Major August Kellborn, late of his Majesty’s army, beat back an impulse to seize young Sir Westcott Twisden by the neckcloth and shake him.
He’d had long experience beating back that sort of urge with the young nodcocks he’d shaped into officers. He could do so now as well.
Gus paced to the window and looked out a sparkling clean pane onto the narrow street. Their traveling chaise wasn’t visible, but Sir Sancho stood unaccompanied, busily watering a lamppost.
Gus had been in his cups the day he’d met Twisden at a horse market in Brampton, else he wouldn’t have allowed the young pup the informality of his first name, respectable though Wes was. The malaise of his first long winter’s sojourn at Whitlaw Grange, his new estate near what was once the Debatable Land, had made him more sociable than was his wont.
Still, he’d found the friendly lad more sensible than most his age, and the family connection had intrigued him. His late mother had written frequently about the Twisdens, the jovial late baronet and his amiable wife. He knew of their mutual ancestor, Sir Ebenezer Twisden as well, and so, he’d jumped at the chance to visit Twisden Hall. His very resemblance to the old warrior was astonishing, and Gus had been impressed with the well-run estate. Much of it the late baronet’s sensible widow’s doing, Gus’s valet had learned.
And so, when Wes proposed visiting his stepmother and attending the York races and then sweetened the deal with the notion of a marriage mart—it had been a very long, lonely winter—Gus agreed to this sojourn in York.
He turned back to his young erstwhile host. “Practically doddering, you said.”
Wes looked up from pouring spirits from a flask into a tumbler. “What?” His blue-eyed innocence was genuine. Wes saw his stepmother as an ancient, when she could scarcely be much beyond thirty. He ought to have paid more attention to his mother’s descriptions of the Twisdens.
“I cannot stay under your stepmother’s roof, Wes.”
“Whyever not?”
“She is not by any means doddering. She’s a widow, and one young enough that even with you here some of the time…” Wes had planned to depart for several days to visit his Grandmother in Harrogate. “The presence of a single man in her household might stir gossip.”
“She’s three and thirty and is known to be very proper. Plus…” He glanced back at the closed door and lowered his voice. “Though she’s clever and good, she’s plain.”
Gus gazed back at the now empty street. Perhaps plain was the right word to describe each of Lady Twisden’s entirely unremarkable features. But taken as a whole, he would call her appearance amiable, moving, and in fact… pretty. The spark in her eyes when she spotted him, the color rising in her cheeks, those had stirred him as well.
Behind him the door opened, and nails pattered across the plank flooring and then hushed when they hit the carpet. Sir Sancho plopped at his feet.
“Took the liberty of letting himself in.” Rompole, Gus’s former batman and now valet stood in the doorway. “Tired of waiting on the footman. Ye did say yer ma wouldn’t mind the mutt, Sir Wes.”
Gus bent and patted the head of the brindled terrier. “Old boy, you and I will be finding an inn. Let us hope they’ll allow us to share a room there.”
“Nonsense,” Wes said. “Why, at home, we had dogs in every room.”
The door rattled and Lady Twisden poked in carrying a tray. A sturdily built woman of middling age sporting an apron and a bruised eye appeared behind her, equally laden.
To his credit, Wes jumped up, took the tray from his mother, and carried it to the large table near the other window. Rompole offered his assistance to the puckered-up servant who scowled through her fading bruise and ignored him.
Lady Twisden turned from directing the trays and her gaze settled on Gus’s boots. Or rather, on Sir Sancho, who sat squirming and attempting to wag the tail he was sitting on.
“A dog.” The words floated out on a low breath that might have been a sigh of relief but was more likely a squelched growl.
“Meet Sir Sancho, Mother.” Wes made introductions, blissfully unaware of the lady’s reaction. “Gus’s Spanish terrier. He’s learned English now though, haven’t you Sir Sancho. Attached himself to my cousin and came all the way from Spain. I say, Mother, do you plan to pour?”
She ignored him, piercing the dog with a look that was anything but amiable. Lady Twisden had depths.
For his part, Sancho appeared smitten. He faced the lady, dancing from one forefoot to the other, his rump bouncing on his wriggling tail.
Gus swallowed a chuckle. The loyal dog had never displayed such ardent discomposure before, not even when tempted by food. And now he would play the faithless cur. “He wishes to greet you, my lady.”
She blinked and leveled a prim look at both master and beast. “After which he may go out to the garden. Come, Sancho.”
When she extended her hand, the dog—his dog—trotted over to her, sat, and lifted a paw. She took it and shook, and Sancho licked her hand.
Rompole let out a breath through his teeth and muttered, “Well I’ll be.”
