Chapter 6
Chapter Six
But he came in smelling of cow, Chadbourn! And not for the first time. I told Franklin to burn his clothing, burn it! You must allow Franklin to birch him." Sylvia sat upright, but her hands shook, and her pupils looked large in her rheumy eyes.
"I will not!"
"Emery would have," she whined. "He would demand it."
"Emery was a jackass, and I am not Emery, for which, sister, you should be thankful.
" Will clenched his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around the scrawny neck of the tutor who held his nephew by the jacket, held him so high, the boy's feet almost lifted from the floor.
Charles held his face in a brave show of courage, but his eyes pleaded with Chadbourn.
"Unhand His Grace this instant," Will shouted. "You will not birch him today or any other day. Has this happened before?"
"Only when necessary," Franklin said, chin up, eyes on Sylvia. "Boys require discipline." He gave Charles a shake as he pushed the lad away.
Will put an arm around the boy's shoulder. He could feel tension vibrating through the young body, but Charles held himself upright.
"From the state of his math knowledge, I suspect he has had more 'discipline' than learning from you."
"One cannot teach what he will not learn, my lord." Franklin made the title sound like an insult. "I only follow His Grace's—that is the late duke's—wishes," the man sniveled.
"You finally got one thing right. His Grace's father is the late duke. I will not have my nephew beaten, and certainly not over a trivial offense."
"Trivial?" Sylvia cried, bringing a look of satisfaction to the tutor. "He snuck away from his tutor. He went there, Chadbourn."
Will ignored her. He looked Franklin up and down. "You're dismissed," he said as calmly as he could manage.
"Sacked?" The tutor shook with outrage. "For following His Grace's orders?"
"For failing to follow mine, and for failing to teach this boy a blasted thing.
Go pack your things." When Franklin glanced frantically at Sylvia and looked as if he would argue, Will held up a hand.
"Pack your things without a word, and I'll allow the duchess to provide you with a character reference.
Otherwise, I will toss you bodily from the house without it. "
Sylvia cowered beneath Will's tone, and wept.
"He went there, Chadbourn. Emery forbade it. We do not go there."
"He went with me yesterday, and he will have my permission to go again," Will said. He watched the tutor wrap his dignity around him and leave.
Sylvia began to hiccup, tiny sobs emanating from her.
Will turned to Charles and smiled into the boy's pale face. "You do look rather a mess, my boy. You didn't tell me you went back and left the schoolroom without permission."
"Sorry, Uncle Will. Fred and Randy sent a message up with John Footman, and I had to meet them. I had to."
"Your mother is right about one thing. This suit is ruined. Do you own clothes that aren't silk, something suitable for playing?"
"No, sir."
Of course not. "We'll see to it. For now, remove those clothes and have them laundered for the poor box. For leaving without permission, I want you to spend the rest of the day writing out your multiplication tables. Understood?"
Charles grimaced. "Yes, Uncle Will."
The boy left, and Will turned to his sister, determined to get to the bottom of the animosity with Songbird Cottage, but she had already slipped into a drug-induced sleep.
* * *
"You've been busy. I rather think you didn't need my help." The Marquess of Glenaire, who had arrived just as Will saw the tutor on his way, sat at his leisure over port.
Thank God he came today before I strangled the rotter and did the same to Stowe, Will thought. The man's hostile glares put him in mind to turn off the butler next. I would if he weren't so blasted old. Better to pension him off, and soon.
"Oh, but I do," he said. "Besides, you'll enliven the winter holidays."
White-blond eyebrows shot up over ice-blue eyes. "I'm hardly one for the sentiments of the season."
"Even your hidebound dignity improves the mood of this place, Richard. It is driving me to drink." He downed another glass, while he poured out his woes to his best friend in the world. "What can you add?" he asked when he his tale wound down.
"Not much. Lord Arthur is, as you surmised, the second son of the seventh duke of Murnane.
By reputation, he presented a mild-mannered contrast to his rakehell older brother, when the two came down from university.
Lord Arthur actually finished a degree and took a first. He went about during the Season for a few years, sowed a few wild oats—damned few—courted a few chits unenthusiastically, and avoided house parties.
He shunned society entirely after his marriage.
He supports himself on a meager income from his books. "
"That, and a well-run farm. What about his marriage?"
"He wed Miss Mary Harlow, daughter of the Wheatton vicar, in 1804. Their son, Frederick, was born less than a year, but more than nine months, later."
"Catherine?"
Glenaire's sardonic look at Will's use of her given name spoke volumes, but the marquess didn't comment on it.
"About Miss Wheatly, if that is her name, I could find little.
Her mother departed Wheatton abruptly late in 1788, and came to live with an aunt in a remote village in Scotland, with an infant, soon after.
Of marriage or a father, we found no trace.
I have people looking into it, but, if there is no paper, they are reduced to listening at keyholes. "
"Call them off."
The eyebrows rose.
"We can assume the obvious. No point in causing Catherine embarrassment or upsetting Lord Arthur any further. The man is fiercely protective of her." Will watched the deep purple liquid swirl around in his glass. "It might help to know, however," he murmured.
"To what purpose?" Glenaire asked, knowing eyes boring into him.
Before I take her to wed. He couldn't say the words out loud. Not until he was certain enough of his own feelings to put them to the test.
"Something isn't right," he said instead. "Nothing you've said accounts for the animosity. Emery put the fear of God into Sylvia. She seems to believe Catherine—Miss Wheatly—was Emery's mistress."
"Perhaps she was."
"No!"
Glenaire waited with exquisite patience.
"I would bet Chadbourn Park on it. If Emery took Catherine, it wasn't voluntarily. It might account for his determination to keep Charles and Sylvia away, though I just can't see it. What of Songbird Cottage?"
Glenaire leaned forward and put both elbows on the table, cupping his glass. "Songbird Cottage and its acres belong outright to Lord Arthur, left to him by his mother from her settlements. Neither the seventh nor eighth duke had any claim to it."
Will nodded. "Catherine said as much. She said his father resented it."
"Some men would dislike loss of control."
"Isn't that the point of settlements, protecting something for the woman and her children?"
"True, but some begrudge it. Perhaps, the old duke expected it to come directly to him upon marriage. Perhaps Emery felt the same. Is it a nice piece of land?"
"Not large, but tidy and productive. The best."
"There you have it."
"Maybe. There has to be more, and I'm going to find it, for those boys' sake if nothing else. They are a duke's grandsons. The estate owes them better. A gentleman's education, at least."
Long minutes passed. Glenaire watched Will. Will stared at his port until he finally sat back and let a grim smile show. "I think it's time Lord Arthur visits his childhood home."
"From what you have said, he won't come."
"Catherine will persuade him, if only for her brothers' wellbeing. I have her support for that, at least. She hasn't said it, but I know it's there. She'll persuade him."
He counted on it.