Leaving Mr. Berry with a raft of instructions, John returned to Trewbridge the following afternoon.
And stepped into trouble.
Spencer had arrived. A very angry Spencer.
The first words John heard were, “I had no idea you were going to decimate my inheritance to this extent, Mother. What’s this I hear about you gifting properties to both Edward and John?”
But their mother had never taken Spencer’s bullying meekly. “Where did you get that information, Spencer? Was it from the footman you planted here as a spy?”
John stepped into the withdrawing-room at the same time as Spencer opened his mouth to reply. “Hullo, Mama. I’m back. Spence! Good to see you.”
His irony was not lost on his older brother. “Is it?” he snarled.
Damn Spencer. How could a man who was going to have so much, begrudge his brothers their tilt at happiness? Was it because it made them independent of him?
John wondered if Spencer would answer his mother’s question, but Spencer just raised a supercilious eyebrow.
“Our life here is an open book. If you took an interest in Trewbridge you would know that, my son,” the marchioness said with asperity. “Your footman friend will be dismissed forthwith. I will keep no disloyal servants in my house.” And she swept from the room, her head held high.
Spencer swung around on John. “How long have you known about Mother’s largesse, little brother?”
“About as long as you have.” John looked closely at Spencer. His brother did not look well. Spencer’s eyes were not quite focused and he had lost a lot of weight since John had seen him last.
Unheard by both of them, Edward walked into the room. “Why are you coming the ugly, Spencer? You will have all of Trewbridge and Malloch at your disposal one day, yet you begrudge us our little estates. What a worm you are.”
John stared. He had never heard placid, easy-going Edward use that tone with anyone before. Least of all with a member of his family.
“How dare you take that tone with me?” Spencer hissed. He twisted like a snake, ready to strike at Edward. John lunged behind Spencer and grabbed his arms. Edward had not glimpsed the stiletto blade that Spencer had flicked down from inside his cuff.
John’s wound throbbed with the effort of keeping hold of Spencer but he dared not let him go. What the hell was wrong with his brother? “Put that thing away, Spence.”
“You’re giving me orders now? I don’t think so. What will you do if I don’t put it away? You can’t stop me. I heard you were injured.”
Spencer had never been a choirboy, but to draw steel upon their young brother in the family home smacked of worse than sheer bad temper. It was downright irrational. John tightened his grip and Spencer stilled. He assumed an air of amusement as if the whole thing was a joke. The tension sloughed off him like a castaway cloak.
He’d always done that, John thought. In spite of his sour irritability, Spencer was lily-livered.
John reached around and snagged the stiletto out of Spencer’s lax fingers, nicking himself in the process. Better his finger than Edward’s face. “I’ll return this to you when you leave.”
“Which will be right now. I’ve had my fill of such a sanctimonious pair. And I still say Mother had no right to give you part of my heritage.”
“It isn’t your heritage,” John enunciated. “It belonged to Mama as part of her dowry and was intended for any daughters she might have. It is not part of the entail and has nothing to do with Trewbridge or Malloch.”
“Blasted women should never own property.”
“Why not? Mama has managed hers well for many years.”
“Yes—managed. Somebody else has done the real work. Females are useless on estates.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” John grinned suddenly. “I know of one young lady who even helps with the lambing.”
“Oh, a farmer’s daughter. That’s different,” Spencer said contemptuously.
“Really? I seem to remember a farmer’s daughter featured in your life at one stage. Her father came to see me.” John had heard about the affair from Ottley and tried to pre-empt the girl’s father from approaching the marquess. His daughter was pregnant and Spencer denied all responsibility. He had refused to pay either for the young woman’s support or for the support of his baby. John had had to dig deep in his pockets to placate the father. He knew he would have been angry too, if he’d had a daughter who had been seduced by one such as Spencer.
“She was hardly a snow-white virgin.”
“So? ‘Tis your child she brought into the world. You are responsible for it.”
“So she said.” Spencer gave a sardonic laugh and twitched himself free of John’s slackened hold just as their father hurried into the room.
The marquess snapped the door shut behind him. “What the devil is going on? Your voices can be heard all over the house.”
John was still holding the stiletto blade and his father’s eyes fastened on it. “I wouldn’t have thought that was your weapon of choice, John.”
“It’s not.”
“Ah...Spencer,” the marquess said, his tone mild and thoughtful.
Spencer regarded his father with contempt.
“Would you come into my study for a moment?”
Spencer glared. “Say what you have to say now, you old fool, and get it over with. I am leaving.”
John drew in his breath and moved closer to Edward. He could feel Edward trembling with suppressed rage.
His voice clipped and biting, their father ground out words John had never thought to hear. “You are no longer welcome at Trewbridge. This should not much concern you, since I understand from Lord Yarborough that you like to describe Trewbridge as ‘that blood-sucking pile.’”
“No loss,” Spencer retorted.
Then the sneer on his face changed to incredulity as the marquess added, “And I will inform our bankers that they are not to extend you unlimited credit, or else, at the rate you are going, there will be nothing left in the Trewbridge coffers for you to inherit.”
There was an aghast silence. For one second Spencer stood stock still, unbelieving, while his cold, blue eyes filled with a conflagration so fierce that John fancied they might all be scorched. Then his caped greatcoat billowed out behind him as he swung on his heel and left the room. They heard his unsteady footfalls receding down the hallway to the foyer.
Nobody spoke.
The marquess sank into a chair, his head in his hands.
Edward stood helplessly by, his eyes pleading with John to do something—anything.
