‘Good, I am glad to hear it.’ Her aunt, who knew nothing of what had happened with Thomas, was still picking over his character. ‘He appears to be courting Lady Florence Wakefield and, frankly, given that she is not at all intelligent and very plain, poor girl, I cannot believe he is doing so for any but the most mercenary reasons. One of her uncles is an archdeacon and a cousin is attached to the Chapel Royal.’ She took a sip from the cup of chocolate she held. ‘And her dowry is impressive, I understand.’
‘That should appeal to Thomas. If she is biddable, he will not care about how silly she is, or how plain.’
‘How did you realise his true character, dear? You never said at the time and I did not like to ask.’
Verity shrugged. ‘I realised that he was interested in marrying my father’s daughter, not in me. When I became suspicious it opened my eyes to just how rehearsed and mechanical his protestations of affection were.’ That was true as far as it went and it seemed to satisfy her aunt.
‘Such a contrast to the Duke, who is an honourable man. But if marrying him would make you miserable, there is nothing more to be said. I know what a happy marriage can be.’
* * *
‘That all seems very satisfactory, Your Grace.’ George Fitcham, Will’s senior secretary, put down a report from the Steward at Oulton Castle and consulted one of the lengthy lists in front of him. ‘Now, if we could move on to the figures from the Home Farm...’
Four days after Verity had left for London there was an impressive pile of neglected paperwork and, for the first time since he had inherited the title, Will had needed to force himself to send for the patient secretary and tackle it.
Will let him talk. If there was something he needed to do, or make a decision about, Fitcham would tell him. Like the neglect of the work for several days, this was untypical of him and, while his conscience nagged him about it, something else told him that it was not important, that he had other things to worry about.
Why has she gone to London? Why is Bishop Wingate being so vague about it? I cannot protect her there. The rumours will be vicious...
The clock struck three, there was a tap at the study door, then it opened to admit his siblings, all clean—scrubbed and polished, by the look of it—dressed neatly and looking decidedly miserable. He had deliberately delayed announcing his decision on their punishment to give them time to think over just what they had done.
He waited while they lined up in front of the desk. Fitcham stood up to leave, but Will waved him back to his seat. They could have the added discomfort of an audience.
‘You behaved with unconscionable discourtesy
to a guest, to a lady. You lied to me. You put both of us in a situation that was uncomfortable, embarrassing and compromising. Miss Wingate has decided that she cannot bring herself to marry me, which is exceedingly honourable of her, even if her decision probably has a great deal to do with her unwillingness to find herself in a family containing you. And, Basil, if I see one more smirk on your face, you will spend the summer without access to your pony, your fishing rod, your cricket bat and any books other than your school texts.’
Basil’s expression of dismay at least showed a gratifying belief in his brother’s willingness to carry out the threats.
‘Althea, Araminta and Basil will all receive no allowance for the next four weeks. Alicia, Bertrand and Benjamin will receive half their usual allowance. And if I find you lending any of it to your older siblings, then you will lose that as well. Your schoolroom hours have been doubled for a month. In addition, the boys will spend an hour every day assisting in the vegetable garden and the girls in the kitchen. If I do not see signs of improved behaviour and genuine regret by the end of that period, then it will be extended. Is that clear?’
They stared back at him. If he had not been so angry with them then it would have been laughable, the way they all had the same open-mouthed expression.
‘You are just saying that, aren’t you, Will?’ Althea quavered. ‘You don’t really mean it, do you? Not for four whole weeks?’
‘You seriously distressed a lady who had done nothing to deserve it,’ Will said. ‘You have compromised my position, made this family, as well as hers, a butt for vulgar gossip and speculation. If you do not know what is due to your name, then I do.’
He had not meant to extend the punishment beyond the first couple of weeks, just give them all a good scare, but now he realised he did mean it. He kept seeing the despair in Verity’s eyes, the anger and her refusal to compromise, even in the face of the ruin of her reputation. It seemed that the children had ruined the life of the only woman in the country who hated the idea of wedding a duke and he found that upset him more than the besmirching of his own name, the intrusion of tasteless gossip into his privacy and the danger that the tale might have an impact on his own future marriage plans.
‘And I still see no sign that you have any idea of the seriousness of what you have done or that you are sorry about anything but the fact that you are being punished,’ he added. ‘You may go.’
He picked up the topmost list in front of him and stared at it unseeing while six pairs of feet shuffled out of the door and Fitcham cleared his throat and blotted a note.
Why had she gone? Because she thought he would continue to press her to marry him? Because she misguidedly thought that in London she would attract less attention? That might have worked if the man who had compromised her had not been a duke. Damn it, he missed her. Missed her spiky independence, missed seeing her pace up and down while she argued a problem out with herself. Missed her kisses. If Verity came back they could be...friends?
That was ridiculous. Unmarried ladies did not become friends with single men. Men and women were different. They might be passionately involved, sexually attracted or form contented marriages based on duty and family life. But friends? Was that what his father had found with his stepmother? Could that have been what held their improbable marriage together? He had assumed his father had been ensnared by a strong woman with undeniable physical appeal, but he was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that there had been more to it than that. That he had misjudged them both. His father had adopted extreme ideas without question, but that did not undermine the basis of what must have been a happy marriage.
Did he owe it to Claudia to try to be more understanding? Should he re-evaluate his picture of her children’s upbringing? Had they actually been happy and secure in an environment that had made him unhappy and confused? There was no one he could talk to about this, no one except the woman he had driven away.
‘The first post, Your Grace.’
He had not heard Peplow come in. ‘Thank you.’ Will gestured to the desk and picked up the pile of letters before Fitcham could. He sifted through as though dealing cards. Most landed in front of the secretary, but five, clearly personal letters, stayed with him.
Would Verity have written to him if she needed his help? He doubted it, but he had only seen her handwriting once and would not recognise it.
He opened the letters. One from his godmother in Kent, one from a tenant at Oulton, disputing a decision over leases. He tossed that to Fitcham. One from Jack Hendry, asking if he was interested in buying a promising young hunter of his... A friend suggesting the making up of a shooting party later in the year... And a scrawled sheet from Chris Bancroft, Marquess of Dalesford, old friend, sportsman and notorious rake.
What the devil’s going on, Will? The word in the clubs is that you seduced a bishop’s daughter on some island, or that she kidnapped you and had her wicked way with you—you lucky devil—or half-a-dozen other even more improbable stories, all culminating in—nothing. Certainly not orange blossom and wedding bells.