TWENTY #2
“I wish to discuss a sensitive matter with your lordship, if I may,” Rawkin said.
“Of course.”
The man had proved a capable if somewhat nervous butler. That was evident now in the shaking hands he clasped behind his back. He licked his lips.
“Mrs. Armstrong is a good woman.”
Matt blinked. Whatever was Rawkin on about?
“I agree,” Matt said. “She is decidedly a good woman.”
“And a competent housekeeper.”
“That, as well.”
Poor Rawkin paled. Matt could nearly see him vibrating from nerves.
“Out with it, man.” Matt motioned with his gloved fingers. “What troubles you?”
“As a woman in service, Mrs. Armstrong relies upon her reputation to maintain her employment.”
A chill chased Matt’s spine, his chin lifting. Ah. So this was the direction of Rawkin’s speech. Was Matt to endure a scolding from his butler, of all people? And why, why, why did Matt feel like he deserved one?
“It hasn’t escaped my notice that, in addition to your daily rides, she has been spending time alone with your lordship in your study,” Rawkin continued. “I do not know the nature of your relationship with her. Nor, truthfully, is it any of my business, my lord, but—”
“Has there been talk?” Matt interrupted. “Is the household gossiping?”
“I heard the upstairs maids blethering about it yesterday and set them straight. Mrs. Armstrong might be younger than a typical housekeeper, but she has always maintained a fine moral character.”
“I agree.” Matt worked to keep his voice steady. His pulse, however, had bolted from some internal stable in a stampede of clacking hooves.
“I ken ye might take offense at my words, my lord, but I know Mrs. Armstrong has no family to speak of, not since Mr. Armstrong’s death.
I can’t help but think, if her father or a brother were here the now, he might say what I am saying: Please, if ye value her as a person, do not be the instrument of her ruination. ”
How was Matt to reply to that? Blood drummed in his ears.
Rawkin took his silence as permission to continue. “Ye be a good man, my lord. And I suppose ye may not quite ken how your actions appear to the rest of us.” A hint of apology tinged his voice. “Your attention to Mrs. Armstrong isn’t kind. In fact, it’s a wee bit cruel.”
Matt swallowed and rallied his thoughts.
“I applaud your courage for approaching me with this, Rawkin. I am glad Mrs. Armstrong can count you as a friend.” Matt took in a slow breath and admitted what he was too lily-livered to tell Cecily directly. “What if I tell you that my intentions toward Mrs. Armstrong are honorable?”
Rawkin went slack-jawed. “But . . . ye be a duke’s son. And . . . and she is a housekeeper. A lord such as yourself does not marry”—poor Rawkin nearly choked on the word—“a woman such as Cecily Armstrong.”
Perhaps not. But gentlemen like Lord Matthias Kinsey did marry ladies like Miss Cecily Moulton.
The carriage rattled on the drive, approaching from the stables.
Matt tapped his hat onto his head. “I believe I shall be the judge of that.”
“Well, if your intentions are honorable, my lord, then I would give ye my blessing and with pleasure.”
“Thank you, Rawkin. I would ask you to keep this information between ourselves. I have yet to discuss the matter with the lady herself.” Matt leaned on the word lady.
Rawkin didn’t mistake his meaning. The man’s chin lifted in understanding. “I’ve often wondered about Mrs. Armstrong’s true origins. Her Scottish accent isn’t quite as excellent as she supposes it to be.”
“You are perceptive as ever, Rawkin. But please inform me if malicious gossip surfaces. I agree that Mrs. Armstrong’s reputation must be protected.”
With that, he stepped out of the entryway and into the waiting carriage.
A confrontation with Rawkin and now an entire evening facing down half the neighborhood at the Listons . . .
Matthias had never wished more to be somewhere else.
Hours later, Matthias arrived home, exhausted and ready for a reprieve.
“I trust your evening went well, my lord?” Rawkin asked as he took Matt’s hat in the entryway.
Matt turned so that the butler could help him out of his greatcoat. “As expected.”
And that was the truth.
Reverend Liston and Mrs. Liston had been overjoyed to welcome him. Mr. and Mrs. Carter had been in attendance, as well. They had chatted amiably before dinner, Mr. Carter content to blether on about his hounds, with Matt nodding and grunting appropriately amid rare and brief pauses.
When called into dinner, Matt had escorted Mrs. Liston to her chair before tugging off his glove with his teeth.
Dinner itself had been excellent, though he spent a goodly portion of it pushing a large piece of beef around his plate, as he had no way to cut it.
Mrs. Liston had noticed and winced—either berating her own short-sightedness or disliking the obvious reminder of Matthias’s inadequacies.
He sided with the latter as she had not motioned a footman to assist him.
Miss Liston had blushed every time he spoke to her and stammered out brief responses to his questions. However, she had performed a lovely bit of Mozart on the pianoforte, and Mrs. Carter had sung a series of ballads.
In short, once home, Matt was glad to put the ordeal behind him. He would not be dining in society again. Not when Cecily’s company awaited him. Of course, Rawkin’s warning earlier still blistered Matt’s ears.
“A letter came for your lordship,” Rawkin turned to the entryway table and lifted a silver platter with a thick envelope on it.
“So late?”
“Aye. It arrived via messenger.”
Matt lifted the envelope. The angry red of Gray’s ducal seal glared at him.
Lovely.
Nothing good would be penned within. Of a surety, Gray did not send an urgent message merely to ascertain the weather and the state of Matthias’s stables.
Sighing, Matt trudged up the stairs, the letter a portent in his hand.