Chapter Eight
The morning sun streamed in the viscount’s study where Tom sat in his father’s chair, poring over a ledger.
His sire—he could not quite bring himself to call the viscount father—seemed to have a well-run household.
To his credit, the servants by all accounts were well treated and well paid.
The viscount also seemed to adore his wife, which was as rare among the upper classes as a viscount who put on his own boots.
Though endless rows of neatly written lines revealed that the estate seemed to be healthy, the dull and persistent ache behind Tom’s eyes suggested he was not.
The bottle he’d shared with Osbourne and Crowley had somehow become three, and by the time he’d returned from the Lyon’s Den it was nearly dawn.
The drink and the exhaustion had pushed aside the memory of Georgie’s scent in the closed confines of the carriage, if only for a few hours, but the throbbing had been the price of that medicine.
God help him if tomorrow night’s game involved more music or wrestling other grown men for chairs.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, then called for a servant to bring him some headache powder. He would never make it through the next five pages without it.
It was remarkable how easy things had become since his return to England.
If Tom needed something, he merely pulled a cord, which, as if by magic, summoned a person ready to entertain any request, no matter how small.
While his adoptive parents still had the help of a servant to help Mrs. Blakey with her household duties, the act of washing and dressing himself, along with fetching nearly anything needed by the Blakeys or on occasion even Lord Ashcombe himself was Tom’s to do.
It had made him the perfect soldier-valet for Gabriel Hawthorne, his very privileged childhood friend.
Now that Tom was on the other side of the pull, he’d made a point of never using it unless it was truly needed.
Almost before he had a chance to finish that thought, the servant returned with a silver tray that he placed on the desk. The footman, wearing the blue-and-gold livery of the family, was called Benedict. Benedict, Tom had learned, originally from Cornwall.
“Your powder sir,” he said, mixing a tablespoon of powder into a glass of water. “Shall I fetch you some coffee or some breakfast?”
The thought of eggs did not appeal in the least.
“Coffee would be excellent, thank you,” he said, dropping his quill and reaching for the glass, downing the bitter drink in a single swallow.
He pushed the book away and leaned back in his chair, eager to leave the ledger behind.
He didn’t mind numbers. He was actually quite good at math.
But his head, throbbing behind his eyes, was distracted by other things.
And while it should have been how he was going to ensure he was going to make it through tomorrow night’s round of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s matchmaking game, he found another thought niggling in his mind.
What was the name of Georgie’s supposed fiancé?
“Benedict,” he asked the footman as he was collecting Tom’s empty glass, “do you know of a family named Sharpe in the ton?”
The footman paused, his brow deepening into a vee.
“The name is familiar,” he replied, then gave his head a quick shake. “Though I cannot account for it.”
“I have no idea if he is in the Lords,” Tom said, referring to the House of Lords where member of the peers had duties to the crown, “though it is likely.”
Tom couldn’t imagine that Georgie wouldn’t have been matched to a member of the peerage. She’d been so vehement in her rejection of Tom in part because she’d been promised to someone “worthy.” And that, at the time, was most definitely not the adopted son of nobody in particular.
“I can make some discreet inquiries,” Benedict offered.
Tom reached into his purse and pulled out several coins and pressed them into Benedict’s gloved hand.
“I shall be out for the afternoon,” he said. “And I don’t anticipate needing you directly. Please take your time.”
“Understood, sir,” he said, his mouth betraying only the hint of a smile as he left.
Tom closed his eyes and pushed out his chair, stretching his legs. Perhaps he should spend the rest of the day resting his head before another evening that required him to be sharp.
“There you are.”
The sound of the viscount’s voice roused Tom out of his half slumber and brought him to his feet.
“Sir.”
The viscount cocked a brow as he strode into the room with the confidence and self-possession of a man who seemed at ease with the world and everyone in it.
“You are my son, Tom” he said, with a warmth that felt genuine. “You need not stand every time I enter the room.”
Tom didn’t spend much time looking in mirrors, but if anyone questioned his lineage, a quick study of Viscount Worthington’s features would quickly answer them. They not only shared a similar build and size, but the same eyes and mouth.
“I’ve been going over the ledgers,” he replied, gesturing to the books.
His father stopped on the other side of the desk, peering down at the ledgers.
“Alas, it’s not all balls and afternoons at the club,” he said.
“Your time working at Whetherby will serve you well. You already have a very particular view of estate management that many of your station only wish they had. When we visit Foxleigh Court, we’ll have a tour of the grounds with our steward. ”
Tom raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t feel ready for all of this.”
“I’m not yet fifty, my boy,” the viscount said. “I don’t hope for you to be ready for several decades. The Worthingtons are long-lived. Remember that I only inherited the title from my father a handful of years ago.”
“But not my mother’s family?”
His father turned grim. “Your mother passed away two years ago. It was only on her deathbed that I learned of you. In time, if you like, I can make discreet inquiries. It would be good for you to meet your entire family.”
His entire family. He had a half-brother who was now a duke. And a cousin who was an earl. He wanted to laugh at the irony of his entire situation.
“Why didn’t you marry?” he asked. It had been on his mind for months, but not until now had he even felt comfortable broaching the subject.
While the viscount had made it clear he grieved for the loss of the years with Tom, the undeniable fact of his scandalous birth made it something he felt uncomfortable raising, particularly when his stepmother was in the room.
