One Day for a Valet

Chapter 28

Christopher paused in the entryway of the dining hall and straightened the knot of his cravat. Gabriel and Violet stood apart from the table, their heads bent together in conversation. The room was otherwise empty. Nora and Zachariah’s absence was… odd. They were always the first ones seated at the table because they were always hungry. Even more remarkable was the total absence of footmen. At least Sofia had heeded his wisdom and remained abed.

Christopher delayed his greeting, tarrying in place instead, his body aware of some wrongness that his mind had yet to identify. Gabriel smiled down at his wife in reaction to something she’d said, then dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Noting Christopher’s arrival, he nodded, and his eyes were free of distress. Still, the hairs on Christopher’s arms rose on end. Violet drifted closer to her husband, leaning into his shoulder, then remained absolutely still in a way Christopher had scarcely ever observed of her.

“What’s wrong?” Christopher strode towards the pair. “Are you well, Violet? Is it the baby?” He thought it unlikely anything was amiss with Violet’s pregnancy considering Gabriel’s relaxed demeanour, but he couldn’t ignore the rising disquiet in the pit of his stomach.

Her eyes crinkling at the corners, Violet’s hand drifted across her still-flat abdomen. “No, the baby is fine.”

“What then? Something is wrong.”

Gabriel laid a hand on Christopher’s shoulder and met his gaze with a lifetime’s worth of gratitude and affection. It was like looking into time itself and living all those moments again. All the triumph and jubilation, the uncertainty and despair.

Christopher heard the words before Gabriel spoke them.

To spare his friend the anguish, Christopher gave them voice. “Oliver is the legitimate eldest son.” Christopher shook his head in disbelief. “He’s the eldest son and you are going to make that information public.”

Gabriel remained still, his breaths even. He’d fought tirelessly to become a duke more compassionate than his father, had spurned sleep to navigate land disputes and scrutinise bill amendments, had loved his people and toiled so that they might thrive. And now he would accomplish one last impossible feat, sign his name to one final love letter. He had lived for this dukedom, and now he would lift up his brother as the rightful fifth Duke of Northam.

“Don’t be a fucking martyr, Gabriel. I told you I don’t want your title.” Oliver stood in the entryway with Sofia on his arm. His response cracked through the silent communication occurring between Gabriel and Christopher.

“Sofia,” Christopher said, “you’re meant to be resting.” He clung to the distraction, however temporary. “Oliver?—”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why Oliver had let his sister out of her bed, but of course no one let Sofia do anything. If Oliver hadn’t assisted her to the dining room, she would have stumbled there on her own. “Never mind,” he sighed.

Oliver strolled to the table and helped Sofia into a chair. “Can we eat before we argue about this?”

“We can eat while I listen to your concerns, but you cannot argue your way out of being a duke any more than I can argue myself into the position.” Gabriel poured glasses of water for Violet and himself and began distributing food onto everyone’s plates. “You have in your possession a certificate of birth dating before mine, an out-of-date will from our sire’s retired solicitor in France, and a letter detailing your birth. Any number of papers in my study will confirm his signature. You could have saved yourself the trouble of espionage all together as your name is undoubtedly listed in Debrett’s, which can be found in any common bookshop. You already had everything you needed before you arrived.”

Oliver stabbed his pheasant with his fork. “But no one knows Oliver Anson is alive, and no one needs to. It’s in literally everyone’s best interest for that poor sod to remain dead. Even if we completely disregard the interests of the servants at this estate, your tenant farmers?—”

“Your tenant farmers.”

“Stop that!” Oliver caught himself and checked his anger, then continued. “Your tenant farmers, and the whole of England. If I am the duke, it puts Zachariah at risk, Nora’s marriage prospects decline, and…”

“And?” Gabriel invited him to continue.

