Liberated (Enlightenment #6)

Chapter 1

THEO

Theo Caldwell threw himself into the chair in front of his father’s desk and crossed his long legs at the ankle, leaning back. His coat, breeches and boots were spattered with mud from his morning ride over Hampstead Heath, and his father’s nose wrinkled at the sight.

“Sometimes it is very difficult to believe that you are all of eight-and-twenty, Theobald,” Sir Peter said tightly. “You still conduct yourself like a schoolboy. How on earth did you manage to get so filthy?”

“I’ve been riding,” Theo said cheerfully.

“And you could not clean yourself up before attending me in my study?” His father’s tone was frosty.

“Miller said you wanted to see me right away, but if you want me to change first—” Theo made a move to rise, but Sir Peter waved him back down.

“You may as well sit, now that you’re here,” he said irritably.

Theo subsided with a shrug and watched as his father reached for the half-filled decanter that always sat on his desk.

Sir Peter glanced up at him. “Brandy?”

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t mind if I do.” It was not a question.

Sir Peter Caldwell had reportedly been a handsome fellow in his youth but these days, he was the picture of aristocratic excess.

His florid complexion and ever-increasing corpulence were testament to his love of rich food, wines and spirits, while his expensively tailored clothes spoke of his weakness for new fashions.

Today he sported a mustard-yellow waistcoat and dark-blue coat that he had likely only managed to get into with the assistance of a tightly-laced corset and considerable exertion on the part of his valet.

His shirt points were so high they were liable to have one of his eyes out, and his cravat was tied in an impossibly complicated and bulky knot under his heavy jowls.

His thick hair—his greatest vanity, even now that the original rich chestnut colour had faded to grey—had been teased into the sort of riotous disorder that was entirely inappropriate for a man of his years.

Theo watched, expressionless, as Sir Peter threw back one generous measure of brandy, poured himself another, then sat back, one meaty, bejewelled hand resting on the swell of his stomach while the other cradled his deep-bowled brandy snifter.

“So,” he said, “you’re back. Where have you been these last few weeks? ”

“Connelly invited me down to Devon,” Theo said, “I returned by way of Somerset. The southwest is glorious country at this time of year.” He smiled. “I don't think I spent a single day indoors.”

“Yes, you do seem to have caught the sun rather,” Sir Peter said disapprovingly. “Honestly, Theobald, anyone seeing you now would think you’re a farmer with that complexion and those awful clothes. I wish you’d take a little more pride in your appearance.”

Theo just grinned.

“In any case,” Sir Peter went on, “I’m glad you're finally back in London. It’s about time you showed your face in society again.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Theo replied, “but I don’t plan to stay for long. I’m only back in town briefly, to attend a wedding.”

“You,” his father said, eyebrows hitching up in disbelief. “Attending a wedding?”

Theo grimaced. “Yes. I owe Piers Fletcher a favour. His cousin Oliver is getting married next week, and apparently, the guest list is looking a little… thin.”

Sir Peter looked amused at that. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Young Fletcher’s engaged to the Hewitt girl, isn’t he? I believe she’s a factory heiress?”

“Something like that,” Theo agreed, shrugging.

“We received an invitation a few weeks ago,” Sir Peter said. Smiling, he added, “Of course, we declined. The girl’s father is in trade, for God’s sake. Bad enough that one has to see such a person at ton events.” He shuddered theatrically.

Theo rolled his eyes. His father, though only a baronet himself, was as high in the instep as a royal duke.

There was nothing he liked more than looking down his nose at someone he considered his inferior.

And from what Piers had told Theo, he wasn’t the only one.

The whole of the ton was taking great pleasure in turning its collective nose up at the wedding of Miss Cecily Hewitt and Mr. Oliver Fletcher.

“And how is your friend Piers?” Sir Peter asked then. “I thought you said he was planning on joining the army?”

Piers and Theo had boarded together at St. Dominic’s College from the age of ten, becoming firm friends after discovering a shared interest in impromptu fire-raising.

“He was,” Theo said, “but unfortunately, he can’t afford to buy his colours.”

Piers had been orphaned when he was very young and sent to live at the estate of his uncle, Sir Joseph Fletcher.

His younger cousin Oliver—or Fletch, as he’d been known at St. Dominic’s—was the bridegroom at the forthcoming wedding.

