The Explorer Baroness
Автор
Julia Justiss
Прочтений
15,2K
Глав
21
Chapter One
Early on a pleasant late-May morning, Gregory Lattimar, eldest son and heir of Baron Vraux, walked stiffly down the stairs from his bedchamber towards the morning room overlooking the garden at Vraux House. Though the weather had been fair enough for him to ride, cutting down the time required for the journey from the family estate in Northumberland to London, there was no avoiding the fact that it had still been a long, often bone-jarring transit.
Railways, his friend and investor Crispin D’Aubignon, Viscount Dellamont predicted, would soon criss-cross the country, both speeding long journeys and making them more comfortable. Gregory smiled as he thought of his friend, whose wedding he’d recently attended in Newcastle.
He wasn’t sure he’d welcome a shortening of the route. The long journey allowed him several days of leisure between his duties overseeing Entremer and tending the family’s affairs in London.
Since he’d been away from the city longer than usual, the London accounts were likely to be even more tangled than normal, he thought with a sigh. For the thousandth time, he wished that the father who, by virtue of his lack of interest and neglect, had required Gregory to take over management of the Vraux assets immediately after leaving Oxford, could at least keep in order the records of his ever-growing collection of weapons, gems and artifacts.
A wish unlikely ever to be fulfilled, he acknowledged as he reached the main floor and headed to the morning room, where an informal breakfast would be set out on the sideboard. As time went on, his father grew increasingly distant and remote, spending the whole of his day immured in his library or in the ballroom converted to hold his vast collection, having his meals delivered to that room and seldom interacting with any member of the household.
Greg sometimes wondered how the Baron could tolerate the loneliness of such an existence, but the self-imposed isolation seemed to suit him. On the occasions when Greg was compelled to invade his father’s domain to receive approval for some project at Entremer, catching his father’s attention became more difficult, his focus on what Greg was trying to tell him more wandering. Greg was certain his father forgot his existence before he even left the room.
The older he grew, the more easily he was able to understand and forgive his beautiful mother for coping with her spouse’s disinterest by looking elsewhere for affection.
As he walked into the morning room, intent on filling a plate and ordering fresh coffee, he stopped short. ‘Mama!’ he exclaimed, walking across to kiss the cheek she offered. ‘What a delightful surprise! What are you doing up so early?’
Despite bearing her husband one son—him—twin daughters and a second son rumoured to be fathered by another man, the lady who smiled up at him seemed hardly old enough to have grown children. The dazzling beauty that had made her the diamond of her debut season nearly thirty years ago had hardly faded. Her porcelain face remained unlined, her golden hair luminous, her blue eyes bright, and the voluptuous figure that had made men vie for her favour still inspired fools with more lust than sense to try to tempt her into affairs. Even though she’d kept the promise she made to her girls when they’d turned sixteen that she would take no more lovers.
Unfortunately, her impeccable behaviour in the years since had not been enough to redeem her reputation. Greg could not forgive the society that had dubbed her notorious, while the men with whom she’d dallied had suffered no loss of standing.
‘You arrived so late last night, we hardly had time for a chat, and I knew you would be up early to start on the accounts. I wanted to have you to myself over breakfast before you disappeared to take up your duties. Fill your plate and come tell me all about the wedding. I could hardly believe it when you wrote to me that Crispin was getting married!’
‘It came as a shock to me, too.’ After visiting the sideboard and pouring a cup of hot coffee from the pot the footman had brought in, Greg settled at the table beside his mother. ‘I’d met the girl once before—Crispin’s mother might have mentioned her when she called on you.’
‘Yes, the “Factory Heiress”, I believe they called her?’ His mother gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Cruel and condescending, the ton gossips.’
‘You should know better than most,’ Greg said feelingly.
‘Lady Comeryn told me she was rather surprised to find Miss Cranmore quite—genteel, despite her origins in trade. Lovely, well-spoken and, despite her wealth, neither covered in jewels nor overdressed in vulgar style, unlike some cit’s daughters trying to catch a titled husband. Lady Comeryn assured me then that Crispin had no serious intentions towards the girl, and was only pretending to court her so that his father would allow the family to remain in London for the Season. You know Comeryn usually keeps poor Lady Comeryn shut up in the country, the dictatorial miser!’
His mother shook her head. ‘Vraux has his faults, but despite...everything that happened...he has never tried to control me, limit my funds or threaten me with banishment to Entremer.’
Though Greg wouldn’t have wanted his mother to have married an arrogant, egotistical autocrat like the Earl of Comeryn, he couldn’t help thinking it would have been better for them all if the Baron had paid a little more attention to his neglected wife.
‘Yes, Dellamont told me he’d agreed to enter society so his mother might have the treat of a season, which was the last I heard of the matter before I left for Entremer. Imagine my shock to discover that Crispin not only paid attention to the heiress, he decided to marry her!’