“And Oliver Anson’s existence renders you illegitimate.” He paused as the sheer horror of the situation rippled across the expressions of everyone at the table. Everyone except Gabriel, that is, who remained placid. “The dowager’s status would be made invalid,” Oliver continued, doling out calamity as if it was a helping of mashed potatoes. “I haven’t yet met the woman, but I hear she’s terrifying. The threat of her retribution alone is enough to dissuade Oliver Anson from resurrection.”

Gabriel chuckled, and Oliver looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.

“She is terrifying,” Violet agreed.

Clearing his face of humour, Gabriel nodded. “Oliver. I appreciate your concern for my family—our family—but I am not a man who takes risks. The moment I was wed to Violet, I had my solicitor draw up formal custody papers for Zachariah. Days ago, I asked my secretary to review the paperwork, and then I double checked it myself. There is no mention of my status as a peer in the conditions and requirements of the document. As my son, Zach is as safe as he has ever been, and he has his own title and lands to inherit from his grandfather.”

Oliver relaxed marginally.

“As for my daughter, she would have spurned any suitors interested only in her title or dowry anyway. And her dowry is in no way in jeopardy, as I am a wealthy man in my own right. I have always kept my family finances and investments apart from the coffers of the dukedom.” Oliver nodded, but then opened his mouth as if to interject. Gabriel continued before he could.

“After I assured myself of Zach’s safety, I sent my secretary to find records pertaining to the death of one Sarah Lioni. As it turns out, she passed away three days prior to our sire’s marriage to the dowager. While it was certainly the old duke’s intention to commit bigamy, he did not. I am but a younger son from a legitimate second marriage, and the fire-breathing dowager remains the dowager.”

Oliver leaned back in his chair with a huff. “This is ludicrous. I am not fit to be a duke. I am scarcely fit to be a duke’s gardener. Four months ago, I woke up in an alley with one boot missing and my trousers inside out. Is that really the man you would have making decisions in Parliament?”

“I’m sure the other members of the House of Lords would prefer you attend session in trousers, but honestly the robes are long and the room does get stuffy.”

Oliver pushed his chair away and stood. “I’m finished with this.”

Gabriel took a sip of water, then glanced around the table. “Excellent idea. I don’t believe anyone can muster much of an appetite tonight anyway. Let’s retire to the study.”

“No, you stubborn arse. I mean I am done with this conversation.”

Gabriel glanced at Sofia in silent entreaty.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she replied. “I think it’s ludicrous as well. Not because my brother is incapable of the task, but because you were raised to be the duke. It’s not like learning to cheat at cards. He won’t be able to pull off a passable sleight of hand as long as the players are distracted with a tavern wench and a glass full of ale. There isn’t a scandal in this world that could fascinate the aristocracy more than a brown-skinned, dead-turned-impoverished-turned-legitimate duke falling out of the sky.”

Sofia was gaining steam, her cheeks pink and her voice rising. “They’ll do everything in their power to see him fail. And I would not see my brother suffer for the amusement of a bunch of pretentious aristocrats whose antiquated government forced him into a role he did not want only to ridicule him for attempting to do the job.”

Gabriel stood, and for the first time since the start of the conversation, Christopher could see the turbulence that he’d laboured to bury. Gabriel crossed to Oliver and stopped. “I know the prospect of being a duke terrifies you.”

Gabriel’s voice lowered then, and even in the complete silence of the room, Christoper had to concentrate to hear his next words. “I am terrified at the thought of being anything else… but I am not afraid for this dukedom or for you, Oliver, because it is what you are meant to do. Parliament will rise up against you, fight your very existence, but the effort will be futile. You have beaten them at their own game. You’re everything this country needs in a peer and nothing the peerage actually wants. You’re a representative of the people in a way that inherited wealth and privilege has never allowed. Parliament will try to drown out your voice, but the common man will listen to you in a way they could never hear my words. You are special, Oliver, and I’ll not let your fear, or my own uncertain path, prevent you from being the man I know you were meant to be.”

Oliver vehemently shook his head. “It’s too much.”

Gabriel exhaled, long and slow.

The sound of letting go.

