Lord Iverbrook's Heir (4 page)

Selena sneezed again, as the breeze brought a swirl of dust and pollen. It was going to be a long day.

* * * *

Under the blazing midday sun, a curricle drove slowly down the deserted village street. Lord Iverbrook reined his sweating team to a halt before the inn. Though a faded sign over the door proclaimed the Cross and Gaiters, it was scarcely more than a hedge-tavern. No eager ostler ran out to enquire as to how he might serve the travellers; even mine host seemed uninterested in his aristocratic guest.

Iverbrook removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a damp and crumpled handkerchief.

“Go ask the way to Milford Manor, Tom,” he ordered, “and bring some ale back with you, if this godforsaken place can produce such a thing.”

While his servant trudged into the silent inn, he looked around. The dusty street came to an abrupt end here on the riverbank. Near a small jetty, a solitary coot bobbed in the water; its bright, cynical eyes seemed to regard him with amusement.

The opposite side of the river was lined with a tangle of willows upstream; downstream he could see well-tended watermeadows, dotted with black and white cattle. Beyond these, the bank rose higher above the water, and there terraced gardens led up to an attractive brick and stone house.

The viscount turned and looked back down the street. Thatched, whitewashed cottages, with candytuft and gilliflowers wilting in the gardens; a pleasant enough place, no doubt, were it not for this infernal heat. He wiped his face again.

Tom emerged from the dim recesses of the inn, bearing an earthenware mug. He watched his master drain the ale at a draught before he spoke.

“It’s the wrong Milford, m’lord,” he said expressionlessly.

“What the devil do you mean, the wrong Milford? We're in Berkshire, aren’t we? Near Abingdon?”

“Yes, m’lord. Seems as how this is Milford Abbot, and what we wants is Kings Milford. In Oxfordshire.”

“Devil fly away with that lawyer! Berkshire, he told me.”

“Yes, m’lord. The landlord explained as the local Receiving Office is in Abingdon, which is in Berkshire, so the direction for the mails . . ."

“To the devil with the mails! Where is this other Milford then?”

Tom hooked a philosophical thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Milford Manor over there, m’lord. On t’other side of the Thames.”

Lord Iverbrook held his breath for a long moment, then let it out in a sigh and grinned wryly.

“He did tell me Kings Milford. I ought to have given you more precise instructions when you enquired in Wallingford. I suppose all these ‘fords’ are merely a manner of speaking?”

“I wouldn’t advise trying to drive across, m’lord. There’s usually a boat, a skiff the landlord said, but all the men are gone to harvesting over there. There’s a bridge about four miles on, seemingly, in Abingdon.”

“Abingdon it is then. I trust the place also has a decent posting-house. I’ll leave you there with the horses and hire a pair. We’ll rack up there tonight.”

* * * *

“But, Grandmama, Aunt Sena
promised
I can go harvesting if I be good!”

“Your aunt is still waiting for Lord Iverbrook, Peter, and besides, she has the headache. Be a love and fetch me the jar marked ‘hyssop’. An infusion with a little honey and oil of almonds will do her a world of good.”

Peter obediently fetched the herb, but repeated sadly, “She
promised.”

“Of course I did!” Selena entered the odiferous stillroom at that moment, attired in a most becoming morning dress of amber crepe. "Mama, I am quite out of patience with Iverbrook and will not await his pleasure any longer.”

“How is your head, dearest? I was just preparing a draught of hyssop for you.”

“I am vastly better, thanks to your mullein tea. I will try the hyssop next time. It smells delicious. Peterkin, do you go and ask Finny to dress you for the fields. You will need stout shoes for walking across the stubble. I will change too, and meet you at the stables.”

“I want to ride with Jem. Can I ride with Jem, Aunt Sena? ‘Cos Jem says ‘Rion is a lady’s horse and I’m not a lady. So can I?”

“Jem’s cob is so very large,” said Lady Whitton anxiously. “I think Peter will be safer with you, Selena.”

“Jem is very trustworthy, and Pippin is a docile beast, not to say phlegmatic. Peter will come to no harm if he behaves himself.”

“I’ll be good, Grandmama. You can come and see me riding Pippin, will you?”

“Off you go to Nurse, young man, or you’ll not be riding at all!”

