Chapter Sixteen

The Trouble with Seed, Cows, and Crisdon

Jasper sat back in a comfortably padded chair at his father’s club. He was pretty pleased with himself for leaving Miss Burghley alone with his children, his beautiful, unruly girls. He rubbed his hands together, hoping for mischief and fixable mayhem.

Lord Crisdon puffed on his cigar. “What are you chuckling at?”

“Nothing of consequence, sir.”

“So has your brother’s wife popped yet? I don’t know if he’d inform me of the birth.”

There was sadness in his father’s gruff voice. That hadn’t been there before when he’d complained of Ewan.

“No, Father. Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil is nesting, but she should be ready to give birth after Christmas, definitely before the New Year.”

The earl nodded, puffed, and nodded. “You know, if the child is male, he’ll be your heir.”

A fact that actually gave Jasper a bit of relief. “Yes. Since none of my girls are eligible. Hopefully, the boy will grow close to his cousins and make sure they are cared for if anything were to happen to me before the girls are married and settled.”

“You thinking of dying, son?”

Jasper swirled his glass of water as if it were stronger spirits. “No. But I fret about how to protect them. Tomorrow’s not promised, not even for a Fitzwilliam.”

“Make jokes if you like, but that woman could get everything.”

Crisdon never started a conversation without a purpose, but Jasper felt like being as obtuse as possible. He put his head back in the onyx tufted chair. “Since all of this will happen after you’ve passed on and I’ve died, too, as long as the girls are protected, it doesn’t seem to matter much.

“It matters, son. It matters.” Crisdon finished his glass of brandy.

Jasper took his eye from the bright amber liquid. “Then I suppose you should live forever. For my only son barely drew breath.”

“You should marry again, and perhaps you’ll have better luck. Stop offering up your seed to mistresses.”

Ah. There was a purpose for this conversation. Seed distribution for the Fitzwilliam flowers. Jasper chugged the water, wishing it was amber. “Not that it’s any of your affair, but I’m not having affairs. I’ve no mistress.”

His father reared forward. “I thought we settled on you and the duke’s chit? I gave you my opinion.”

Jasper grit his teeth. “Miss Burghley is a friend. Nothing more. I told you this before.”

“A friend? Then you’re not doing things right. You’re besotted with the duke’s sprat. And the look on her face when you left with me—she’s far from indifferent.”

Yes, Frederica liked him, Jasper knew that. That wasn’t the problem. He was the problem.

“Hartwell, what are her expectations? She’s of Simone’s blood, but I know of the brothel her mother was from, before Simone set her up like a worthy mistress.”

“I hear she was a very worthy mistress. Did you visit that brothel, too? You’re not telling me Frederica Burghley could be my half-sister. That would be most disappointing.”

“Must you be ridiculous, Hartwell? No, I never visited. The brothel catered exclusively only to the highest peers.”

“So, it was too good for Crisdon.”

His father frowned, a very Ewan-like expression. “I’m trying to be serious for a moment. I was a widower, too. But I realized that life had to continue.”

“And the neighbor’s sister had come of age and fit into your plans of floral domination.”

“Jest if you must, Hartwell. Life didn’t stop. If you haven’t the patience to find a wife, then take a mistress. I told you, the duke and I have talked about it. He likes you. He’s also very realistic about his daughter’s chances. He’d rather not give twenty-thousand pounds to a fortune hunter.”

“He upped it to thirty thousand pounds.” Jasper decided not to mention that offer also extended if Jasper took her as a mistress.

“So he’s changed his mind on harlotting her out? Hmmm.”

“Please, Father. I need you to spare me this conversation.”

The earl guffawed and puffed on his cigar. “The oldest profession was good enough for her mother.”

“Father, don’t push. Miss Burghley has no intentions of becoming my mistress or anyone else’s. And the duke had better get ready to pay. Miss Burghley is set to accept a vicar’s offer. She’ll be married by Yuletide.”

“A vicar and a bastard Blackamoor, even one with Simone’s blood. That’s like that Bible thing. Hosea and Gomer. Oh, Simone will enjoy paying but not as much as I will enjoy tweaking his nose.”

Jasper knew his father was trying to be helpful or even pleasant in his own twisted way, but this burned.

“But I lose my bet to the duke, too. I didn’t think you’d let the chit get away. I haven’t seen you as happy as when you’ve done errands for her. With the granddaughters staying in London, you’ve plenty of opportunities. So what’s the problem? You like her.”

Everything was the problem. Every promise and dream he’d had with Maria. “Miss Burghley deserves to be loved. She deserves someone’s whole heart. There’s barely any left of mine after Maria’s passing.”

“Son, I cared a great deal for your mother. I, too, was troubled by her passing.”

