this?”

  “Brandy. Good for warding off the chill when a day turns damp.”

  Hawthorne took a sniff then a sip. “When will you decide about Abbotsford?”

  “Soon. Marie’s leasehold won’t run out until after harvest. To your health and to Margaret’s well-being.”

  Hawthorne saluted and tossed back the rest of his drink. “You’ll take the magistrate’s job? The entire shire would thank you. They hate trooping up to Dorning Hall for the petite sessions, and Grey hates sitting in judgment of anybody.”

  “It’s not sitting in judgment, it’s solving problems, but I must consider the post before I accept it.” Valerian wanted to accept it, wanted badly to accept it, but even more he wanted to discuss the whole situation with Emily Pepper, the sooner the better.

  * * *

  Last night’s discussion with Tobias had apparently inspired him to avoid the breakfast table, which suited Emily quite well. The conversation had served another purpose. By the time Emily had gone upstairs the previous evening, Briggs had been snoring gently in a reading chair, a history of millinery fashion on the carpet at her feet.

  Emily had tiptoed past, changed into her nightclothes, and sent a maid to wake Briggs only after Emily herself was abed.

  When did I become such a sneak? Valerian Dorning encouraged her to speak her mind, and then—why should this be so remarkable?—he listened to what she had to say.

  Briggs bustled into the breakfast parlor, already dressed for the day despite the early hour. “You should have wakened me last night. In future, I expect you will.” She took the place at Emily’s right hand, her customary choice.

  Good morning to you too. “A history of hats would be enough to cause anybody to nod off. Did you sleep well?”

  Briggs poured herself a cup of tea, set the pot down, and stared at the steam wafting up. “I did not, to be honest. When next you attend those dancing practices, or whatever they are, I will accompany you. My conscience has been troubling me for allowing you twice to flaunt convention by accepting the escort of a strange gentleman. It will not serve, miss, even here in Dorset.”

  Emily sprinkled cinnamon on her porridge, the scent soothing a flare of temper. “You make it sound as if a map of Dorset should include a warning about monsters. Mr. Dorning is hardly unknown to me. We have been introduced, we have st
ood up together, he has greeted you most cordially. Would you care for some toast?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Very well, battle over the breakfast table it would be. “Briggs, he is an earl’s son. He is a gentleman. He is exactly the sort of fellow Papa expected me to encounter here in the country.”

  “Encounter, perhaps, but throw your cap at? I beg to disagree.” She managed to make even taking a sip of tea an act of condemnation.

  Emily slapped a double pat of butter into her bowl of porridge. “I understand now why a lady of means often chooses to break her fast in her own bedroom, enjoying a quiet hour to herself upon waking.”

  “Don’t be impertinent. I have only your best interests at heart, and Mr. Dorning hasn’t a feather to fly with. He’s handsome and well mannered, I’ll grant you that, and he has connections, but a woman cannot live on waltzes alone.”

  You may be excused. The words popped into Emily’s head, a tantalizing and shocking show of temper.

  No, not temper. Authority. Emily was the female head of the household, for now at least, and entitled to respect.

  “Briggs, I appreciate your concern, but I must ask you to refrain from questioning my judgment where the company of neighbors and friends is concerned. Mr. Dorning knows the surrounds, I do not. Mr. Dorning is an accomplished dancer. I am not. Mr. Dorning was raised in this shire, I am the newcomer without any sense of local mores or history. You lack those assets as well, and I’d think you would be grateful that a man with better things to do has taken a kindly interest in my situation.”

  “Pass the toast, please.”

  That was petty of Briggs—also a little sad—issuing a command that flatly contradicted her earlier stated preferences.

  Emily set the toast rack and the butter by Briggs’s elbow. A change of topic was in order. “Do I mistake the matter, or does Caleb seek to engage my affections?”

  “He’d be a fool not to. Caleb understands the value of coin, he’s a hard worker, and he gets along well with your father, but he’s not gentry. Your father hopes most fervently to see you married to a wealthy squire, which, it must be said, that Dorning fellow is not. Should you be using so much honey, miss?”

  Emily had only begun to drizzle the honey onto her porridge. She let a goodly dollop drip from the wooden whisk while she sorted placatory replies, considered yet another change of topic, and wondered when a loyal ally had become something else entirely.

  How would Valerian handle a companion grown into a martinet?

  Firmly and kindly, that’s how. “Briggs, I have the sense that Dorset does not agree with you, while I enjoy the countryside more and more the longer I’m here. You have only to ask, and I will write you the most impressive character ever penned by the hand of mortal woman. Your loyalty and common sense have seen me through many a tribulation, but please recall that a companion is not a governess.”

  Emily rose, retrieved a tray from the sideboard, and set her tea and porridge upon it. “I wish you good morning. I’m off to the study to review my father’s correspondence.”

  A turgid silence greeted that announcement, which bothered Emily not at all. Briggs was shrewd. She’d sulk a bit, offer a grudging apology, and revert to her stolid, somewhat grumpy self.

  Again. When had this pattern originated, and more to the point, why was it repeating with greater and greater frequency?

  “And what’s to be done about it?” Emily murmured, pushing open the door to the study. The room was blessedly empty, not even the Walmer twins yet in evidence, so she took a place at the reading table and started on the stack of outgoing correspondence, her porridge disappearing in bites between letters.

  She was halfway through the stack when a footman brought in a tea service and a pot of coffee. “Shall I take your tray, miss?”

  “Good morning, Richard. Please do.”

