The Lion's Daughter (43 page)

“Certainly
not. All it wants is money
—
and
a staff
—
and
more money.” Varian moved to the fireplace. Broken bits of
mortar lay within. “This chimney has its mind on tumbling, I
believe.”

“It's
obliged to respect the laws of gravity.”

“You'd
better tell me about the tenants,” Varian said, his eyes still
upon the chimney fragments. “For your sake, I won't visit them
just yet. If I were stoned by an angry mob, you'd inherit, poor
fellow, and I know you'd far rather be hanged.”

“Oh,
Gideon's lived in terror you'd get yourself killed on the Continent.”
Damon was standing by the French doors, and his voice echoed across
the cavernous room. “He's so thrilled you're shackled at last,
I daresay he'll rebuild the entire estate for you, singlehanded
—
and
the nursery first of all.”

There
was that cruel tightening again in Varian's chest and the dart of
pain.

“Excuse
me,” he said.

They
watched him leave, but didn't speak or try to follow him. Varian
heard no sound but his own footsteps as he left the library and
climbed the stairs. He saw nothing of the stairs or hallways, thick
with dirt and cobwebs. He heard nothing of the small, wild creatures
scrambling in panic at the sound of human footfalls. Varian knew
nothing of his surroundings until he opened the door he sought, heard
it squeal painfully, and stood on its threshold, staring into the
nursery.

Then
he saw, all of it. He leaned against the door frame.

Don't
tell me the poor child's breeding already.

“God
forgive me,” he breathed. “Oh, Esme, what have I done?”

...
children. If God is
generous
...

He
closed his eyes against the shattering grief. He'd been away from her
not even three days and he was lost, sick with loneliness, but that
was nothing to this. He'd no one else to blame. He'd shaped and
carved this day for himself these past ten years. Now at last, when
he'd learned to love, when he wanted to love and look after one
brave, beautiful girl and

give
her children they might love and
care for together
...
now the Devil laughed and
demanded payment. Now Lord Edenmont understood that fire and
brimstone were not wanted, nor even death. Hell was regret.

It
was tomorrow.

And
Varian pressed his face to his arm and wept.

THE
ROOM LADY Brentmor called “the counting house” was
originally the master's study. All the world knew her late husband,
however, had never been master of anything. His wife was the brains
behind the Brentmor fortune. It was she who'd hauled her spouse up
from a middling tradesman to a titled man of property.

Immediately
upon his death, all pretense of his mastery was abandoned. The
dowager banished his cozy masculine bric-a-brac to the attics,
painted the walls a brooding maroon, and lined them with stern
shelves for her massive ledgers. The furniture at present comprised a
few exceedingly hard chairs and the large desk behind which she sat,
intimidating bankers, brokers, and lawyers alike while she
single-handedly ruled her formidable financial empire.

It
was to this room she took her grandchildren four days after Lord
Edenmont's departure and less than ten minutes after Percival's
arrival.

Percival
and Esme sat upon two rocklike chairs watching Lady Brentmor peruse
the letter Percival's tutor had delivered along with the boy.

“An
explosion.” She looked up from the closely written sheets. “Who
do you think you are
—
Guy
Fawkes?”

“No,
Grandmother,” Percival answered meekly.

“Blew
up the hen coop, he says. I suppose it's too much to hope the hens
weren't in it?”

“I'm
afraid they were.”

“That'll
cost me. Lud, you always cost me.”

“They
were sick, Grandmama.” Percival's green eyes flashed

with
indignation.
“One of the
boys told me that's why we were forever getting chicken soup. They
weren't laying hens, I promise you. I never saw an egg all the weeks
I was there. But there

was
a good deal of soup, with the most disagreeable odor.”

“I'll
be damned if I'll pay for diseased fowls.” She gave him a
piercing look. “Are you sure they were sick?”

“Oh,
yes, Grandmama.” Percival's face brightened. “I dissected
one, and I've got the intestines in ajar. I can fetch it for you if
you'd like to examine it yourself.”

“No,
thank you.” Her gaze grew sharper still. “I'd like to
know what's to be done with you. Your pa told me you was to be
shipped to that school in Bombay the instant you kicked up one of
your larks.”

Esme
reached for her cousin's hand and glared at her grandmother. “You
will do no such thing,” she said. “If the fowls were
sick, then it is the schoolmaster who should be sent to Bombay. To
poison little boys with diseased animals
—
Y'Allah, they should be poisoned
themselves.”

“I
didn't ask you, did I?” Lady Brentmor snapped. “And none
of that heathen talk, if you please.”

“
'Y'Allah' only means 'dear God,'
Grandmama,” Percival pointed out.

“Then
why don't she say what she means?”

“I
said it plain enough.” Esme met her grandmother's stare
fearlessly. “You shall not send him away. God knows such a
course is monstrously unjust, even if you do not. But you wish to
frighten him
—
as
though the boy has not suffered enough.”

“I
know what he's 'suffered' and what he's done. And I aim to make it
clear there'll be no more of it. I won't have children poking their
noses in their elders' affairs.”

A
small box lay upon the desk to her right. She opened the box, took
out the object that lay within, and placed it on the desk. It was a
chess piece. A queen, to be precise.

“Oh,
dear,” said Percival.

“I
collect you know what it is,” the dowager said to Esme.

“I
have seen chess pieces before. The game is not unknown in my
country.” Esme did not so much as glance at Percival.

