Chapter Thirteen
S o, things had come full circle—to Verda’s great dismay. She stood outside the earl’s study, just as she had a week prior. Only this time it wasn’t with trepidation but irritation that set her teeth on edge. The man was a menace to his family, from his brother to the baby Julius. Any previous intimidation from the Earl of Pender had long since plummeted.
With a deep inhalation, she rapped firmly on the oak door.
“Enter.”
“My lord.” She injected the same tone she used with her own father. The pragmatic, straightforward voice that brooked no tolerance for tomfoolery.
His practiced scrutiny crawled over her, leaving a vile film of repulsion in its wake. She shuddered.
“Is there some reason behind the drab finery?” he said, inclining his head at her brown, woolen frock.
“I’m a governess, my lord, not a debutante awaiting an approach from the Wall of Wallflowers.”
“Well played,” he murmured. “Please, be seated.”
Verda took the chair and waited.
“I understand the wet nurse drank herself into a stupor and has been relieved of her duties.”
“Yes.”
“My brother says you’ve stepped up admirably to the position of nursemaid.”
His tone scraped her skin raw, but she kept her temper in check. “Perhaps. But the wet nurse served in a way that was unique only to her.”
His eyes dropped to her modest bosom before rising to meet her gaze. The cynical twist to his lips sent hot waves of embarrassment washing over her along with a healthy dose of outrage. She jumped from her chair and flattened her palms on his desk. “You, my lord, will do something about another wet nurse for your son. I am not at your disposal.” She couldn’t stop there. No, her temper was an unforgiveable flaw in Papa’s eyes, and words were her weapons. “Perhaps you should locate another governess as well. Master Noah is a bright lad who deserves more than rotting in this pile of rubble.” She stifled a groan and chastised herself for never knowing when to stop, always digging the hole deeper. What she should tell him was that the pile of rubble needed updating. But, no. She maintained the reserve that she used with Papa and hoped that would suffice.
Surprise flitted over his face accompanied by a bark of laughter. He recovered quickly enough with a short cough and a wave of his hand. “Sit down. Sit down.”
She straightened and backed from the desk.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me. Sadly,” he added, though it sounded as an afterthought.
Lips compressed, she studied him for a long moment, then slowly lowered into the chair. “As long as we are clear, my lord.”
“Oh, yes, we are definitely clear. My brother has already threatened to kill me.”
“ Kill you!” she blurted out, startled.
“Aye,” he said with some impatience. “Might we move on?” He let out a long sigh. “I wish to know more regarding Noah and his interactions with the infant.”
“Julius?”
“Er, yes. Julius, you say?”
She was incredulous. “You don’t even know his name ?” She stood up, prepared for her escape. “It’s obvious someone responsible must stay near those children. They require protection. Where is Mr. Oshea? He, at least, shows some attachment to their care. You, my lord, are an abomination.”
“As I keep telling my brother.” The degenerate earl’s expression never even cracked.
One could deal with only so much stupidity. Verda swept from the study, desperate for a sudden breath of cold air. Anything that could pry the guardian knot lodged in her throat.
*
Sander strolled into the study. “Set you in your place, did she?” Truly, Miss Fairclough was the woman of his dreams.
Damien’s scowl lightened the tightness banding Sander’s chest. “I thought you’d given up listening at doors years ago.”
“Ah, well. How else am I to learn the things I need to know to protect those I care for?”
“Like how I wasn’t of Father’s blood?” Damien’s fingers clenched into fists atop a short stack of papers.
A sore subject, but perhaps needed a clearing of the air. “Yes. Like that.” Sander had heard their mother’s deathbed confession to their father that Damien was not of their father’s blood. He’d been six. It was then he’d realized he was the only one who’d protect his brother despite being too young to understand the whys. “Do you have other questions?”
A smirk crossed Damien’s lips. “Plenty, but they shall keep. Your woman rightly pointed out that the wet nurse was uniquely qualified for her position.”
Sander barely heard the last half of his brother’s statement, leaving him stuck on the “your woman.” They lodged in his chest like a woodsman’s axe. He ran a tingling finger around the neck of his shirt, tempted to tear away his simply tied cravat and toss it in the grate.
Damien cleared his throat, and it penetrated.
The earl pinched the bridge of his nose, then pierced Sander with a rare solemnity. “You didn’t kill Father,” he said.
The statement struck through Sander like a bolt of lightning out of a stark blue, calm, and definitely, tumultuous-free sky.