* * * *

Not long after Pippin and Orion trotted out of the stable yard, Lord Iverbrook’s curricle drew up at the front door of the Manor. He sat for a moment looking at the house, before tossing the reins to the postboy.

Close up, it seemed even more attractive. It was built mostly of a fawn-coloured stone, embellished with decorative red brick, though parts of the facade were Tudor style black and white. A curious mixture, but somehow the whole was harmonious. The mullioned windows gleamed and the open door offered a welcome.

The butler who answered Iverbrook’s ring invited him into the cool hallway, redolent of lemon oil and beeswax.

“Miss Whitton is out, my lord,” he said apologetically. “I fear she is not expected to return for some time. If your lordship would wish to see Lady Whitton, I shall enquire as to whether her ladyship is at home.”

“My business is with Miss Whitton . . . but I daresay I ought to pay my respects to Lady Whitton,” responded the viscount with annoyance. As the butler bowed and withdrew, he wondered a shade anxiously whether he would recognise Gil’s mother-in-law. He had no more recollection of her than of her daughters, except for Phoebe, though they must certainly have been introduced at the wedding.

The butler returned.

“It seems her ladyship is also out, my lord. I had thought her to be in the stillroom but Mrs. Tooting says she walked down to the village, and Miss Delia with her. Will your lordship wait?”

“Dash it, I’ve no alternative! Is it customary in this household for everyone to leave when a visitor is expected? I suppose my letter was received?”

“I cannot take it upon myself to say, my lord,” reproved Bannister.

“What about my nephew? Mr. Carrick’s son. At least I can go up to the nursery and see him!”

“I understand, my lord, that Master Peter rode out with Miss Selena. Miss Whitton, that is. Perhaps your lordship would care to take some refreshment in the drawing room? Or, the gardens are particularly fine at this season."

The irate viscount had no desire to see the gardens, but the thought of being shut up in a stuffy drawing room to cool his heels was still less bearable. “Bring me some ale in the garden, dammit,” he growled, then smiled his sweet, rueful smile. “I beg your pardon! I should not come to cuffs with you only because your mistresses’ notions of courtesy do not suit mine. Refreshments in the garden, if you please, and if possible, a newspaper. And notify me the instant Miss Whitton returns!”

The gardens were peaceful, full of humming bees and the fragrance of roses and spicy marigolds. Brick steps led down from terrace to terrace to the river bank, where Lord Iverbrook found a comfortable bench in the shade of an oak. The Thames slid by, green-brown, smooth, hypnotic.

A pretty maidservant in white cap and apron appeared, bearing a tray. “Here’s your ale, my lord,” she said, bobbing a curtsey, “and a bit of lardycake. Cook baked it just this morning and it’s right good. Oh, and the paper. Mr. Bannister said to tell you it’s just
Jackson's Oxford Journal
and is there anything else I can get you, my lord?”

“Not unless you can produce your mistress.”

“Oh no, sir. Miss Selena’s at the harvest and my lady’s took a salve to Miss Pauley’s cookmaid as burned her hand. My lady’s better nor any ‘pothercary. Excuse me, my lord. Mrs. Tooting said to come straight back.”

So Miss Selena had gone to watch the reapers, had she? She had not even the excuse of a prior social engagement to plead for her absence. My lord sank his teeth into the sticky lardycake, full of plump raisins, as if he were a mastiff and the sweetmeat Miss Whitton's ankle.

Chapter 4

By the time Selena returned from the fields, her headache was back in full force. The dust raised by the reapers had, as usual, made her sneeze till her nose and eyes were red; Peter had fallen over and scratched his hands; and a gypsy had come to blows with one of the locals, leading to the premature departure of all the itinerants.

“Good riddance,” Jem had snorted, but John Peabody had cocked a weather eye at the sky and muttered forebodingly, “Hope it holds fair.”

Selena entered the house through the side door from the stables. As she and Peter passed the butler’s pantry, Bannister popped out.

“His lordship’s here, Miss Selena.”

“Iverbrook? I’d forgot him! I’ll go and change and be with him shortly.”

“He’s been waiting near two hours already, miss. He’s in the garden, pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage."

“Oh dear! Perhaps I had best go straight out. Thank you, Bannister. Peter, you run up to Nurse and have her put some of Grandmama’s ointment on your hands.”

