The Last Hellion (Scoundrels 4)

His intended looked up at him, her big eyes glowing. “You are the dearest, kindest man in all the world, Bertie Trent,” she said. “You think of everybody.” She turned to her father. “Do you see, Papa? Do you see how lucky I am?”

“Of course I see,” said her father, while Bertie turned vivid scarlet. “And I hope your beau will allow me the honor of writing the invitation to your friends.”

The invitation was duly written, and a vestry man carried it to Ainswood House.

Not a quarter hour later, the wedding guests trooped into St. James’s Church, and nobody argued with anybody, though a few people did cry, as females do, and Susan, whose tender sensibilities couldn’t bear tears, tried to comfort them with hand-licking and the occasional cheerful, “Woof!”

The minister, accustomed to the oddities of the gentry, bore it good-humoredly, and the wedding, if it fell short of certain peers’ high standards of grandeur, unquestionably succeeded in making all parties happy, most especially the principals, which, after all, was all that mattered.

After the ceremony, Mr. Prideaux invited the company to adjourn to the Pulteney Hotel, where he was staying, for “a bit of refreshment.”

It soon became apparent to everyone where Tamsin had inherited her efficiency from, because a very lavish wedding breakfast contrived to be assembled and served on very short notice.

Not long afterward, it dawned on Bertie that efficiency wasn’t all his bride had inherited.

Mr. Prideaux made a “little gift” of a suite of rooms to the newlyweds, neatly forestalling arguments about where they’d spend their wedding night.

Pulteney’s was an elegant, very expensive hotel. The rooms turned out to be a suite of enormous apartments customarily reserved for visiting royalty.

Even Bertie, who could not calculate pounds, shillings, and pence without getting a violent headache, had no trouble deducing that his father-in-law must be plump in the pocket.

After the servants finished fussing with things that needed no fussing with and departed, he turned to his bride.

“I say, m’dear,” he said mildly, “maybe you forgot to mention your pa was as rich as Croesus.”

She turned pink and bit her lip.

“Oh, come,” he said. “I know you must’ve had a good reason, and you ain’t goin’ to be too shy to tell me? I know you wasn’t worried I was a fortune hunter. Even if I wanted to be, my brain box don’t work that way. I hardly know what to say to a gal when I like her, let alone say things pretending I do when I don’t and it’s only her money I like. Whatever I’m thinkin’ comes right out of my mouth, generally, and you know what I mean, whatever I say, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I know,” she said. She stepped away from him and took off her spectacles and rubbed them on her sleeve and put them back on again. “At Athcourt, when you asked me to marry you, I was going to tell you about my father. But you told me how you’d run away from heiresses your aunt kept taking you to meet. I was alarmed. I know it’s silly, but I couldn’t help it. I was afraid that when I told you, you’d see an heiress instead of me. I was worried it would make you uncomfortable and perhaps your pride couldn’t bear it. I’m sorry, Bertie.” She lifted her chin. “I’m not by nature ruthless or deceitful, but in some matters, a woman must be. I could not risk your getting away from me.”

“Couldn’t risk it, could you?” He nodded. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Lady T. You done excellent. I didn’t get away, did I? And ain’t goin’ away, neither.” He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The idea of her being ruthless and deceitful, on his account—and worried he’d get away—tickled him immensely.

Still chuckling, he advanced and drew her into his arms. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said. He kissed her pretty nose. “Except mebbe into our fancy bed with my wife.” He looked up, glanced about. “If, that is, we can find out where the deuce it is.”

Chapter 20

Longlands, Northamptonshire

One week later

Being in regular communication with Ainswood House, the servants at Longlands were fully apprised of their new mistress’s standards of domestic order.

Consequently, despite only twenty-four hours’ notice of the family’s arrival, the Longlands staff turned out in full ceremonial regalia to welcome them. These domestic troops were cleaned, starched, and polished within an inch of their lives, lined up with military precision at sharp attention.

All of which disciplined perfection dissolved into a chaos of whoops, whistles, and cheers when the Duke of Ainswood swept up his bride in his arms and carried her over the ancestral threshold.

Tears streamed down the housekeeper’s plump face when the young ladies she’d so sorely missed rushed at her, to crush her with hugs and be crushed in return.

Even Morton, the house steward, was observed to dash a tear from his eye while he watched the master set his bride down amid a welcoming horde of mastiffs, whose boisterous greeting set the hall bric-a-brac trembling.

The dogs quieted abruptly when Susan made her entrance a moment later, towing Jaynes.

“Grr-rrr-rr,” said Susan.