“You won’t be alone. I’m here, brother. I’ll help you learn the things you need to know. And you’ll have allies in Parliament. Not many, but I was far from alone in my call for reform. They will welcome your voice amongst them. Probate will take an eternity, even with irrefutable evidence, but by dragging their heels, they will provide time for you to become accustomed to the title.”

The door swung open then, and the dowager stepped in, her impassive gaze sweeping the room.

“I see I’m too late to join the rational segment of the conversation. I might have known mutiny was imminent when Nora and Zachariah arrived at my house for dinner without an invitation.”

Gabriel pulled out a chair for his mother and extended a hand to offer assistance. As ever, he did not rise to her bait. “It is not mutiny, and this is not a pirate ship. I am merely setting to rights the order of succession.”

“Over a meal of pheasant and sprouts, without the benefit of solicitors or the presence of your mother.” She glared at his hand, then lowered into her seat without his help.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Oliver sketched a decent rendition of a bow, blatantly drawing enemy fire away from Gabriel. “How are my niece and nephew tonight?”

The twin coals of her hard, steely eyes pinned Oliver in place, sizzling through the material of his waistcoat. Oliver bore the silent attack with miraculous fortitude, offering a slight smile in return as he reclaimed his chair.

Her gaze clipped away, returning again to her son. “We should have spoken about this privately, Gabriel. Half the household needn’t have been privy to this conversation. I have arranged for my estate in Kent to be transferred to Mr Lioni’s name. It came to me, along with other holdings, as a portion of my marriage settlement. In addition, I am prepared to settle thirty thousand pounds a year on him to assure his comfort.”

“And his silence,” Christopher mumbled.

Her head whipped around. “Don’t you have something to starch, Mr Keene?”

“That’s enough, Mother.” Gabriel poured a glass of water and placed it before her on the table. “How did you?—”

“Davies, the gardener.” She added the last as if everyone at the table were not perfectly aware of who Davies was.

At Gabriel’s surprised expression, she continued, and there was something decidedly less abrasive in her tone and posture. “He delivers flowers to my room every morning when I am in residence. He has done so since the morning I was wed. Sometimes he takes a cup of nettle tea for his joints… my housekeeper keeps it on hand for him.” If she had expected the explanation to dispel any lingering confusion, she had sorely miscalculated.

Unusually ruffled at being the object of scrutiny, the dowager took a dainty sip of water then stared at her empty plate as if she had no idea how to make food appear there. “Davies recognised Oliver from the start, but how I know that isn’t relevant. I gave you sufficient time to identify and eradicate the threat to your family and title. When you failed to do so, I took matters into my own hands.”

Her lips flattened into a thin line as Gabriel began serving food onto her plate.

“You are not a footman, Gabriel, and you”—she pointed to Oliver with her fork in a show of blatantly poor manners—“are not a duke. My heavens, has this entire family taken leave of their senses? I feel like I have tumbled into one of those insipid penny novels your valet reads when he should be working. You depart in the morning, Mr Lioni. I wish you safe travels and a happy and silent life. Your sister, I see, is well enough to accompany you.”

Hackles instantly raised, Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but Gabriel silenced him with a reassuring glance. “I should have spoken to you privately, Mother. It was cruel of me to exclude you from my plans, even if they do not directly affect your title or station. I apologise for my thoughtlessness.”

The dowager’s eyes narrowed, but her shoulders relaxed in the face of Gabriel’s earnest apology. “In truth, I ambushed every one of you, with the exception of my wife, who has been privy to my thoughts from the start. I do not wish to injure you, Mother, but neither will I bury the truth for the sake of your convenience or pride.”

Amidst the frosty silence that followed, a thought occurred to Christopher and he had to take a deep swallow of water to disguise his burgeoning smile. “Does David know?”

As he had suspected, the mention of Gabriel’s younger brother brought a visible pinch to the dowager’s expression. She turned on Gabriel. “Tell me he does not, Northam. No doubt he would pounce on the news like a starving cat, eager for any excuse to avoid the responsibility of the heir apparent. How I could raise two sons so remarkably dissimilar is beyond my comprehension.”