As John crossed the room to his father’s side they heard Spencer’s furious voice calling for Twoomey to order his carriage. John moved to call Spencer back, but his father rose. “No.” He stared at the stiletto still dangling from John’s fingers. “Get rid of that thing, John.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Edward?”
“Yes, Father?”
“If you go up to London at half-term break, keep out of Spencer’s way, do you hear?”
“But he is my brother.”
“Yes, and he would have injured you without compunction.”
The marchioness rushed into the room and went straight to her husband. “Have you...?”
The marquess nodded.
“Oh dear,” Lady Trewbridge said, sighing. Then she touched her husband on the arm. “It had to be done, my dear. Do not fret.”
Her advice lightened the heaviness in the room. Edward and John glanced at each other. That was the marchioness’s favourite phrase. When they were children she had always told them: “dinna fret.”
The marchioness faced her husband. “It is harsh, my dear, but it is for his own good. Although he will not thank us now, he may thank us one day in the future,” she said.
“I shouldn’t think so,” the marquess said wearily, leaning against the mantelpiece.
No. John didn’t think so either. “Have you...been considering this for some time, sir?” he asked.
His father nodded.
No wonder Father looked as if he carried the worries of the whole world on his shoulders. He must have been dreading this interview.
Twoomey tapped and entered. He addressed John. “Sir, Captain Hetherington has arrived.”
John felt his spirits lift. “Famous! Thank you, Twoomey. I shall be there directly.” He looked at his father and spread his hands. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a terrible time of it, sir. I—”
The marquess sighed. “Lord, I’m glad it’s over. One of the worst things I’ve ever had to do.” He tried to smile. “Go and meet your friend.”
****
“What a pittance you fellows earn!” the marquess exclaimed over dinner when John and Colly informed him they were on half-pay until recalled.
“It could be worse,” John said, conscious of a cautious feeling of wellbeing that had nothing to do with the likelihood of being recalled, but had everything to do with the Corrigan estate.
“Many people think that army life is full of glory and intrigue,” the marchioness commented.
Colly’s eyes met John’s and they laughed. “Deprivation, hard work and appalling weather is about the sum of it, my lady,” Colly said, grinning. He laid his hands upwards on the dinner table. “Our calluses were earned honestly.”
The marchioness leaned towards John and turned one of his palms upwards. “I noticed your calluses, John. It looks as though you were not idle in Spain.”
Colly was astounded. “Idle! Your ladyship—please! If it weren’t for your son, many lives would be forfeit. Riding back and forth as he does between outposts and pickets and then returning to report, and once even leading the charge—heavens! John certainly was not idle.”
The marquess raised his head. “I would hear more of what my son has been doing, Colly.”
“I have done no more than anyone else,” John said.
“Yes you have. You are downright impulsive at times, John, and you know it.”
“If he cannot sell out before you are called back, we must rely on you to tame him a trifle, Colly,” the marchioness said.
John interrupted his mother. “Mama, do not put such a damnable responsibility on to poor Colly. I have just been the recipient of such a charge, and I would do much to be rid of it.”
The marquess looked askance.
“The Ninians,” John explained. “Andrew Ninian asked me to find someone to keep a watching brief over his family when he is gone. The poor fellow has an incurable disease. I didn’t know what to say when he pointed out that his wife needs a firm hand on the reins.”
The marquess’s brows rose. “Is there no male heir?”
“No. When his father was stripped of his possessions, Andrew Ninian remarried and purchased a new estate in the hopes of creating his own dynasty. But without any male relatives, the irony is that the property will most likely revert to the Crown. He would have done better to remain in Scotland, especially since here his daughters are considered to be illegitimate under English law.” John frowned. “In the meantime I have to find someone to advise the widow and daughters. I wish they’d go to Scotland, but Mrs. Ninian has her heart set on bringing the girls out in London. I wonder if she realizes that the death of Mr. Ninian will put a blight on those plans.”
“It is a very onerous and unfair charge to put upon you, John,” the marchioness interposed angrily.
“It is, Mama. So don’t you hint to poor old Colly that he has to wet-nurse me when we return to Spain, thank you.”
“Point taken,” the marchioness murmured, smiling at Colly.
Colly grinned, looking fascinated at all the give and take.
“With a bit of luck,” John said, “Mrs. Ninian may have some relatives residing in London. It’s Marguerite Ninian I’m worried about. She’s being sent to Norwich to be an unpaid drudge for Mrs. Ninian’s sister.”
“Oh no!” the marchioness exclaimed. “That will never do. The poor young woman! I wonder if the sister is like Amy Ninian.”
“Marguerite looked sick about the prospect,” John said, helping himself from a dish of collops. “I don’t suppose one of your cronies needs a companion, Mama?”
There was a short silence. “None that I can think of,” the marchioness replied at last. “I have a better idea. Perhaps Marguerite would like to be my assistant. I don’t want a companion—I’d hate to have someone at my beck and call, forever hovering—but I do need a secretary. I need someone to keep track of my obligations and appointments and to liaise with the household staff. I wonder what her penmanship is like?”
John thought of his mother’s neat, precise handwriting and grimaced. “I doubt much money has been spent on Marguerite’s education, but it is possible her father schooled her a little. In a haphazard fashion he seems to have tried to make up for his wife’s neglect.” John chewed thoughtfully, turning the idea over in his mind. He turned to his father. “What do you think, sir?”
“I think it is a fine idea,” the marquess replied. “I have been trying for years to get your mother to slow down. If Miss Ninian wishes to come here and help us out, she will be most welcome. I’ve only met her once, but I liked her.”
John tried to envisage Marguerite at Trewbridge. So long as she kept away from the sheep pastures, all would be well.
Well, he had done his best. Now he must leave it up to his mother.