“Never
mind trying to protect
him.
It
don't take a prophet to work this matter out.” Lady Brentmor
bent a black look upon her grandson. “You hid your bag of rocks
in your room that day you come with your pa, which was a fool thing
to do. Don't you know we always turn your things inside out? You're
forever leaving corpses behind. Last time it was a reptile. The

time
before, a rodent. You was told time and again not to dissect your
creatures in the house, but you never listen.” “Yes,
Grandmama, I'm dreadfully sorry.” “Never mind sorry. I
know what you done. You
stole
this
chess piece. You guessed your pa would offer a reward, didn't you?
And you used that to lure Edenmont to Albania. Very clever,
Percival. Now your cousin's wed to the blackguard, and it's all your
fault.”

“Varian
is not a blackguard!” Esme cried. “And nothing is

my
cousin's fault. He brought Varian to me, and for that I am
grateful,
and shall be so, all my days.”

“You
ain't half started your days, my gel. I daresay there'll come a time
not too far ahead when you'll eat them words, and they won't go down
so easy, either. Left without so much as a fare-thee-well, didn't
he?”

“
He
left a note. A very kind note.
You understand nothing about him.”

“I
know a bad bargain when I see one, and I know more about him than I
want.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, the dowager leaned forward.
“He's been in money scrapes since he was eighteen years old,
and his father was forever digging him out.

By
the time Edenmont came into the title, he'd already pissed away half
the family fortune. It took him less than five years to run through
the rest.”

“Varian
is extravagant. I know that,” Esme said. She didn't want to
hear more.

He
let his estate go to pieces,” Lady Brentmor went on.
“He
made paupers of his two brothers.
In a few years he destroyed what it took generations to build. Thanks
to his softhearted pa, he'd never had to face the consequences, and
so he never learned to think of 'em. Never thought of anybody but
himself. So he goes to the Devil
—
which
is fair enough
—
only
it ain't fair he takes his kin with him.”

Esme's
head jerked back as though her grandmother had slapped her. She'd
simply thought of Varian as a penniless
pleasure
lover. Flawed, yes, deeply
flawed. She loved him, but she wasn't blind. She hadn't thought,
however, of the damage he'd done. Unintentionally
—
but
that only showed his thoughtlessness. This was his great crime
in her grandmother's eyes: Varian was not simply a libertine and
wastrel, but a destructive man. This was why she'd taken Esme in
—
to
protect her from him.

The
dowager was watching her. Esme straightened her posture but said
nothing. She didn't know what to say.

“I
suppose you think I was too hard on him, the way you think I was too
hard on your pa. Percival thinks so, too, don't you, Master
Ignoramus?”

“Well
...
y-yes
...
rather
...
that is
—”

“Because
you don't know a blessed thing. Because you're both ignorant babies.”
She fixed her scowl on Esme. “The path Edenmont took was the
same I'd seen your father starting on. Lots of men go that way, and
take their families with 'em. I could have fixed your father's mess
easy enough, and I can fix Edenmont's
—
though
that's a good deal worse. But I won't do for him what I wouldn't do
for my own son. I won't lift a finger, not when it'll only help him
make paupers of us all.”

“But,
Grandmama,” Percival began.

“He
got himself in, now let him dig himself out,” Lady Brentmor
said grimly. “If he cares as much for Esme as he claims
—
and
if he's got any self-respect
—
he'll
try at least.” As she turned back to Esme, her stern
countenance softened a fraction. “But I must tell you fair and
straight I don't think he's got it in him. Best face it now, I say.”

“You
mean he is not coming back,” Esme said. She folded her hands.
“I am not amazed. There is no welcome for him here, and he
cannot take me with him. I am only a burden. I can do nothing for
him.”

She
met her grandmother's gaze. “I understand your reasons,
Grandmother. Still, he saved my life, more than once. He is not evil.
He has tried to be kind to me, in his way. He even warned me against
him, many times. I shall not try to change your mind, but I ask you
to reflect upon these things. And pray for him, if nothing else.”

Percival,
who'd been fidgeting upon the unforgiving chair through this
exchange, darted his grandmother an anxious glance. “But,
Grandmama, you must give her the dowry.”

“Don't
tell me what I must. I don't take orders from ignorant children.”

Esme
sighed. “Oh, cousin. Do not vex our grandmother. I understand
that she does what she believes is best. There will be nothing for
Varian.” She started to rise.

“But
there
is.
Mama
left you the chess set, for your dowry. It's worth a great deal. Five
thousand, at least. Twice that, if y
ou
find
the right buyer.”

“Five
thousand?” Esme repeated. “My dowry?”

Her
grandmother stiffened. “You
mean to say you didn't know?”

“I'm
sorry,” Percival said to Esme. “But I was afraid to tell
you, in case Papa
—”

The
old woman swore at the room at large, then sank back wearily in her
chair. “Devil take me for a fool. Talk myself hoarse
—
and
all the while you'd no idea. Now we're in for it, and it's all my own
curst fault.”

“TWELVE
THOUSAND POUNDS,” Varian repeated. He appeared to be studying
the document his solicitor had given him. In fact, his lordship saw
only a blur of lines.

“But
of course you knew about your great-aunt's will, my lord. I sent you
a letter while you were in Spain.” Mr. Willoughby took up
another piece of paper. “I have your answer here. In it you
indicated
—”