“Oh-ho,” Wes said. “Well-mannered, isn’t he, Mother? Go ahead and get to know him while I pour. You won’t want to send him to the stable after you’ve made his proper acquaintance.”
“I don’t have a stable,” the lady said.
Wes froze with the teapot in hand and frowned. “Dash it all, no you don’t. We’ll have to find a place for our horses, Gus.” He turned on the other woman. “You, ma’am, could you send one of the footmen—”
“This is my housekeeper, Mrs. Dunscombe,” Lady Twisden said, releasing Sancho’s paw. “And I don’t employ a footman, Wes.”
Gus signaled his valet. “My man, Rompole, here, will accompany Sancho to the garden. And then I will take both horses along and see to their stabling. We’ll find an inn to accommodate all of us.”
* * *
Honoria let out a sigh of relief. Major Ebenezer was an insightful gentleman. As was his dog, so far, though the animal was making no effort to leave with the servant.
“What? No, Cousin,” Wes cried. “You don’t mean to go to an inn when you could reside here in comfort with family. We’ve come for the races, Mother, and for a bit of society. You wrote, did you not, that your niece is here with a houseful of marriageable daughters.” He winked at her. “Gus is an eligible bachelor, you know.”
“As are you, dear one.” She winked back at him. “I fear, though, that you both might find an inn more comfortable than the home of a widow with only a few servants.”
“Hire more.” Wes waved his hand and then handed the Major a sloshing cup.
She intercepted the cup and returned it. “Sit down, Wes. I will take over the pouring. Major?”
“Milk only, my lady, and thank you.” With the slightest of smiles he accepted the fresh cup and a plate with a slice of seedy cake—still warm from the oven as it was the dessert for the evening’s meal, hastily coopted for these unexpected guests.
His lips had quirked like that when the dog sought her out, a flash of humor that made her wonder if he’d trained his terrier to beguile reluctant ladies. Sir Melton would have loved such a trick if he’d bothered to train his slobbery hounds to do anything else but track scent.
When she took her seat, the dog settled down at her feet, remarkably well-behaved and seemingly not at all interested in her plate. Sir Melton’s hounds would have been atop the table by now, lapping up everything except the hot tea. Perhaps Spanish terriers were better bred than their English cousins, or else the vicissitudes of war had taught the dog manners.
“I’ll go to the agency myself and find you some footmen,” Wes said.
She carefully sipped, holding back her first instinct to scold. Wes was a man, and she must treat him as such, especially in front of an older cousin he admired.
Before she could form a response, the major stood. “Please excuse me, but I can’t keep the postilion waiting. Rompole will fetch your trunk into the house, Wes, and we’ll be on our way.”
The servant, who like Dunscombe was somehow still in the parlor with them, shuffled his feet like the dog had done earlier. “Er, Major, I already carried in both trunks. Untied the horses and found a boy to watch them. Chaise has gone off to the posting inn. The lad said he couldn’t wait.”
“There. You see, Mother? Rompole has settled everything for us.” Wes flung out a hand and the crumble of cake he was holding flew toward the window.
The terrier alerted and shot after it.
So, Spanish terriers were not so decorous. Only a bit better behaved than Sir Melton’s—
A loud squeak from the corner preceded a vigorous shaking. Sancho returned, dropped a bundle of fur near her toes and ran off again.
Her blood surged and drained, and she heard a squeal—her own—and a startled huff and found Mrs. Dunscombe peering over her shoulder. Sancho shook violently and returned twice more. Three fat mice lay at her feet, not even twitching.
“Better’n a cat,” Mrs. Dunscombe whispered. “I’ll get the shovel.”
“Rompole will see to the, er, removal,” the major said. “Apologies, my lady. Sancho is a fierce ratter. I fear I haven’t been able to train him to restrain his natural instincts.”
Honoria looked at the pile of dead rodents then nodded to Dunscombe. “Ask Meg to ready the first-floor bedchamber for Sir Westcott and the front bedchamber on the second floor for Major Kellborn.” She broke off a piece of biscuit and let Sancho nibble it from her hand. “Well done, Sir Sancho. Well done, indeed.”
“You won’t regret the company, Mother.”
Wes had joined her in the parlor for a much-needed talk before Major Kellborn came down for dinner. Outside, the sounds of horses clopping and wheels clattering signaled a busy time of day in this neighborhood of tradesmen and professional men.
All at his leisure, Wes leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “And we have Sir Sancho to thank for convincing Gus to stay.”
