Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“What’s this all about, Blythe? It’s not as if Chilcombe plans to evict you.”
Seated beside Will the next day in the Chilcombe town carriage, Blythe patted her brother’s hand.
He’d been strangely silent on the drive home from the previous evening’s rout, as had Graeme, both men allowing Hermione to chatter on about the evening.
Will had obliged Blythe by accompanying her today when she’d met with the estate agent and visited two properties.
The first one, a smallish townhouse on a fashionable Mayfair square, had been out of her reach.
The other, in Soho, was affordable but on the edge of a deteriorating neighborhood.
She ought to settle for that second one, but she found herself dithering and wondering how long Graeme would tolerate her presence.
“Dear Will, you were away when I married and probably so young you wouldn’t have concerned yourself with contracts and such.
Do you remember that after Mama and your father’s deaths, when you went into the army, I went to live with my old governess and her husband, my guardian, Mr. Davies, at Bluebelle Lodge? ”
“I do.”
The childless couple had been very dear to her. Both had died within the last two years.
She told him about the marriage settlement, about waiving her right to dower.
After compromising her reputation, Archie had balked at marrying her because of her pittance of a dowry.
Mr. Davies had negotiated an agreement that bequeathed Bluebelle Lodge to Chilcombe after his and his wife’s deaths, and Archie’s will, executed at the time of their marriage, gave her the estate free and clear upon his death.
“The Marquess of Diddenton has come forth claiming there’s a new will that changes matters.”
Will frowned. “Is there?”
“He says so. He’s proffered a copy of what he says is Archie’s new will, granting Bluebell Lodge to Diddenton and leaving me one pound.
” Her chest trembled and she fought the panicky anger that always loomed just thinking about it.
“He hasn’t yet uncovered a signed copy, but he’s managed to hold up the settlement of the estate. ”
Will’s mouth firmed and his face flamed. “If Archie wasn’t already dead, I’d run him through myself. And if this new Chilcombe thinks to put you out with nothing—”
“He hasn’t threatened that. Not so far. But if Diddenton somehow conjures a signed copy of the will he’s claiming is valid—well, I suppose I will have to take Graeme Blatchfield to court. The Earl of Chilcombe will have to honor the marriage contract his predecessor signed.”
“He could buy back Bluebell Lodge. Why on earth would he give it to Diddenton anyway?”
She told him about the property dispute. “Diddenton wants it for a lime pit.”
“Sounds like a very convenient property claim.” His frown deepened. “What the devil happened, Blythe? When I mentioned your name last night, some of the fellows went silent. Others were swallowing grins. It was all I could do to not grab one fellow by his neckcloth.”
She glanced out of the window and squeezed his hand.
“You’re a man now, Will, but you’re still my little brother, and some things I won’t discuss with you.
I’ll tell you this much though. The last few years of his life, Archie was addicted to opium and other…
other certain activities. He… entertained often.
Friends with similar tastes. I spent a great deal of my time at Bluebell Lodge. Eventually, all of my time.”
“Did he—did they, these friends—molest you?”
She let out a breath. “No.”
There it was. Not quite a lie. They’d not had much luck with laying hands on her, but the damage to her reputation had denied her the society of most of her neighbors.
The worst had been losing both her son and the unborn babe she’d miscarried.
“Opium. Bloody hell… beg pardon, Blythe. Had Archie been injured? I knew fellows who couldn’t shake the stuff after they recovered from wounds.”
She shook her head. “After our son died…” She drew in a breath. That pain still festered, along with the resentment she’d carried for far too long.
They’d had a fierce row, and she had removed herself from the north wing where the earl and countess had shared a dilapidated floor.
The wing had been built—grandly but poorly—early in the last century by an aspirational Lord Chilcombe.
She’d moved herself to the older but more solidly built south wing.
“After our son died, Archie took himself off to London, took on a titled mistress, and dabbled a bit in the delights of the opium dens.”
Then he’d returned to Risley Manor, demanding another attempt at an heir.
“I lost another child.”
She’d wished for death herself then.
“While I was recovering, I removed myself to Bluebelle Lodge, and he returned to his earlier interests in London.”
