Lord Iverbrook's Heir (2 page)

Seeing his quarry step towards the open door of the shop, his lordship called out, imperatively, “Bel!“

Mrs. Parcott, a frown marring her smooth brow, turned to see who dared thus rudely accost her in the street. Annoyance changed to delight. “Iverbrook!” she cried, letting go the arm of her companion and greeting the viscount with both hands.

“Beautiful as ever, Bel,” approved Lord Iverbrook, taking her hands, looking her up and down for a moment, then kissing her cheek.

The stout, middle-aged gentleman on whose arm she had been leaning coughed disapprovingly. Reminded of his presence, Mrs. Parcott presented him.

“Iverbrook, allow me to make known to you Sir Alfred Bagley. Sir Alfred, Lord Iverbrook is a very old friend . . ." her sultry voice paused “. . . of my late husband’s.”

His lordship, whose acquaintance with the deceased was limited to the occasional reminiscences of his widow, absorbed this without a blink and returned Sir Alfred’s bow. He noted with amusement the suspicious look in the gentleman’s eye.

“Your servant, sir,” he said, politely if untruthfully.

“And yours, my lord,” growled the other. “Amabel, we were about to . . ."

“La, Sir Alfred, if I have not quite forgot what it was I wished to purchase! And you were saying, not five minutes since, I vow, that you have an appointment at the Cocoa Tree. Upon my word, sir, you need not scruple to leave me in Lord Iverbrook’s care. I daresay he will be so good as to procure me a hackney carriage, for poor Mr. Parcott’s sake.”

“Certainly, ma’am. For poor Mr. Parcott’s sake, I will even engage to accompany you to your door. Good day, Sir Alfred.”

Leaving her bewildered escort fuming, the lady permitted Iverbrook to hand her into an expertly summoned hackney and take his seat beside her.

“So easily consoled!” he said provocatively.

“Hugh, he is nothing to me! But when you left without a word and were gone so long!”

“Is he rich?”

“You know perfectly well that Mr. Parcott left me in very easy circumstances. I wish you will not tease. Only I cannot live without a man to take care of me. Why did you go so suddenly?”

“There was the duel . . ."

“Fustian! You did not even kill your man. Indeed, it was commonly said that you both deloped.”

“True, it was a friendly match. But then, my agent in Jamaica dying at just that moment . . .”

“As though you could not have hired another without going there in person. Tell me truly, Hugh, why did you leave?”

“I was bored.”

“You are complimentary!”

“Oh, not with you, Bel.”

“With what, then?”

“With everything. With my life,” he said lightly.

“You were the envy of all your friends. Wealth enough to gratify every whim, and your stepfather running your estate so that you need never concern yourself with where it came from.”

“That was not by my choice.” His voice was tinged with unwonted bitterness, but seeing her puzzled frown he smiled. “Never mind, Bel, I don’t expect you to understand. That is long past now; I feel sure I should find farming a dead bore and am grateful to Mr. Ffinch-Smythe for his efforts on my behalf. So, I had plenty of the ready, a beautiful mistress, and not a care in the world, and was not satisfied. Unnatural, ain’t it? Come, give me a kiss for old times’ sake.”

In the course of the afternoon, Mrs. Parcott was persuaded to give my lord a great deal more than a kiss for old times’ sake. When at last he tore himself from her embrace, church bells were striking six all over the city.

“Let’s go to Brighton,” he proposed, “or Tunbridge, if you prefer. I have to fetch my nephew from his aunt first, and take him to Iver Place, but that shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

“Your nephew? The poor little orphan! A mother’s care is what he needs, I vow.”

“He’ll manage very well without.” Lord Iverbrook had issued his warning: if the Merry Widow chose to disregard it, that was her own affair.

Chapter 2

“This man of yours,” said Mr. Hastings, sipping his smuggled brandy appreciatively, “the one you brought from Jamaica: what exactly is it you want Dimbury to do for him?”

“Only to help him purchase appropriate clothing. You cannot suppose that I would know what apparel is suitable for an articled clerk.” Lord Iverbrook lounged back in his chair, looking somewhat piratical with a red Belcher handkerchief knotted loosely at his sun-bronzed throat.

Impeccable in a tight-fitting coat of blue superfine, a sapphire nestling in the exquisite folds of his neckcloth, Mr. Hastings snorted. “To all appearances, my dear fellow, you do not know what apparel is suitable for a peer of the realm! Dimbury would leave me on the instant if he so much as caught sight of such an object among my cravats. So he’s to be a lawyer, is he?”