His bride, the daughter of a wealthy cit, would be bringing a generous and much-needed dowry to the family.

“What’s he going to do then?” Sir Peter asked, frowning. “Follow in his cousin’s footsteps and find himself an heiress?”

Theo shrugged. “He’d probably like to, but unlike Fletch, Piers doesn’t have a title to sell. I believe that's the going rate for an heiress.” Not to mention that, unlike his younger cousin, poor Piers wasn’t exactly the handsomest fellow.

“True, the lack of a title might be something of a problem for him.” Sir Peter sighed. “But he’ll have to do something. A man can’t live on air, and the Fletchers are currently about chin high in the River Tick.”

“He has employment now,” Theo replied. “A post at some ministry or other. One of his uncles on his mother’s side arranged it.”

Sir Peter’s face twisted with disgust. “How perfectly dreary.”

Theo’s father considered any form of work lowering for a member of the aristocracy.

Hell, he’d think the position of Prime Minister beneath him.

Not that Theo could talk. He didn’t much like the thought of sitting in some cramped little office either.

In fact, it made him want to turn and run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

“So,” Sir Peter said, interrupting his train of thought, “if you’re not staying in London for the season after the wedding, what are you doing?”

“I’m going back to Blackfriars.”

“Blackfriars?” his father said, frowning. “It’s not that long since you were there. Why do you want to go back so soon?”

Theo shrugged. “It’s not Timbuktu, Father. It’s only a week’s ride away.”

Theo had returned to England from the Continent six months earlier to discover he'd unexpectedly inherited an estate in Wales from a bachelor uncle on his mother's side.

Theo had only met Stephen Lockhart once or twice as a child, and had been astonished by the bequest. On his first visit, two months after his return to England, he'd discovered the estate comprised a decent-sized house surrounded by land which was presently divided between two tenant farmers. Compared to his father’s landholdings it was exceedingly modest, but for now it provided Theo with a small income from the rents, and when he sold it—which he hoped to do quite soon—he planned on using the money to return to his travels.

“But why go back at all? I mean—Wales?” His father shook his head, all peevish bewilderment.

Sir Peter considered anywhere outside of London—or, at a pinch, Bath—to be deadly dull, leaving the running of his own estates entirely to his man of business.

His contribution was to spend the income generated as quickly as possible, and to mortgage off parcels of the land whenever his annual income ran out.

All of which meant that, when Theo’s older brother, Robin, came into the title, he would mostly inherit a considerable burden of debt.

So, yes, Theo was quite grateful for Blackfriars, as small as it was. And if his first visit there, a few months earlier, had not exactly been a staggering success, he was determined that this one would be more productive.

At least this time he had a clear idea of what he wanted to achieve.

“I rather like Wales,” Theo said, in answer to his father's question. Then, purely out of devilment, he added, “I’ll probably spend more time there in the future.” The lie was worth it for the appalled look on his father’s face. Theo pressed his lips together to hide his amusement.

“For God’s sake, Theobald! Your income from that place must be minuscule! Not nearly enough to begin to pay your own way as a gentleman, never mind take your place in society.”

“It's enough for me to live as I want to,” Theo said lightly, thinking of the very welcome bank draft for a half year’s rents he’d returned to England to find waiting for him. “Anyway, you know I’ve no interest in taking my place in society.”

Sir Peter snorted. “Is that so? And what will you do instead? Dress like some rustic? Visit the local inn in the evenings to drink ale with your inferiors? How on earth will you spend your days? And what young lady will take you as a husband with so little on offer? One of the milk maids? The sort of lady you should be setting your sights on will expect a house in town, not to mention servants and a carriage.”

Theo only laughed. “As I’ve already told you many times, I have no intention of getting married.”

“Nonsense,” his father retorted. “The trouble with you is that you believe that when you marry, all the free and easy pleasures you’ve enjoyed will be over forever.

” He raised his brows at Theo, adding, “Not so. Once you find a bride, take a few years to set up your nursery, and then you can return to your old habits, if you like.”

“As you did?” Theo put in, not much appreciating the implication of that—which was silly, because his mother wouldn’t give a hoot. She barely spoke to his father. They orbited one another like distant planets.

Sir Peter ignored his interjection. “You should take a leaf out of young Fletcher’s book. Find yourself a rich heiress.”