The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 15

15

B eyond the windows of the town house parlor, rain came down in sheets, making the interior rather dreary today. Charity sat primly on the edge of the settee with her hands tightly folded, while the heir to the Marquess of Exeter, Lord Percival knelt in front of her and unfolded a slip of paper. “I’ve written a sonnet for you.”

“Imagine that,” she said, doing her best not to yawn. “And without us having uttered more than ‘hello’ at St. James’ Palace?”

The man met her gaze, his face looking reminiscent of a duck—long nose, narrow face with a pallid complexion, a small, pursed mouth, and grey eyes. “I do not need a conversation to know what is in my heart.”

Charity said nothing, merely because keeping one’s mouth shut when she had nothing but a sardonic retort on the tip of her tongue was the behavior expected of her station. Especially when her brother Andrew sat across the drawing room, reading the Gazette while pretending to play chaperone.

Lord Percival appeared to be no more than seventeen years of age, and looked about as ready to become a groom as her youngest brother Frederick, who was in his first year at St. Andrews University.

“ Your hair reminds me of Autumn leaves.

Your eyes glisten as brightly as sapphires I do believe.

You are as graceful as a bird in flight

Which is why I sighed at the sight

Of your beauty on that day

When you curtsied to the Queen of the May. ”

Charity raised her fan high enough to cover her snort. “Queen of the May? I’m not certain Her Majesty would approve of being called thus.”

Lord Percival blushed most exceedingly as he folded his paper and slipped it into his coat. “Well, ‘Queen of England’ didn’t rhyme.”

“I suppose it wouldna.”

His Lordship slipped onto the settee beside her. “But I did hear Her Majesty say that you ought to be the darling of the ton this season.”

“Aye, she was very kind,” Charity agreed, though she clearly remembered the rest of the queen’s sentence, indicating that Scottish heiresses were not as favored as English.

“And I say your Scottish accent is endearing. I doubt I shall find it too much of an annoyance, once I grow accustomed to it.”

As Andrew turned the paper, Charity looked to her brother for any word to rescue her from this ignorant adolescent. “Och, aye,” she said, embellishing her brogue. “I wouldna want to offend yer English sensibilities, m’lord, with me wee burr, rolling me r-r-r-r’s, and singin’ ’bout the lassies awaitin’ their laddies, whilst they carve the peat from the bogs.”

The lordling met her grin with a blank stare. But Charity hardly noticed, as her gaze was pulled to the headline on Andrew’s newspaper.

“ Butcher Named Earl of Brixham .”

She shot to her feet. “Please excuse me.”

Before the fellow could reply, she slipped across the floor and read. “…His Lordship, Harold Abbott Mansfield, was notified of his post but two days past. However, the matter of his inheritance is dubious at best ? — ”

Andrew lowered the paper, his auburn eyebrows slanted downward—both he and his identical twin brother, Philip, had the same deep auburn locks as Charity, unlike Modesty’s fiery red. “Is all well, Sister?”

“I’m afraid I’m suffering a sudden affliction of Scottish irritability.”

“Scottish irritability?” asked Lord Percival. “Is there such a thing?”

“Och aye.” Charity pressed her hand to her forehead. “Caused from wildcat bites. Many of my kin are afflicted.”

The silly fellow stood and stepped away, his face growing as pale as his neckcloth. “Perhaps I should take my leave and allow you to rest.”

She gave Andrew the evil eye to ensure he kept his mouth shut. “You are ever so kind, m’lord.”

The chap bowed. “I shall show myself out. Perhaps we might take a stroll through the park upon my next visit.”

“That would be lovely,” Charity replied, wishing she’d told him not to bother.

Sister and brother both waited until they were alone, then Andrew slapped his paper on the arm of his chair. “Scottish irritability? What the devil are you on about this time? Lord Percival seemed an affable enough chap.”

“Affable? Not only is he a child, his poetry is awful.”

“I thought it wasn’t bad. At least he made an attempt to make it rhyme.”

She headed for the door. “Marvelous.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“I’ve a great deal of correspondence to attend. Mrs. Fletcher wrote asking advice about the curtains, as well as what to do with Miss Jacoby, who either needs a proposal from the Brixham vicar or we must intervene on her behalf. Oh, and I owe Julia a letter.”

By the time she stepped into the corridor, Charity was shaking. She started toward the main stairway, but when she overheard Mama’s voice coming from the entry, she did an about-face and headed up the servants’ stairs, only to run into Georgette carrying an armful of linens.

“My lady, whatever has happened?”

“You do not want to know,” Charity said, gathering her skirts and dashing up the stairs.

Unfortunately, Georgette followed. “I ken when something’s amiss. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Charity exited on the third-floor landing and into her bedchamber, holding the door. “You may as well come in. I’m certain the news has already spread below stairs.”

Georgette set to stripping the bed. “News?”

