The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter: A Victorian Romance Page 3

  Valentine shot up from her seat and straight out of Mr. Sinclair’s greatcoat. It fell from her shoulders, dropping to the debris-covered floor to pool around her feet. Mr. Sinclair rose just as rapidly. He reached out to her, but she instinctively backed away, her shoulders bumping into one of the splintered pillars of the folly. Her heart beat a rapid, panicked rhythm in her chest. It fairly stole her breath away. “Y-you are Lord St. Ashton?”

  “If you’ll allow me to explain—”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Oh, how could you.”

  Mr. Sinclair looked stricken. But it was not Mr. Sinclair at all. It was the Viscount St. Ashton. She could see the truth plainly on his face. He held her gaze as he took a step toward her. “Miss March—”

  She flattened herself against the pillar.

  “What in blazes is going on, St. Ashton?” Quinton asked in a great booming voice. He climbed the steps to join them. “Don’t you know the earl’s here? Back at the house waiting for you? Come, man, the sooner you speak with him the sooner he’ll quit the place.” Quinton’s eyes came to rest on Valentine’s face. “And then the real fun can begin.”

  Valentine lunged away from the pillar and ran down the steps, nearly falling over a broken board as she went. She thought she heard someone call out to her, “Miss March!” But she didn’t heed it. She clutched her heavy skirts and ran through the woods as fast as her legs could carry her. Tree branches with wet leaves whipped at her face and body. Droplets of rainwater and mud spattered her gown and her hair. But she didn’t stop. She kept running until she was within sight of the kitchen entrance to Fairford House.

  Once there, she leaned against the wall outside the door, breathing heavily and clutching the stitch in her side with one trembling hand.

  “You there!” someone shouted. “Ain’t you Lady Brightwell’s new companion?”

  Valentine squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before answering. “Yes!”

  “She’s been asking for you this last hour. Ringing that bell of hers ’til she damned near broke the bell-pull.”

  Valentine looked at the young footman who addressed her. He was painfully thin with a self-important gleam in his small rat-like eyes.

  “If I was you,” he advised, “I’d have a care about losing me place.”

  “Yes, thank you. I shall go to Lady Brightwell at once.” She moved toward the kitchen door, but he stepped in front of her.

  “Not so fast,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously. “You look different.”

  Valentine was at the limits of her endurance. “I’m not at all interested in your opinion of my appearance, sir.”

  The footman grinned, showing two chipped front teeth. “I know what it is. You’ve taken off them spectacles of yours.”

  “My spectacles?” Valentine’s hand flew instinctively to her face. They were gone! She must have left them in the folly.

  And suddenly, with a sickening sense of despair, she realized that her spectacles were not the only thing she’d left behind on her mad flight from the folly. The last remaining page of her book of Bible verses was there, too. She had dropped it when she leapt from her seat and forgotten it completely in her desperate dash back to the house.

  Now it was as good as gone.

  The last remnant of her mother’s legacy to her.

  Out there somewhere in the woods. At the mercy of one of the worst rakes in England.

  The library at Fairford House had seen better days. The carpets were worn, the chairs in desperate need of reupholstering, and the motley collection of books appeared not to have been dusted in an age. A newly made fire burned weakly in the grate, doing little to take the chill out of the room and even less to diminish the scent of damp, rotting wood.

  “Fairford never was the bookish sort.” Richard Augustus Sinclair, 6th Earl of Lynden, lowered himself into a poorly sprung armchair. It sagged under his weight. “Nor was his father.”

  Tristan leaned against the mantel, a porcelain figure of a frolicking fawn in his hand. He turned it in his fingers, idly examining the tasteless ornament before returning it to its brethren on the cluttered mantelshelf. “I had forgotten that you were acquainted with the last Baron Fairford.”

  “I knew of him. Can’t say I was ever fool enough to accept an invitation to his home.”

  “Unlike me?”

