Wolfe studied the woman the children seemed to tolerate better than any of the others who had attempted to manage them. She had never been cruel, nor had she ever taken it upon herself to fill their heads with hurtful opinions that would make them think themselves any more unwanted than they already felt they were. After so much trouble with the last governess, he had repeatedly asked Connor and Sissy about Miss Hannah’s treatment of them. They always told him she was fair and reliable—she just never exhibited any emotions toward them. Itwas as if they were expensive trinkets she had been charged to guard and keep well dusted. At least, that was what Sissy had told him, and Connor had nodded his agreement.
“You are not to be dismissed,” Wolfe told the nervous maid. “See to the children’s tea and ensure Mr. George aids Hector, as I instructed.”
Miss Hannah curtsied again. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will.” Still unsmiling but not in an unkind way, she shooed the children toward the main house.
Wolfe had taken naught but a few steps farther before a stable lad met him and took possession of his mount. His horse, loyal Tenebrae, so titled with the Latin word for darkness because of the gleaming blackness of his coat, planted his enormous feet and refused to move until Wolfe nodded permission.
Buoyed by the horse’s devotion, Wolfe’s spirits fell as he turned toward the house and spied the tall, bony-faced Lady Longmorten headed his way. He had often wondered if the matron’s disposition would improve if she ate more—or ate at all, for that matter. All he ever recalled her doing at meals was picking at her food and rearranging it on her plate. As far as he had noticed, she never actually consumed anything.
“Your Grace,” she said with her usual shrillness that always triggered the same unpleasantness as metal scraping against stone. “I just passed Lady Susannah. The girl has completely ruined her gown. I am sure those rips can’t be repaired. The embroidery along the hemline is frayed beyond all recognition, and that muslin shall never be white again with all those grass stains.”
His ability to be civil had worn dangerously thin, so he drew in a deep breath through his nose, held it for a long moment, then whistled it out through his clenched teeth. “LadyLongmorten, it appears you are more concerned about my sister’s wardrobe than her wellbeing. Might I inquire as to why?”
Mouth agape, the woman stared at him as if he were the devil himself—which lifted his spirits considerably. Perhaps he should practice curtness toward the dowager countess more often.
“My concern for the child is all encompassing,” she finally said, her pale blue eyes snapping. “I could plainly see she was unharmed even though the same could not be said for her attire.” She marched forward with the stomping grace of an angry bull about to charge. “Lady Susannah’s future would be better served traveling abroad with my cousin, the one I spoke to you about. Lady Gransorrie would see to her proper training and return her to you as she should be.”
“Both my sister and brother are exactly as theyshould be.” Wolfe advanced on her, forcing her to retreat several steps. “While you and Lady Margaret are welcome guests, your advice is not. How I see fit to care for my only remaining family is no one’s affair but my own. Is that understood, Lady Longmorten?”
The dowager jutted her long, angular chin even higher. “While my daughter is not yet your wife, Your Grace, she has been a promised member of your family since she was born. My advice is not ill-intentioned but rendered for the benefit of all. I feel certain Lady Susannah would come to thank me someday.”
Wolfe forced a polite bow. “This conversation, along with my patience, has reached its end, Lady Longmorten. I shall see you and Lady Margaret at dinner—and not before, if either of you value your sensibilities.”
He strode past her, allowing himself a faint smile when she fired an indignant huff after him. The insufferable woman should be thankful he had reined in the inclination to suggest that she and her daughter were more than welcome to take rooms at the local inn rather than remain guests at Wolfebourne Lodge. In fact, he would gladly pay for the length of their stay.The coin it would cost him would be a great deal less painful than their presence in his home.
Gads, he should have told her every bit of that. He berated himself for allowing that opportunity to slip through his fingers. The moment was past.