‘You must tell me all about her and the wedding.’
And so, over coffee and toast for his mother and a hot cooked breakfast for himself, Gregory related his impressions of the new bride—bright, clever, welcoming—confirmed that his friend seemed besotted with her, and finished by revealing that not only was the bride interested in Crispin’s railway projects, her engineer father had trained her to be so proficient, his friend intended to use her as his technical advisor when he evaluated potential new railway investments.
‘First your former carousing partner Gifford wed your sister, now your remaining close friends Dellamont and Alex Cheverton have found brides. Which leaves you the sole bachelor of the group. Are you finding it...somewhat lonely?’
‘Not especially. I would never begrudge Temper and Giff their happiness. And since we left Oxford, I haven’t been able to see either Dellamont or Alex all that often, with Cheverton in Sussex running Edge Hall for the Duke of Farisdeen and Dellamont riding around England, investigating railway projects. With his new wife-advisor at his side, Dellamont is even less likely to be in London, and with Alex occupied with his new wife and training for his eventual duties as the next duke, he won’t have much time to spare either.’
He wouldn’t admit it to his mother, but he was feeling...not abandoned, precisely, but...left out. His friends all now had wives who would naturally displace him as their closest advisor and confidante, changing the dynamics of their friendship for ever, even when they could meet. Pleased as he was for Gifford, Alex and Crispin, he would miss the closeness they’d shared.
‘Not that I’m hinting it’s time for you to marry,’ his mother added. ‘Far be it for me to urge anyone into that estate! Although when you are ready, I urge you to choose wisely—since you will have a choice. I would earnestly wish for you to have a more fulfilling marriage than mine has been.’
His mother hadn’t had much choice. Her beauty hadn’t been matched by her dowry, and to settle their debts, her family had pressed her to marry the wealthiest of her many suitors.
His father. The best reason Greg could come up with was that his father had decided to marry Miss Felicity Portman because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, choosing her as the first peerless object in his collection. He’d fulfilled his obligation to beget an heir and ignored her ever since.
‘Never fear, Mama. When the time comes, I’ll give due regard to choosing a woman who will give me at least a fair chance of marital happiness.’
He wouldn’t wound her by telling her his primary criterion for marriage was finding a woman of impeccable reputation from a family of equally stainless repute in order to redeem the rakish reputation of his own clan, dubbed ‘the Vraux Miscellany’ by the ever-malicious ton for their varied parentage. In particular, he intended to harness his wife’s sterling contacts to try to get his exiled mother received back into society, as such a warm and loving soul deserved to be.
He looked up from those reflections to see her studying his face. ‘Truly, Mama. I can’t say I expect to become as besotted as Alex and Crispin seem to be with their new wives, but surely I can find a woman with whom I build a harmonious and affectionate bond?’
‘That is all I wish for,’ she said simply, reaching over to squeeze his hand. ‘Now, before I send you off, I need to warn you the task of sorting out Vraux’s papers may be more...taxing than usual.’
‘I thought it might, since I’ve been away longer.’
‘It’s more than just that. Let me summon Jennie, so she can explain.’
While his mother signalled the footman stationed by the door to fetch the girl, Greg wondered what could require a housemaid’s explanation. Though the rooms of his private domain would seem to any disinterested observer to be in a state of continual disarray, his father had long ago forbidden any servant to dust, rearrange or try to sort through the vast assemblage of knives, daggers, swords, jewels, miniatures and small archaeological artefacts he collected.
A few minutes later, the girl arrived, looking nervous as she made her curtsey. ‘Don’t worry, Jennie, no one is going to scold you,’ his mother assured her. ‘Just tell Mr Lattimar what happened.’
‘Well, sir, you know I know better than to go into His Lordship’s rooms. But as I was cleaning the hallway, I saw a paper sticking out from under the library door. I tried to pull it out, but couldn’t quite get it, so I thought I’d just open the door real quiet, like, slip it out and close it again, afore His Lordship could even notice.
‘But there must have been a window open in the library, cause when I opened the door, a big “whoosh” of wind sent that paper flying. That, and a whole lot more that was on his desk, and them falling knocked over a stack of those funny curved knives, and made such a clatter as to wake the dead. His Lordship right started! Then he saw me and glared and yelled for me to get all the mess out of there. So I hurried and gathered up all the papers I could, and the knives and things, and rushed them out the door, him sh-shouting at me all the while,’ the girl concluded, tears in her eyes again. ‘Your lady mother told me to put everything on your desk in the study. I’m awful sorry, Mr Lattimar. I didn’t mean to cause a ruckus.’
‘I’m just sorry he frightened you, Jennie,’ Greg said. ‘Thank you for leaving everything in my office. You needn’t worry; I’ll sort it out.’
