‘Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, III, ii
Disaster averted, at least for now. Climbing the stairs to his chamber, Gervase silently thanked Providence that the rest of the evening had passed without incident. Once reunited with the ladies, the men had been on their best behavior—more or less. Still, he wouldn’t have been surprised if his mother suspected something might have happened, if only because Reg and the duke had rather ostentatiously avoided speaking to each other. And Jason hadn’t exactly concealed his satisfaction over the renewed hostility between his father and older brother.
Someone needed to take that boy in hand before he was completely ruined, Gervase mused. “Spoiled till salt won’t save him,” their old nurse had used to say. However much the duke might favor Jason, Reg, Gervase, and any legitimate sons they might produce would have to die before his baby brother could inherit. Which was possible but unlikely, and the sooner Jason woke up and started making a future for himself, instead of depending on their father to smooth his pathway in life, the better off he’d be.
He’d reached his room now—the same one he’d had as a boy, and wasn’t that guaranteed to revive old memories?—and was just about to enter when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Strange... he thought he’d heard it snick shut behind him when he’d gone down to dinner. Well, perhaps Farnsworth had inadvertently left the door open when he himself had gone below stairs after helping Gervase dress.
Shrugging, he pushed the door open and went inside—only to stop short when he saw that his bed was already occupied.
“Madam,” Gervase sternly addressed his uninvited guest, “I do not recall expressing a desire for your presence here.”
For answer, the occupant stretched with sinuous grace, then rolled over, exposing her stomach while regarding him coyly through tilted eyes the color of peridots. Gervase sighed, perched on the edge of his bed, and began to perform the necessary offices.
“You are fortunate to have made your move when I am in a relatively amiable humor,” he informed her, stroking away. “And when you yourself are not in expectation of a happy event. Otherwise, I would have no qualms about removing you at once from my place of repose.”
She batted playfully at his hand, then uttered a soft trill and butted her head against his fingers, wanting more.
“Never satisfied, are you?” Gervase observed, chucking her under the chin. “I know your kind all too well.”
“Who on earth are you talking to, Ger?”
He looked up to see Elaine standing in the doorway. She came further into the room, then shook her head with an indulgent smile when she saw his visitor. “Ah, of course. They always do seem to like you best.”
“It is not a sentiment that is necessarily reciprocated.” Gervase ran a hand down the tortoiseshell cat’s smooth flank, and was rewarded with a throaty purr. “What’s this one called?”
“Messalina. And according to Juliana, she’s a cat of easy virtue. Her kittens are just weaned, and she’s already eyeing the toms with interest.” Elaine reached out to scratch Messalina between the ears. “She certainly has a fondness for male companionship, to judge from the way she’s making up to you.”
“I suppose that ginger monster of Juliana’s continues to rule the roost?”
“Xerxes?” Her smile broadened. “Who do you think sired Messalina’s last litter?”
“Why am I not surprised?” Gervase moved aside so Elaine could sit on the bed as well. “So, what brings you to my door—apart from curiosity about my companion?”
“Curiosity about certain other things as well,” she replied frankly. “Such as what happened between Papa and Reg before you joined us after dinner.”
So someone besides his mother had noticed. “Why don’t you ask one of them?”
“Because I’m far more likely to receive an honest answer from you.”
Gervase regarded her thoughtfully. Of all his sisters, Elaine was the sunniest and seemingly the most uncomplicated. She had their father’s tawny hair, perhaps a shade lighter than his, and their mother’s tip-tilted hazel eyes, though in Elaine’s smooth oval face, they looked almost innocent. He had learned years ago, however, not to underestimate his next youngest sister.
“Just the old argument again, Lainey,” he said, using her pet name. “Father wants Reg to leave the army, marry Alicia, and take up his duties here. Reg refuses, Jason gloats, Augustus bridles over this perceived slight to his own family, and Alasdair and Hugo do their best to stay out of it.”
“While you analyze the entire situation, and wonder if there’s any advantage to you in getting involved,” Elaine finished, without censure.
“Yes to the former, not necessarily to the latter,” Gervase corrected. “Of late, I’ve been following the example set by my brothers-in-law.”
“You amaze me,” she teased. “Truly?”
He shrugged. “Having a profession and an independent income tends to alter one’s perspective. I can understand why Reg doesn’t want to give them up, especially after watching Hal chafe under Father’s restraints for so long.”
