Chapter Fifteen
The same evening that Charlotte was puzzling over Mr. Morton’s unexpectedly charming ways, Robert was having one last brandy in his study as he also recalled the dinner party he had just left.
He had found Miss Kendall rather warm and pleasant company.
She must finally have forgiven him for his reckless ride which had caused her to lose her seat.
Indeed, although he still found her manners a bit spirited for a single lady—she was certainly free with her opinions—it was not unpleasant to be in her company.
And, was she now trying to even charm him a bit?
She had laughed easily at all his witticisms and held eye contact more than she ever had before.
Quite a change from their first dinner at Haverstone where she barely spoke and looked at him with such a complete lack of interest. It was also altered from their second meeting when she had castigated him for his reckless riding.
Now, she appeared all ease and charm. Perhaps he had not turned her against him irrevocably, after all. Good.
Of course, it was just logical that she might be interested in him as a future husband—he was the heir to a prosperous property—at least, as far as the county knew.
And, she likely thought herself a suitable candidate to be mistress of Brentwood, seeing as how she would bring six thousand pounds into the marriage.
That kind of money went a long way to dispel any hint of an opportunistic match on her part.
He mused over her dark looks. They were not his favorite—he much preferred blondes, and while moderately handsome, the girl could never be called a true beauty.
Still, they might well make a good and respectable marriage.
Besides, once his finances were settled and he retrieved the London town home, he could discreetly entertain women more to his taste as much as he liked with no one the wiser.
He wouldn’t be the first such man to have a mistress, after all.
He slowly wandered the room, sipping his drink, assiduously avoiding the one area where he knew bad news waited—his desk, its drawers filled with overdue bills.
He had no need to examine them—he knew the extent of the debt to the nearest farthing.
And some of the bills were terribly overdue.
He needed to pay something toward them, and as soon as possible.
Oh, his debts. They taunted him and were never far from his mind.
In fact, although he would never admit it to Miss Kendall, that was why he had been riding so wildly that morning.
He had suffered through another stern lecture about retrenching from his accountant, Mr. Marshall.
It had so upset him that after Mr. Marshall’s departure, he had fairly run to the stables to order his favorite stallion saddled for him to ride out his anger.
His mind so fixed on his troubles, he had not been paying attention as he came up on the blind curve.
He was lucky the accident had not been worse. Not his finest moment, he had to admit.
But, at last, a rescue was in sight. Six thousand tantalizing pounds attached to a lady of gentle breeding.
If he could just get her to wed him quickly enough.
Robert knew that even could he convince the intriguing Miss Kendall to accept him and become his fiancée within, say, the next fortnight or so, Lady Gillingham would insist on a fine wedding that might take months to plan.
The reading of the banns would take three weeks at the bare minimum, and three months at the most—they would have to be read in both his and her parish.
All that delay meant the dowry might come under his management too late for his pressing financial needs.
He desperately had to get his hands on some cash right away. Even a little would do.
He finally sat heavily in a large, worn, leather chair by the fireplace.
His eye wandered up to the painting above the mantel.
It depicted a shepherd girl walking along a dirt path.
The barefoot girl cradled a newborn lamb in her arms, while the mother ewe followed close by.
The whole thing was bathed in a golden light and, while well executed, Robert had never cared for the overly sentimental work.
His father had bought it at an auction of Italian works some ten or eleven years ago.
It was valuable. And, he realized, quite expendable. He smiled.
Yes, I think it can go. If I recall, Father paid ￡200 for this piece.
I am certain I could get as much on the resale market.
But, I cannot afford to let it sit in a shop, waiting for a buyer with the same plebian tastes as my father’s to walk in.
I had best auction it—that would be faster.
I might get a little less, and there is the auction house commission to factor in, but still—￡175 or ￡180 spread out thinly enough would go a long way to show good intentions toward paying off my debts.
That should hold off the complaints until I get my hands on Miss Kendall’s fortune.
His mind made up, Robert finished his drink and went up to bed.
*
The next day, Robert ordered the painting taken down and personally oversaw the work to securely crate it for its journey to the most prestigious auction house in London.
He carefully wrote his instructions for the agents and placed them inside the crate, which sat in the entry hallway ready to be loaded onto a hired wagon the next day for transport to London.
He was about to return to his study when Frederick entered Brentwood.
“What’s this, Robert?” he asked, pointing to the crate.
“I am selling a painting.”
“Oh? Not one of the collection that has been part of Brentwood for generations, I hope?”
“No. It is just the shepherd girl that Father had above his fireplace.”
“But why? Father bought that as a gift for our mother,” Frederick exclaimed.
“And, she loved the piece so much it was relegated out of her sight in Father’s study, where she almost never set foot,” Robert said dryly. “It is a mawkish piece I have never favored and since the study is mine now, I can do as I wish. And, I wish to sell it.”
“We could hang it elsewhere in the house,” Frederick continued. “I would be happy to have it in my rooms. You needn’t rid yourself of it entirely just because you do not care for the piece. Surely, you do not need the money.”
Robert felt a pang of guilt for the lie he was about to tell.
