A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(69)
“Will you be staying with us long?” Haverford asked, for the past hour had been among the longest he could recall.
“Dear me, of course not. Wales in winter? You must be daft, but then, you are newly married. One and the same for some. I’m guessing Sherbourne’s nuptials were an entirely mercenary undertaking. I don’t know the man well, but I’ve heard a few on dits regarding the new Mrs. Sherbourne.”
Haverford got up to toss more peat onto the fire, for the afternoon was growing chilly. “Such as?”
“You married into the same family. The Windhams are well connected, but they aren’t all as, shall we say, genteel as your lovely duchess. Her sister is known to be outspoken, or so I’ve heard.”
Haverford used the wrought iron poker to rearrange the peat and coals. He put the poker back on the hearth stand, though delivering a stout blow to Brantford’s thick sense of his own consequence appealed strongly.
“I delight in Mrs. Sherbourne’s outspokenness,” Haverford said. “She’s a refreshing change from the toadies and flirts who have nothing better to do than gossip about the same people they attempt to flatter.”
Brantford saluted with a silver flask and tipped it to his lips. “Just so, just so. I’ve been asked why I invested in Sherbourne’s little project by those same people. Why entangle my affairs with such as him? He’s part owner of a bank, you know. One of the other partners is the grandson of a Ludgate jeweler.”
Which had exactly nothing to do with anything.
“I’ll tell you why I’m investing with Sherbourne,” Brantford went on. “I’ll never begrudge a man’s efforts to better his situation if those same efforts also better my situation. Everything Sherbourne touches turns to gold. He’s shrewd, has a knack for knowing when to step in and when to step out. As distasteful as coin might be to those of us raised with refined sensibilities, the lack of coin is more distasteful still.”
A lack of couth ranked even higher on Haverford’s list of disagreeable qualities. “And yet, you clearly had sufficient means to invest. One hopes your own situation prospers adequately, irrespective of Sherbourne’s projects.”
Brantford emptied his flask. “Was that a warning, Haverford? Have I backed the wrong horse? That’s why I’m wandering about the wilds of Wales, you see. Sherbourne himself challenged me to inspect the colliery, more or less. Likened solicitors and men of business to meddlers. He doubtless never expected to see me here in person. I have better things to do than ruin my boots and court a case of lung fever.”
Haverford had better things to do than listen to this braying ass. “Though here you are, in the wilds of Wales after all.”
Brantford rose, a bit unsteadily. “So I am. I need for Sherbourne’s little project to show a handsome profit. He has odd notions about providing housing for the miners, no children employed below the surface—no women, either, and that’s just the start of his daft fancies. I’ll set him straight, and a word from you would be helpful too. One cannot coddle the brutes who labor for their bread or they simply take advantage.”
His lordship wandered over to the sideboard and lifted a glass stopper from a crystal decanter. “Mind if I refill my flask?”
“Help yourself, of course. We keep country hours, and if you’d like to rest before changing for dinner, I can send a footman to waken you.”
Brantford made a mess and wasted good brandy refilling his flask. “Don’t send me a footman, for heaven’s sake. Send me a hot bath and a comely little chambermaid to assist me. I like blondes and prefer a woman with good hips. A tray of viands wouldn’t go amiss, and none of this peat, please. Coal will do for me, and I’ll need some clothing pressed if I’m to be properly attired for dinner.”
“I’m sure the staff will be happy to meet your every need.” Though Her Grace had already warned the butler and housekeeper that only men were to wait on his lordship. “If Sherbourne is not amenable to your ideas regarding management of the colliery, will you withdraw your support for the project?”
“I ought to,” Brantford said, snatching the last biscuit from the tea tray. “That would serve him right. He got quite above himself with me. I admire ambition, but will not tolerate disrespect.” Brantford ate his biscuit as the fresh peat caught and the lovely, tangy scent of a blazing fire filled the parlor. “Here’s the thing, Haverford. I have been beset lately by something of a premonition.”
He ran a hand through thinning hair, and for a moment, Brantford was not the arrogant, confident aristocrat, but rather, a man who could see middle age bearing down upon him, much sooner than expected. He was weary and worried, though he probably didn’t admit that even to himself.
“My in-laws are in dun territory,” Brantford said. “Their situation is not common knowledge yet. They put every spare farthing into the marriage settlements, and I’ve done what I could with those funds. My countess has yet to oblige me with an heir, though not for lack of trying on my part. I have it in my mind—you will think me addled—that if I can replenish her family coffers, then she might conceive.”
To make that admission, Brantford had to be nearly drunk or very preoccupied with his lack of children.
“A titular succession can be a terrible weight,” Haverford said. “Have you no indirect heirs?”