2. Chapter 2
The tittering of females was enough to drive Algenon to do the one thing he’d avoided at all costs since his return to Blackthorn Manor the day before—answer his father’s summons.
It was that or stay with his plethora of sisters and listen to them discuss silks and laces for the upcoming ball.
Twenty-four hours home and they had already decided everything he should wear down to his silk stockings and then insisted that he take them all to Maidstone for new gowns.
Heaven forbid they should wear any of their current gowns for the annual Harvest Ball.
The moment he stepped from the busy morning room, he took a deep cleansing breath, free from floral perfumes and giggling girls. Not that he disliked his sisters—all twelve of them—but he’d forgotten how overwhelming their constant chatter could be.
Paulette, Henrietta, and Georgette had all come for a visit, excited to join in the harvest celebrations. Since their marriages, the din had significantly lessened, but with them all under the same roof again, no man was safe from their constant schemes.
Henrietta’s husband had done the wise thing and continued on to London to prepare for the season.
Where had his other two brothers-in-law hidden away?
Probably in Maidstone for the day. He didn’t blame them.
As a man who’d grown up with a gaggle of women, he was used to all their talk of finery, flowers, and feminine troubles, but any other male would probably be completely out of their element.
A tiny part of him actually enjoyed having them all back to fuss over him.
He’d missed Paulette’s sensibleness, Henrietta’s cheer, and Georgette’s keen awareness of others.
It would be sad when Philippa and Charlotte went off to their own homes, even though he often found them ridiculously absurd—in the most entertaining of ways.
Then again, he still had several sisters in the nursery to fill their places.
He groaned and rubbed his temples. Nine. There were nine sisters yet to help on their ways to happy marriages. Nine possible lifetime dependents, should anything happen to his father.
Thankfully, his father was still as domineering and stubborn as ever. Something that would probably keep him alive just to spite the world.
Algenon covered his sardonic smile with his hand, trying not to draw the attention of the half-dozen servants working as he traversed the hall. While he was grateful his father still lived, he could do without his heavy-handed control over his life.
His short visit to Hazelwood yesterday morning had been his only reprieve. A lightness entered his step. It had been good to see Javenia again. More than good. It had filled his soul with the peace he’d missed since his father had ordered him to Ipswich at the end of the season.
Had he seen the subtle shift between him and Javenia? Probably. Why else would he banish Algenon until the beginning of the next season?
A footman carrying a tray stopped at the study door, allowing Algenon to be the first to rap on the thick oak. Not that he wanted to. He’d rather put bamboo splinters under his fingernails than spend a quarter hour with his father, but it had to be done.
The door was flat with no frills. The same as his father. Why waste precious time and money on frivolities, he’d once said.
Algenon took a deep breath to steady himself, then knocked.
“Come in,” came the curt reply.
Balancing the tray in one hand, the footman opened the door. Algenon preceded him, taking his place in front of his father’s large, equally plain desk. Every line on it was straight, every edge perfectly shaped. It seemed as immovable as the man bent over his ledgers.
“Set it over there, Gates.” His father motioned to the little table near the fire without looking up.
Algenon waited a full minute before clearing his throat.
His father finally straightened, his green eyes narrowing under his steel grey eyebrows. “Well, it is about time. You were to be home a week ago. What took you so long?”
No welcome home. No, it is nice to see you. Not even an enquiry about his journey or how long he’d been in residence. Algenon supposed it was too much to ask for after so many years. He was just a glorified messenger boy who would one day inherit the chaos his father left.
“It took a little longer to settle all your accounts for the updates you requested, but the estate at Ipswich should finally meet your standards.”
Again, his father turned his attention to the ledgers. “I certainly hope so. After the mess that incompetent stonemason left last spring, it could not have gotten much worse. And did you ride over to Reading before coming here?”
Algenon swallowed. He had not. There was no use going to the same village that had brought him so much grief less than six months ago. Instead, he’d written to the steward and asked him to send the requested finance accounting.
