A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(103)
Sherbourne took the chair closest to the fire. “Brantford was your guest for more than a week. What was your impression of him?”
“He’ll not be my guest again,” Haverford said. “I’ve encountered any number of aristocratic ornaments, but the idle and titled usually exert themselves enough to be charming. Even on his best behavior—for my duchess tolerates nothing less than gentlemanly deportment at all times—Brantford had a subtle air of arrogance.”
“Charlotte hates him.”
Haverford took the second chair. “I would not wish Charlotte Sherbourne’s hatred on anybody lightly, but if I had to choose an apt target for her loathing, Brantford would do. There was talk, a few years ago, that he despoiled an innocent and turned his back on the lady. Radnor’s own mama confirmed that rumor, and thus I accept it as fact. I could not see that such a scandal bore directly on his commercial ventures, else I would have spoken up sooner.”
Would that he had, instead of poking his nose all over the colliery at every opportunity. “It is fact. What must a guest do in this castle to have some sustenance brought up from the kitchen?”
Haverford sat back and crossed his ankles. “Now you’re demanding your tea and crumpets? Do we blame your contrary disposition on a lack of proper nutrition?”
“You’re the one who’ll want to partake. The innocent whom Brantford despoiled was Charlotte’s dearest friend.”
Haverford stared at his feet, which were encased in a pair of worn field boots scuffed at the toes and in want of polish. “Does Charlotte know this?”
“She does now, and Brantford is threatening me with slander and worse unless I repay his investment on very favorable accelerated terms.”
“Extortion dressed up in lace and satin. I should have had Radnor take his lordship shooting, and arranged for someone’s gun to misfire. Happens all the time in the damp.”
What a delightful notion—and so simple. “Haverford, we are not barbarians.”
“Brantford is, but I gather you know that. So what brings you here? I make a very fine second—ducal consequence and all that.”
His Grace sounded uncharacteristically enthusiastic. “I’m touched, but I must decline. Charlotte says that because I am not titled, Brantford would ignore my challenge. There’s also the matter of Brantford’s son.”
A tap sounded on the door, and Haverford got up to admit a footman bearing an enormous silver tray. The offerings included tea with all the trimmings, sandwiches, shortbread, and tea cakes. The footman set the tray on a low table, bowed, and withdrew.
Haverford gestured to food. “If you expect me to pour your tea for you like some spinster auntie with a favorite nephew, you’re daft. Feed yourself, and I shall do likewise. By the way, an acquaintance in Swansea tells me that Hannibal Jones’s last day at the Waxter operation was the day before the shaft flooded. He’d been demanding that the owners spend the money to reinforce the tunnel, and they refused. The parting of the ways was not amicable, and they’ve been trying to blame Jones for the accident ever since.”
“You made inquiries on my behalf?” Inquiries Sherbourne could not have made himself.
“On behalf of the valley. Spare one beef sandwich for me, and please explain how we’re to resolve your contretemps with my least favorite earl.”
The relief of having Hannibal Jones exonerated for the tunnel collapse felt to Sherbourne like an omen, an indication that determination and hard work—and some hard riding—would see his problems solved.
Determination, and a bit more help from His Grace.
Over excellent food and piping hot tea, Sherbourne detailed the situation with Brantford. Haverford listened while doing his part by the comestibles and asking the occasional question.
“So you have come here to avail yourself of a handy duke,” he said, when the teapot was all but empty.
Haverford had been honest, he’d listened, he’d believed Sherbourne’s recitation even when it reflected badly on a peer.
And Haverford was family.
“No, actually,” Sherbourne said. “I’ll settle for a mere duke if that’s the only aid I can find, but I’d hoped my cause might instead merit the support of a friend.”
Haverford brushed nonexistent crumbs from his breeches. “A friend. Well.” He looked around as if hoping his duchess might rescue him. “A friend, whom you will owe for all eternity, even more than you already do. You do realize it’s colder than hell’s root cellar out there?”
“The fresh air will put roses in our cheeks. Come along, Haverford, while there’s still a sliver of daylight to guide us.”
Muttering and cursing, Haverford came along as any friend would.
Any good friend.
*
The damned snow had made the footing treacherous enough that Dalrymple had called a halt to the hunting after the morning run. The post had brought no word from Lucas Sherbourne regarding the colliery contract, and the buxom maid hadn’t bestirred herself even once the livelong afternoon to see if a guest might want for some female companionship.
Brantford was paying his third call of the evening on the decanter in Dalrymple’s library when the door opened, and the maid who’d been least in sight all day appeared with a bucket in each hand.
“Do come in,” Brantford said. “Can’t have the fires going out when winter has announced its arrival.”