“But it’s been five years,” she pointed out. “I know Papa can be overbearing, and that he doesn’t like handing over the reins to anyone, but how can Reg change that if he stays away?”
“So you’re on Father’s side about this, then.”
“I’m on this family’s side,” she corrected. “Reg is the next duke. Sooner or later, everything will be his. I can’t understand why he hasn’t sold out yet—he was always telling Hal how much better he’d do as heir.”
While Hal would smugly point out that Reg would never get the chance to prove it, Gervase remembered with an inner chill. Pride goeth before a fall... “Perhaps he finally realized how difficult life in Father’s shadow—under Father’s control—could be. I wouldn’t fancy the prospect myself, dukedom or not.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded, sighing and drawing her knees up to her chest the way she had as a young girl, heedless of her satin skirts. “But Ger, Papa’s not going to live forever. Wouldn’t it be better to come home and try to work with him and learn from him, while there’s still time?” She wrapped her arms about her knees, her eyes taking on a distant look. “Because time goes so quickly. I don’t think I realized that until I married Alasdair. One day you’re in the schoolroom, being taught your numbers and letters, then suddenly you’re a wife, then a mother, and your children are growing like weeds, learning to walk and talk...” She broke off with a self-conscious little laugh. “I suppose this all sounds foolish to you—”
“Not at all. But I’m not the one you need to convince.”
“No?” Elaine tilted her head, regarding him with bright, inquisitive hazel eyes. “What about your own life, Ger? All the things you intend to do, all the chances you have yet to take?”
He bent over the still-purring cat again, avoiding his sister’s gaze. “Such as?”
“Such as telling Margaret that you’re in love with her. And have been for years.”
Gervase paused just long enough to pique her curiosity, then rose, walked to the door and opened it pointedly. “Goodnight, dear sister.”
“Goodnight, dear brother,” Elaine returned, not at all offended. She got up, patted his cheek affectionately, and made her unhurried way to the door. “Sweet dreams.”
Sweet dreams, forsooth.
Hands shoved in the pockets of his dressing gown, Gervase stalked down the passage to the library, built on a grand scale like everything else at Denforth. Somewhere in that massive collection must be some impenetrable, dry-as-dust tome on law or history to help induce the slumber that had eluded him for the last hour... thanks to Elaine, whose challenge about Margaret had essentially murdered sleep for the time being.
He bared his teeth in a silent snarl at the memory. All very well for his sister to talk—she and Alasdair had more or less picked each other out when they were twelve and fourteen, respectively. Quite the touching romance too: the lonely young Duke of Castlebrooke—who’d acceded to his title at the tender age of three—and Lady Elaine Lyons, who’d spied him watching her at play with her siblings and invited him to join them. Nothing had impeded their eventual march down the aisle—like an engagement or, worse, a marriage to someone else.
Still, Lainey had been right about one thing, he conceded grudgingly: time did fly. Tempus fugit. And moments had a way of slipping through one’s fingers, unless one had the perception... and the courage to grasp them. As he meant to—and would, when he deemed the moment was right.
Fortunately for his mood, the library was deserted, though the lamps were lit and a fire crackled on the hearth, still bright although its flames were beginning to subside. Gervase surveyed his surroundings from under lowered brows, absorbing the familiarity of it all. Contrary to what Elaine had said, he could almost believe that time had stood still since his last visit. Here were bookcases that reached nearly to the ceiling, their shelves accessible only by ladder. And the gallery—housing some of the rarer, more esoteric volumes—which one could reach by a short flight of stairs in the far corner of the room; he remembered spending hours there on rainy afternoons. An antique globe occupied another corner, and a marquetry table, on which reposed an elaborately carved ivory chess set, stood between a pair of padded leather armchairs to one side of the fireplace.
At first glance, a masculine sanctuary, like Sir Anthony’s library. Until one looked more closely and saw the feminine touches. The leather sofa ornamented with bright cushions. The soft afghan blankets that lay folded on the window seat. The vase of fresh flowers—white and bronze chrysanthemums, this time—on the alcove table. The bowl of floral potpourri on the mantel—which his mother must have started long ago. Closing his eyes, Gervase breathed in the mingled scents of roses, orris root, cinnamon, and bay... and felt the past catch him in its undertow.