“Joshua? Yes. Apropos, what sort of man is this Crowe of yours?”

“Old Crowe? Starchy as a dowager duchess, but he ain't let me land in the Marshalsea yet. His clerks are well fed, I’d say.”

“Good. You shall introduce us. I’d not willingly subject anyone to Hubble. Stap me, the fellow had the gall to haul me over the coals because I freed my slaves! And this business with the Whitton woman . . . Wait a bit, I knew I’d heard the name before!”

“I should rather think so, since your brother married one!”

“No, no. Sir Aubrey Whitton, that’s it. A counter-coxcomb living on the fringes of society in Kingston. A remittance man, I believe, who came into the title quite recently.”

“Black sheep of the family, eh?”

“Could be. Or possibly no connexion at all. Now, will you go with me to see Mr. Crowe tomorrow, while Dimbury takes Joshua to a snyder?”

After the magnificent meal he had just consumed, Mr. Hastings felt it would be discourteous in the extreme to refuse.

“By all means,” he murmured agreeably.

Dimbury was not so easily persuaded. At the outset of his career, Dimbury had decided that forty was the correct age for a gentleman’s gentleman. For twenty-five years now his appearance had matched that belief. He held equally strong views on all other matters pertaining to his chosen profession, the duties of which, he felt, included neither consorting with ex-slaves nor procuring raiment for articled clerks.

Mr. Hastings prevailed. Mr. Hastings usually prevailed, for he was the sort of master of whom an ambitious valet dreamed. Exquisite taste, sunny temper, never a hair out of place, and entrée to all the haunts of the ton where his servant’s handiwork might best be appreciated.

The next day Dimbury took Joshua shopping.

“An eloquent young man, sir,” he reported that evening, easing off his master’s boots with gloved hands. “I believe Mr. Joshua will be an excellent attorney. He told me some very shocking tales of his life as a slave.”

“Don’t want to hear ‘em! And if you turn political on me I’ll wear the pink and green muffler Aunt Mabel knitted me! I’ve heard nothing else from Hugh all day.”

“Lord Iverbrook has always been subject to sudden enthusiasms, sir,” soothed Dimbury, paling at the thought of the muffler.

“Yes, but he always does what he says he’s going to do, and I daresay he'll abolish slavery if it takes him twenty years, you mark my words!”

* * * *

Two days later, his business in London completed, Lord Iverbrook set out for Iver Place. His curricle had been hurriedly refurbished since his return to England, but the matched pair of greys had been out at grass for nearly two years. They trotted out of the mews with ponderous dignity.

“Sluggards!” commented the manservant perched behind his lordship. “Take ‘em easy now, m’lord. When I fetched ‘em up to town after I carried that letter to her la’ship, they was puffing like a grampus afore we’d gone ten mile.”

“Regular exercise will soon bring them into condition. They were once sweet goers! I look to you to take them out every day, Tom.”

“Yes, m’lord. We’ll soon have ‘em in prime twig again.”

Thomas Arbuckle, a stocky man with grizzled hair, was not precisely a groom. Nor would Dimbury have recognised his claim to be a valet, far less a gentleman’s gentleman. He made no such claim, describing himself as “his lordship’s man.” He kept the viscount’s clothes in order, drove his horses, ran errands, and had willingly followed him to the Indies in spite of turning green at the sight of the sea.

“Jamaica’s pretty enough, but there ain’t nowt to beat a bit of old England,” he said as they left the city behind them.

The road was in good condition after a week of sunshine and they had scarce twenty miles to go. In spite of letting the horses make their own pace, it was not yet noon when the carriage turned in between the brick gateposts of Iver Place.

To either side of the well-kept gravel drive purple heather bloomed, scattered with clumps of oak and silver birch. This land would grow no grain, nor even pasture for cattle, though there were short stretches of wiry grass where a few sheep grazed, raising their heads to watch the curricle go by. The only hint of the source of Lord Iverbrook’s wealth was a faint, nose-wrinkling aroma, borne by the breeze.

The trees grew closer and soon they were in a wood of mixed oak and beech. The dappled air was full now of grunts and squeals, and the odour was growing stronger.

“Devil take those pigs,” muttered his lordship, nostrils twitching.

A small boy with a stick urged a large sow off the drive as they approached. He stood watching them pass, openmouthed, then whistled shrilly and shouted: “‘Tis my lord come home!”

