Her Master and Commander (2 page)

Rochester House
Somerset, England
1806

P
ristine and perfect, the river wound through carefully tended forests, flirting here and there with the stone-paved path before gently toppling into a wide, crystal clear pond. The deep blue waters reflected the flawless outline of a meticulously planned rotunda decorated with several columns and a pink marble fountain. Over the years, the rotunda had served as a trysting spot for lord, lady, prince, and pauper.

Over this astonishingly well orchestrated bit of idyllic beauty rose a nearby hillock. On it, set like a crown on a velvet pillow, sat a massive and stately manor house of lush gold brick, the mullioned windows sparkling enticingly in the late afternoon sun.

Rochester House was widely agreed to be the epitome of culture. The king himself had lauded the house and its furnishings as “the most exquisite in all of England.”

The comment had been made almost two score years ago, and at the time, the sixth earl had merely bowed his head ever so slightly to acknowledge it. Privately, of course, he’d been quite pleased, but it would have been ill-bred to have appeared so. And a Rochester was never, ever ill-bred.

Still, the earl allowed himself a generous amount of time in private to savor the king’s admiration. Each night, before closing his eyes, he remembered the words and the exact expression on the king’s face as he uttered them. It helped Rochester fall asleep and often gave him the most delightful dreams.

Except now, of course. Now, he was far too busy with the irritating duty of dying with dignity.

The dying part was, he thought, rather simple. It was the “with dignity” portion that was a struggle. But then, anything worth doing was worth a good fight. The earl had learned that caveat long, long ago.

To be honest, Rochester should not have been surprised that he was dying. After all, he was well past his seventieth year of age, a fact he attempted to hide from his peers by keeping to powdered wigs for as long as fashion allowed, the liberal use of rouge, and a superb wardrobe that dazzled the eye and removed notice from his sagging skin and wrinkled brow.

To further add to the illusion of youth, he’d married a woman who was, by any count, more than half a century younger than he. Ostensibly, he’d married the lovely, vapid Miss Leticia Crowell for the express purpose of adding a beautiful woman to his household, much like purchasing a certain type of orchid to decorate one’s dinner table.

The truth was, Rochester was desperate for a child. He’d thought to marry, produce a son, and thus secure his lands, fortune, and title. He winced even now at the crassness of it all. It was so tawdry, this breeding aspect. Sex for the purpose of pleasure was an art. Sex in an effort to bring forth a mewling child—Rochester curled his lip.

He’d never thought he’d have trouble fathering a child. After all, he’d managed to father brats
before
he was married, why would he have any difficulties
after
? Which was why he’d waited so long before tying himself to the demands of some silly chit who had to be told twice that one did not wear diamonds to a morning visit. Yet as much as he’d disliked the notion, he knew his duty and so, with the greatest reluctance, he’d married.

Unfortunately, fate had a cruel sense of humor. Now, here he was, gasping his last breath, married to a chit with more hair than wit, and not a single legitimate son to inherit either his wealth or the Rochester name. The name he’d worked so hard to build into something unique, something memorable, much like this house, was destined to die with him.

His fingers curled over the single sheet of paper resting in his hand, the noise drawing his gaze. Ah, yes, the list. He smiled a little, relieved. There was hope, after all.

He would make right all the things he’d done wrong. Even from the grave, he would maintain the quality of the Rochester name and keep the house in the family. It was a bold plan. But then…he was a bold man.

He smiled, wincing when a sharp pain rattled through his shoulder, the pressure on his chest increasing. Damn it, he had so little time left. Why had he waited so long?

The huge mahogany door that led into the earl’s chamber opened and a tall, perfectly groomed individual entered. The man was dressed in the deep black of a butler, his air stately and calm. He carried a silver tray covered with a linen cloth.

Rochester never allowed any but the most elegant of servants in his employ. Yet even he had to admit that his butler, the indispensable Reeves, was a gem among gems. There was something startlingly commanding about Reeves. Dark and slender, his hair traced over each ear with a distinguished stroke of gray. And his wicked way of putting a shine on boots had caught even Beau Brummel’s attention.