Summer of 1882, the night of Elaine and Alasdair’s betrothal ball, and Denforth was crowded to the rafters with people—family, friends, and well-wishers—all eager to congratulate the young couple and celebrate with them. Gervase’s ears fairly rang from the chorus of benedictions, to say nothing of the noise from the ballroom. In tribute to the groom-to-be’s Scottish ancestry, a piper had been engaged for the occasion, and for much of the evening, the man had plied his trade with deafening enthusiasm, skirling tirelessly through countless jigs and reels. Withdrawing discreetly from the clamor, Gervase vowed never again to take the relative tranquility of a waltz for granted.
No one else was in the passage, so he made his way unimpeded towards the library. Pushing open the library door, he paused on the threshold when he saw it was already occupied... and by whom.
Margaret sat on the sofa, her ivory silk skirts crumpled around her, staring into the fire; Yorkshire nights could be chilly, even in the spring and summer. A cluster of white Roses of York in her hair, shining like stars against the heavy, chestnut waves that Gervase had so often imagined running his fingers through.
He regarded her somberly now, knowing how difficult the past year had been for her. The Duchess of Langdale had succumbed to a sudden illness just after Margaret’s first Season had ended. Tonight had marked her emergence from mourning, but grief had its own schedule, and he knew how much she still missed her mother. As did everyone who had known her. Gervase remembered the late duchess as unfailingly gracious and warm-hearted. Hers had been the soft glow of candlelight, not the fierce blaze of a bonfire, and her husband appeared to be lost without her. He’d attended the ball tonight, but an air of melancholy had hung about him—and about Margaret as well.
Perhaps he should leave. If she’d come here because she desired solitude...
Just then she looked up and saw him. “Gervase.” To his relief, her lips turned up in a smile—a small one, to be sure, but real enough.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked. “I can go, if you’d prefer to be alone.”
She shook her head. “That’s all right. I don’t mind a bit of company. Human company, that is,” she added, nodding towards a nearby armchair on which one of Denforth’s many cats was sleeping soundly.
Gervase smiled back and came further into the room. “I felt the need for a little peace and quiet,” he explained. “Especially once the piping started.”
This time her smile seemed more spontaneous, even amused. “Nothing if not vigorous, was he?”
“That’s one word for it,” he agreed with a mock shudder. “I know Alasdair’s Scottish, but I hope a piper doesn’t become a permanent fixture at Denforth. I’m not sure my eardrums could survive it!”
“Oh, I don’t think you need worry on that score,” she assured him. “To judge from her expression, your mother’s love of music doesn’t appear to extend to bagpipes!”
“She did look a touch strained,” Gervase remarked. “Especially during that—what was it called?—that raucous piece at the beginning?”
“A pibroch,” Margaret told him. “Elaine says this one is traditionally played to rally the clans to war. I can’t say I cared for it much myself, but I didn’t mind the pipes once the dancing started. They do add a certain something to the reels!”
He’d seen her dancing a reel with Reg, the pair of them moving with admirable grace and speed through the set. His own dance with her—a Lancers—had been much more sedate, even a little staid. He would have preferred a waltz or even a polka, but those were reserved for other men—like her fiancé. Apropos of which...
“So, is Hal anywhere about?” he inquired, trying to sound casual. He had seen them together earlier, partnered in the quadrille that opened the ball.
Her slim shoulders rose and fell in a light shrug. “I suppose. He’s probably gone off to the card room with some of his friends.”
Gervase opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. Typical Hal, abandoning his fiancée in the middle of a party. And Margaret had sounded cool, almost indifferent—which, he supposed, was preferable to sounding heartbroken or humiliated. Nonetheless, it was strange to hear her speak so dispassionately about Hal, when he remembered how starry-eyed she’d been on the night of their betrothal.
“She looked lovely, didn’t she?” Margaret went on, her expression turning oddly wistful. “Elaine. And Alasdair couldn’t take his eyes off her.”
“That’s nothing new. He’s wanted her from the moment she put her hair up and left the schoolroom. Possibly before then, when she coaxed him down from that tree seven years ago.”
“No one’s ever looked at me like that.” Her lips crimped. “Especially not Hal. I imagine he saves such attentions for his mistress.”
Damn it to hell. “Margaret—”
She shook her head. “Please, Gervase, don’t pretend you don’t know.”
