An Inconvenient Duty (Gentlemen of Virtue #3)

Chapter 1

Archibald Manners was in the agreeable position of having finished his report and having yet to be discovered by anyone who wished to give him more work.

He had thus settled himself at the small escritoire near the south window, the morning light falling obligingly upon his papers, when a footman in his family’s livery appeared with the careful gravity that always presaged interruption.

“Sir,” the young man said with apologetic firmness, “I have a message from his lordship. He requests your presence at Upton Place at once.”

Arch closed his eyes.

“Has my father said why?” he asked mildly.

“No, sir. I know only that Sir Percival Lockmore is with him.”

Arch opened his eyes again.

“Well,” he said, rising, “that explains everything and nothing in equal measure.”

The footman, who, it seemed, had learned prudence early in his career, said nothing.

Arch took up his hat with a short, irritated breath and made for the mews. He accepted his horse’s reins with more force than strictly necessary, muttering under his breath as he swung into the saddle and set off for Upton Place.

As Arch crossed the hall on arrival at his family home, his steps slowed—not from reluctance exactly, but from the practised caution of a man who had survived too many summonses delivered with such solemnity.

His father’s study was the chamber where alliances were forged, inconveniences disguised as honours, and one’s life redirected under the guise of familial concern.

Sir Percival’s presence made matters worse.

Sir Percival was not merely his father’s contemporary and ally but Arch’s godfather, a relationship which, in Sir Percival’s view, entitled him to Arch’s loyalty, obedience, and moral availability in perpetuity.

He was a man of unimpeachable respectability, great consequence in the Commons, and possessed of a talent for persuasion that had undone stronger men than Arch Manners.

Arch paused outside the door, inhaled once, and entered.

His father stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, his posture relaxed but attentive. Sir Percival sat in the armchair nearest the desk, perfectly at ease, one leg balanced across his knee, his expression benevolent in the way that suggested danger.

“Ah, my son,” Lord Upton said with measured warmth. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“As summoned,” Arch replied. He inclined his head to Sir Percival. “Godfather.”

“Archibald,” Sir Percival said fondly. “You look well.”

“I have had the advantage of uninterrupted mornings,” Arch replied, leaving until now unsaid but implied. “I recommend them to all men for agreeability.”

Lord Upton’s mouth twitched. Sir Percival’s smile widened.

“Will you be seated?” Sir Percival said, gesturing. “We have a matter to discuss.”

Arch remained standing. “First, I would know what this is about—a habit I have acquired, when the phrase a matter to discuss is employed,” he said evenly.

Sir Percival laughed. “Still cautious, I see. Good. It will serve you.”

Lord Upton cleared his throat. “Arch—”

“Before either of you proceed,” Arch said calmly, “may I ask whether this matter involves Parliament, propriety, or personal sacrifice?”

Sir Percival’s eyes gleamed. “All three.”

Arch sighed and sat down.

Sir Percival leaned forward, clasping his hands atop the stick he used for walking assistance. “You are aware, I presume, of my niece and god-daughter?”

Arch searched his memory. “Miss Vale, I believe? I met her once, when she was fourteen. She looked at me as though I had personally offended her by existing.”

Sir Percival beamed. “Ah. Then you remember her.”

“I remember,” Arch said dryly, “that she told me soldiers were an abomination and that she intended to run her father’s estate one day.”

Lord Upton lifted his brows. “An impudent girl,” he remarked, though not in a tone of disfavour.

“An intelligent one,” Sir Percival said with pride, “and now a very vulnerable one.”

Arch stilled.

Sir Percival’s tone altered—subtly, but unmistakably. “Her parents are dead. Her guardianship falls to me, but I cannot be everywhere and Francesca is—” He paused, choosing his words. “—very much her own mistress.”

“I fail to see the problem,” Arch said cautiously.

“The problem,” Sir Percival replied, “is that she is rich.”

Arch leaned back in his seat. “Ah.”

“She is young,” Lord Upton added, “independent, and possessed of… certain views.”

“Views?” Arch echoed.

“Dangerous ones,” Sir Percival said gravely, “—at least where men with designs upon her fortune are concerned. They have begun to circle.”

Arch considered this. “You fear she may make an unfortunate match?”

“We fear,” Lord Upton said, “that she may be persuaded into one. Mr. Fergus Harcourt has already indicated his interest. He is a polished Parliamentarian who espouses reform and is a great favourite with the ladies.”

Arch considered this. He was familiar with Harcourt, who was a glib politician who spent entirely too much time in front of the looking-glass.