“Of course he knows,” Gabriel said. “I dispatched a letter as soon as I knew. And yes, he is feeling rather relieved.”

“I’ve one son with altogether too much integrity and the other with none at all. Perhaps I should have tried for a third.”

“He’s not lacking in integrity. He simply wants something different from his life, and I don’t begrudge him that. As the heir, you raised me to honour tradition, to hold the line of succession above all else. My choices today reflect those values. Oliver is the rightful Duke of Northam. It falls to us to help him find his way. I do not wish to fight you, Mother. I know no one whose allegiance or opposition could more effortlessly tip the scales. We need you. We need your compassion and intelligence, and we need your ruthless defence of this dukedom to those who would rather see it crumble than allow its rightful heir to take his seat.”

Gabriel’s head bowed and his hands curled into fists on the table before him. “I know it’s not the future you wanted for me or for this family. You married a man of title and power who offered little as a husband beyond those things, and you did so with the assumption that your son would one day inherit and thrive for that sacrifice. You anticipated that the portraits of your grandchildren and great grandchildren would hang in the gallery and that they too would have their chance to do great things. I know you’re disappointed, and I’m sorry for it, but this is what is right and just. I need you to love me as a son and not as a duke.” In the silence that followed, his eyes slowly raised to hers.

There was a collective stillness as the vulnerable words settled like snowflakes all around them. Christopher’s chest cracked open at the sight of his friend’s eyes cast to his mother while she studied the untouched dinner before her without expression.

Then the dowager looked up. And she leaned back against her chair, a place her spine had likely never touched in all the decades of her life. She nodded. “We are going to have to teach you a proper bow, Mr Lioni. I suspect Gabriel will have his work cut out for him.” She cleared her throat and corrected herself. “We will have our work cut out for us.” Her voice was soft but certain, and Christopher could have kissed the old dragon for putting her son before her own pride.

Shockand unqualified chaos characterised the days after Gabriel’s announcement. Servants stammered their disbelief, some arguing as if they were set to lose a dukedom. Mrs Simmons swooned and was caught by an equally flabbergasted Bennett. Oliver and Gabriel spent long hours locked away in Gabriel’s study. Or was it Oliver’s study? Somebody’s study. There was an overall feeling of not recognising the feet at the end of your legs.

Unable to cease their long habit of referring to Gabriel as “Your Grace,” many of the servants took to accidentally calling both men by the honorific. Once, a housemaid even bestowed the title upon Christopher in a twitter of confused tongues. Each time, Gabriel smiled and gently corrected them. Christopher wondered at the toll that smile was taking. Based on Violet’s unease, he would guess each correction landed solidly on Gabriel’s heart.

Through it all, Oliver had refused to see Gabriel and Violet removed from the ducal suite. His only compromise had been to abandon the cabin, with its shredded wallpaper and bowed floors, for the comfort of a large room situated in the family wing.

While searching for his boots, which had vanished sometime during the night, Christopher whirled at the crash of wood against wood. A colourful string of baritone Italian followed the noise, and, thanks to those first weeks in the cabin, Christopher could easily translate all of it. Pulling his topcoat onto his arms, he moved briskly towards the source of the sound.

“If you’d do as you’re told and hold it from the side, your precious ducal feet wouldn’t be flattened,” Jeremy exclaimed.

“I can’t hold it from the side because you didn’t want to remove the drawers,” Oliver responded.

“Oh, for fuck”s sake. Would you girls stop bickering? I’ve got stalls to muck still and I don’t want to be here all morning,” added a third voice—James, who worked in the stables, Christopher identified—above the pair of squabbling men.

At the sound of the door, three sets of eyes briefly met Christopher’s before the men shifted their attention back to their battle against a gnarled mahogany desk and gravity. Gabriel’s sleek desk remained untouched in its usual place, and it took Christopher only a moment to realise the unwieldy new piece of furniture was not a replacement, but rather an addition.