He blew out a breath. “I didn’t. At least, not entirely,” he qualified at her skeptical glance. “One hears a good many things, and it’s not as if I’m in Hal’s confidence.”
She sighed, an infinitely weary sound. “Even if you were, it could hardly count as a betrayal when I already know the answer. I’ve heard that she’s a dancer at Covent Garden—could anything be more banal? Or obvious?”
“Hal’s not exactly known for originality.”
“True,” she agreed with a dreary little laugh that caught at his heart. Not as indifferent as she’d sounded, after all.
“Look, Margaret,” he began, feeling more awkward than he had since his schooldays, “It may mean nothing—”
“Perhaps. But I mean even less to him than that.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
Her eyes widened, whether at the epithet or the harsh note that had crept into his voice.
Gervase amended hastily, “Most young men about town are idiots. Trying to prove something, always. But he’ll tire of her soon enough, you’ll see.”
“And find someone else, I suppose. That’s usually how it works, isn’t it? And women are expected to turn a blind eye to everything, and carry on as if nothing were wrong. After all,” she continued, with saccharine sweetness, “we’re ‘ladies.’ We don’t make scenes. Or demands. We should be ever so grateful just to have a man’s ring on our finger.” She stretched out her left hand, ornamented with the Whitborough betrothal diamond, with a vicious simper, which dissolved a moment later into sadness and disillusionment. “No matter how many others there are... whom we’re not supposed to know about.”
Gervase swallowed, wanting nothing so much as to take her in his arms and comfort her. Or to knock some sense, literally, into his eldest brother. “Margaret—”
She gave a sharp sigh, spearing her hands through her hair and knocking the cluster of roses slightly askew. “I’ll be twenty this autumn, Gervase. Twenty! And Hal is no closer to naming a wedding date than he was at our betrothal. And that was nearly three years ago!”
“I know.” The memory was burned into him. The one and only time he’d drunk himself sick, though fortunately for his dignity, no one had witnessed that particular humiliation. And it had supposedly been an occasion for merriment: the betrothal of a duke’s eldest son and heir to another duke’s eldest daughter. So no one would have thought twice of someone overindulging—especially a younger son of the house, who might not be accustomed to strong drink.
Ha. As if his mother’s son didn’t know exactly how much he’d imbibed... and why. And wretched though he’d felt the next morning, he hadn’t completely regretted his debauch. It had been far easier to endure the occasion drunk than sober.
On impulse, he crossed over to the liquor cabinet, took out the port decanter, and poured them each a glass.
“Here.” He strode over to the sofa and offered Margaret one of the glasses. “This might put some heart in you.”
Too surprised to refuse, she accepted it, staring nonplussed into the deep red wine. “This isn’t sherry, is it? I’ve never been that fond of sherry.”
“It’s port,” he informed her, before tasting it and nodding his approval. “And one of our better ones. Try it.”
She gave him a dubious glance, but took a sip—properly, he noticed. Perhaps one of his sisters had taught her. Her face cleared as she took in the mingled flavors. “This is good,” she observed with pardonable surprise. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Gervase weighed the possibility of sitting down on the sofa beside her, and decided the arm was a more discreet choice. He perched there, studying her disconsolate face. Disconsolate, but not despairing. And perhaps more receptive to what he might say, the ideas taking shape in his mind.
They drank their wine in companionable silence for some minutes, then Gervase began, “You know... there’s no rule that says you have to sit tamely by, waiting for Hal to finish sowing his wild oats. Sauce for the goose, after all.”
Margaret glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes widening in something like alarm. “Are you suggesting that I sow some wild oats? Because I don’t know if I—”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you take up with a tenor, or your dancing master, or some such fellow,” he broke in. “You’ve more sense than that.” And the cost of such an indiscretion was too high for a lady, as they both knew. Which was unfair, but the way of the world in which they’d grown up. “I’d something else in mind. Something that might be more to your liking.”
She gave a small nod, inviting him to continue.
“We both know that Hal takes you for granted,” he resumed. “Because he thinks you’ll always be there, waiting for him. So stop waiting for him.”
“Stop waiting?” A tiny frown etched itself between her brows. “How do you mean?”
