A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(22)
“You would have me believe you are a dull fellow,” Westhaven said. “I cannot credit that Charlotte Windham would yoke herself to a drudge.”
To an untitled drudge. “We drudges tend to redeem ourselves in important regards. I will keep the lady in comfort and style, for example, and I won’t insult her with a string of mistresses whom I flaunt at the theatre before her friends. I will never break my neck riding to hounds half-drunk out of sheer boredom. I won’t gamble away her pin money merely to impress the fellows. I don’t trifle with the help. Might we discuss figures, my lord?”
“Charlotte is forthright,” Westhaven said. “One shudders to think what sort of children the two of you will raise.”
Sherbourne set his teacup beside the tray, not on it. “We will raise well-loved children, if the heavenly powers grant us offspring, and we will raise them. They won’t be packed off to public school from infancy for the ritual starvation and torture that passes for aristocratic education. Nor will they be banished to the fourth floor until the age of six, at which time they’ll be permitted to parade through the parlor twice a week spouting Latin and sums.”
Westhaven set Sherbourne’s teacup on the tray. “The parade was nigh daily, if you must know, and started when I was four. My father was a military man and in some ways always will be.”
Hence the immaculate desk, the pens laid neatly in the tray, and the compulsion to subject all new recruits to parade inspection.
“I brought a set of figures,” Sherbourne said. “I’d like to discuss them with you.”
The door burst open, and a small boy cantered—he did not run, he cantered—across the carpet. “Tally ho! Tally ho! Reynard is making for his covert!”
The boy came to a halt, confusion in eyes the same shade of green as Westhaven’s. “Excuse me, Papa. I thought you met Uncle Valentine for lunch on Mondays.”
“Uncle Valentine is working on the final movement of a new sonata,” Westhaven said, gathering the boy into his lap. “You know how he is about finales.”
The child was utterly at home roosting on his papa’s knees. “He’s awful. Aunt Ellen says so, then she kisses him. We have company.”
“We do. This is Mr. Sherbourne. He’s a friend of Cousin Charlotte’s. A good friend.”
Well, no he wasn’t. He was her fiancé. “Greetings, young sir.”
“I’m a viscount, but not the real kind,” the child said. “Cousin Charlotte doesn’t like to climb trees, but she can do sums in her head even better than Papa. Her favorite cakes are lemon, which is capital, because I don’t care for lemon.”
Sherbourne would have bet his walking stick—if he were to bet anything—that Charlotte had no particular fondness for lemon cakes, though for this nephew, she’d have told that lie.
“I hear something,” Westhaven said, cocking his head. “Do you hear it?”
The boy scrambled off his father’s lap. “Is it a fox? Do you hear the wily Reynard making designs upon our biddies? Foul dastard! You shall not menace our biddies! Tally ho! Pericles, Tally ho!”
Westhaven rose to close the door behind the first flight, pausing to smooth the carpet fringe Sherbourne had flipped.
“His brother prefers shooting expeditions in the garden. God help the pigeons if the boy ever learns to aim his slingshot.”
Foul dastard? That was not a small boy’s oath. “Westhaven, have you been riding to hounds in the parlor?”
His lordship resumed his chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “When my wife goes calling, I sometimes take it upon myself to entertain the children. About those figures?”
Sherbourne extracted a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket and passed them over. Westhaven drank another cup of tea while he studied the proposed settlements.
“Can you afford this, Sherbourne?” The question was merely curious, which was all that saved Westhaven from wearing tea on his tidily knotted cravat.
“My cash reserves are not where I’d wish them to be,” Sherbourne said, “though most would envy me my solvency. I’ve lately taken on a charitable project of considerable proportions, invested in a new mining venture, and otherwise committed liquid assets. I never involve the resources of my bank in personal obligations, nor do I allow the other directors or owners to do so.”
“That charitable project would be Cousin Elizabeth’s lending libraries,” Westhaven said. “I’ve heard something about them.”
Part of making peace with the duke next door had been indulging the Duchess of Haverford’s passion for lending libraries. Sherbourne had purchased a fortune in books—from His Grace—and in essence forgiven the rest of Haverford’s indebtedness.
The decision had seemed prudent at the time, though Sherbourne dreaded his meetings with the duchess. She was so very enthusiastic about her causes—and about her damned duke.
“The short answer is that I can afford the settlements proposed. If I acquire a sleeping partner or two for my mining venture, I’ll have more latitude, but those figures are within my means. If there’s one asset I bring to this union, it’s the ability to assure Charlotte of a comfortable dotage.”
“She’ll have a comfortable dotage with or without you, Sherbourne. The Windhams take care of their own.” Gone was the doting master of foxhounds and in his place sat the prosy ducal heir.