“You were too busy to break your fast with Sofia and I this morning, but you somehow found time to obtain… this.” He suspected Sofia had bullied Oliver into his recent unavailability. She was as determined to be alone with Christopher as he was to ensure they were chaperoned.

Oliver made a face. “This desk is constructed entirely of lumber from a fifteenth-century pirate ship called the Filthy Courtesan.”

Apparently, this was a good thing if Oliver’s gleeful expression was to be taken into account.

“It’s perfect.” Oliver admired the hulking, asymmetrical beast.

“It’s…” Christopher searched for a neutral adjective. Lopsided fire kindling? “It certainly looks… sturdy.” Jeremy and James milled around momentarily before taking their leave.

Oliver glanced at his stockinged feet. “Where are your boots?

Christopher waved off the question as Gabriel strode into the centre of the room, then froze in place. “Good God, what is that thing? It smells like rotting fish.” He completed his journey to the new desk, extended a hand to run across the surface, then recoiled with a disgusted expression. “Salvaged boat lumber?”

“Ship lumber,” Oliver corrected. “It’s not hewn from the discarded splinters of a rowboat, for God’s sake. It has a rich history.”

Oliver met Gabriel’s incredulous expression with a surly shrug. “I like it.”

“What’s wrong with that desk right there?” Gabriel’s face altered at the sight of his beloved desk, polished to a rich amber sheen.

“Nothing at all, but it will be difficult for me to use with your arse in the chair.”

Gabriel peeled his eyes away from the stately desk with obvious reluctance. “I appreciate the thought, Oliver, but I would have found my own space to work until you find your… sea legs.”

Oliver scoffed at the terrible joke. “It’s my new desk, brother. Yours is over there, where it has always been, and where it will remain.” Oliver stroked the corner of the nautical monstrosity lovingly and smiled. “I might learn to muddle through being a duke on my own, but damn it all, I don’t want to. English law can dictate which of us legally holds the title, but I am hoping for more of a partnership. I’ll bicker in Parliament. You manage the estate and holdings. We make decisions together.”

Christopher watched Gabriel intently for any hint of a response, but his expression remained neutral.

“You don’t have to do this, Oliver. I’ll be all right, and so will you. I know it feels overwhelming now, but it will get easier.” The soft nostalgic melancholy on Gabriel’s face cleared away as if it had never been there at all, and an expression of empathy and single-minded determination took its place.

Oliver’s head tipped to the side. “So, let me see if I understand the future you’ve mapped out in that head of yours, brother. You remain on the estate, toiling away for, let’s say six months, teaching me everything I need to be a fair-to-middling peer of the realm. And then you… do what? Take your family and skulk off to one of your estates? Herd goats? Become a cheese monger? Visit once a year at Christmas?”

“He would be wasted on cheese,” Christopher said.

Oliver grinned in agreement with Christopher’s assessment, then carried on. “I’m not offering this arrangement because I’m scared to go it alone or because I feel sorry for you. I’m asking because I want you here with me.”

His eyes trailed down to his boots then back again to meet Gabriel’s steady gaze. “A year ago, I had no idea I even had a brother. Now, I’m only just discovering how you like your eggs in the morning and what things I can say to annoy you. I’m not ready to lose you to a field full of ruminants. I want to know you as I know my sister. I want to teach you how to harvest olives. I want to share my troubles and victories with you… and I want you to share yours with me.” Oliver sat on the corner of his desk, such that it was, and one of the handles broke away and toppled to the floor with a clang. “Perhaps your first bit of advice as my partner could be the direction of a knowledgeable carpenter.”

A smile split across Gabriel’s face, and he clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Violet will fix it. She’ll practically salivate at the prospect of getting her hands on this putrid stump.”

“It just wants for some beeswax. A touch of lemon oil?—”

“A spark from a flint,” Christopher added.