Chapter 10 #2
His first problem was finding someone to drink with.
Sir Jasper and Sir Pelton drank with one another at a pace far too slow to suit Darien.
Rufie was all but abstinent. Charley was the only one Darien could depend on to meet his eye and take wine with him, and so a glowering truce developed between the two men as they went glass for glass in a discreet, unnoticed competition to see who could best hold his drink.
The conversation was certainly lively and unrestrained.
The mill fire and its ramifications were hashed out in full.
Henrietta’s trip to the workhouse, the rescue of Mary Ann and her child, and Darien’s part in it were fully elaborated.
Jasper and Henrietta argued with Sir Pelton over the proposed Libel Act, with counterpoints provided by Charley, who had not left off the lace at his sleeves in sympathy with the French radicals as some of his set had done.
Even Marsibel was ribbed about Lord Pinochle, who had taken her driving in the park that afternoon. Darien wondered if he ought to mention that Pinochle was under the hatches and on the hunt for a bride to restore his credit.
Rutherford was pressed to speak of his studies, and then, as he had anticipated it would, the scrutiny turned to Darien. The covers had been removed and the dessert trays placed on the table, along with several bottles of port, when Jasper Wardley-Hines lit upon his notorious guest.
“So. Lord Daring. Do you mind the nickname?”
“It seems to amuse people,” Darien allowed.
“And what sort of prospects await you? How does the lesser son of a marquess amuse himself? No estates of your own, I take it.”
“You wouldn’t have heard the news, sir,” Charley said with a savage edge to his voice. “Daring won an estate from its proper owner some years ago in deep play. Stripped the man of everything he had. Word is the former owner blew out his brains the next day, leaving a destitute widow and children.”
Conversation halted. Their expressions were a blur to Darien save for Rufie’s look of horror. His cousin had been at Eton and knew none of the details. Darien never spoke of how he’d obtained The Revels, but he’d been warned by Perry that many held him responsible for the previous owner’s death.
Jasper diplomatically moved on. “What else do you do with your time? Or are you fashionably idle, like our Charley here?”
Henrietta watched him with a curious, level look. Confound her for not being coy and flirtatious like other girls.
“Sir Charleton’s behavior can at least be said to be above reproach,” Lady Pomeroy remarked.
“I’d spend more time at my estate,” Charley said, “had you not hired such an excellent steward, sir. But I find there is little for me to contribute.”
“Your presence, son,” Jasper said mildly. “A good manager keeps an eye on his business. Take Hetty’s example.”
“Lord Darien,” Henrietta said, apropos of nothing, “is an expert on early Mediterranean art.”
“He is also an amateur engineer,” Rutherford volunteered.
“He spent much of his time on the Continent documenting the building practices of the ancients and the Renaissance greats. His library is full of drafts and sketches for various sorts of machines and improvements for his and his father’s estates. ”
Everyone at the table looked at Darien with expressions that ranged from polite interest to incredulity. Lady Pomeroy seemed dubious that he had ever had a thought in his head beyond what waistcoat to wear and which woman to seduce next, which made all his contrary impulses rise to the surface.
“An inventor, are you?” said Jasper. “Care to design me a loom that will improve on Arkwright’s? The wretch patented his mechanism.”
“My scribbles are nothing so useful, I’m afraid. Most of them have to do with drainage. My land is in Huntingdonshire, near the fens, and I need to address the flooding if I expect to grow anything other than moss.”
“Hetty,” said Sir Jasper, “are you taking heed? Our guest might be able to help you with some of your schemes.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Henrietta answered, with that cool, shrewd look that so annoyed him.
It had been a fatal mistake to fix her frock.
He was having a difficult time looking away from her.
Every glance revealed a detail he had not hitherto noticed: the delicate shape of her ear, the deep hollow between her collarbones, the dainty bones of her wrist as she sipped her glass of expensive port.
The candlelight turned her hair a deep, lustrous auburn.
In a society ballroom, looking like this, she would draw every eye.
Darien forced a smile. He’d expected Jasper would pitch Henrietta at him.
Perry had warned him that the bourgeois wouldn’t hide their daughters; on the contrary, his rank would outweigh his reputation for those eager to advance their status.
It would give the marquess apoplexy, though, to think a cit, a man who made his living by trade, would presume to consider a Bales a match for his family.