Rochester had the world’s best butler and the entire ton was aware of it. Four times in the last two months alone, other members of the nobility had attempted to hire Reeves away, but Rochester knew the man’s worth and he paid the butler a fortune.

Reeves set the tray on the table beside the bed. He removed a silver cover to reveal an amber-filled glass.

Rochester’s hopes rose even more. “Bourbon?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“But Letty said she’d poured my bourbon out the window!”

“Had I realized what my lady was about, I might have been able to talk her into a more rational act, such as sending the bourbon to your summer estate. Alas, I was too late.”

“Blasted interfering chit!”

“Lady Rochester was distressed you refused to listen to the doctor’s good advice and continued to imbibe.”

“I may be ill, but I am not yet dead!”

“No, indeed, my lord. Fortunately for all concerned, I just this moment recalled I had hidden a stray bottle of bourbon in the cellar in case the troubles with France worsened and our supply dwindled.”

“Reeves, you are a godsend,” Rochester said fervently, wetting his dry lips and struggling to sit upright.

Reeves assisted him, plumping the earl’s pillow and smoothing the sheets, all the little touches that made Reeves so indispensable.

It took Rochester a few moments to catch his breath after such an effort, during which time Reeves discreetly pulled a small vial from his pocket and held it over the coveted bourbon. A few drops plopped into the glass.

“Hold!” gasped Rochester, appalled. “What are you doing?”

“Putting your tonic in your bourbon, my lord.”

“I don’t want that damn stuff!”

Reeves calmly picked up a waiting spoon and gently stirred, the silver clinking against the fine glass. “No bourbon, my lord? None at all?”

“I want the bourbon, damn you! But not that vile tonic.”

“I realize that, my lord. So did the doctor when you had him ejected from the house by the footman.”

That had been a bit rude of him, Rochester realized, though the charlatan had deserved it. “I don’t need tonic.”

Reeves looked at the earl’s hand.

Rochester became aware that he was rubbing his chest with his palm, trying to erase the constant pressure. He dropped his hand. “Take that poison away! I won’t have it now.”

Reeves put the spoon back on the tray and replaced the silver cover over the glass. “Very well, my lord.” He picked up the tray. “Will there be anything more? Some sherry, perhaps?”

Rochester sent his butler a sour glare. “Sherry is horse piss and water! Just leave. My valet, Miller, will fetch me a fresh glass of bourbon.”

“Your valet would indeed fetch you a glass of bourbon…
if
he knew where to find it.” Reeves walked sedately to the door. “Which, of course, he does not.”

“You said you found the bottle in the wine cellar, so I shall have him look for it there,” the earl said testily.

Reeves paused at the door. “Was, my lord. The bottle
was
in the wine cellar. Now however, it is
not.
”

Rochester cursed, loud and long.

The butler’s bland expression never changed. But as soon as the earl’s outburst subsided, Reeves said, “I shall tell Miller to bring some tepid milk, to help with your bilious stomach.”

“I don’t have a bilious stomach and you know it! Oh blast you to hell, bring me that damn bourbon. I only hope you have not completely ruined it with your poison.”

The glass of bourbon was in Rochester’s hand in a remarkably quick space of time. He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a sip. A warm tingle settled in his chest as the flavor flooded across his tongue. “Ah!”

Reeves smiled. “The tonic did not alter the taste too much?”

There was hardly any trace of the bitter tonic in the bourbon at all. Still, it would not do to let Reeves become too self-important. Rochester needed the butler’s services too badly for that. Now more than ever. So instead of agreeing, the earl said testily, “It will do.”

Rochester took another sip, then lowered the glass and looked at his butler. “I’m glad you’re here, Reeves, for I’ve something to ask.”

Reeves picked up his lordship’s robe and placed it neatly in a large, gold leaf wardrobe. “Yes, my lord?”

“You are paid better than any butler in England.”

“Yes, my lord. And I am worth every pence.”

He had a point, Rochester thought grumpily. “I am not suggesting that
you
are not valuable. I only stated that you were
paid
well.”