“Then there is Ashbourne, who has indicated that her properties would be a welcome addition to his.”

Arch straightened involuntarily. Ashbourne had been Arch’s nemesis during their school days and well his father knew it.

Sir Percival nodded. “Her solicitor is also… radical.”

“What say does he have?” Arch asked.

“He holds some influence. They have been acquainted since childhood. She also attends political salons. She corresponds with men who believe reform is best achieved through noise rather than sense.”

Lord Upton folded his hands behind his back. “She is in Town for the Season.”

There it was: the crux of the matter.

Arch felt the familiar pain at the base of his skull. “And what is my role in this?”

Sir Percival smiled. “To escort her. To have a care for her.”

Arch stared at him.

“Attend certain functions with her,” Sir Percival continued pleasantly, “and ensure she is not taken advantage of. Offer guidance when necessary; protection when required.”

Incredulous, Arch laughed but once. “You want me to act as her nursemaid.”

Lord Upton frowned. “That is not—”

“It is precisely what it is,” Arch cut in. “You are asking me to chaperone a young woman who detests soldiers and will resent my presence on principle.”

Sir Percival waved a hand. “She will come to appreciate you.”

“Unlikely.”

“You have patience.”

“Limited.”

“You have honour.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You also have obligations,” his father reminded.

Arch turned towards him. “To the Crown, yes. To the family, within reason. To every inconvenient young woman with an estate? No.”

Sir Percival’s gaze softened. “She has no one else, save me.”

Arch felt the shift in the room—the tightening of strategy giving way to sentiment, the oldest weapon either man possessed.

“She is alone,” Sir Percival continued quietly, “and clever. She is also proud—and will not see danger until it is upon her.”

Lord Upton added, “And if something were to happen to her—if she were ruined, or manipulated, or worse—her fortune would become a political weapon in very dangerous hands.”

“Why do you not look to her yourself?”

Sir Percival scoffed. “I am an old, gouty bachelor. She needs someone nearer her age, who can dance the night away if necessary.”

Arch exhaled slowly. “You are not asking for my assistance,” he said. “You are telling me that I cannot refuse.”

Sir Percival inclined his head. “You always were perceptive.”

Arch closed his eyes briefly. “She will despise me.”

“Almost certainly,” Sir Percival agreed.

“She will argue.”

“Constantly.”

“She will defy me.”

“Indeed—and with enthusiasm.”

“And if I attempt to advise her—”

“She will ignore you,” Lord Upton said.

Arch looked at both men. “Then what conceivable good do you imagine I may do?”

Sir Percival’s expression grew solemn. “You will stand between her and men who would harm her. You will notice what she does not. You will intervene when she cannot.”

Arch laughed bitterly. “You speak as though I am uniquely qualified.”

“You are,” Lord Upton said quietly, “because you will not be tempted by her fortune.”

Arch’s jaw tightened.

Sir Percival rose with some effort and laid a hand on Arch’s shoulder. “You might enjoy yourself a little.”

“There is little chance of that,” Arch disagreed.

“You will do it, however,” Sir Percival said gently, “because it is necessary… and because you will help your godfather.”

Arch looked away, towards the window, towards the garden where everything appeared orderly and untroubled.

It might have been possible, in a more rational world, to leave matters there.

Arch would have withdrawn with dignity, arranged his calendar with grim acceptance, and met Miss Vale with a modicum of grace.

Unfortunately, Arch’s life, like most lives that involved fathers, godfathers, and the Crown, had never been improved by rationality.

“What about my duties to the Crown?”

“Renforth has already given his consent,” Upton answered.

“So this is to be a duty as well.” A thoroughly inconvenient one too, he thought grimly.

Sir Percival cleared his throat with the air of a man who had resolved to make the unpleasant portion of his speech as brief as possible. “I shall be very plain with you, Archibald.”

“Plainness is often the mask of something worse,” Arch returned, because it was safer to be sarcastic than to invite the full gravity of his godfather’s earnestness.

“It is not my habit to threaten,” Sir Percival said.

Arch regarded him sceptically. “Yet?”

Lord Upton gave a short cough that might have been laughter suppressed out of respect for the occasion.

Sir Percival continued, unruffled. “Yet I will say this. If Francesca enters the Season unguarded, she will be surrounded by men who have perfected the art of appearing honourable. They will flatter her judgement while undermining it. They will praise her independence while arranging to control it.”

Arch’s expression sobered.

“You make a poor case for Society,” Arch said, more quietly.