He looked over at the man and offered him charity. A closed, cold heart could only love so much. “I know you hope—”

“Listen. My first wife was about an heir. The second was a business arrangement. But here’s the funny thing. Where things begin is not where they end. Unfortunately, I care for the countess more than she cares for me. How’s that for a change?”

That was sad but fitting for Crisdon.

“Hartwell, you’re the good son. Marry her, bed her, but do something.”

Did the earl just give Jasper permission to marry Frederica? Must be the thirty thousand pounds making him more liberal. “Did you just tell me—”

“Life is too short, Hartwell. You and I know this. Do what makes you happy.”

It was short, but was it fair to make an offer, any offer to Frederica when he couldn’t give her what she deserved? He just needed more time to figure this out. His daughters needed to work their governess-running-off magic.

But if they didn’t, Jasper needed a second plan to dissuade Frederica from a match that wasn’t right for her. A marriage to the vicar wasn’t right for him, either.

…

Frederica finished a third reading of Perrault’s Tales of Mother Goose as Lucy curled deeper into her pillow. Snores from her stuffy nose had a whistle-like quality.

Standing, Frederica stretched.

Lucy looked peaceful, with not a care to rouse her.

A touch to the child’s forehead let Frederica know no fever had returned. Whatever sickness Lucy had seemed to have passed. As quietly as she could, Frederica blew out the candle and started for the door.

“Thank you, Miss Burghley. Visit me often, even if you marry.” The sleepy voice hit Frederica right in the heart. Yes, Lucy was her favorite. She’d miss her fellow outcast.

On tiptoe, Frederica left the room but tripped on a chair leaning across the threshold. She struck the floor hard. Then the sounds of a mangled pianoforte hit her as she picked herself up.

Bad pianoforte.

Like the night of the duke’s celebration.

Frederica pushed on her temples, then clutched the stair rail. Her vision became swirly.

An image of the man’s pant leg, pantaloons flashed. The sound of piercing glass echoed.

Then another blur, this time of someone offering her a glass as she waited for the bad pianoforte playing to end. Very bad music.

Frederica threaded her fingers around the railing, grounding herself as more pieces of that night returned.

Hartwell said the barrister had been at the party.

Why did Smythen lie? Was he the thief, the horrid letter writer?

Why would a man of the law risk everything to threaten her or steal from Downing?

Lydia ran past.

She stopped in front of Frederica, waving hands stained with blue ink at her. “You have to hide me.”

Heart beating fast, Frederica scooped up the girl. “No one is going to hurt you. I won’t let him.”

Lydia pushed back, inking handprints onto Frederica’s new gown of corded silk.

“Oops. You did it. You hugged me. Papa will be mad I put ink on your dress.”

Frederica looked down at the horrible dark blue splotches on her ice blue carriage dress. “As you said, I did it. I’ll keep him from taking this out on you.” He should have his own punishment. “Why are you running about? Is someone chasing you?”

“I ruined Anne’s sheet music. She’s going to kill me.”

“No one should die over sheet music. Though, the notion of ruining music should be a capital offense.”

The girl grimaced, fear sparkling in her lapis-blue eyes.

Frederica felt awful for teasing her. “Perhaps I could help if you could get a cloth to sponge out these stains.

The girl grabbed her arm, adding more stains. “There’s no time, you must come now.”

Like her father, Lydia had great strength and pulled Frederica down the hall, and almost forced a tumble down the stairs.

Bang. Bang. Bad pianoforte notes.

The poor keys sounded like someone was punching them. She cringed and remembered a hand coming through the window. Dark gloves.

Lydia tugged Frederica into a parlor.

The eldest Hartwell daughter, Anne, kept hitting the keys and screaming at the top of her lungs.

“I can’t do this,” Anne said. “This instrument is broken!”

A frustrated man paced. He pulled his coiffed hairs. “Mademoiselle, you cannot keep torturing the instrument.”

He turned toward Frederica, throwing his hands up. “Governess, take charge of these monsters. The one behind you tore the sheet music. The other is ruining Crisdon’s pianoforte.”

“Miss Fitzwilliam, please,” Frederica said as she came closer to Anne.

“Woman, get control of these monsters.” The man stomped his feet and pointed.

Frederica stared at the man, counting to ten as she’d learned to do when the duke had hired rude or unthinking servants. Head lifted, she moved past him. “What is it you were trying to play, my dear?”

“Haydn’s ‘The Songstress.’”

“Ah, one of his lighter pieces.” One Frederica had memorized. She flexed her finger. “Would you mind, Anne, if I show you a few pointers?”

The young girl nodded and hopped off the bench. “Yes, Miss Burghley, show the instructor a thing or two.”

Before the man said anything else, Frederica sat, carefully adjusting her skirts to keep ink from getting stains on the rosewood seat, and began playing the piece. “You must relax, Miss Fitzwilliam, and stretch your fingers.”