The thought of the dog had her shaking her head and chuckling. That wee bit of fur had been resolute, sitting like a statue at her feet and refusing to heed his master’s call. To his credit, Major Kellborn had taken the betrayal in stride. Accepting the dog’s fickleness with good grace, he’d turned his back on Sir Sancho and followed Wes and his valet upstairs. Once the major left, Sir Sancho rose immediately at Honoria’s command and allowed her to escort him to the kitchen. Upon his arrival there, he’d headed straight for the larder and gone to work at once, forestalling any objections by Cook. In fact, he’d won her over so completely that she barely fussed at the necessary menu changes and extra mouths to feed.
After, Honoria had retired to her own bedchamber to change for dinner and bend Bixby’s patient ear fretting over stretching the budget. There’d been room in her budget—just barely—to help Patience with funds for the fête she was hosting at Smithfield’s Assembly Rooms on the twenty-second of the month. The proposed ball was, after all, a noble endeavor, meant to help each of the young Bigglesworth ladies find a worthy husband. Why, even Patience, who was lovely and such a young widow, only two and twenty, might marry again.
The Bigglesworth stepdaughters ranged in age from thirty to Patience’s only daughter by Seahaven, her three-year-old. There were five—or perhaps six—of an age to marry. Patience’s greatest hopes were for a stepdaughter, aged nineteen, and a set of eighteen-year-old twins who all had been deemed diamonds of the first water.
Poor Patience! What a responsibility. The arrangement of Honoria’s marriage to Sir Melton had been a near thing, given the puny size of her dowry. At eighteen, she hadn’t been quite desperate to marry, but with her parents’ health failing and her sister’s disgrace, a practical marriage had seemed prudent. She would have wished for love, though.
It was too late for Honoria, but the Bigglesworth girls ought to have a chance at more than practicality. Perhaps one of the young ladies would be a good match for Major Kellborn or even Wes. Though Honoria couldn’t imagine her stepson being ready just yet to settle down into matrimony.
Right now, she and Wes needed to discuss money, a topic both vulgar and necessary. In the old days, before he’d reached his majority, she would have spoken quite forthrightly, and he would have paid respectful heed to her concerns. But since needing to seek his help with the leasing agent, she was finding this new Wes a bit too high-handed.
“I wonder if we may dragoon the Major’s man for some of the duties we might otherwise bestow on a footman?” she mused. “You know, it may be a challenge to find a man for a position that will end in a matter of weeks. In fact, I had difficulty engaging a housekeeper and Cook. And, well, to be perfectly honest, Wes, as I have always tried to be, not wishing to be a burden to you…” She took in a breath and framed her words. “I’ve carefully budgeted for my future travels.”
He slapped his leg. “Is that it, old dear?”
The condescending endearment had her bristling, and she clamped her right hand firmly with the left, else it might fly out and slap him. “Old dear?” she asked, managing to keep her tone even.
He laughed. “Dear Mother. You have only to ask. I’ll foot the wages for a couple of men.” He straightened and snapped his fingers. “And the wine bill shall be mine, and anything extra your cook will need, as we certainly want to make our illustrious war hero comfortable.”
Major Kellborn did not seem to be a peacock, and she rather doubted he thought of himself as either illustrious or a war hero. In fact, it seemed possible such accolades would make him uncomfortable.
Though Major Kellborn’s name had rarely been mentioned in the dispatches published in the Yorkshire Post, her mother-in-law, a prodigious letter-writer, had followed his military career through her many correspondents, and with a great deal of pride. After all, Major Kellborn’s late mother had a been a cousin of Wes’s grandfather, and a dear friend to the dowager Lady Twisden.
“You may as well pay a visit to your grandmama at Harrogate,” Honoria said. And take Major Kellborn with you.
“I plan to.”
“And when he does, Lady Twisden, I shall remove myself to an inn.” Major Kellborn had appeared in the doorway, quite earlier than expected. He’d changed out of his tight-fitting dusty buckskins and coats and attired himself in dark coat and trousers and a brocaded but tasteful waistcoat. He looked every bit the gentleman, and not a provincial one, but one who’d traveled in the best society.
She was glad she’d worn her best gown, a blue sarsenet she’d had made when she came out of mourning.
“Sancho may of course, stay in service to you, my lady.” Major Kellborn’s lips didn’t curve up, but his eyes twinkled.
Wes sprang out of his seat. “You must come with me to Harrogate, Gus. You must meet my grandmother. She’s followed your military career as avidly as if you were her own son. The young ladies can wait a few days to fawn over a war hero.”
The major dipped his head, almost hiding the grimace. She’d been right—he was uncomfortable with the attention.
And perhaps it had to do with the age of this elderly admirer. He might not grimace over accolades from the younger ladies. She must see if any of Patience’s girls had a yen for a military man.
A distant knock sounded—the door knocker.