His father would not be happy. When Lord Roberts gave an order, Lord Roberts expected it to be followed. It didn’t matter how subservient the task; his instructions must be completed to the letter.
The pencil stilled and his father pierced him with a look. “Roberts.”
Not Algenon. Not son. Just Roberts. A last name with little meaning since both he and his father shared it in both title and surname.
It was strange how much Algenon hated his presumptuous given name, but also desperately wish his father would use it, if only to show that he saw him as a person and not just an appendage of himself.
“I have the report you requested.” There. That wasn’t a lie. No need to divulge how he’d acquired it.
Reaching into his pocket, he extracted the sheets. He’d already removed the letter that had surrounded the folded pages in order to conceal the postmark that would give away how he’d got them.
His father snatched them from his hand and scanned the pages. “Just as I thought,” he muttered.
Algenon didn’t bother to sit while his father continued to talk to himself. Instead, he let his gaze trail along the rows of books behind his father’s desk. Not a novel in sight. Travel logs, historiographies, mathematical texts, but nothing that was fiction.
Lies, his father had told him when he was little. All novels were full of lies peddled to the foolish.
Maybe that was why Algenon had taken to reading them every chance he got. Lies were easier to stomach than the truth of his uselessness, at least in his father’s eyes.
He spun the gold and opal ring on his pinky.
The tiny band was far too dainty for his big fingers, but he wore it anyway.
It was the only possession of his mother’s; a woman he had no recollection of other than the small portrait that hung in the gallery on the third floor of Blackthorn Manor.
He’d clung to the hope that if his mother were alive, she would see and love him for who he was, not what he could do for her.
But, like his father’s other wives, his mother had died from complications of labor. Unlike her three successors, who’d all died of childbed fever, she had died in the actual process, taking the baby with her. Even if she’d survived, the babe would probably have been a girl… just like the rest.
Even the current Lady Roberts had given Algenon not one, but two sisters when she’d given birth this last spring, much to his father’s dismay. And just like every other daughter before, the poor girls had been saddled with the female forms of masculine names.
The corner of Algenon’s lips twitched at the memory. It was his fault these last two sisters were condemned with such atrocious names. He’d thought by suggesting monikers so awful that no one in their right mind would choose them, he’d finally break his father of the eccentric habit.
He’d been wrong.
Now poor Richarda would have him to blame. Roberta was a bit better, but Roberta Roberts was laughable. He’d have to make it up to them someday. However, at eight months old, they didn’t know any better.
“What are you smiling at?” his father snapped.
“I was thinking of visiting the twins.” He ran a hand over his powder blue waistcoat, smoothing the wrinkles and fixing his posture.
His father’s gaze traveled over Algenon’s ornate apparel complete with yellow breeches and his signature three gold rings. “When will you learn not to dress like a peacock?”
Algenon stared back at him, not backing down. “Perhaps when I finally attract a mate. They tend to like pretty feathers.” In truth, he only dressed so flamboyantly to annoy his father. One way to be the complete opposite of the man who held him captive.
“Women are not birds, even if they preen like them,” his father grumbled. “However, now that you speak of it, I believe it is time you took a wife.”
“As you have told me many times before.”
“Yes, but this time I will choose one. I am sick of waiting around for you to make up your mind.”
“No, Father. I’d rather you not.”
“I don’t care what you would rather. It is time you thought about the future of this estate. I have done my best to produce a second son, but none of your stepmothers have achieved what your mother did, so I suppose it is up to you to make certain our line does not die out.”
Algenon clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”
“What do you expect? Four years, Algenon. I have given you four years of liberty to find a wife and all you can do is attract that blasted Harris girl.”
Algenon froze, his muscles tensing and his face turning to stone.
He knew where this conversation would lead.
Years of reminders didn’t fade because one wished it.
As long as his father kept a civil tongue in his head, he would endure it.
But one derogatory word about Javenia and there would be a row like none of the servants had seen since he’d finished school at Cambridge.