  “That builder fellow, he’s asking to see you.”

  London servants would have endless reserves of dignity, but Emily preferred the slight judgment that colored Richard’s tone. The honesty. He did not care for that builder fellow and neither did Emily.

  “I’ll see Mr. Ogilvy later today.” The pattern in Papa’s correspondence was disquieting, and Emily wanted to finish the stack before Caleb, Tobias, or Papa joined her. “When does my father typically come down?”

  “Mr. Pepper likes a leisurely start to his day. We don’t usually see him in the study until midmorning. With the rain, I suspect he’ll tarry in his rooms a mite longer.”

  Emily got her own habit of rising early from Papa. That he’d taken to resting in the morning should have cheered her, except it didn’t. Late nights and lazy mornings were the habits of a young man about Town.

  “We need the rain, don’t we?”

  “That we do, miss. Doesn’t do for the pastures to dry out, does it? We end up short of butter and cheese come winter.” Richard bustled off with the tray, the exchange extraordinary in two regards.

  First, weather was a casual topic in London. The streets might be muddy, the night foggy, but those factors were mere inconveniences. Here in the country, the weather was akin to divine judgment. Families thrived or failed on the frequency and quantity of the rains. A harsh winter could decimate flocks or carry off beloved elders.

  The country version of weather was more compelling, more genuine. Talk of weather here was not meaningless as chatter about the weather in Town was.

  The second characteristic making Emily’s conversation with Richard remarkable was its friendliness. Her direct interactions with the Pepper Ridge staff were almost exclusively through the butler and housekeeper, and those two worthies were holdovers from the previous owner’s household. Richard was new to his post, and his cheerful attitude and forthcoming nature were a pleasant change from the taciturn butler and fretful housekeeper.

  Emily went back to reading Papa’s mail, though the longer she read, the more questions she had. Not until well past ten of the clock did the Walmer twins creep into the study, and by that hour, she’d read every item of outgoing and incoming correspondence.

  And she was unhappy with both.

  * * *

  Without an escort, a lady would not typically call on a bachelor, but a bachelor was under no such constraints where the lady was concerned. Valerian assured himself of this as he trotted Clovis up the Pepper Ridge drive.

  The horse had been fidgety under saddle the whole way, shying at puddles and balking at hedges, suggesting even a dumb beast knew calling before noon wasn’t the done thing. Still, the day was mild, the rain had tapered off, and Emily might enjoy a quiet hack across the fields before the sun climbed too high.

  That reasoning even sounded somewhat credible.

  Valerian passed his reins to a groom, who took a good five minutes to appear from the stables. The butler was waiting in the foyer, though his dark suit was wrinkled about the knees and sporting shiny elbows.

  Did Emily see those small lapses? Did they bother her?

  “Have you a card, sir?” the butler asked.

  Valerian passed over the requisite item. “I am happy to wait in the green parlor. I know my call is somewhat early.”

  The old fellow shuffled off without seeing Valerian to the guest parlor, another lapse.

  Valerian was heading for the stairs when the sound of raised voices stopped him. A man was in a right taking about something—the words no longer your concern came through clearly—and as Valerian listened, a woman replied in equally strident tones.

  And that woman was Emily Pepper.

  He reversed course and passed the library, opening the door to the study without knocking. “Excuse me, I was looking for the guest parlor and must have lost my way. Miss Pepper, good day.”

  Emily was toe-to-toe with a red-haired fellow in business attire. Another man stood near the window, his expression guarded. Two clerkish-looking youths—identical twins—looked as if a tiger had sprung in through the window and prowled between them and the door.

/>   “Mr. Dorning.” Emily curtseyed.

  Valerian bowed. “Might you introduce me? I apologize for intruding, but wouldn’t want to slight the civilities now that I find myself in company.”

  A flush rose over the red-haired fellow’s collar. The taller man’s resentment was more subtle, and perhaps tinged with amusement.

  Emily trudged through the introductions. Mr. Caleb Booth of the red hair and Mr. Tobias Granger of the height and watchful gaze knew enough to bow and offer platitudes, but through the whole of the introductions, Caleb Booth kept hold of a sheaf of papers covered in handwriting.

  Maybe a tactical retreat was in order. “Miss Pepper, if my timing isn’t inconvenient, would you offer me a turn in the garden?”

  She didn’t want to leave. Valerian could see that. She wanted to not only continue the altercation, but to win it.

  “Do see to your guest,” Tobias Granger said. “We’ll be about our business here. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dorning. Emily has spoken very highly of you in the capacity of—what was it?—dancing master?”

  Valerian winged his arm at Emily. “Mr. Granger, I was raised with six brothers and, because the Almighty likes to give a man a challenge, two sisters as well. If that’s your idea of a clever insult, you are much in need of practice. I enjoy dancing, I enjoy the company of my neighbors. I enjoy providing an opportunity for the young people especially to set aside their cares for an hour or two. Demean those undertakings, and you reveal yourself to be a stodgy, graceless boor. When next we meet, I trust your invective will be more inventive. Miss Pepper?”

  Emily had taken his arm, Caleb Booth was smirking, and the twins were frankly goggling.

  “I want those letters,” Emily said. “They are my father’s correspondence, and I have every right to read them.”

  Booth’s smirk became a condescending smile. “Now, Em, you needn’t bother—”

  Valerian snatched the papers from him. “The more siblings a man has, the faster his reflexes. You must have been an only child, Mr. Booth, but that should be no impediment to good manners. A gentleman never argues with a lady.”