Stephanie James (3 page)

Philip could see Lillian pressing her lips together to hide another smile. His father, however, made no attempt to hide his amusement and was smiling broadly. Then, after a scolding look from his wife, his sense of parental duty got the better of him. “Amelia,” he began, and cleared his throat. “No more torturing your brother with loud sounds of any kind. No matter how tempting it might be.”

“Yes, Papa,” she complied.

He looked over at Philip. “And there will be no more talk of hanging anyone by their corset strings. Is that quite understood?”

“Yes, Papa,” Philip mumbled.

The duke turned his gaze again, this time to his wife. “There you are, my love. Perfectly well-mannered children.”

The duchess looked at her husband disapprovingly. “If only they would obey me in the same manner.”

“If only, my dear,” said the duke wistfully and turned his attention back to his newspaper.

Despite herself, Vivian smiled before calling for Rivers.

The butler appeared suddenly as if by magic. “Yes, your grace?”

“Have we received any letters from Spencer this morning?”

“No, you grace. None this morning,” Rivers answered, “but perhaps this afternoon.”

“Yes, perhaps. Thank you, Rivers.”

The old man bowed and left the room.

“Oh, I do wish he would write more often,” said the duchess. “Better yet, I wish he would just come home. He’s been gone nearly three years.”

“As do I, Vivian,” said the duke, his temper beginning to flare in the way that only the subject of Spencer could always manage. “But he has gone and will apparently come back on his own time. If you ask me, he’s being entirely selfish, and if he ever does stop being a coward and returns home to resume his responsibilities, I’ll see to it that he never — ”

“When are you going to ask Charlotte to marry you?”

Amelia’s question (though spoken at a blessedly normal volume) cut through the duke’s tirade about his eldest son and created an expectant silence in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Philip could see his father looking at him, apparently curious as to how Philip would answer Amelia’s question.

“Yes, Philip,” said his mother, eager to change the subject as much as Amelia, “when are you going to marry the girl? You’ve been courting her for some time. Marriage would be the proper advancement at this juncture.”

Philip remained silent. He cowered over his tea and blew on the hot liquid. “I’m not going to ask her,” he said finally.

“Why ever not?” his mother asked. “She’s such a lovely girl and would be a perfect wife. You should propose.”

Philip shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve changed my mind, Mama. Lately, I’ve found Charlotte to be incredibly irritating.”

Amelia and Lillian giggled.

“Oh, this is disgraceful!” said the duchess. “The poor girl has probably been waiting for you to propose. She’ll be devastated when she figures out you won’t.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, Mama,” said Philip before sipping his tea. His stomach churned in response. “Beautiful women are rarely without admirers.”

“Philip, this is nonsense,” his mother continued. “I thought you lov — ”

“Are you going to visit your solicitor today, Papa?” Philip asked suddenly, deliberately ignoring his mother.

“Yes, I am,” said the duke, following his son’s lead. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve decided to take your advice.”

“Who is the man?”

“Sorry?” Mr. Winter looked up from his letter, his eyes blinking.

“Does the letter give the identity of the new investor, Papa?” asked Olivia. They had just finished lunch and were seated in the parlor. The letter, various parts of which Mr. Winter had been reading to his daughter while she tended to her needlework, had arrived only moments after they had settled in front of the fire.

“Oh, ah … let’s see.” Mr. Winter scanned the letter. “Yes, here it is. My new partner in business is to be Lord Philip Ravenshaw.”

“Lord?”

“Yes,” Mr. Winter confirmed. “He is the son of the Duke of Willingham.”

“Wonderful,” Olivia muttered grimly.

“It says here he’s decided to take up residence in Dorset in order to have an active role in the breeding and training of the horses.”

“More likely he’s moving here to assume command,” Olivia mumbled.

Mr. Winter looked up from his letter a second time. “Did you say something, dear?”

“No, Papa.”

Mr. Winter turned back to his letter. “I say, I am impressed by Lord Philip thus far. He could have merely invested and then consented to visit a few times a year. To move here shows he is as serious as I about breeding horses. He must be a man of outstanding character.”

Olivia instantly doubted her father’s opinion. In her experience, limited though it was, she had noticed people of elevated rank often thought they were living gods. And if a person were not granted a position in their glamorous society by birth, then such a person was beneath them.

Out of a general sense of self-preservation, Olivia was not at all looking forward to Lord Philip’s arrival in Dorset. The other local young ladies and their desperate mamas would doubtless rush to parade around before him, as they were met with so few marriage-worthy options these days.

But Olivia would not be one of them. She would as soon spit on his boots than behave so desperately for his attention. The country was her safe haven away from people of standing. She did not want it to be invaded.

“Does the letter say when he is to arrive?” Olivia inquired neutrally. Secretly, she was trying to calculate how many more weeks of freedom she had left.

“A fortnight,” replied Mr. Winter. “My God, he’s purchased Tyndall Hall. He must be very wealthy indeed to endeavor such a project as that old place.”

Olivia nearly groaned allowed. She was growing quite tired of her father’s praises of Lord Philip. To know he was so wealthy was further distressing. She’d rather hoped he was an impoverished aristocrat on his last leg of survival and retreating to the country in response to horrific public shame. Apparently such was not the case, but no matter … .

He most certainly had other faults. Nobles often did. And Olivia would delight in finding and then amplifying each and every one of them. The man was undoubtedly an unpleasant, miserly old codger whose only purpose in settling in Dorset was to make certain her father did not waste his money. Perhaps he had a few warts, a balding head, yellowed teeth, and long nasal hairs as well. Yes … she was sure he would have. Olivia settled back into the sofa, comforted by the grotesque image of Lord Philip.