Half a dozen barefooted boys appeared, accompanied by twice as many equally curious swine. Finding the fuss was unrelated to food, the pigs trotted back to their foraging among the acorns and beechmast, while the viscount dug in his pocket for a few sixpences.

The boys raced to open the gate at the end of the wood, and grinned shyly as he distributed the silver coins. “Thank ‘ee, sir,” said one, bolder than the rest, and breaking into giggles they scattered among the trees.

Lord Iverbrook gazed down the hillside at the home of his ancestors. Iver Place was a long, low house built in the local brick and flint style. A singularly ugly example, his lordship thought, not for the first time. Succeeding generations had added wings here, courtyards there, until strangers needed a map to find their way from bedchamber to parlour, and food invariably arrived cold after travelling the endless corridors from kitchen to dining room. Hugh and Gil, as small boys, had had their games of hide-and-seek frustrated by too many hiding places. The seeker generally gave up in despair.

The small park was neatly mowed, and the house had an air of peace and prosperity. As his lethargic team drew the curricle up to the front entrance, the viscount noted a pair of topiary pigs among the lions and peacocks carved by careful hands from the yews in the shrubbery. He sniffed the air. Nothing but the green smell of new-cut grass reached his nose. At least his stepfather had had the sense to build his breeding yards downwind of the house and out of sight.

Tom jumped down from his perch. He ran up the brick steps and tugged on the huge brass bellpull, then went to the horses’ heads.

The butler who swung open the door had aged visibly during Iverbrook’s long absence, but his gaze was as steely as ever. His “Welcome home, my lord,” held no hint of warmth.

“Hello, Prynn,” said the viscount, then found himself explaining his arrival on his own estate. “My mother’s expecting me, I believe.”

“Her ladyship has been awaiting your arrival for some hours, my lord. Her ladyship is not, at present, as robust as one might wish.”

Lord Iverbrook at once felt guilty for being late, though his letter had not specified any particular hour, and for not having yet enquired after Lady Lavinia’s health. “Is she in her boudoir?” he asked. “I’ll go to her right away.”

“Yes, my lord. Surely your lordship does not intend to appear in her ladyship’s presence in your driving apparel?”

“Certainly not. Have I not already given you my gloves and my hat?”

Before the servant could respond with more than a shocked look, the angry viscount strode across the cavernous hall and took the stairs two at a time.

Several hundred feet of draughty passages and stairs, hung with insignificant portraits of insignificant forebears, cooled his temper. By the time he tapped on his mother’s door, he was once again calm and resolved upon his course of action.

The door opened immediately and into the lifeless air of the corridor wafted a potpourri of heavy scents. A gaunt, grey-haired female, at least as tall as he, confronted him with an accusing glare.

“You needn’t knock loud enough to wake the dead! Poor Lady Lavinia, not a wink of sleep all night, aching head all morning, and now her own son has no more compassion than to come battering down the door!”

He had forgotten his mother’s companion.

“Hugh?” came a weak voice from the dimly lit room behind the gorgon. “Is it indeed you, my darling boy? My head is quite better, Agnes. Pray draw the curtains back so that I can see my darling boy.”

Hugh crossed the room, fell to one knee beside his mother’s couch, and kissed her hand and powder-perfumed cheek. As daylight entered, he saw that she was dressed in a flowing, mist grey robe, with a tiny wisp of a lace cap adding to her appearance of fragility.

“Still pretty as a picture, Mama,” he said. “How are you?”

She clung to his hand. “You have been gone so long, Hugh. And I am never well when you are gone, I fear. I have been quite worried about you. It was very naughty in you not to write more often.”

The old, familiar impatience rose in Hugh but he swallowed his retort. “I beg your pardon. I was very busy but I should have found the time. Now I’m home, though, I have a great deal to talk about with you.”

“Oh, Hugh, I do hope you are not going to be dreary. If you tell me again that I must live in the Dower House, you know it will bring on a Spasm. Agnes, my vinaigrette!”

“Yes, I know,” said the viscount grimly, moving aside as Miss Sneed bore down upon him waving a cut-glass vial. The pungent aroma made him cough.

“Just to drive past that place gives me the vapours,” announced Lady Lavinia, revivified. “Your poor Aunt Fanny died there of a consumption and your sainted Papa vowed I should never have to live there. The house is damp. And say what you will, I
cannot
think of Ffinch House as home.”