The maid bobbed another curtsey. ‘Thank you for understanding, Mr Lattimar.’
After the maid hurried out, Lady Vraux sighed. ‘Poor thing was practically in hysterics afterwards, Vraux frightened her so badly. It was all I could do to persuade her not to give notice. Heaven knows what the papers concern. You know Vraux never pays a particle of attention to any of them, be they invoices, descriptions of artefacts or offers from investors to purchase some of his collection.’
‘I do indeed,’ Greg said with a sigh. ‘I’ll go and have a look and see how bad it is this time.’
‘The quantity of paper was impressive. Which is why I wanted to alert you before you went in to discover the heaps on your desk and suffered palpitations of the heart.’
‘Thanks for the warning. And especially for the delight of sharing my breakfast with you.’
‘An even greater delight for me, darling boy. You spend so much time at Entremer, I hardly ever see you. Well, I’ll leave you to sort out those papers.’ After rising, she kissed his forehead and walked gracefully out, the subtle scent of her violet perfume drifting in her wake.
Greg watched her leave with a familiar mix of affection, sadness and resolve. To his shame, he hadn’t always treated his mother with kindness. As a boy struggling towards manhood, he’d resented the upheaval in the house from the coming and going of the assorted men who were or had aspired to be her lovers. He’d been embarrassed and angry at the sly innuendo in remarks made about her by his schoolmates at Eton. Which had generally led to a bout of fisticuffs with the offender, often followed by punishment from the headmaster.
He had left Eton an accomplished pugilist, he thought wryly. But the mother whom he’d sometimes shunned or wounded with angry words had returned nothing but gentleness and patience.
Now, as a man grown, an observer of the love matches of his friends, his sisters and his younger brother, he understood far better the loneliness and despair that had led Lady Vraux to look outside her marriage for the love and companionship her spouse disdained to provide.
He felt an echo of that loneliness now.
Despite the disaster of his parents’ marriage, his siblings had managed to wed happily. His two closest friends seemed to have found equal harmony with their brides. Perhaps he could dare hope he himself might make a marriage that offered companionship, friendship—even love.
Maybe it was time to start looking for that lady of impeccable reputation.
Two hours later, Greg surveyed the several stacks of papers on his desk, frustration and anger having driven all other thoughts from his head. The hazardous array of papers, knives and daggers he’d found when he’d walked into his office had been as large and untidy as his mother had warned. It had taken almost an hour to carefully arrange the different styles of weapon into separate piles and sort the paperwork. Some of the latter appeared to be certificates of authenticity, which he could simply file. Others were correspondence from collectors seeking to buy items from his father, which he could toss since his father never sold anything or even acknowledged such requests.
But the largest stack seemed to be invoices for his father’s various purchases. An alarming number of purchases representing a rather staggering sum.
Greg’s major task each time he stayed in London was to review the family’s London accounts. The household expenditure was easily resolved, since his mother, along with the butler and housekeeper, kept meticulous records.
His father, however, never concerned himself with anything as mundane as accounting. Although the firms from which he acquired his objects included invoices when an ordered item was delivered, the bill was likely to land wherever Lord Vraux happened to drop it when he unwrapped his treasure. There it would languish, neglected, until on his next visit Greg invaded his father’s domain to gather up all the bills he could find, pay them and file them away.
He had no idea where his father had tucked away the stack now on his desk, but most likely they had never been paid, in which case some of them were now several years in arrears.
Had the purchaser been anyone but his father, by now the vendors would have sent the bailiffs to collect the overdue debts. Greg considered his father’s reputation as the richest baron in England had inspired the shopkeepers with the patience to refrain—not wishing to antagonise a client who, the invoices showed, must be one of their major purchasers.
There was no help for it; he was going to have to go to the shops, request the assistance of the proprietors to track down the expenses and pay those still outstanding.
At least there were only a handful of providers capable of procuring the rare items his father collected. Indeed, the majority of invoices came from a single source, which would at least cut down on the number of enquiries he’d have to make.
Picking up one of those from the stack, Greg studied it again. Unlike most of the bills, the ones from this firm were handwritten on a blank sheet of fine vellum, rather than on printed forms stamped with the name and address of the shop, with only the date, goods and cost written in by hand. Nor was there a company name inscribed. Nothing but W. Dunnfield written in the upper-right-hand area below an engraved address:
7 King Street
Greg frowned. King Street was located in Westminster, not far from the highly fashionable—and expensive—Grosvenor Square. Not an address at which one would expect to find a tradesman.
Folding the firm’s papers and putting them in his jacket pocket, he rose and walked out. He’d revive himself with a second cup of coffee, then claim his hat and cane and take a stroll through the morning sunshine to pay a call on W. Dunnfield.
