Gayle Buck (2 page)

“I am betrothed. I don’t wish to take on a mistress as well.”

“Oh. I had forgotten.” Mr. Underwood was silent for a long moment. “How is Lady Althea?”

Lord St. John shrugged. “Beauteous as ever.”

Mr. Underwood nodded slowly, then observed, “Lady Althea’s mother has preserved well, though a colder woman I have yet to meet.”

“Lady Althea is not given to emotional displays, if that is what you are hinting at, Carey. It makes for an uncomplicated relationship.” Lord St. John slanted a mocking glance at his friend. “It is not at all your business.”

“Of course, it is not,” said Mr. Underwood, displaying affront. “I would not presume to question your judgment, Sinjin.”

Lord St. John smiled and his eyes gleamed coldly in the light cast by a street lamp. “Forgive me, Carey. I thought I detected a quite inordinate curiosity in my affairs. As for Lady Althea, I am satisfied that we shall deal well enough. She will have her interests and I, mine.”

“That reminds me, Sinjin. Do you race on Saturday next?”

Lord St. John laughed quietly. “Are you angling after the odds, Carey?”

Mr. Underwood smiled. “Of course, I am. How else am I to protect my interests?”

“Yes, I race.”

The gentlemen had reached the steps of Lord St. John’s establishment. Mr. Underwood declined an invitation to come in for a drink and went on his way.

Lord St. John let himself into his town house and went upstairs to his bedroom. His valet was waiting up to prepare him for bed, but St. John waved the man away after giving up his coat and boots. Then calling the man back, Lord St. John said, “We are leaving town at noon.”

“Very good, my lord.” The valet exited the room.

Lord St. John tumbled into bed as the first fingers of the dawn began to streak the sky. It had been twenty-four hours since he had last seen his bed.

Chapter 2

Lord St. John left London in the company of his groom and his valet. His head felt likely to split open, so he was not inclined to conversation.

Upon leaving the town house the viscount’s groom had cast his lordship a comprehensive glance and known it was not a morning to comment on the fair weather or the superb movement of the horses. So he sat silently on the seat, appreciatively watching the viscount’s capable working of the reins. The groom had been with the viscount for five years and before that been head groom with a large stable. He had yet to see any other gentlemen who could handle horses the way his present master did. The viscount had also a healthy understanding of what it took to keep a decent stable and his lordship begrudged no expense when it was a matter to do with his horses. It was very pleasant employment, for all of his lordship’s sudden moods, the groom thought contentedly.

Lord St. John maneuvered his phaeton deftly, almost by second nature, through the congested streets, putting the carriage through such fine judgments of space that, to the casual onlooker, it seemed that he must come to grief. However, the phaeton invariably whisked past other carriages and the draft wagons unscathed.

The valet, however, was not witness to these miraculous escapes as he preferred to either keep his eyes squeezed tightly closed or else would fix his desperate gaze to the viscount’s wide back so that he could not see the disasters coming.

It was a relief to Lord St. John to come out of the London traffic, leaving behind the raucous shouts of street vendors, disputing tradespeople, and the striking of hooves against the cobbles. Entering into the less-traveled roads, Lord St. John put the horses to a swifter pace. The resultant rush of air cooled his face and abated his headache to a degree.

Lord St. John made very good time and turned in the gates to the Duke of Alton’s country estate in time for tea.

The valet was exceedingly glad to have arrived. He was never a good traveler and the viscount’s way of putting his horses invariably upset his digestion. He heaved a profound sigh of relief and loosened his rigid hold on the seat railing.

Lord St. John had always liked the ducal estate. The lands surrounding the old manor house and grounds were pleasing to the eye. For all his careless manners and seeming indifference, the viscount was appreciative of the beauty inherent in the stately setting.