“It’s true, you sent him into the freezing weather on a wild grouse chase,” he went on. “Hell, if he’d ever deigned to listen to me, I would have done the same.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sander said on a huff of impatience.
“I’m trying to explain something here. And I’ll only say so once.” His hand waved out. “I witnessed your entire exchange with Father from the floor above that night. He was drunk. As usual. He’d cornered me in the stables. Blasted me with his usual diatribe. That particular night, his accusations centered around sabotaging the horses.”
Sander fell into the closest chair, certain his legs wouldn’t support him much longer. “I didn’t know.” He hardly recognized the low huskiness of his own voice.
“He held a leather strap, was tapping it against his hand.” Damien’s eyes lost their focus to a past scene. “I screamed at him.” He blinked and was back in the present, but there was a tremor in his hands. “He told him when I addressed him, I would show respect.” One hand squeezed into a fist.
“As if you hadn’t always treated him thus.” Disgust bordered the hatred broiling Sander’s blood. “That’s when he hit you.”
“Yes. But I shoved him back. Knocked him out. I thought I’d killed him. Baldric appeared like the ghost he was. Sent me scrambling inside to find you.”
“I know all of this, Damien. What I don’t know is—”
Damien held out his palm, his jaw as taut as a violin string. “I’m not finished. What you don’t know is that I followed him that blustery night. You didn’t kill him.”
Sander froze. “Are you telling me that you…”
“No. And that is the end of the conversation. Neither of us offed the scoundrel. Much as he deserved it,” he finished on a mutter.
A flush of heat started mid torso and crept up like an unsolicited guest, leaving Sander at a loss as to do with this sudden shift of a past he’d always believed. He stared at his brother.
Damien flexed his hand. “The subject is now closed.”
Sander willed back his question. This was as open as he could ever recall since their childhood. He drew in a deep breath. “Right, then. To the business at hand. What are you going to do about the children? Should Miss Fairclough remove herself to London”—something Sander would do his utmost to prevent—“Noah will have nothing to occupy that overdeveloped brain of his.”
“Not quite true. He has the infant.” Ire colored Damien’s tone and raised the pressure in Sander’s blood. “Which is enough to keep anyone busy.”
The thoughtless remarks had Sander rubbing the spot between his eyes. “His name is Julius, Damien. And while that may well be, it is short-sighted thinking. Noah confessed to the lady he wishes to build a laboratory. Without her supervision, he’s likely to turn this place into the mound of rocks it deserves. Unfortunately, he and Julius would likely be buried beneath the rubbish. I doubt you would find that a desirable outcome. I could be wrong, of course,” he added somewhat spitefully.
“Right, as always,” he bit out. “That is not a desirable outcome. Perhaps it is I who should build the laboratory. You can take the children to London—better yet, Cornwall.”
“Dear God. Listen to yourself,” he said on an exasperated huff. “Perlsea Keep is in worse shape than Stonemare.” A violent storm in 1755 had nearly wiped it off the cliff. “The place is barely sustaining itself. If you continue on this current path of gambling losses, the Pender fortune, such that it is, will be gone within a fortnight.”
“That is a gross exaggeration.”
“Is it? Have you ventured a look at the books?”
Damien’s lips tightened.
“Of course you haven’t. The fact of the matter is, we must move out of the Bronze Age to more modern methods of sustaining our heritage. The cottage industry is a dying means for the villagers, backbreaking and unsustainable. More specifically, Lucius, Noah, and Julius’s heritage is at stake.” Sander breathed in deeply. “But I digress. We must locate a new wet nurse, first and foremost. The need is quite urgent.”
“How do you propose I do that? That is woman’s business.”
Sander was not above using guilt to push his points home. “Well, it is now your business. Mrs. Knagg is handling the kitchens and the gardens. We have few enough servants for all the tasks she is undertaking due to the ridiculous beliefs that Stonemare is haunted and how no one wishes to serve here.” All true, though it was not due to funds. It was due to isolation. Even the neighboring viscount spent little time in this barren, almost forgotten portion of England.
Damien winced, which Sander found reassuring. At least his brother still harbored human compassion, even if it was but a thread. “And if there’s not a wet nurse available?”
“Noah cannot care for an infant by himself,” he said gently. “At the least, we shall require a nursemaid.”
“Miss Fairclough—”
“—was hired as a governess. Not a nursemaid,” Sander said smoothly. “Now, I suggest you start composing correspondence. Address it to the general merchant in Alnmouth. ’Tis a hub of information.”