“Miss Wardley-Hines seems to be involved in many schemes,” Darien said.
Henrietta put her chin on her fist. “I should like to hear more of your estate, Lord Darien. What are your feelings about enclosure?”
Darien went on the alert. He was not accustomed to discussing politics with women at the table.
So far, he had passed muster on his attitudes toward slavery—could not condone—and the revolution in France—optimistic that Louis XVI would institute the reforms for which the National Assembly was calling.
He had avoided commenting on Britain’s next moves in India, a place he could only think of with red rage.
For his usual circles, a repertoire of witty remarks was all that was required for conversation.
“I have not thought of enclosing my own lands,” Darien replied, “though my brother Horace tried it at his estate of Bellamy. But The Revels has done well enough since we introduced crop rotation, and we only pasture the animals the farm can use. Are you in the market for wool sources, Sir Jasper?”
“Our mills are cotton,” his host said. “Which I can’t buy from the Americas any longer, since Hetty won’t let me support the slave trade. Won’t even take sugar with her tea if she suspects it comes from the West Indies.”
“I should like to see these designs of yours,” Henrietta said, business-like. “I am interested in ways to improve land.”
Jasper smiled, confirming Darien’s suspicion that her father played a large role in encouraging Henrietta’s unladylike endeavors, allowing her greater liberties than most unmarried girls could claim.
Her elegant but languid stepmother saw no need to exercise corrections, and Lady Pomeroy’s exertions to refine her niece, while heroic, had no effect.
The footmen cleared the table, and Sir Jasper rose.
“Lord Darien, Mr. Bales, we do not observe the postprandial segregation of the sexes in this household. If you have eyes and but look on my lady, you will understand why. Dearbody will bring our port through, and we can quiz Hetty on her debate topic for the rest of the evening, eh?”
“Perhaps Marsibel will favor us with a piece or two at the pianoforte,” Lady Pomeroy suggested as the party adjourned to the formal drawing room.
This attempt to elevate the tone of the evening met with little success.
Henrietta made a beeline for Rutherford and cornered him in conversation on the desperately dry subject of library catalogues.
She sat next to him on a low settee, her knees nearly touching his, that graceful body bent toward him as she hung upon his every word.
Light from the whale oil lamps cast lovely bronze shadows over her fair skin and cinnamon hair.
Darien’s pointed stare went ignored. It was insulting enough that she should be fascinated by Rufie, the dullest stick in the room, when she ought to be fascinated with Darien.
They were both supposed to be allies in his crusade but, having ensconced themselves in scholarly conversation, they left him on his own.
Very well, then. Once Sir Jasper wandered off to flirt with his wife, who sat behind the tea tray, Darien bolted a glass of brandy for courage and made his opening move.
“Sir Pelton. I wonder if you might advise me on a small matter.”
Pelton, leaning on the Italian marble mantelpiece framing the fire, lifted his gray eyebrows. “Not sure I know a whit of the subjects that interest you, lad.”
Darien tamped down a flare of irritation at the barb. “Legal issue,” he averred. “Concerning a man whose son and heir has been missing for seven years. His men of business think he should have the son presumed dead so the succession can be fixed on the next in line.”
He felt a burning ball in his throat and swallowed past it. The fare at table had not been of so inferior a quality as to cause dyspepsia. “Others of the family, however, feel he should be making a better effort to find the current heir.”
“Who’s next in line?” Pelton watched him shrewdly. He knew exactly what situation Darien referred to. He’d wager Sir Pelton knew every family listed in The New Peerage; it made him potent in forming alliances.
“A worthless younger son,” Darien said. “Rather a rakehell, I’m told. No substitute for the missing son, who’s a soldier and a fine man.” That burning lump grew larger, pressing on his windpipe. God, how he missed Lucien. He should be here, sparing Darien all this.
“Where’d the heir go missing?” Pelton asked.
Darien swallowed hard. “Mysore. During the second war.”
“Ah.” Pelton shook his salt-and-pepper head. “I’m sorry, lad, indeed I am.” Sympathy shone in his eyes. “But that’s not the Antipodes. A man would have made it back to civilization by now, were he able.”
“So the coroner can declare him dead? With no evidence?”
“If there’s a peerage involved, the suit must be brought before the King’s Bench. Might go before the House of Lords, depending on the judge.”