“Live your life, make it an interesting one—and I’ll wager anything you like that Hal will start to find you more interesting too. Like a cat,” he added, warming to his theme. “You can’t coax or cajole it, but ignore it, and it suddenly decides you’re fascinating, and that it wants to be your most intimate friend.”
She smiled then, a tentative but genuine thing. “Do you truly think that would work on your brother?”
“It stands as much chance as anything else does,” Gervase pointed out. “And whether it does or not, at least you’d have something to show for your time. You could travel, now that you’re out of mourning. Go to Paris or Italy...”
She looked tempted for a moment, then shook her head regretfully. “I couldn’t leave England, not while Papa’s still so lost without Mama.”
“Well, then, stay in England and go to university instead.”
She stared at him as though he’d just suggested that she run naked over the moors in the dead of winter. ”Me, at university?”
“Why not? History’s your passion. Go to university, and study it. Girton would admit you in a trice. Or there’s Oxford now. A college practically made for you,” he added provocatively. “Lady Margaret of Lady Margaret Hall.”
She made a little face at him. “Just for that, I’ll apply to Somerville.”
“Just as long as you do apply,” he countered. “Act quickly, and you could get in by Michaelmas. And you’d be close enough to come visit your father between terms. He was a scholar himself, so I should think he’d be pleased to have you follow in his footsteps.”
Margaret fretted her lip, visibly caught between the familiar existence that was all she’d known and the lure of one she’d never imagined for herself. “You liked being at Oxford, didn’t you?”
“Enormously,” he confessed with a smile. “I’ve seldom worked or studied harder in my life, but it was worth every minute. And I met some remarkable people, encountered some brilliant minds, even made a few lifelong friends. Above all, I felt challenged there... fulfilled. And I think you will too, if you decide to go.”
She exhaled, a flush mounting to the crest of her cheeks. “Papa once said something similar. That he felt as though he’d found his truest self at Oxford, among all the knowledge of the ages.”
Gervase spread his hands. “Well, then, what better testimonial could you have? And why not permit yourself the same opportunity, now that they’re admitting women?”
She put her hands up to her cheeks. “But Gervase, what could I say—or do, to contribute to all that? What should I study? I haven’t written an essay since leaving the schoolroom!”
“I suspect it’ll all come back to you once you’ve started. And as for what you study, I’d say that was obvious. Convince me and the rest of the world of Crouchback’s innocence.” He used the epithet deliberately, knowing it would galvanize her. And sure enough, her velvety eyes took on a familiar, almost militant spark, her chin a defiant tilt.
“I believe I will. I will,” she repeated with new resolve. Unexpectedly, a mischievous smile played about her lips. “And if I manage to convince you, then the rest of the world should be child’s play!”
“That’s the spirit!” Gervase lifted his glass of port. “To your brilliant Oxford career, Lady Margaret!”
“To my brilliant career!” she echoed, reaching up to touch her glass to his.
They downed the last of the port and set their glasses aside. And in the silence, the mantel clock chimed midnight. Always midnight... the hour when enchantment was destined to end.
Margaret gave a guilty start. “I really should go back to the ballroom. I hadn’t meant to stay away so long.” She rose from the sofa, shaking out her skirts and smoothing her hair. “Are you coming?”
“Presently,” he said, watching as she attempted to set herself to rights. “I thought I’d take a few more minutes, let my ears stop ringing...”
That earned him a light laugh. “I’ll see you by and by, then. And Gervase?” She paused unexpectedly, within inches of him, her eyes intent on his.
He raised a questioning brow.
“Thank you. For listening, and for... everything else.” She studied him with that sweet gravity that always set an ache just below where his heart was supposed to be. Then she stooped, and brushed her lips against his cheek. A fleeting kiss, as light as the brush of a butterfly’s wings, that he felt all the way down to his bones.
Ah, Margaret...
Then she was gone, the heavy silk of her gown sighing in her wake, the door closing behind her almost soundlessly.
The library felt cold without her, although the fire was still burning. And almost unnaturally quiet. The ticking of the clock, the crackling of the flames, even the faint snoring of the still-slumbering cat had never sounded louder by contrast.
One of the roses had fallen from her hair, and he picked it up, mindful of its delicate petals. The fragrance wafted up to him, like the ghost of summers past, and he breathed it in, as he’d longed to breathe her in.
My Rose of York.
