A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(105)

“A visitor, madam,” the butler said. “The Earl of Brantford. I beg your pardon. I thought the duchess was with you.”

Brantford was here? Then where was Sherbourne?

Charlotte remained seated. “Her Grace will return shortly. You may show his lordship in, but please leave the door open and keep yourself and our two largest footmen within earshot.”

“Mr. Sherbourne might not—”

“Mr. Sherbourne is from home, and I am mistress of this household. Show his lordship in, and do not think for one instant to bring us a blasted tea tray.”

“Yes, madam.”

Charlotte got up, fetched the fireplace poker, and tucked it on the far side of the sofa. The idea of breaking Brantford’s arm, his ankle, or his nose was unaccountably cheering.

When Brantford came strutting into the room, she was again seated, embroidery hoop in hand.

“Mrs. Sherbourne, good day.” The earl offered her a perfect bow. “You make quite the fetching picture by the window. May I enquire as to whether your husband will be joining us? I saw no evidence of work whatsoever at the colliery, and I regret that my errand is one of business—mostly business—though a spot of tea would be much appreciated, of course.”

He beamed a smile at her. Charlotte smiled back, because she had entrusted justice for the earl to her husband, and while everything in her wanted to bash the poker over Brantford’s arrogant nose, she resisted.

She could not on her own hold Brantford accountable, which meant her best option was to make small talk and simper.

I hate to simper. She hated Brantford far more.

“Given the weather, perhaps you’d prefer a tot of brandy,” Charlotte said. “When Her Grace of Haverford joins us, I’ll order a tray if that would suit.”

His lordship marched straight to the sideboard. “Her Grace is here? I did drop in at the castle but was told Their Graces were from home. I’ll be in the area for another day or so and must prevail upon Haverford for a bit more hospitality.”

The hell you will. “I doubt that will suit, my lord. His Grace is, like you, traveling on business, and the duchess is biding with me here.”

He downed an entire glass of brandy and refilled it. “I’ll content myself with Radnor’s company, then. I hope I’m not overstepping when I say that I was surprised that a Windham would end up married to such as Lucas Sherbourne.”

He twinkled at her, sharing a jest between aristocrats.

“Mr. Sherbourne and I are quite enamored of each other,” Charlotte said, meaning every word.

Brantford guffawed, then treated Charlotte to an insolent inspection. “Did he tell you that? My dear, he wanted his brats playing with the children of your titled siblings. Two sisters married to dukes, and you think Lucas Sherbourne offered you a love match? Women are such fanciful creatures.”

Charlotte’s hand slipped down to grasp the poker.

“Insult me all you please, my lord, but malign my husband at your peril. He and I are, most assuredly, a love match.”

Brantford studied the portrait over the fireplace, which had been done shortly after Sherbourne’s parents married.

“Your husband comes from a long line of shopkeepers and tradesmen, and it’s all but established fact that his great-grandmother was not, as they say, Church of England prior to her wedding. You have quite married down, Mrs. Sherbourne. I suppose you know that and are putting a brave face on a mésalliance. I might have to ruin your husband, by the way, socially at least. I doubt I have the patience to ruin him financially. This is very good brandy.”

Charlotte rose from the sofa, rage a frigid river in her veins. “You come to Mr. Sherbourne’s house, swill his brandy with all the delicacy of a great ape, insult me, insult my family, and insult my husband. The only thing that keeps me from doing you a serious injury is the fact that I esteem Mr. Sherbourne too highly to befoul his carpets with your blood.”

Brantford chortled, until Charlotte held the poker up like a riding crop.

“I like a woman with some spirit,” Brantford said, setting his glass aside. “Perhaps—”

“Perhaps you’ll wish to choose your words carefully,” Sherbourne said from the doorway, “for you’re in the presence of an innocent child.”

Charlotte lowered the poker. “Mr. Sherbourne, greetings.”

Clinging to Sherbourne’s hand was a small blond boy. The child had Fern’s chin and her nose, though Brantford’s contribution was apparent in the flaxen hair and blue eyes.

Haverford strolled into the room. “Perhaps I should take the boy to the kitchen, where we will ask Cook to make us a pot of chocolate.”

The child’s gaze bounced from Charlotte to Haverford to Brantford. “I’ve never had chocolate.”

The boy spoke Welsh, so Charlotte replied in the same language. “Chocolate is a very rich drink, so be sure to add a dash of sugar. Your mama always took it with a dash of sugar.”

His smile was entirely Fern’s. “You knew my mama?”

Charlotte nodded rather than trust her voice.

“Civilized people speak English,” Brantford snapped.

Sherbourne knelt so he was eye-level with the boy. “Haverford will steal all the sweets if you let him,” he said in Welsh. “He has a very pretty duchess who might join you in the kitchen. She’ll make sure you get your fair share of biscuits.”