  Now in his late sixties, the Earl of Lynden looked every bit of his age. His hair had gone completely gray. His stern face was lined, his tall, broad-shouldered frame slightly bent under the weight of his years. This was a man who’d buried a much-beloved wife. A man who’d seen his youngest son return from fighting in the Crimea, damaged almost beyond repair. A hard man. And, at least in Tristan’s experience, a damnably unforgiving one.

  “Unlike you,” Lord Lynden concurred.

  Tristan folded his arms. The action played havoc with the line of his frock coat. Higgins would be none too pleased. He had just spent over an hour fussing about like a pestilent gnat while Tristan bathed, shaved, and dressed in a fresh suit of clothes. “I don’t make it a habit,” he said. “In truth, I’ve only accepted invitations here on two prior occasions. The last was more than two years ago.”

  “As I’m well aware. What I wonder is why you accepted this one.”

  “And what I wonder is how you found me. On the very day of my arrival, too. If I didn’t know better, I would think I had a spy in my household.”

  Lord Lynden didn’t deny it. “There are some amongst your staff who still have their heads on straight.”

  Tristan could not repress a scowl. No doubt it was that secretary of his. Musgrove. Confound his impudence. He was always popping his head up from his duties, spouting the most infernal advice. “He’ll be looking for a new position soon,” he muttered.

  His father was unmoved. “Elizabeth expects the family down at Sinclair House for Christmas,” he said. “I understand she wrote you a letter.”

  Tristan liked his brother’s wife well enough, though what she saw in John, he had no idea. The two had married last year, igniting something of a scandal. A true love match, people said. Tristan didn’t doubt it. He’d seen them together.

  An experience he didn’t care to repeat more often than he must.

  There was something profoundly disquieting about his younger brother being settled happily in the country with his sweet, beautiful wife and infant son. It wasn’t that Tristan begrudged them their happiness—God knew John deserved it after what he’d suffered during the war—but the sight of that happiness made Tristan’s own life seem so incredibly empty by comparison.

  “Is that the reason behind your sudden flight to North Yorkshire? A wish to avoid spending Christmas in Devonshire?”

  “That would be an extreme reaction.”

  “For some. For you, it would be typical.” Lord Lynden paused before asking, “Are you jealous of him?”

  “Of John?” Tristan laughed. “Not likely.”

  “You could have the same as he has if you wanted it.”

  “A wife like Elizabeth? That’s doubtful. Besides, you assume I want the life John has.” Tristan turned his head to look at his father. “I ask you, when have I ever wished to retire permanently to the country?”

  Lord Lynden contemplated his eldest son with a frown. “You may no longer have a choice.”

  “At last,” Tristan murmured. “We get to the substance of your visit.” He pushed himself from the mantel and moved leisurely to take a seat across from his father. “So what’s it to be this time? Do you intend to exile me to the country?”

  “It’s not in my power to exile you.”

  “I believe it is, sir. The only property I own outright is Blackburn Priory.”

  “An estate you’ve neglected since I gave it to you on your twenty-first birthday.”

  Tristan felt his temper rising. The estate in Northumberland was an ongoing bone of contention between him and his father. “A falling-down heap in the middle of nowhere, which you expected a lad to remove
to and revive singlehanded.”

  “Not just any lad,” Lord Lynden growled. “My son. My heir. Instead you’ve spent over a decade drinking and whoring and gambling away a fortune in cards. At five and twenty, I thought it was out of your system. And then at thirty and every year since. No more, I tell you. No more money. No more credit. If you wish an income, earn it from your own estate. Go to Northumberland and do what you should have done eleven years ago. I’ll not see the earldom bankrupted by your vices.”

  Tristan had been expecting just such a threat. Nevertheless, his father’s words chilled him to the bone. “You won’t have failed to notice that my expenses have fallen dramatically in the past two years,” he replied in a surprisingly steady voice. “I’m hardly bankrupting the earldom.”

  “No, indeed. It seems to me that you spend the majority of your time alone. Alone and drunk. That’s what worries me most of all.”