Except she wasn’t. And never could be. Someday, she’d wear roses again—probably when she walked down the aisle to his undeserving ass of a brother.
Mouth twisting, he walked over to the mantel and dropped the petals one by one into his mother’s potpourri bowl.
Waste not, want not...
“Gervase.”
The sound of his name pulled him back into the present, and he surfaced with a start. His father was standing in the doorway, the lamplight bright upon his tawny hair, his expression quizzical. “Good God, boy, I thought for a moment that you’d gone deaf!” he remarked. “I must have called you at least three times. Nothing wrong, I trust?”
“Not at all.” Gervase wondered fleetingly just what sort of response he’d have received if he had actually confessed his current thoughts. But he and the duke had seldom shared such confidences. “I just came down for a book—to help me sleep.”
“Ah.” Hands in his trousers pockets, Whitborough rocked back and forth on his heels, which usually indicated some abstraction on his part. “Well, as it happens, I’m glad that you did. Would you believe me if I told you that you were the very man I wanted to see?”
Gervase hesitated, then inquired with a faint smile, “Would you prefer a tactful answer, sir, or an honest one?”
The duke stared at him with those bright blue eyes, and then broke into a huge grin. “Very clever, my boy—though you were always that! But I’ll have you know, I speak nothing less than the truth,” he insisted. “There are some things I wish to discuss with you—over a nightcap, and perhaps a game of chess as well?”
Chess—and strategy. Gervase knew his father well enough to read between the lines. Nonetheless, the invitation piqued his curiosity; he could not recall the last time the duke had singled him out like this. When he’d come down from Oxford—and the predicted row over his chosen profession had materialized? In any event, something was clearly afoot, and he could not deny wanting to know what it was, especially after that scene he’d witnessed in the dining room.
“Very well,” he agreed. “As I haven’t yet found a suitable book, perhaps a drink and a game will relax me.” Matches against his father tended to end in a stalemate, if they were both playing at the top of their form.
Entering the library, the duke made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. “Well, then, I’ve an excellent cognac on hand—a Courvoisier that even your mother would approve of—unless you’d prefer whiskey?”
“Cognac will be fine.” Gervase had always found whiskey too raw for a nightcap.
“I’ll have the same.” Taking out the crystal decanter, Whitborough poured a small measure of brandy into two snifters and handed one to Gervase, then led the way towards the two armchairs with the chessboard set between them.
“Black or white?” he inquired, gesturing at the pieces.
“Black, thank you.” White supposedly had the first move advantage, but when dealing with his father, Gervase felt he needed all the advance warning he could get.
They seated themselves behind their chosen chessmen and contemplated the board. Gervase cradled the bowl of his snifter, letting the warmth of his hand warm the aromatic liquor within, and watched his father intently. But the duke seemed in no hurry to commence play; instead, he swirled the brandy about in his own glass, took a leisurely sip.
“So,” he remarked at last, “I understand your career is going well.”
“Yes, very.” Gervase sipped at his own cognac, letting himself taste it fully. Yes, the duchess would definitely have approved.
“No regrets or second thoughts?” Whitborough’s tone sounded just a little too casual.
“None at all.” Studying his father over the rim of his glass, Gervase ventured a small smile. “I would have made a terrible clergyman, sir.”
“Well... you may be right,” Whitborough said, after a moment, with the air of one making a major concession. “And I did find a worthy man to occupy that living—eventually.”
“Then, all’s well that ends well, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps.” The duke picked up a pawn, turning it over and over in his long fingers. “In any event, I can’t deny that your chosen calling may prove fortuitous.”
Gervase raised an inquiring brow. “Sir?”
His father leaned forward in his chair, still idly toying with the pawn. “I have a proposition for you, my boy. I find myself in urgent need of a solicitor.”
“A solicitor?” Gervase echoed, nonplussed. “Why not use Adeney and Briggs, as you’ve always done?”
“Adeney and Briggs have served this family faithfully for years,” Whitborough agreed. “I have no fault to find with their efforts, when it comes to the usual matters. But for what I have in mind this time, I require someone a bit more—audacious. Someone who’s tenacious, brilliant... and ruthless. Which I rather think fits you to a T.”
Only in his family would being described as “ruthless” count as praise, Gervase reflected. “Merci du compliment, mon pere,” he said lightly, raising his glass in an ironic toast. “What is it, precisely, that you have in mind?”