“If the report on the front page of the Gazette is to be trusted, Mr. Mansfield has just been named the Earl of Brixham.”

“The butcher?” the lady’s maid asked, shaking out a sheet.

Charity moved to the other side of the bed to lend a hand. “Aye.”

Georgette shooed her away. “You mustn’t do servants’ work.”

“Verra well,” she said, pacing and wishing she had something to do with her hands.

As the maid spread the top sheet, she asked, “How in all of Christendom is Brixham’s butcher suddenly an earl?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Is that not a good thing? I thought you liked him.”

“I did like him, until my eldest brother paid him a visit and told him never to set eyes on me again—told him if he was ever again found in my presence, he would face the barrel of Marty’s musket.”

“Oh dear.”

“‘Oh dear’ is right. Furthermore, the article said the matter of the new earl’s inheritance was dubious at best—whatever that means.”

Georgette hefted the coverlet from the floor and dropped it onto the bed. “I’m sorry, m’lady, but I’m not certain I understand. He’s the earl. Is he not entitled to the former earl’s property?”

Charity bit her thumbnail. “He is. And, though by no means am I an expert, I assume Mr. Mansfield is entitled to every item inside Huntly Manor, if not the house itself.”

“But the duke purchased Huntly for his duchess. Their Graces own it now.”

“Mayhap you are right. But that doesna allay the fact that the linens, the china, and every piece of furniture is owned by the Earl of Brixham—a title that we all thought extinct, mind you. Which also means Mr. Mansfield…I mean His Lordship, owns the beds presently being slept upon by our boarders.”

Georgette fluffed a pillow. “Oh dear, what a muddle.”

“Och aye, ’tis a muddle of magnanimous proportions,” Charity said, reflecting back to the tiny apartment above the butcher shop that Harry occupied with his mother and sister. It seemed to be no larger than her own bedchamber in the Dunscaby town house.

“Surely he wouldna take everything from the manor and sell it at auction.”

Charity stopped in the middle of the floor and clapped a hand over her mouth as she met Georgette’s gaze.

“Would he?” asked the maid.

“After my brother threatened the poor man? I’m not so certain of anything.” They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. And though it wasn’t proper to discuss such matters with a servant, the new Earl of Brixham was not a wealthy man. It was no secret that the estate had been squandered by Julia’s father, and with Harry taking on odd jobs and boxing to pay for his mother’s treatments, he most certainly was not prepared to face the ton . He might have no option but to sell the contents of Huntly Manor.

Charity hastened to her writing table. “I must inform Mrs. Fletcher and Willaby to expect a visit from His Lordship. I also must dispatch a letter to Julia immediately. She’s the smartest woman I’ve ever met. She’ll have some opinions on the matter for certain.”

Georgette collected the soiled linens from the floor and rolled them into a ball. “And what about the duke? Should you not write to your brother as well?”

After Marty had come to Huntly and ridiculed her, Charity wasn’t overly anxious to resume correspondence with him. “Writing to Julia is every bit as good, if not better than writing to Martin.”

“Well, you’d best make quick work of it. I’ll return to help you dress for the theater in an hour.”

Charity opened her drawer and pulled out a slip of paper, then lifted the lid from her inkwell and dipped her quill. Hopefully, the ladies at Huntly Manor had not already been forced to give up their beds.

After the chancellor swore in a seemingly endless litany of members to open the session of the House of Lords, Harry eyed the top row of benches hidden beneath the shadows of the mezzanine. He quietly slipped up to where no one would be able to see the worn patches on the elbows of his coat, or his miserably tied, hardly starched neckcloth, or the dozens of scuffs on his boots that, no matter how rigorously he’d polished them, looked worn and shabby in comparison to those of every other man presently occupying the Court of Requests in the Palace of Westminster.

Once he took a seat, a chap slid along the bench and offered his hand. “Andrew MacGalloway.”

Bloody hell, of all the miserable luck, Harry had to sit beside a MacGalloway? “Harry Mansfield here. Have you any relation to the duke?”

“He’s my brother. I’m merely the third in line—or fourth as it were; my twin, Philip pushed his way out of the hatch twenty minutes before I made my appearance.”

Harry regarded the man—auburn hair like Lady Charity’s, dark blue eyes as well. Though Lord Andrew was decidedly masculine, there was no questioning the familial resemblance. “If you’re a fourth son, then why are you here?”

“Sitting in as proxy for His Grace. My brother’s wife is with child, and since they’ve only been married a matter of months, he still fancies himself in love.”

“Lady Julia…um…I mean Her Grace is expecting? That is fabulous news.”

“Mayhap for them, but I’d rather be up north than listening to the Lord Chancellor drone on about imposing bounties on exported pilchards. My brother and I are in the midst of commencing production in a factory on The River Tay—building our houses as well, but here I sit whilst Philip has all the fun.”

“Factory? For what end?”

“The manufacture of cotton cloth, my friend, the gold of the nineteenth century.”