  Damn Musgrove! Tristan fumed silently, imagining how satisfying it would be to throttle the man. Who else could have relayed such mortifying information to the earl? “My secretary has painted a grim picture for you. Though not, I regret, an entirely accurate one.”

  Lord Lynden’s frown deepened. “Look at yourself, my boy. When have you last eaten properly? When have you slept? And then, to rouse yourself enough to come here, when you should be with your family. What the devil’s the matter with you? I know that for once it’s not a woman. That’s something, at least. But by God, it’s not enough, sir.”

  “I daresay if I took a wife and sired a passel of brats you’d feel differently.”

  “Perhaps once, but I’ve long given up my hopes of your choosing anyone suitable.” Lord Lynden shook his head in defeat. “No. I’ve finished with you, Tristan. Go to Northumberland and do what you will there. Drink yourself into an early grave. Scatter the countryside with your by-blows—”

  “My by-blows?” Tristan had the sudden urge to laugh. Or to cry. He didn’t know which. “If this is more of the rot Musgrove’s been feeding you, then let me tell you that he’s got it wrong, sir.”

  “Has he.”

  “I’ve never sired even one bastard, let alone enough bastards to populate the county of Northumberland.”

  This revelation seemed to give Lord Lynden pause. “Not a one?” he asked with ill-disguised concern.

  To Tristan’s chagrin he felt himself turning a dull red. “I’m more than capable, sir,” he bit out. “If you must know, I’ve always taken…precautions.”

  “Ah.” Lord Lynden settled back in his chair with relief. “Frankly, that’s more than I would have expected of you. But no matter. You may have failed in your duty to marry and set up your nursery, but John has not. As it stands, Charles will inherit the earldom when you and your brother are gone. And I intend to preserve it for him.”

  Charles Augustus Sinclair. Damnation, he was not even one year old! “I wouldn’t be too hasty on that score,” Tristan said. “Lest you forget, Charles is an infant and I’m a man in my prime. I may yet marry and sire a legitimate heir.”

  Lynden snorted. “I shall believe that when I see it.”

  “Even if I don’t, I intend to live a good long while.”

  “At the rate you’re going? Between the curricle races, the dueling, and the drink, you’ll be lucky to live another ten years.”

  Tristan glared at him. It had been years since he participated in a carriage race. As for dueling… Bloody hell. That had been a single instance of stupidity at Oxford. A drunken lark at the age of seventeen. Shots had been fired, true, but to categorize it as a duel was a stretch. And he’d certainly never repeated the behavior. Not with pistols, at any rate.

  “I see you’ve accounted for everything,” he said at last.

  “I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”

  “And how long do I have before you cut off my funds?”

  “The first of the year seems reasonable enough, assuming you see your way to spending Christmas in Devonshire.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I shall send a wire to my secretary, instructing him that no more money is to be advanced to you and no more of your creditors are to be paid. Effective immediately.”

  Tristan reminded himself again that he’d expected this. That he’d known his father was nearing the end of his patience and that drastic action was soon to be forthcoming. The knowledge did nothing to prevent him from feeling as if his entire world had just been brutally upended. “So I’m to leave Devonshire after Christmas and make straight for Northumberland? With no funds at my disposal to repair the estate?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what if I should marry before then?”

  Lord Lynden folded his hands across his midsection. “In the next two weeks?” he asked with a chuckle of disbelief. “Do you have someone in mind?”

  The short answer was no, but these were desperate times. Tristan promptly blurted out the first name that popped into his head: “Felicity Brightwell.”

  His father had plainly not been expecting an answer. And he had certainly not been expecting the one that Tristan gave him. “Hortensia Brightwell’s chit?” His face darkened like a thundercloud. “By God, sir. Is that the sort of creature you imagine as the next Countess of Lynden? The lady to wear your mother’s jewels? Preside over your mother’s house?”

