Chapter 7 - Stephen
Vera was good, Stephen would give her that.
For several hours after they’d spoken, Stephen’s focus shifted from his original intent to the content of the words she’d hurled at him.
He’d locked himself in his father’s study with the ledgers from the past six years, going quarter by quarter until he felt quite up to date with all the happenings of the estate.
In perusing the correspondence, he saw that Vera had a point—two of the stewards in particular seemed to take umbrage at receiving instructions from his mother.
Stephen wrote several letters, informing the men of business of his return and telling them that he would be speaking with his mother to determine whether any changes in stewardship needed to be made.
It was only early afternoon, when he was relaxing in his bath, steam swirling about, the end of his beard damp upon his chest, that he realized the little minx had succeeded.
Vera had completely distracted him with her words.
He hadn’t completed the inquiry he’d had in mind when he found her in the library.
Instead, he’d spent all morning looking at ledgers.
Stephen snorted derisively at himself, sending little rings rolling across the water. Vera was a puzzle he’d yet to figure out, but he would. If his repeated questioning couldn’t provoke her into changing her story—a true hallmark of a lie—then he would have to obtain the information elsewhere.
He stood from the bath, thinking of his new plan for the day.
The Duke of Canterbury’s country estate, Montclare, hadn’t changed much in Stephen’s absence. The topiaries that delineated the front door of the grand house were a bit taller, perhaps, but that was to be expected of plants.
The Duke of Canterbury welcomed him in gladly. If he thought Stephen’s appearance odd—his bushy beard and odd-fitting trousers—he was gracious enough not to raise an eyebrow.
Canterbury rang for tea and saw Stephen seated in a comfortable chair closest to the fire in the front sitting room—Stephen wondered if the man had noticed the thinness of his old tweed coat and wished he hadn’t split the other at the shoulders the other day.
If only his new clothes would arrive from the London tailors, but that would be another week at least.
The parlor was handsome and well-appointed, lacking the general fussiness of some homes.
Stephen approved—he loved that country houses were often more practical than their city counterparts.
Chairs were comfortable for sitting, not those terrible straight-backed carved monstrosities in London townhomes.
Cushions and curtains were for comfort and lacked extra frippery and doo-dads.
And walls were rarely upholstered in silk in the country.
Paint or wallpaper or paneling, and that was all.
Stephen and Canterbury exchanged pleasantries until the tea arrived. It was the sort of conversation Stephen abhorred. His physician’s profession fit him well—he could stride into a room and ask blunt questions, receiving blunt answers in return, before striding off to address the next problem.
Debridement of burns was a nasty business, but Stephen thought it vastly preferable to the art of polite conversation about nothing. At least with treating burns, there were clear instructions, clear steps.
“How was your journey home?”
“Altogether too long, though the weather was fine enough.”
Canterbury smiled. “That’s probably the sentiment of everyone on a sea voyage—except for those who enjoy the sea.”
“True. No matter how many improvements they make in terms of travel, we’ll always want it to be faster.”
A maid bustled in with a tray, arranging it on the low table between them. Stephen caught the hint of a strong English blend as the tea was poured, and he sighed with pleasure.
Once they each had a cup in hand, Canterbury turned to Stephen with a smile. “What are your plans? Do you aim to stay in the countryside for awhile, or are you planning on returning to London once you’ve rested?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Stephen fought the urge to tug at the ends of his beard—a nervous habit that had grown in right alongside the thing.
“I’m sure your mother enjoys having you home. Benjamin, too.”
Stephen nodded and hummed, though he wasn’t sure, if he were being honest. Things were strange between him and his mother—it was as if he’d left and returned to find someone so markedly changed, they had to get to know each other all over again. As for his brother, he didn’t know him at all.
Stephen was casting about for something to say—it was his turn, after all—when a huge dog lumbered in and stopped, looking at the men in the chairs as if debating whether their presence should be allowed.
“My goodness,” Stephen said, latching on to the possible topic with all speed. “What a magnificent animal.”
Canterbury chuckled. “My son’s dog, Seamus. He’s come to find out if you’re friend or foe.”
“I certainly hope he decides I’m friendly. I wouldn’t want a dog that size to be angry with me.”
“Mastiffs are very even-tempered. You’d have to provoke him to extremes before he took any umbrage. Although, he wouldn’t like it if you bothered my son, Arthur, or his lady love, Millie.”
“You have two of these animals?”
“Millie is a friend’s dog, come to stay until she births Seamus’s puppies.”
“Ah.”
“Now that the job is done, Seamus won’t leave her alone. He’s exceedingly protective—follows her around night and day. Only leaves her when she’s napping in the kitchen—which she must be doing now. Reminds me a bit of Percy, actually.”
“When do you expect the happy additions?”
“Percy’s? Or the dogs’?” Canterbury’s eyes twinkled. “You would know better than I when it comes to the Salisbury progeny, I expect.”
Stephen sipped his tea, shook his head. “Actually, I haven’t made it to visit him yet.”
“He must not have caught wind that there’s an experienced physician among us, then. He’s been trying to bribe Dr. Halveston to leave all his patients in London and only tend to the marchioness. I expect you’ll be hearing from him shortly.”
“What of Seamus and Millie?”
The dog circled before them and lay close to the fire with a grunt.
“Well before Thanksgiving, best guess.” He shrugged. “But I don’t need to tell you how these things are—it’s an imperfect estimate.”
“Indeed.”
Now Canterbury looked at him with patient expectation, as if he agreed they’d exhausted the need for small talk and could move on to the real reason Stephen had visited him today.
“This is a delicate matter,” Stephen haltingly began. “But I was hoping that you might give me some insight as to the nature of one Miss Vera Ashbury…”
After his meeting with the duke, Stephen’s thoughts were grim. He glowered all the way home, letting the horse take the lead, lest he put his boots to it or treat it harshly on account of his foul mood.
It wasn’t as Stephen had thought—that the duke had seen Vera’s destructive interest in Lady Candace and intervened on her behalf.
No—it was far worse. It seemed this Miss Ashbury had deceived the entire countryside.
Canterbury had cheerfully confirmed that Vera was all that was kind and wonderful.
The man had even gone so far as to hint that Stephen himself could do no better for a wife!
Of course, the man hadn’t come right out and said that, but the less-than-subtle signals were there. The duke had misread the purpose of Stephen’s visit entirely. Canterbury thought that Stephen had been so charmed by the pretty miss that he’d started in on his due diligence before proposing.
Stephen rubbed the knotted bruise on this upper arm and frowned. Charmed, indeed. He’d sooner marry his mother’s hedgehog.
But Vera would be out of the house for hours this afternoon. It might just be the chance that Stephen was looking for…