Three
Thea
There were times when Thea wondered at her perversity for loving an obstinate reclusive beast of an artist. Other times, like now, Arnaud’s unselfish, loving care—frustrated her beyond the limits of patience. And made her love him more.
Arnaud’s lovemaking was balm to her soul after a lifetime of feeling unloved. So, yes, she was perverse for refusing marriage.
“I do not like deceit any more than you do.” Satisfied with his ardent attentions, if not his attitude, Thea tugged her stockings back into their garters, admiring the comte’s muscular posterior as he adjusted himself.
“Lavender and this duke’s son are too young and inexperienced to understand the danger of such deceit. ”
Arnaud chuckled. His laughter was still far too rare. She accepted his assistance in standing just because she enjoyed his strength, not because she needed it.
“Fortescue is no younger than you, ma chérie. As you say, experience matters, and we do not know his. It is only because the boys trust and admire him that I am willing to believe in his intelligence. Les diablotins observe more than we realize.” He kissed her cheek, straightened her rumpled fichu, then turned to the task of dismantling a bed.
Romantic, he was not. But Thea had been romanced by London’s finest rakes.
She preferred Arnaud’s pragmatism. She showed him how the unusual tester unscrewed from its base.
“I think this was made by a local carpenter who had no blacksmith to forge hinges or whatever they’re called.
It’s all hand-carved and very portable.”
He raised his dark eyebrows in surprise, and without need of a stepping stool, began unscrewing the curtain rail. “Genius. Mad, but brilliant.”
“Like most of the family. One must assume the duke’s family is similar, maybe even related to us. How many bibliophiles does one find among the aristocracy? We are all connected in some manner.”
The late owner of the Priory, the Earl of Wycliffe, had built a library to rival the duke’s. Of course, he had also collected jewels and hidden them.
“No notion of the genealogy, but both families descend from scoundrels. Weston is the crack shot. So do not think he is a saint. His little brother may not know him well.” Arnaud tossed the heavy oak frame into a stack as if it were kindling.
“Fortescue does not strike me as particularly naive. Let us not bother with curtains and tester frame. The earl will have to learn simplicity.” Thea glanced up at a distant bong. “That is not the clock.”
Arnaud straightened from heaving the mattress to the thread-bare carpet. “The front door. No one uses that.”
“Except strangers. Surely Weston. . .” She dashed into the hall and across, opening the door into the gallery loft above the ballroom Lavender employed as her sewing manufactory.
“Where the devil are we going?” Arnaud glared at the family portrait abominations lining the loft’s wall.
The oils were quite appalling but part of the family history. Thea hurried down the gallery, to the interest of the sewing ladies below. “Clare discovered this. The earl’s staff apparently liked to spy. Or he stationed guards up here.”
She slid back a panel overlooking the medieval foyer below. The outer doors were massive oak and bronze. Quincy, the butler, was just unbarring them, with his stalwart footman son at his side. “The guest is not expected,” she whispered.
“One sees why there is a second set of entry doors,” Arnaud said over her shoulder. “An army could burst in while they struggled to open a single portal.”
“I doubt either set keeps out invaders. The purpose is to intimidate the uninvited. The inner doors would be open if guests were expected.” As their stout, uninvited guest entered and removed his tall beaver hat, she studied the bald spot in his fading blond hair.
It took a moment before she recognized the portly frame and harsh accent when he demanded to see the captain. Burying a gasp, she backed away, as if the visitor could see her hidden in the shadows near the two-story ceiling.
“Humphries,” she murmured.
Arnaud peered down, studying the newcomer. “You know him? He is saying Lady Lavinia invited him.”
“We’ve been introduced. And my godmother is an interfering. . .” Thea bit her tongue. Lady Lavinia, the last of the late earl’s daughters and Lavender’s grandmother, had found Thea this refuge. The dowager meant well. She was simply old and out of touch.
Thea picked up her skirts and raced for the marble stairs to the ground floor, Arnaud easily following on her heels. “Measles,” she whispered, when they reached the bottom. “Remind Quincy.”
Like a gallant knight of old, her towering artist bowed, opened the interior doors, and entered the foyer.
She could hear argument. Arnaud remained intransigent.