Her ears had flattened, her tail was stiff—her entire stance clearly communicated hostility. The others were males, and she was not only an intruder but outnumbered, four to one. Nonetheless she made it plain she was prepared to tear the lot of them to pieces.

This seemed to puzzle the other canines.

“Woof,” one said uncertainly.

“Woof!” one of his fellows seconded more boldly.

A third barked, then dashed to the door and back. Susan remained rigid, teeth bared, snarling.

“Come, don’t be cross,” Vere told her. “Don’t you see? They want to play. Don’t you want to play, sweetheart?”

Susan grumbled and glared at them, but her hostile posture relaxed a degree.

Then one of the dogs darted forward, a ball in its big jaws. He dropped it a safe distance from Susan. “Woof!” he said.

Warily, Susan advanced and sniffed the ball. After grumbling to herself a bit more, she took it in her mouth and trotted to the door. The other dogs followed.

Vere met his wife’s gaze. “Those fellows will do anything for you-know-what,” he said. “I’m amazed they didn’t crawl on their bellies.” He gave Lydia his arm and they started up the stairs.

“They’re not going to get any you-know-what,” she said. “Not today, at any rate. She isn’t in season.”

“They’re softening her heart in advance,” he said.

“She’s an aberration, you know,” Lydia said. “Oversized, and the wrong color. That’s why I got her for practically nothing. Her antecedents are suspect. You may not want to breed her with your pedigreed lot.”

“Mallorys aren’t as particular about bloodlines as Ballisters,” he said. “You, for instance, had rather have an illegitimate son as your father because, bastard or not, he at least has noble blood in his veins.”

“I shouldn’t care if my father had been sired by a chimney sweep,” she said. “What mattered was that he truly loved my mother and made her happy, and did his damnedest to be first rate at what he did. It’s character and effort that count with me, not bloodlines.”

Vere would have argued the point—for everyone knew the Ballisters were the greatest snobs in the world—but they’d reached the first floor and were turning into the family wing, and teasing banter was impossible while his heart thudded so painfully.

The walls were covered with pictures—not the masterpieces of portraiture and landscape that adorned the public rooms, but drawings, watercolors, and oils of a much more informal and intimate nature, capturing generations of Mallory family life.

Halfway to the master’s apartments, Vere paused before the picture he knew would be there. He had not looked at it in eighteen months. He looked at it now. His throat tightened. His chest constricted.

“This is Robin,” he told his wife. It was hard getting the words out, but he’d expected diffi

culty and made up his mind to bear it. “I’ve told you about him,” he went on. “Lizzy and Em have told you about him. Now you see him.”

“A beautiful child,” she said.

“Yes. We’ve other pictures, but this is the best of the lot.” The tightness was easing. “It’s the most like him. The artist caught his smile—the one Robin seemed to keep mostly to himself, as though he knew a private joke. Charlie had the same smile. God help me, what an idiot I’ve been. I should have taken it with me. How can one look into the boy’s face and not see sunshine? Lord knows I needed it.”

“You didn’t expect to find sunshine,” she said quietly.

He met her gaze, discerned understanding in its blue depths. “I’m not sure I would have found it if you hadn’t taught me how. I’ve talked about him, listened to Lizzy and Em talk about him,” he continued, his voice growing surer, steadier. “It’s grown easier as the days pass. All the same, I wasn’t sure I could look him in the eye today. I hadn’t done well by his memory, poor lad. It was death and decay and a black, cold rage I’d carried about with me in my heart instead. Unfair, when the boy gave me nothing but joy for six full months.” His gaze returned to the portrait. “I’ll always miss him, and so I’m bound to grieve from time to time. But I have happy memories. So many. That’s a blessing. And I’ve a family to share them with. Another blessing.”

He could have lingered before the portrait with her and said more. But there would be plenty of time for lingering, for talking, for sharing memories.

At any rate, he’d already made up his mind what to do, and that must be done first.

He opened the door to the ducal apartments and led her through the passage to the bedchamber.

It was an enormous room, as befitted the head of the family, yet a warm one. Late October sunlight burnished the golden oak wainscoting and glimmered in the golden threads of the rich blue drapery adorning both windows and bed. The bed was immense and ornately carved. It had been built centuries earlier for a visit from James I.

“The last time I saw this bed was when I watched Robin depart for the hereafter,” Vere told his wife. “My last memory is of a little boy dying in it. I can carry that memory in my heart now, along with others. I wasn’t too late. I was there for him when he needed me. It’s a bittersweet memory, but not impossible to bear.”

“I have some of those,” she said.

She, too, had watched at deathbeds, clung to hands of loved ones, felt the pulse weaken and fade as life departed.