“It is not the money, no. But, you are not aware of the full story of how this painting came here. It was a gift for Mother, yes, but as an apology for an…indiscretion Father had with a…uh…light bit of muslin in town. Mother learned of it and there was a big fight. You were too young to recall any of this, but I vaguely remember. So, Father bought the painting for Mother to make amends, but she refused to hang it in her room—saying it reminded her too much of his folly. She declared it must hang in his study so that he would always remember his slip and not be tempted to repeat it.”
Frederick stared at his brother. “I am all astonishment at your story, Robert. How do you know all this?”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Oh, one evening when Father was drunk as a wheelbarrow, he told me the tale. I believe you were at school then.” He smiled broadly. “Anyway, that is the truth of the shepherd painting, and I just want it out of the house. I dislike looking at it, knowing the sad story behind it.”
With a nod he left the hallway and walked back to his study. He glanced back to see his sibling still staring at the crate—a sorrowful expression on his face.
*
The following Monday, after suffering through another prolonged visit with Mr. Bellington, and then Mr. Shelby, Charlotte was longing for a walk, but Dorothea wished to discuss their “project” as she liked to call it.
She ordered more tea and biscuits to refresh them and reviewed the morning’s visitors.
“Mr. Bellington certainly seems interested in you, my dear, and Mr. Shelby improves upon acquaintance, do you not agree? I have invited Mrs. Sanders to tea later, because she knows Mr. Shelby fairly well and will surely be able to share any pertinent information about him of which we may not be aware. One cannot be too careful. What if he has gambling debts? That would not be suitable at all. Still, I am most pleased and I believe, after today, we may commence planning the summer ball and select which of the eligible bachelors we can honor with an invitation.”
“I was rather expecting Mr. Morton to come by today,” Charlotte said. “We have not heard from him since he and his brother came to dinner on Saturday.”
“Yes, I agree. We did get a lovely thank you note from him for the dinner, but I had hopes of much more. Well, it is just Monday, after all.” She studied her little sister a moment, then smiled.
“Are you finding Mr. Morton more to your liking?” she asked coyly.
“You seemed rather set against him not that long ago—especially after the unfortunate riding incident.”
Charlotte considered her words carefully. “He has apologized—most sincerely. It would be rude of me not to accept his apology, do not you agree? And, the more I see of him, the more amiable he seems to me. Not quite as pleasant company as his brother, Freder—”
“The younger Mr. Morton is quite agreeable, I grant you,” Dorothea interrupted, “but I must stress to you once again the folly of even considering an alliance with a mere curate—even though it is at the impressive Brentwood Parish. You simply cannot throw yourself at a man with only his family name to recommend him and thereby slight one worth twenty times his consequence!”
“I know, Sister, I know,” Charlotte hastily said. “I simply meant should all things be equal, I would find Mr. Frederick perhaps better suited for my personality, but I assure you, my favorable feelings toward Mr. Morton are growing with each encounter. I truly hold him in high esteem.”
Dorothea beamed. “I am relieved to hear it. Now, I have wonderful news to share. I received a letter this morning from dear Lavinia. Such happy news—she is expecting. After four years, I was beginning to despair that she would ever give poor Miles an heir. But, according to her letter, all is going well, and she will give birth next March. Is that not splendid?”
A strange sensation of envy mingled with sorrow washed over Charlotte. Even as her mouth formed the correct words of joy and happiness, her mind was otherwise occupied.
Lavinia, a mother? I am happy for Miles, of course, but knowing my sister-in-law, it will just make Lavinia more determined to claim Clayton House as hers and force me more into the shadows.
Well. It seems as though Providence has provided her with a child in order to close the door of Clayton House to me forever.
And, Reginald made it clear he would not welcome me here as a full-time guest. It seems I must make a match as soon as may be, even though my heart is not entirely convinced.
“Charlotte—are you listening to me?”
Dorothea’s voice startled Charlotte out of her reverie. She saw Dawson exiting the room. When had he walked in?
“I apologize, Sister. I was just so astounded at this happy word from Lavinia.” She noticed Dorothea held a piece of fine paper. She saw the red wax seal with the initial M on it. “Did that just arrive?”
“Indeed, it did, and it bears even more good news. Mr. Morton has invited us all to Brentwood for dinner this Thursday. He also asks us to arrive early, as he—” she broke off to find the line in the note to read aloud, “—wishes to give Miss Kendall a full tour of the estate.” She squealed with delight.
“Oh, my dear, it is just as I hoped. He wishes to gain your approval because he is of a mind to make you the new mistress of Brentwood.”
Charlotte felt a shudder run through her.
“Oh…I am certain he cannot be thinking of that, Dorothea. We have met but a handful of times. How could he possibly determine so soon that I am suitable to be his wife? No, no. We should not get our hopes up in such a manner and so early. It is a return invitation for his dinner here and nothing more.”
Dorothea smiled and shook her head with affection. “Your lack of confidence in your own charms continues to astonish me, Charlotte. You have quite won him over, and I am certain by the time we hold our ball, he will be your conquest, completely.”