But as the phaeton bounded over the potholed gravel carriageway, Lord St. John felt a sense of disgust. He ran an assessing eye over the grounds surrounding the manor, before turning his critical gaze on the manor itself. As long as he could remember, the twining vines of ivy had covered the windows and two walls of the house, giving an impression that it was slowly being swallowed whole. Roof tiles were missing in places and coping stones had fallen. From past visits, Lord St. John knew that the garden was so overgrown and choked with weeds and undergrowth that it had become practically nonexistent.

As for the remainder of the estate, he knew if he rode over it he would find other such blatant signs of neglect, particularly with the tenant buildings. The duke’s tenants had a miserable lot and little hope of improvement.

Pulling up at the front steps, Lord St. John stepped down from the phaeton, leaving his groom to take care of it and the horses. The groom was already grumbling under his breath about the conditions he was likely to find in the tumbledown stables, but Lord St. John paid no heed. A footman had come down the manor steps to get the luggage and the whey-faced valet revived instantly at the opportunity to issue orders to a lowly manservant.

Lord St. John did not wait for guidance or invitation, but strode swiftly up the steps and entered through the open door. At once he was struck by the gloom that no number of candles could have penetrated, even if the duke had been willing to put out for the expense, and the strong smell of must, mildew, and mothballs that pervaded the house. His jaw worked.

He detested these visits, which he was obligated to make out of family duty. He was heir presumptive to all that he surveyed on these infrequent visits, but it was of little pleasure to him to see the worsening condition of the estate. He knew that the majority of the rooms of the manor were shut up, with the furniture under dust cloths and that it was unlikely that anything had been done about the damage done by a leaking roof.

The last time he had come, he had also discovered that several window casings were no longer properly sealed and damp rot had invaded the long gallery and some of the other rooms. He had had a blazing row with the duke over the state of the manor, which had only ended when he had slammed out of the house and returned to London.

He had put off returning to the ducal estate as long as possible. There was, after all, no love lost between himself and the duke. The gentlemen were opposites in many respects, having differing opinions on politics, religion, and what constituted physical comforts. But their strongest disagreement had always been about the condition of the estate holdings and the duke’s total indifference to the fact that all was falling into complete disarray and disrepair.

The aged butler took Lord St. John’s driving coat, beaver, and gloves, informing his lordship where the duke could be found. As Lord St. John strode toward the front parlor, he recalled quite distinctly what the duke had said on the occasion of their last blazing row.

“The running of the estate is my business. If I choose to bleed it dry before I die, it is my right to do so,” the duke had said coldly. “Aye, you may look as murderous as you please, Weemswood, but I shan’t oblige you just yet. No doubt you have wished my death these last ten years so that you could get your hands on the income that I have saved and made into a fortune, and gamble it away just like your father frittered away his own inheritance!
That
is the real reason you counsel prudence and economy.”

“If I counsel you, your grace, it is for the sake of the tenants. They live in hovels. They do not have the means to work the land properly, either for themselves or for the estate. This income you speak of is in danger of disappearing altogether. What then of your fortune? Even you must agree that there is only so far that one may economize,” Lord St. John had returned bitingly, casting a glance at the poorly lit dining room and the ill-prepared fare on the table.

He had gestured at the woman sitting beside the duke. Her slender throat and arms had been adorned with glittering emeralds and diamonds. “Those pretty baubles would be the first to go.”

The woman had not paid attention to the argument, but at the viscount’s observation she had narrowed her eyes, then turned her face to the duke. She had placed her fingers on the duke’s arm. “Your grace, perhaps his lordship has a point after all. It certainly is not right that he should question your decisions, of course, but perhaps a word with your steward might be in order. Those lazy tenants must be made to work.”

The duke patted her clinging hand. “Never you mind, my lovely. I shall see that you have all that you could ever wish. As for you, Weemswood, your gall is the height of insult. Look at your own estate—mortgaged to the hilt and has been for years. At least my poor management has not gotten me into the claws of those bloodsucking merchant bankers!”