“How good of you to differentiate those two items, my lord,” Reeves intoned.

Rochester eyed him narrowly. “That sounded like sarcasm.”

Reeves gave a faint smile. “Sarcasm has a certain value, does it not? Perhaps I should ask for more wages for possessing such a sense of humor.”

Rochester stared. “I should pay you for sarcasm?”

“I would rather think of it as compensation for putting up with yours, my lord.”

Despite the ache that set on Rochester’s chest, a laugh burst from him. “Damn you, Reeves! I should horsewhip you for being so cheeky.”

“Ah, but I know where the last and only bottle of bourbon is hidden.”

The medicine and bourbon was beginning to have an effect; the pressure in the earl’s chest lessened a little and a gentle glow enveloped him as he set the empty glass on the table beside the bed. “Reeves, I must speak to you. It’s about all of this—” He waved a hand to the room, indicating the entire property. “—when I die.”

“Shall I fetch her ladyship—”

“Good God, no! Why would I want to do that? All that caterwauling—Reeves, I wish I hadn’t married. Not that I’ve anything against Letty, mind you. It’s just that, without an heir, there’s really no reason for me to have been married at all.” The earl attempted to smile. “But that is neither here nor there. Reeves, you have gone above and beyond your duty since the day you arrived.”

“Thank you, my lord. It has been a privilege.”

“That is why I want you to find my successor.”

Reeves paused in folding the sheet to a more comfortable length beneath his lordship’s pale hands. “My lord?”

“I am dying, damn it! I don’t have time for quibbling.”

Reeves’s lips twitched. “My lord, whether you have time to quibble or not, I do believe I shall need more information than what you’ve offered thus far.”

For some reason, the gentle tone made Rochester’s throat tighten. “It’s quite simple. I want you to find my heir and see to it that he does not embarrass the Rochester name.”

“Your heir, my lord?”

The earl reached for the folded sheet of paper he’d set aside. He opened it now and consulted the scrawled list. “While I was unable to have a child in wedlock, I have been more than blessed without.”

Reeves’s brows rose. “My lord?”

“The eldest of my bastards—though he won’t be one forever—will be the next earl.”

“But…Pardon me, my lord. I am somewhat confused.”

The earl took a deep breath. “Reeves, I just remembered I was once wed.”

Rochester watched the butler closely, looking for some expression of surprise, but all Reeves said was, “Ah!”

The earl waved a hand rather lamely. “It was a…a rather secret marriage, but my man of business has the details well in hand. The priest who performed the marriage has been found and has been made to
recollect
the event. We’ve even found the register it was recorded in—but you don’t need the details. Just know that it has all been taken care of.”

“I see. How, er, fortuitous for your son. Do you think society will accept this story?”

“They have to. The priest is now the archbishop of Canterbury.” Rochester chuckled. “He’s a hot-tempered man, too. If one of my distant relatives comes crawling out of the woodwork and attempts to nay-say him, he’ll toss them right out of the church and onto their arse.”

The earl grinned. “Damn! I’d like to see that! I almost wish I wasn’t dying so I could watch!”

“Perhaps your son will enjoy the sight for you, my lord.”

“Not ‘son.’ Sons. They were twins. The oldest has been going by the name of Tristan Paul Llevanth.”

“Llevanth.” Reeves said the name quietly, thoughtfully. “That name is familiar.”

The earl grimaced. “I know, damn it. The blasted fool had to go out and make a name for himself, which was extremely ill-bred. But I cannot do anything about it now.”

“No, my lord,” Reeves said, his brow drawn as he tried to remember where he’d heard the name before.

Rochester frowned peevishly. “I did love Pauline and if I could have saved her—she was unjustly charged with treason. That is what comes of such an unconventional upbringing. Her father had untenable political beliefs and encouraged her to read all sorts of rubbish.”

“Rubbish, my lord?”

“All sorts of political foolery. He died well before I was around, which was a damned good thing. She had very strong opinions that did not always do her beauty justice.”

“Yes,” Reeves said. “Strong opinions are
so
unbecoming.”

Rochester shot a hard look at the butler. “What does that mean?”