The duke leaned back, glanced at the chessboard, and set his pawn down two squares ahead of its previous location. “I wish to know what is involved in breaking the entail.”
“The entail?” Gervase paused with his hand poised over his own chessmen, unsure whether he’d heard correctly. “On Denforth?”
“Denforth and the other properties attached to the dukedom,” his father confirmed.
Gervase exhaled and reached for his snifter, distantly relieved to see that his hand was still steady. “Has this family fallen into debt, sir? A failed business enterprise, perhaps?”
“Good Lord, no—nothing like that!” The duke sounded genuinely surprised. “No, no, we’re doing quite well financially. I’d another reason for asking.” He paused, then resumed with a nonchalance Gervase could not fail to find suspect, “You’re no doubt aware that the Lyons wealth stems from many sources, most of which were bound over the years by my grandfather, my father, and myself into the maintenance of Denforth and other landed properties. A veritable Gordian knot, as it were. I wish to learn what it would take to sever that knot, to separate the monetary wealth from the land, the land from the title, and how it might be accomplished.”
“I can tell you straight off that it would take a great deal—in time, effort, and money,” Gervase retorted, advancing one of his own pawns in turn. “And there would be no guarantee of success. For one thing you would need the cooperation of your heir in order to change the terms of the entail. Should you undertake to strip all the wealth and all the property from the title—”
“Then I would essentially make a cardboard duke of my successor,” his father returned smoothly, capturing Gervase’s pawn on the diagonal.
Reg, a figurehead... with none of the resources to support his new position, Gervase realized. His brother wouldn’t stand for that—and neither would their mother. There was no need to say as much; instead, he lifted an eyebrow and waited. “And then?”
“I am not an unreasonable man,” Whitborough continued, steepling his fingers and stretching his legs out in an assumption of ease that belied the tension Gervase could sense in him. “And if certain conditions are met, matters need not come to such a pass. Should my heir accept his responsibilities and fulfill his duty to the family, I see no reason why the estate and its wealth should not remain intact for the next two generations at least. However,” steel crept into his voice now, “I require some assurance that there will actually be generations to inherit what I have striven to preserve.”
“In a nutshell, you want Reg to marry Alicia, give up the regiment, and stay in England to breed up the next litter of Lyons cubs,” Gervase summed up. As Hal, in his prolonged and frivolous bachelorhood, had neglected to do.
“Rather baldly put, but not inaccurate.”
“Might I remind you that you have other sons who might inherit or provide future heirs, should Reg not fulfill his dynastic duty?” Gervase asked in his dryest, most lawyerly tone.
The duke’s brows lanced together in a dissatisfied frown. “It will be years before Jason is ready to marry and start a family.”
Jason. Of course. Overlooked, once again. Good thing he was used to it, Gervase reflected mordantly, but he couldn’t deny that it still stung... if less than it might have, ten years ago. He dropped his gaze to the chessboard and moved his queen’s pawn, forcing back the unwelcome and all too familiar emotions.
“And you’re not engaged either,” Whitborough added a little too quickly, as if just realizing his faux pas. “Unless there’s something you haven’t told us—”
“No,” Gervase broke in. He wasn’t about to confide his hopes about Margaret to his father—or anyone else, for that matter. “I am, as you see, presently unattached.”
“So, then, you understand why I have pinned my hopes on Reg—and Alicia.” The duke continued his diagonal advance up the board, taking Gervase’s second pawn. “I understand that I won’t live forever. But before my time comes, I mean to dandle at least one Lyons grandson on my knee and know that the future is assured.”
“How very affecting.” Gervase savored the last of his cognac, then moved his bishop, experiencing an admittedly childish sense of satisfaction at capturing his father’s encroaching pawn. “And you believe I can supply you with the means to force Reg’s hand.”
His father’s eyes held a limpid innocence that would have fooled anyone except another Lyons. “Well, can you?”
“A more pertinent question to ask might be ‘will you?’ or even ‘would you?’” Gervase retorted. “Reg said at dinner that he wasn’t going to be your lapdog. I have some sympathy with that point of view. And by that same token, I should like to add that I am not one of those pieces of ivory you’re moving about the board.”
“Are you not?” His Grace inquired provocatively.
Gervase met his gaze full on. “I consider myself a player in the game, sir. Would you not be disappointed in me otherwise?”