In the air, the child did as she suggested. The tantrum was no more.

“Good, now, sit and do as I do.”

The girl came to her side and eased onto the bench. Soon her hands mimicked Frederica’s, and they did a duet, Frederica taking the lower range, Anne the higher one.

“Miss Lydia,” Frederica said, “you must not take your sister’s music. You see how stressful it can be? It even upsets her fragile instructor. The poor dove cannot handle it.”

“Sorry, Anne.” Lydia clapped to the rhythm of the piece.

“I am not fragile. These girls—”

“Sir, these girls need patience and instruction.”

“Good instruction,” Anne said, and she seemed more comfortable matching Frederica’s meter.

“I believe it will be more of a benefit to your pupils if you bring an extra copy of these pieces. One for each girl. I’m sure Lord Hartwell will pay for it. It will help keep the peace. Speaking of peace, who laid the chair across your sister’s door? A person—”

Lady Crisdon came into the parlor.

And there went the new-found peace, for the instructor went directly to the countess. “The young ladies are unruly. I do not know how I’m expected to work under these conditions. If not for your governess—”

“That’s not the governess. That’s the Duke of Simone’s daughter.”

The man turned purple, not royal purple but a sallow magenta, lighter than the ink staining Frederica’s dress.

The teacher bowed toward Frederica, then toward Lady Crisdon. He might have even bowed to the patio doors or the sculpture bust in the corner. “I have had enough. I am done.” He left the room.

The countess came closer. “Miss Burghley, you are here. Does that mean Hartwell is about?”

The temptation to play an opus or a dark tune pressed at her fingertips, but Anne was just getting the rhythm of Haydn. “I came with Lord Hartwell, but he has left me here and gone off with the earl.”

“Girls, go upstairs and get ready for dinner.”

Anne left the bench and stood beside Lydia. They turned to the door, dragging their steps as if their feet were heavy.

Frederica changed the tune to a lighter one, a traveling tune. Smiling, she kept playing until the door closed. Then she lifted her hands. “Beautiful instrument, Lady Crisdon.”

The countess went to the patio doors, her walking dress of deep crimson flowed about her. Her crystal blue eyes seemed more intense, reflecting the blue ostrich feather of her headpiece. “No, don’t stop playing. You have such a talent.”

“If you are upset at my being here, Lady Crisdon, blame Lord Hartwell. I was merely trying to make peace between sisters.”

The countess paced to Frederica, close enough to slam shut the lid of the pianoforte, but the woman only sighed. “Peace. If only such were possible, Miss Burghley.”

Frederica played Hartwell’s “The Last Rose of Summer.”

“I hear anything is possible for the dreamer, the repentant of heart.”

The woman frowned. “You think I need repentance, still? My son and his wife won’t forgive me for the past.”

“Everything is possible.” Even viscounts too sure of themselves could be forgiven. Frederica stilled her fingers. “I know that there’s a certain amount of grievance between you and my friend. But it will be the Yuletide in four weeks. Family, most families, come together.”

“They don’t want me included. She’s turned Ewan against me.”

There was so much that could be said, but Frederica had become an expert, like her mother, at divining people’s true fears and bringing them comfort. “You and I both know what it means to be excluded, Lady Crisdon. It doesn’t feel good. Do you want to be welcomed in your son’s life? Try asking. Theodosia Fitzwilliam-Cecil knows peace will make your son happy. Maybe this new baby means new beginnings. I wouldn’t stop trying.”

“You’re an odd creature, Miss Burghley. If Hartwell does take you as a mistress, I won’t cut you direct.”

A little shocked at those words actually put into a sentence and said aloud, Frederica forced her fingers to do the stretches she’d taught Anne. “Lord Hartwell is a friend, Lady Crisdon. I’m soon to be engaged.”

“Engaged.” The countess squinted, then frowned. “That will hurt Hartwell. He’s rather attached to you.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“Hartwell never knew his mother. She passed from childbed fever. He was never resentful when I married his father. He’s been like a son to me. And very good to me when I thought Ewan had died. I wish you would consider him in your decisions.”

“I have to think of what’s best for me, which is to be settled in marriage.” Frederica played her requiem again to announce the end of like-liking the viscount. She put him to the back of the box of bonbons of her brainbox, forever-awful marzipan. Perhaps returning to Downing could clear up some memories. If she knew who the thief was, all her friends could be safe. That would be a good wedding gift for everyone.

Lady Crisdon sat on the sofa. “Please continue, Miss Burghley.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She’d play for the countess another thirty minutes. Hartwell should return soon, and they’d go to Downing, maybe puzzle out some more about the thief, and definitely retrieve her riding boots. Then tomorrow she’d ride all day at Tradenwood before sending her note of acceptance to the vicar.