It was an unanswerable argument, though an unfair one. The duke knew perfectly well that when Lord St. John had come into the viscountcy, his inheritance had consisted of a pile of debts and an already mortgaged estate. The viscount’s late father had been an improvident man in all respects, as well as being very unlucky at cards and at betting the races. It was generally agreed
in society that it had been something of a relief when the gentleman had broken his neck trying to jump a horse over a too-high wall, or otherwise there would have been nothing at all for his only offspring to inherit.

Of course, Lord St. John’s own style had never been parsimonious. He had lived just as wildly as his father, perhaps because he had never had anything remotely bordering on a steadying influence in his life. His mother had died when he was a small boy and his upbringing had been left to a succession of pretty nurses whose main occupation had been more to see to the late viscount’s comforts rather than to the needs of his lonely young son.

As a consequence, Lord St. John had grown up undisciplined and wild to a fault. He learned early that his father would only bestow attention on him if he showed an aptitude for the gentleman’s own interests. Thus he had applied himself to riding and playing cards. He had become an expert at both, quickly surpassing his father’s skills, much to that gentleman’s mingled pride and displeasure. Later had come driving, and in it Lord St. John had discovered a ruling passion. Whenever he sat up behind a powerful, fast team, he felt in control and fleetingly free of the unhappiness that always haunted him.

By the time Lord St. John was sent off to boarding school, he had already absorbed a worldly education that should by rights have been possessed only by someone at least twenty years older than himself. He was not popular with the masters and earned harsh discipline for his wild ways and disrespect.

Yet boarding school was the making of Lord St. John. His was a keen mind and suddenly he discovered the whole world was opened to him by learning. Despite the problems that he presented to the masters, because his marks were solid, few could quite bring themselves to condemn him outright and recommend his dismissal. It was hoped, even during the worst of times, that Lord St. John would eventually come round and make a decent showing of his life.

He had gone on to university and distinguished himself both in his studies as well as in any sort of sporting event. From that standpoint he was popular, but his cold, seemingly unfeeling manner and his biting tongue kept all but a privileged few from becoming fast friends.

When his father died, Lord St. John returned to the place of his birth. He felt nothing for it because it had never been home to him. Over the years he had rarely gone back to Rosethorn because he had spent school holidays with the families of friends.
But the estate was his responsibility, and perversely enough, he had felt that duty.

He had done what he could to improve the lot of his tenants, recognizing that they could produce better with the proper housing and tools. His rent income deriving from the estate had thus improved, but the majority of it went right back into the land and into repairs and maintenance on the old manor house. He had no hope of ever retiring the mortgage but at least some day the place might be livable again.

Always at the back of the viscount’s mind had been the faint glimmering of a dream—more an impression, actually—of a woman with a welcoming smile and a child or two clinging to her skirts standing at the door of the manor at dusk, a welcoming light spilling out from behind them.

Whenever it had risen to his conscious thoughts, he had irritably brushed it aside as a childish yearning not firmly enough buried. He was a man grown. He had no need of anything but the pursuit of his own pleasures. He had seen enough of his father’s liaisons to have developed a distrust of women and disillusionment in the sincerity of their expressions of affection to either young boys or to the man who bedded them.

Now, as Lord St. John entered the front parlor, a sardonic smile touched his face at sight of the Duke of Alton and his mistress taking tea. His grace’s mistress was bejeweled and attired in a fashion more befitting an evening function than an early afternoon tea, presenting a picture of vulgar ostentation. Nor was there anything refined in the woman’s heavily rouged face or the bold manner in which her gaze met the viscount’s own. Despite the drawbacks of her dress and unfortunate love of the gaudy, she was an undoubtedly beautiful female and she simpered under Lord St. John’s smile, mistaking it for admiration.

Lord St. John had recognized the woman for what she was the first moment he had laid eyes on her. He did not condemn her, for it was a matter of indifference to him what she managed to wheedle out of the duke. The estate had already been in such poor condition that a little more could not be said to be any great drain on its resources. Then, as now, he felt little more than a stirring of distaste toward the woman.