“Hmm.” The duke’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You have, I suspect, the best brain among my sons. Perhaps I have not appreciated that quality as fully as I might have, but I am prepared to recognize that now.”
Gervase widened his eyes. “Praise from you, Father—after almost thirty years? Good Lord, what next—pigs sprouting wings and taking to the sky? I’ll be sure to look for them in the treetops tomorrow morning.”
“You may have your little joke, boy. I’ll concede you might even be entitled to it. But that doesn’t answer my question.” Whitborough’s gaze, searing in its intensity, bored into his. “I need you to find examples, find precedents, of entails being successfully broken, and present to me a detailed report of the results.”
Gervase steepled his own fingers in deliberate mimicry of his father’s position. “And what would my incentive to do this be, Father?” He kept his tone level, almost pleasant. “Reg will be the next duke, whether the entail stands or not. And I need not remind you that he would fight you tooth and nail to keep his inheritance intact. Meanwhile, Jason appears to have succeeded Hal as your particular favorite, and it’s clear that you mean to provide lavishly for him. Recognizing those realities, I have elected to lead my own life and make my own fortune—a course that has afforded me considerable satisfaction and even more considerable freedom.”
“I can add to that fortune, Gervase,” Whitborough promised. “You would be handsomely recompensed for your efforts. Consider it employment, if you like. And I may have something else you’d find to your liking.”
Gervase raised his brows and waited. This should be good.
“I recently acquired a property in Warwickshire,” the duke continued. “Quite a nice one, and in good order. No bad drains, no crumbling walls, and the roof has been repaired recently and is guaranteed not to leak. You could have your own country home, and the rents would surely be a welcome addition to your assets.”
“Land isn’t worth as much as it used to be,” Gervase reminded him. “Owing to the agricultural depression.” Of which his father was well aware; indeed, that was among the reasons he had his finger in so many pies. The duke was nothing if not long-sighted. “And the dukedom notwithstanding, I can’t say I seriously entertained fantasies of being lord of the manor. My life is in London.”
“Very well. You could let it, if you choose not to live in it—perhaps to a rich American. As Langdale claims he wishes to do—with a certain property.”
“So that’s his plan for Moorhaven?”
“So he would have me think. Unfortunately for him, I happen not to believe him.” A touch absently, the duke moved his rook pawn up a square. “Moorhaven happens to have... a great deal more to offer than meets the eye. And I’d be willing to share what it has to offer.”
“Buried treasure on the grounds, perhaps?” Gervase suggested with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow. “No... a diamond mine!”
“Lead, actually,” the duke corrected. “Possibly silver as well, as the two are often found together. Moorhaven is located near the Wharfedale Valley. You may recall that there were a number of Roman workings in that area. A few months ago, I received information suggesting that one such mine is located on Moorhaven land. Langdale has apparently been apprised of the same possibility, which is why he’s so eager to retain possession of the property. And why,” again his voice hardened, his blue eyes sharpening, “after nearly ten years of maintaining it at Whitborough’s expense, I am not about to hand it over to him without a fight.”
Gervase digested this in stunned silence. “My God, you’re serious.”
“Never more so,” his father assured him. “I imagine I’ll have to share ownership of the mine with Langdale—unless I succeed in buying him out. But in any case, I’m prepared to offer you half of my own half of what we find.”
“You’re offering me shares in a hole in the ground. A hypothetical hole in the ground.”
“There won’t be anything hypothetical about the profits,” the duke pointed out. “Half of half is a good twenty-five percent. Plus the Warwickshire property I mentioned, as well as your commission. You will not find me ungenerous, I think.”
“It has never been your generosity that I questioned, sir.” Merely the strings his father invariably attached to his promised largesse.
“So, will you take it on?”
“I would like to take some time to think about it, before giving you my answer.” Gervase surveyed the chessboard for a moment, looked again more closely to confirm what he was seeing, then made his move. “Checkmate.”
Whitborough’s eyes flared wide as he stared down at the unimpeded path between Gervase’s bishop and his king. “How did you—?”
“It helps to avoid distraction—and not lose sight of one’s main objective,” Gervase advised, assuming an expression of bland benevolence. He pushed back his chair and rose—steadily, he was pleased to note, despite the cognac. “Goodnight, Father.”