Selena glanced in the gilt-framed mirror in the hall and poked ineffectually at her hair. It would take more than a couple of minutes to set the flaxen curls to rights, without considering her shabby riding dress. It was six years since Phoebe’s wedding, when the viscount had displayed an arrogant disregard for her person. If she had been beneath his notice then, the intervening time could hardly have raised her in his esteem. Her chin tilted defiantly, Selena went out into the garden.

His lordship was indeed pacing up and down, but his tall, lean form brought to mind a picture she had once seen of a giraffe, not the moth-eaten tiger that had come with the fair to Abingdon last year. She stood at the top of the steps for a moment, watching him. Certainly not romantically handsome—Delia’s memory had been looking through rose-coloured spectacles. How he might look without the wrathful expression that presently distorted his regular features, she could not guess.

“My lord!” she called.

He came towards her eagerly, relief at the ending of his long wait overcoming his resentment. As he reached the terrace below her, he took in her unkempt appearance and hesitated.

“Miss Whitton?”

“We have met before, sir.” Selena’s voice was cold. “I must apologise for having kept you waiting.”

“I should dashed well hope so!” exploded the viscount. “I’ve been here forever. I informed you that I was coming, did I not?”

“You did not specify the hour.
I
waited for you for two hours, but I had pressing business elsewhere and could not spend the entire afternoon attending your convenience. Enough said. We must not quarrel when we are scarcely out of mourning. I most sincerely condole with you on the loss of your brother, my lord.”

“And I with you on Phoebe’s death.”

“Gil was a gentleman of superior understanding and morals, and he made my sister very happy. I expect you will wish to see their child?”

“Such was my purpose in coming here today. I intend to relieve you of the responsibility of caring for my nephew, Miss Whitton. He will reside at Iver, as befits my heir.”

Selena thought she must have misheard. Then she wondered if he could possibly be jesting on such a subject. She descended a few steps, trying to read his face.

“Surely you cannot be serious?” she said uncertainly.

“Never more so. You cannot expect me to allow him to be bred up among the petty squirearchy, and in a household of females besides. It was generous of you to give him a home during my absence, but now that I am returned he should be under my protection.”

“I suppose you will concern yourself intimately with his upbringing? You are going to make your home at Iver, I collect?”

“I shall set up his nursery there, and visit him frequently. My mother is in residence, of course."

“A household of females, in fact, and indifferent females at that! Lady Lavinia has not once sought to see her grandson since Gil died. Peter is an orphan, Iverbrook. He needs affection and stability, not to be left with servants!”

“I have no intention of abandoning him. Properly chosen servants are perfectly capable of bringing up a child. That is how Gil and I were brought up, and you expressed your admiration for Gilbert not five minutes past.”

“But none for you! Believe me, my lord, I have heard tales of your rakish life, and if only the half of them are true you are no fit person to have charge of a small boy!”

“So now we come to the meat of the matter! On the basis of scandalmongers’ gossip you would deny me the right to be guardian of my heir!”

“You
have no such right. Peter is legally my ward, and I shall never betray the trust your brother and my sister reposed in me.”

“I shall contest the will. The law cannot but consider a Peer of the Realm a more fitting guardian than a totty-headed female.”

“This is Peter’s home. There is no more to be said. As his uncle you may visit him as often as you wish, I assure you. I shall take care to be absent when you call! Good-bye, my lord.”

Selena’s head was pounding, blinding her. As she turned to leave, she tripped on the step. The viscount’s hand was instantly on her arm, steadying her.

“Let me go,” she said icily, and stumbled into the house.

Iverbrook watched her go, torn between fury and admiration. The last thing he wanted was to go to law over the boy, for he was as aware as his lawyer that the case might drag on for years. Damn the wench for forcing him to it! All the same, she was a well-plucked ‘un! Amabel would have coaxed, his mother would have collapsed in hysterics, but Miss Whitton rattled in, game as a pebble, and gave as good as she got. He followed her into the house.

After the sunshine, the room seemed dark. He stood blinking, letting his eyes adjust.

“Borage!” said a voice suddenly. “You must be Gilbert’s brother Hugh. You look hot, and I certainly am. There's nothing more refreshing than a glass of lemonade with a sprig of borage. Do sit down, Hugh, while I ring the bell.”