Where he’d abandoned the aristocratic widows and adulterous wives and pursued not just the opium but other sorts of delights in the more specialized brothels that offered women more adventurous than Blythe. She couldn’t tell her little brother about that.
“We… we weren’t much together after that. He was in London where his needs were more readily met, and then he decided to…”
He’d appeared with his doxy at Risley Manor, where it was easier for him and his friends to carry on outside the scrutiny of polite society.
“He found a way to accommodate his needs at Risley Manor. His gentlemen friends used to come down for hunting parties and such. I stayed at Bluebell Lodge.”
“I see.” He glanced out the window, but she could tell he wasn’t looking at the passing scene.
“Just how badly did these gentlemen friends importune you, Blythe?”
A tremble went through her and she fought for an even tone. “Any importuning was in their imaginations.” Oh, they’d tried. “The servants were loyal to me.”
She’d worked hard to win that loyalty. She’d forged a bond with Mr. Stockwell, the steward, a man as morally strict as the grandparents who’d raised Archie, a man with a much stronger sense than Archie of what a landholder owed to his servants and to the people who worked his land.
The steward might have robbed Archie blind, so malleable was her foolish husband.
He’d seen what Archie was, and it had taken much persistence on her part to have Stockwell accept that she was more honorable than her husband.
Together, she and Stockwell had made a plan.
They’d sent the youngest servants, both males and females, off to other positions with good references, and then hired the oldest servants of good character they could find to replace them.
They’d seen to it the staff were well paid for their loyalty to Blythe.
Her own maid, Louisa Miller, had needed to leave as well.
She married Stockwell’s son and moved to Bluebell Lodge, where she served as housekeeper while her husband managed the farm.
Miller’s aunt, Mrs. Radley, stepped in as Blythe’s lady’s maid.
Radley had a tolerable sense of fashion, enough for Blythe’s needs.
Most importantly, she was older and a soldier’s widow, one who’d followed the drum and would never be cowed by men behaving badly.
“You’re not without a defender now, Blythe.” Will’s mouth tightened.
Alarmed, she grabbed his chin and turned his face toward her. They’d rounded a corner into Grosvenor Square and would arrive home in mere moments. “You are not to engage in any foolish duels. Do not even think of it.”
“You’re my sister,” he said. “If I can’t fight for your honor, tell me what I can do to help.”
She squeezed her eyes shut on incipient tears. Crying wouldn’t do—it would only incite him to make a foolish challenge.
As the carriage pulled up in front of Chilcombe House, she arranged her careful mask of indifference.
“Don’t concern yourself a bit. I have all under control.
Your mere presence is balm to my soul. Not that I expect you to be tied to my apron strings, no.
” She smiled and then an idea occurred to her.
The search for Lunetta Casale had proven unfruitful, not the least because Bobby, the boy she’d employed, had difficulty accessing the places where the woman might be.
“I expect you to go out and carouse with your friends, Will. No duels, of course. There is one person of interest you might keep an eye out for.”
The carriage door swung open. “I must go and change. Come and see me later,” she said, “before you go out again. I’ll give you the details then.”
Upstairs in her bedchamber, she found Radley seated near the fire, mending the lace trim of an unfamiliar purple gown.
“Shall we be moving house today, my lady?” Radley asked by way of greeting.
“Not yet. That gown isn’t one of mine, I think.”
“You think right. It’s Lady Hermione’s. I saw the rip and offered my help. She hasn’t brought along a lady’s maid.”
Blythe stripped off her spencer and settled onto the opposite chair. “Very generous of you. Is she back yet from visiting Lady Loughton?”
“Not that I’ve heard. I’ll just be a moment and then help you out of that dress. While you were gone, you had callers. Adwick turned them away. The earl returned not fifteen minutes before you, looking as grim as Wellington after he lost Burgos, the footman said. Went straight to his study.”
She almost smiled at Radley’s editorial addition—Wellington at Burgos.
The footman had not been in the army and was not the sort to follow military news in that close detail.
“Did you learn where he went this morning?” She had seen Graeme briefly in the breakfast room.
He’d gone out before she’d even had a chance to fill her plate.
“The Foreign Office, the stable lad said.”
“I suppose he had to report in.”
“Where are we going today?” Radley asked.
“We’ll visit the lending library.”