“How very lucky Mr. Smith was able to find Lord Philip,” said Mr. Winter as he refolded the letter. “We must ready the Manor at once. Olivia, have Mrs. Stanley make certain that the interior is in pristine condition.”

“Yes, Papa,” Olivia answered. “Would you like me to have her prepare something special for dinner the night he is expected to arrive?” It annoyed her beyond description to suggest extending such hospitality to
Lord
Philip, but the wretched man’s money was unavoidably important to her father’s business and subsequently her own survival.

Mr. Winter’s eyes lit up at the idea. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “That would be an excellent idea, my dear. Very good. Spare no expense.” Mr. Winter began pacing around the room, nibbling on his thumb as he thought.

“Perhaps you should prepare the exterior of the Manor as well,” Olivia suggested.

“Oh, yes certainly. I had already thought of that, my dear,” he clarified. “I’ll have Mr. Newton manicure the lawns and the hedges. Oh, and all the horses will have to be groomed to perfection. I will not have Lord Philip believing Whistler Manor or its facilities are second-rate. I must say, Mr. Smith’s letter implies that Lord Philip is a most agreeable gentleman. He must be met with perfection at every turn. Indeed, I believe Lord Philip and I will work together quite well.”

• • •

Philip was glad to be out of London. He enjoyed the culture that could be found within the boundaries of the city, but he did not enjoy crowded streets, tall buildings, or the sooty rain and its awful smells. He liked to see the landscapes and miles beyond them. He liked to breathe in deeply and feel his body filling with the pure air of the open country. Yes, his new position in Dorset suited him much better than London. He also quite enjoyed the fact that he had managed to escape being in town for the Season. He did not think he could endure being cut directly by another silly little female, even if only for a single dance set. Conversely, he did not believe he could stand to be
pursued
by a silly female either. The well-seasoned spinsters and their equally desperate mamas, bereft of grander marital options, would doubtless chase after him as sort of a last-ditch effort. No, Philip had grown quite tired of society on the whole.

And so when Mr. Smith had presented him with an opportunity to invest in horse breeding deep within the Dorset countryside, Philip had agreed immediately. Though his impulsiveness was fueled by his desperation to leave London, Philip did not feel as though he was going in over his head. He believed he knew enough about horses to make a success of it, though he acknowledged he didn’t know everything, and was therefore hoping to learn more from his new partner, Mr. Winter.

His other hasty decision, however, had plunged him deep into murky waters.

After committing himself to Mr. Winter’s business, Philip had then tackled the issue of where he would live. Mr. Smith had suggested to him a “grand and distinguished” country estate that was not only suitable for a lord, but very near Whistler Manor where Mr. Winter lived. Philip, seeing the convenience of the estate’s proximity to Mr. Winter’s home, quickly decided to take Tyndall Hall … without first looking at it.

This will teach me,
he thought as he surveyed the cracks in the wall of his new study.

Tyndall Hall had undoubtedly been very “grand and distinguished” at one time. Indeed, it may even have been fit for a lord, but its grandness was buried under several decades’ worth of dust, cobwebs, and decay. The estate and its extensive property, as it turned out, had once belonged to a marquess, who had foolishly and drunkenly lost the deed to the estate in a card game. The winner of said deed promptly presented it to another gambler to cover an old debt. The third gambler then sold it to a then rich, but now bankrupt, baron, who had been trying for two years to offload the deteriorating and overgrown estate. In Philip, the destitute baron had found a willing and naïve buyer — the best kind of consumer for all things in poor condition.

But no matter. Philip had moved here to start anew. And in this dilapidated old house, miles from London and all other apparent cultured civilization, Philip would find rebirth.

He would have Tyndall Hall renovated. The lawns and gardens would be freshened and manicured, and the lands would be made ready for tenants once more. Everything would be completely and thoroughly refurbished; no detail would be overlooked. Philip smiled to himself. He and Tyndall Hall would be reborn together.

Perhaps once it was presentable — or rather, livable — he would begin looking for a live-in mistress. Which would be the best room to house her? A room nearest to his own chamber so that his journey to her would not be far, or one farthest away so he could escape her whenever he wished?

“My lord?” said a feminine voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Jones,” answered Philip. He would have to look into finding more staff as well. He had only been able to secure a few footmen, a cook, and one housemaid on such short notice.

Mrs. Jones entered the room fully. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but a Mr. Edward Winter is here to speak with you.”

“Yes, I thought he might come sooner or later. Show him into the drawing room and offer him some tea.”

Mrs. Jones curtsied stiffly. Philip heard her old knees pop and crack. “Yes, my lord.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Jones,” he said before the old maid could leave. He heard her groan softly. More than likely she thought he was going to assign her more work. “Once you’ve shown Mr. Winter into the drawing room, take an hour to rest. I realize this house is entirely too large and too … deteriorated for you to take on by yourself.”

Mrs. Jones’s eyes lit up in surprise. “Thank you, my lord,” she said and left the room.

Some of his peers might be of the opinion that unwavering discipline was the best way to manage the household staff. Philip, on the other hand, thought it was best to keep them happy. After all, they prepared and served food and witnessed events that were better left as secrets, as Philip knew only too well. “Loyalty and honesty are not qualities one finds in disgruntled employees, Philip,” his father had told him. “Make certain they are always content, and they are less likely to betray you.”

Philip hoped to God his father’s words were true. If he made a fool of himself with this investment, he wanted to leave his failure in Dorset. The kind of reputation that would be assigned to him if he failed was the last thing he needed. He could imagine the sound of his amended title now — “Lord Philip Ravenshaw, second son of the Duke of Willingham, naturally able to repel ladies, and a professional cock-up in business”. He shuddered at the thought.