  Again, the answer was no. Tristan could not see Felicity Brightwell wearing his mother’s jewels—though she would undoubtedly relish doing so. Neither could he see her presiding over the great house in Hampshire. The truth was, he didn’t like Felicity Brightwell at all. Though technically well bred, she was as vulgar as her mother. Not that he hadn’t consorted with vulgar women before, but a wife was something different. A wife was meant to be gentle, gracious, intelligent, and kind.

  Like his own mother had been.

  Like John’s wife was now.

  Even so, he might have been able to stomach marrying Felicity Brightwell. He might even have been able to rouse himself to get an heir off of her.

  Up until the moment he learned how she’d behaved toward Valentine March.

  Tristan raked a hand through his hair, remembering the look on Miss March’s face when that oaf Quinton had called him St. Ashton.

  “Don’t say you’re in love with her,” Lord Lynden scoffed.

  “What?”

  “The Brightwell chit.”

  “Oh. Her.” Tristan rubbed his jaw. “No. I’m not in love with anyone. But Miss Brightwell is here.”

  “Here? In North Yorkshire?”

  “Here in this house.” Tristan ignored his father’s exclamation of disapproval. “She’s come here in pursuit of me, apparently.”

  “What the devil kind of unmarried female attends a gathering like this?”

  “One who very much wants to be the next Countess of Lynden.”

  The Earl of Lynden looked at his son with blank outrage. “I’ll not have it. Do you hear me? I’ll not have it.”

  “You can hardly prevent it.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, my boy.” Lord Lynden rose from his chair, signaling the end of their interview.

  Tristan stood as well and, in grim silence, followed his father to the library doors. It occurred to him that he should say something more in his defense. That he should argue with his father or even make an impassioned plea for some little leniency. But reasoning with his implacable sire had never yielded any results in the past. And abject pleading had only ever earned him a greater measure of his contempt. “When do you return to Hampshire?” he asked.

  “At first light.”

  “And tonight? Has Lady Fairford arranged a room for you here?”

  Lord Lynden’s lip curled with disdain. As if the very thought of spending a night in such a den of iniquity was repellent to him. “I have taken rooms at the Golden Hind.”

  “Lord and Lady Fairford will expect you to stay for dinner at least.”

  “Dine? Here? Don’t be absurd. I’ve a private p
arlor at the inn. I shall have my dinner there.”

  They emerged from the library into the main hall of Fairford House. Tristan opened his mouth to respond to his father, but at the unexpected sight of Valentine March he swallowed his words.

  She was hurrying down the staircase, the skirts of her gown clutched lightly in one hand and a folded Indian shawl in the other. She was without her spectacles, of course. She’d left them behind in the folly. But any improvement to her features was overshadowed by a new addition to her unflattering companion’s uniform—a dowdy little cap that covered all but a few locks of her pale golden hair.

  As she descended, she raised her head and their eyes met. She immediately looked away, continuing down the final few steps with an added burst of speed. As if she could not get away from him fast enough. As if she believed she might escape him as easily as she had when she ran from the folly.

  He strode toward her, his father temporarily forgotten. “Miss March.”

  She came to an abrupt halt, the Indian shawl clutched tight to her bosom. “Lord St. Ashton.” She sounded a trifle breathless. Whether from the exertion of running down the stairs or the anxiety of seeing him again, he could not tell. “I beg you would excuse me. I must take Lady Brightwell her shawl.” She made a motion to walk past him.

  Tristan moved instinctively to block her path. “A moment if you please.”

  “My lord?”

  My lord. There was a wealth of meaning in that simple address. No doubt she thought he’d lied to her. That he’d been having a private laugh at her expense or, even worse, that he’d been embarking on a seduction. Though how she could imagine he was trying to seduce her, he had no idea. He’d approached her in the folly with a startling lack of finesse. Indeed, he could not recall having ever been so clumsy and churlish with a woman.

  “I have your…” What the devil to call it? Her drawing? Her psalms? “Your paper,” he said lamely. “The one you left behind in the folly.”