Harry took quick note of Andrew’s attire—expensive coat, a neckcloth that had obviously been tied by a skilled valet, boots polished to a sheen and reflecting the candlelight from the chandeliers above. “His Grace must put a great deal of trust in you, if he assigned you to vote in his stead.”

“Mayhap, though he most likely trusts Philip more, leaving him on the Tay to manage fifty looms and four times as many workers.”

“Fifty? My, it surely must be a profitable industry.”

“Profitable and growing throughout Christendom. Thus far, we cannot produce enough to meet orders.” Lord Andrew raised his hand to signify his approval of something the Lord Chancellor had said, then returned his attention to Harry. “So, Brixham, I read about your rise to the aristocracy in the Gazette . How does it feel to be rubbing elbows with men you once thought your betters?”

Cringing, Harry had never been called Brixham before. The title was as foreign to him as the Court of Requests and all who presently occupied it. He looked across the hall at the myriad of fellows who, if he put a leather apron on any one of them, would never pass for a butcher. “Still trying to come to grips with everything, I suppose, though it would have been a hell of a lot more palatable if I had inherited a fortune.”

“A shame, that. But you’re not the first sop who inherited a title with no money behind it—at least you didna inherit the old earl’s debts.”

“How do you know? I read the article in the Gazette as well. It didn’t mention the extent of my inheritance or lack thereof.”

“Nay, it just went on to explain how you took over your father’s butcher shop after his death, that you’re a damn good fighter, and that they had to go back five generations to find you.”

Harry slumped. “That’s about the lot of it.”

Lord Andrew tugged down the sleeves of his well-tailored coat. “I’m curious, though. I traveled to Brixham with my brother—the duke, mind you. My sister told me that you’re the kindest man she’s ever met. I found that a wee bit difficult to believe—you’re a boxer, not to mention you look like a behemoth.”

The fact that the fellow beside him knew about his sister’s near ruination because she’d attended Harry’s boxing match gave him pause—for a moment. But after suffering humiliation, Lady Charity had said he was kind? That made his chest swell. “She is a caring person herself—she was ever so intent on making Huntly Manor a suitable home for ladies.”

“Charity was aptly named. She would help a field mouse if the wee varlet were injured.”

“And how is she?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“Well—presently the recipient of sonnets from the heir to the Marquess of Exeter. Ye ken she’s destined to marry into a well-established family with healthy coffers.”

“Hmm.” Harry shifted his gaze to the proceedings down below. How much longer must he sit there? How much longer did he have to remain in London? He’d rented a room in a boarding house on the east end, which he had no choice but to share with five other men. Five men and one mattress on the floor that was barely large enough for two, same with the godforsaken room—hardly enough space to bend over and don his boots without bumping into someone. Good God, he’d never tell a one of the scrappers that he was a damned earl. They’d have him thrown out on account of being mad.

“You’ve turned quiet,” said Lord Andrew.

Harry clenched his fists. “I’ve a great deal on my mind.”

“Aye, ’tisna easy for a penniless earl.”

“Life wasn’t easy for a butcher in a small seaside village, but it was a hell of a lot better than what I’m putting up with at the moment.”

“I wouldna say that. After all, you do have a title.”

“A lot of bloody good it is worth. And I fit in to the House of Lords like a Bullmastiff among pampered, fluffy lap dogs.”

“Och, I wouldna say that either. Aside from being the size of a bear, you’re not unattractive, excepting mayhap the fact that you look as if ye need a shave.”

Harry brushed his fingers across his stubbled jaw. “I shaved this morning. ’Tis my curse.”

“Bullmastiff, aye? I reckon you’re not wrong there.” Andrew said, with a shake of his head. “Regardless, as an earl, some lassie is bound to find you handsome enough.”

“Some lass?” Harry asked, praying Lady Charity had mentioned something about being enamored with him.

“Aye, your title is worth thousands of pounds. There are countless wealthy merchants in Town for the Season, all champing at the bit to hobnob with the nobility. Think on it, Brixham, the title of countess is very appealing to an heiress from a common merchant family offering up a handsome dowry—why would you care if she had a wealthy papa who might be the son of a common chimney sweep?”

Again, Harry’s spirits fell. Of course, Andrew had to emphasize the word “common.” Charity had been born into a dukedom—she was the eldest daughter of said dukedom. Ladies of her ilk didn’t marry penniless earls, they married wealthy earls to make their families richer.

Lord Andrew nudged him. “Always keep in mind that being enterprising is a virtue. What say you, my enterprising earl? Hmm?”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse if my future wife is from meager beginnings,” he mumbled, the back of his neck burning with the memory of the Duke of Dunscaby paying a visit to the shop and threatening to shoot him. It came as no surprise to learn that Lady Charity was being wooed by a wealthy heir to a marquess. Of course the woman would do well for herself. Any man would be a fool not to fall in love with her.