With his height and breadth and arrogantly aristocratic manner, people seldom argued with him for long.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he and Quincy returned without a guest. The footman bolted the main doors.
Arnaud took Thea’s elbow and led her back upstairs.
He waited patiently, not inquiring. Oh, how she adored this understanding man.
Unfortunately, he’d have to wait for explanations.
In a fury, she stalked down the corridor to the late viscountess’s grandiose suite where the family’s grand dames had installed themselves.
Surprisingly, Arnaud actually followed. He generally steered clear of Wycliffe’s daughter and granddaughter.
Thea rapped sharply on the parlor doors and, without waiting for permission, strode in. The dowagers were sipping tea and perusing fashion periodicals.
Lady Lavinia, Baroness Marlowe, lifted her graying pompadour and lorgnette disapprovingly.
The younger, friendlier Marchioness of Spalding blinked her plump lids in surprise but smiled a greeting.
They both wore the billowing habits of another century but were perfectly cognizant of every style worn in London—in fact, they’d just returned from visiting family.
“Godmothers do not invite vermin to enter the household.” Thea kept her voice down but she was well practiced in projecting fury.
They both looked momentarily confused.
“Humphries,” Thea continued scathingly, “is not welcome in any household where I reside.”
Lady Lavinia, her godmother, straightened her slender, aristocratic frame. “He is very wealthy, well-connected, and a good friend of your father’s, dear.”
“For as much as men of fortune and no conscience can be friends,” she retorted. “There is naught here for him to steal or threaten into doing as he wishes, including me. Tell him to go back to America, where he belongs.”
“He is said to be extremely wealthy. I thought he might help dear Captain Huntley rebuild the village once all the legal matters are settled.” Lady Lavinia returned to flipping through her periodical.
“It has nothing to do with you, although you are not growing younger. Perhaps he might take an interest in dear Lavender. He is untitled and an American and not so high in the instep as to worry about her birth.”
Thea felt Arnaud stiffen behind her, but her refusal to marry until she controlled her inheritance was an old argument and not worth the effort.
“I am sure Captain Huntley has his own plans for the village, which will not include a boor hunting for an heiress and a title.” Although Lavender. . . The thought appalled.
“A very wealthy boor,” Lady Lavinia called as Thea stalked out.
“He’ll not find titles here,” Arnaud said imperturbably, following on her heels.
“With enough wealth and connections, he can buy one, which does make me concerned for Lavender.” Thea stalked back to the guest room they’d abandoned.
She’d been feeling so sure of herself just moments ago.
. . “As the earl’s descendants, Lavender and I both come from nobility.
Humphries’ mother has a baron or two in her lineage.
We may be untitled, but our lines are suitably aristocratic. ”
“But Humphries is American?”
“Family emigrated decades ago, lost a great deal when the peasants won their revolution. They’ve been recovering ever since, not in polite ways.” She flounced in and began folding linens.
“I have met the sort.” He unfastened the rails that had held the mattress.
“Their power and fortune substitute for common sense and compassion—traits peasants possess, which unfortunately prevent them from building wealth, thus causing the inequality of revolution.” His tone reeked of irony and bitterness.
Thea nodded in relief that he understood as few others did. “His family built their fortunes on the backs of others, as so many do.”
Arnaud snorted inelegantly. “As mine did. And the earl’s. We may politely call the first Wycliffe a legal privateer, but he killed and plundered.”
She folded the heavy damask bedcover. “Once he had wealth, he bought legality and power. Kings dispense lands and titles to those who offer kings what they want. It’s ever been that way and Humphries knows it.”
“It is said they are changing that in the Americas—which I surmise is the reason he is here and not there?” Arnaud hefted as much of the bed frame as humanly possible and waited for her to gather her stack of fabric.
She scowled. “One assumes, but Gravesyde really has little to offer, and there are far more eager misses in London than I. This poses questions. We need to speak with Rafe, have him keep a watchful eye. I cannot see how Humphries would have aught to do with an earl’s assassin but. . .”
“The coincidence is more than odd.” His black frown was enough to scatter blackbirds.
Thea stood on her toes and kissed his bristly cheek. “Hot pitch on the battlements?”
“Rifles work better.” He stalked down the hall carrying a load of heavy wood that might strain two mules and an ox.