“She was already intended for another,” his father said, taking a seat and gesturing for Tom to do the same. “I had offered to make things right between us, but she was hellbent on being a duchess I suppose. We were both so bloody young. I don’t know how she hid the pregnancy from her family.”
“Did the duke know?” Tom asked.
His father shook his head. “I would not want to betray your mother’s secret—at least not yet. While I believe the duke would not object to the news, the past can be a difficult subject for some.”
That was true enough.
The door opened and a small, but formidable figure entered the room. Both gentlemen stood as Tom’s grandmother, the dowager viscountess, swept into the room. She was a wisp of a woman, but Tom learned she had a backbone of steel and a dogged determination to see her grandson married.
“Why on earth are you here, my boy?” she said, crossing the room and inspecting him with an eye that made him feel he was back in the army. “You look like the devil. You will not get yourself married looking like you’re something the cat might have dragged in from the garden.”
“Good morning, Grandmother,” he said, bowing deeply.
Despite being the source of his current worry, he’d found himself enamored with the elderly woman.
She had a wit sharper than many he’d met in his life, and despite her rougher edges, had a softness underneath that showed in the interest she took in sharing stories about his father and grandfather.
“How is the bride hunt going?” she asked as they all seated themselves. “Surely there must be a few ladies who have struck your fancy. And you do have your grandfather’s good looks.”
Tom couldn’t help but smile at the comparison.
“Society is so small that a new entry onto the marriage mart must be making the rounds,” his father added. “Though I have upset the natural order of things, bringing you back into society.”
Tom pursed his lips, trying to consider his answer. He hadn’t told anyone about his involvement with the Lyon’s Den. If his arrival in society had been something of a minor scandal, any marriage resulting from a contract there would create a much larger one.
“I have made the acquaintance of a Miss Mariah Morehouse.”
His grandmother brightened at the declaration. “Lord Chomley’s daughter?”
“The very same.”
“And?”
“She comes from a reputable family, as you’ve requested,” he said.
“I know you must think us horribly overbearing,” his father replied. “But that was the stipulation in your grandfather’s will, and despite the fact I am viscount, I cannot change it.”
“This is to help set him up well in society,” his grandmother said, straightening as she came to the defense of her departed husband. “Your grandfather wanted to ensure that the line was in good standing.”
“I believe Miss Morehouse will suit very well,” Tom replied. “She seems to be a woman of good sense, capable of good conversation, and though she prefers the country to town, I think she would serve the family well as viscountess.”
“Have you made an offer for her?” his grandmother asked. “Need I remind you, your birthday is not far away.”
Tom needed no such reminder. After overhearing Miss Morehouse discuss a walk in the park this afternoon, he’d decided he would brave the crowds to provide himself an opportunity to talk with her as privately as a gentleman could without risking a lady’s reputation.
“I hope to see her this afternoon in Hyde Park,” he said. “If all goes well, I will visit her father at the end of the week.”
If all goes well…if he made it through tonight’s game, and if, in the end, she chose him over the other two remaining gentlemen. But they didn’t need to know that.
Still, his conviction must have satisfied his grandmother.
“Excellent, my boy. I’m glad to hear it.
” She rose and gave him a warm smile, before turning to the viscount.
“I am to visit Lady Whitcomb’s this afternoon, but if you need any advice as to wedding plans, I am most happy to discuss this with Caroline,” she added, referring to Tom’s stepmother, the Viscountess Worthington.
Both men rose, Tom smiling inwardly at the absolute satisfaction on his grandmother’s face. He couldn’t care less about wedding plans as long as the deed was done, but if someone was going to be happy about this, it might as well be her.
After the dowager viscountess left, they resumed their seats. The viscount leaned forward in his chair, a line of concern on his brow.
“You seem terribly settled on the idea,” he said. “Surely there has been no one else who has caught your eye?”
Tom stilled. Though the headache powder had done the work, his temples threatened to throb again.
Of course there had been someone else who’d caught his eye, and several other body parts as well. But not his heart. She’d already claimed that once, and that particular organ had not recovered.
“Not at present,” Tom said, attempting nonchalance. “And I’m certain Miss Morehouse will suit.”
His father nodded slowly, and Tom had the sense that he was struggling to keep his thoughts to himself.
“I have spoken with your stepmother,” he said at last, “and we would like to throw a ball.”
Now his temples started to throb in earnest. He’d been to a couple of these affairs, and the crush of people, as well as the curiosity of onlookers, had made them less than pleasurable.
“I’m not certain that is necessary,” he said.
“Why isn’t it?” he said. “Surely to heaven celebrating the return of the heir to the house of Worthington and news of an impending marriage is worth the trouble, is it not?”
Tom tried to bite back a smile. He’d been blessed with not just one, but two father figures who seemed to actually give a damn about him. He thought of Gabe, who’d run away from his own father and joined the army to escape the never-ending criticism from his own father.
Tom, on the other hand, had run to escape Whetherby.
And both had left Georgie alone, on a crumbling estate with a father who seemed unable to manage the never-ending series of petty disasters that pelted the family.
He pushed down the unexpected tide of regret that brought with it a wave of doubt about his current course. He’d offered to make a life with her once—to take her away from Whetherby. And she’d refused him in the most direct and callous manner possible.
Instead, his father was choosing this moment to celebrate Tom’s future. As a Worthington.
“Of course,” he said. “Now if you excuse me, I shall make myself presentable for my outing this afternoon.”