A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(81)
With Charlotte preening at Sherbourne’s side, he’d been given odd looks, tentative smiles, and maybe even a few envious glances from the local squires. Then, in full view of the shire’s biggest busybodies, Haverford had offered an impromptu invitation to Sunday dinner at the castle.
“How is Her Grace?” Sherbourne asked, as Haverford rolled a ladder along a two-story expanse of bookshelves. “She seemed in good spirits at services.”
“She is relieved to be shut of Brantford,” Haverford said, climbing the ladder. “What a tedious excuse for a houseguest. He discovered where the maids’ stairs were and frequented them at every opportunity, such that Her Grace decreed the maids and footmen were to switch staircases for the duration of Brantford’s visit.”
“What’s different about this room?” Radnor asked, steadying the ladder at the bottom. “Something has changed.”
Sherbourne took his drink up the spiral steps with him, to the section of the shelves reserved for cookery and herbals, for surely Haverford had a volume of recipes Charlotte would enjoy.
“What’s different,” he said, “is that I have paid to ship half the books that used to collect dust on yonder shelves into the hinterlands of Wales. Somewhere, some tavern maid is struggling through Candide, while her younger brother fancies himself a Lilliputian or a Yahoo.”
Which was progress of a sort Haverford would never have stumbled on without the aid of his duchess and his neighbor.
As a result, the library was lighter, airier, less of a cave, more of a gracious retreat. The scent was the same, though—the vanilla fragrance of old books, a tang of peat, and a mellow undertone of beeswax and lemon.
“I can count on my thumb the number of hours Brantford spent in here,” Haverford said, taking out a book, pushing it back among its confreres, then taking down another. “We still have one of the finest collections of reading material in the realm, and his lordship was more interested in bothering the help or talking me into taking him to a local hunt meet.”
“He wanted to be seen with you.” Sherbourne selected a volume on French desserts. “He did not want to be seen with me.”
“While you add coin to his coffers,” Radnor muttered. “Not well done of him.”
“I will make very sure that Brantford and I belong to none of the same clubs,” Haverford said, making a slow descent while holding a book in his hand. “The man lacks couth.”
Looking down on the duke and the marquess, Sherbourne’s first thought was that he was being subtly rebuked for having associated with Brantford. Another hypothesis suggested itself: The duke and the marquess were ashamed of Brantford, ashamed that a peer of the realm had acted so disagreeably.
So dishonorably, to use Charlotte’s term.
“I apologize for inflicting Brantford on you both,” Sherbourne said, closing the book of recipes. “If I could refund his investment and send him on his way, I would.” The apology was as rare as it was sincere, and yet, more words marched forth into the comfortable elegance of the ducal library. “His lordship threatened litigation if I failed to interpret the terms of our contract liberally. He reminded me that his cousin is a judge.”
His dear cousin.
Her Grace had towed Sherbourne all over this library countless times in recent weeks, but today was different, because he was an invited guest. Ten feet below, Haverford passed Radnor the book. The view from the mezzanine suggested Radnor would go bald before Haverford did—even that indignity apparently respected the order of precedence.
Radnor glanced up from the book. “Brantford threatened you with a lawsuit not a month after agreeing to do business with you?”
“The earl was subtle enough to leave a margin of ambiguity,” Sherbourne said, descending the steps. “He is not happy with the terms he agreed to, though I’ve guaranteed him at least as good a return as the cent per cents, and my own investment will be repaid on the same terms. I’m to improve those terms for him or deal with his displeasure. He awaits correspondence from me confirming my renewed understanding of our association.”
Haverford took the reading chair by the fireplace and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Does he want his money back?”
“I asked him that, and he laughed. He invested in my works, and now I’m to make him rich.”
“Somebody ought to make him humble,” Radnor said. “The man’s a disgrace.”
A lingering residue of self-doubt wafted away with Radnor’s words. Sherbourne had confidence in his own commercial abilities and confidence in his grasp of the law. He worked hard and had a fair degree of common sense. Where he’d erred was in assuming that a man born to wealth, title, and standing would also claim the integrity that should accompany such blessings.
Radnor and Haverford confirmed that Sherbourne’s expectations had been reasonable, not na?ve, not stupid.
“Brantford is my disgrace for now,” Sherbourne said. “I cannot risk litigation or scandal, or even his lordship’s enmity in the clubs. I’ve recently married well above myself, and my liquid resources are at low ebb. If I do as his lordship wishes and make him a fortune, then I benefit as well.”
Haverford scowled at his drink. “I could not be that rational, that pragmatic, or mature in the face of such arrogance. He doesn’t need another fortune, and investing with you was hardly taking a great risk. I’d be tempted to plant such an audacious creditor a facer.”