By the time he reached the library, his jaws ached from clenching his teeth, a habit that had become more prevalent the longer he found himself in the company of the two Longmorten women. He realized his father had initiated the childhood engagement because an astonishingly impressive dowry that included a great deal of land came along with Lady Margaret. But, gads alive, Wolfe wished his sire had allowed him to find his own wife. He couldn’t help but wonder how Lady Margaret’s father, an earl known to frequent the gaming hells, had managed to set aside such a sizeable amount for his only child and not gambled it away. But Wolfe’s solicitor and banker had assured him the funds were there along with the deeds to the land.
And he didn’t deny the dowry had its appeal, but unfortunately, Lady Margaret did not. The young woman was the spitting image of her mother and always looked ready to bite someone whenever she smiled. If she someday sprouted fangs, Wolfe would not be surprised in the least.
Currently, she exhibited a somewhat more pleasing demeanor than her mother, but it was feigned. The lady fawned all over him as if he had descended from the very gods themselves. But occasionally, her true nature reared its ugly, spiteful head, and she had to hurry to tamp it back down.
An involuntary shudder swept through him. He was well and truly trapped, since men were bound by their word, even though that word was his father’s. Lady Margaret and her mother would not hesitate to sue him for breach of promise were he to break the engagement, and he refused to allow such damage not only to his reputation but to the Wolfebourne estate.
As soon as he stepped into his almost cavelike library, perfumed with the comforting scents of books, the finest pipe tobacco, and rich leather upholstery, his tension melted away, enabling him to breathe easy again. First and foremost, his priority was seeing to his brother and sister. With any luck, Lady Margaret and her mother would tire of waiting for wedding bells and break off the engagement themselves. After all, it was seen as more acceptable if the woman ended the agreement. He just wished they hadn’t invited themselves to join him for a few weeks in the country. Hopefully, they would soon grow bored with that and either return to London or their own country estate, which was much farther—a great deal farther—to the southeast.
Just as he settled into the depths of his favorite chair, reveling in the welcoming creak and groan of its lush, leathery depths, a tap on the door delayed his first sip of whisky—his preferred drink to relax ever since the war. A second tap quickly followed the first, making him narrow his eyes at the offending portal of dark mahogany. Whomever it was had best have good reason for encroaching upon his lair. “Enter!”
The tall door creaked open, revealing Feebson, Wolfebourne Lodge’s wiry little butler. “The Marquess of Strathyre is in the parlor, Your Grace. Are you receiving, since Lord Connor and Lady Susannah are safely recovered?”
The servant made the twins sound like rare jewels that had been lost and then found. Wolfe gave a wry snort. Perhaps that description was not so far off the mark. “Bring his lordship in here, Feebson. I am not inclined to move now that I am comfortable.”
Feebson, who had always reminded Wolfe of a devoted rat terrier, tiny yet mighty, offered a concerned nod. “Shall I also inform Mrs. Havarerry to ready a warming poultice for yourknee, Your Grace? One that could be applied directly after dinner, perhaps?”
A poultice for his knee would be the perfect excuse to avoid Lady Margaret’s abuse of the pianoforte after dinner. “Thank you, Feebson, I would indeed find that remedy most welcome this evening.”
“Very good, Your Grace. I shall return presently with Lord Strathyre.” The man backed out of the room and softly closed the door.
Within moments, the door flew open again, and in strode Gregson “Strath” MacStrath, Marquess of Strathyre, and one of Wolfe’s closest friends. “Knee paining ye again? Heard yer wee guard dog ordering a poultice from Mrs. Havarerry.”
“You always did have the hearing of an owl.” Wolfe pointed his whisky glass at the cabinet in the corner. “Help yourself. As I told Feebson, now that I am comfortable, I am not inclined to move.”
“What have the bairns done now? Ye have that look about ye.” The barrel-chested Scot swaggered over to the cabinet, poured himself a drink, then hoisted the bottle higher and waited.
Wolfe shook his head. As much as he would enjoy a second drink, it would be better for all concerned if he limited himself to savoring no more than one. “They slipped away from their maid—yet again. Trespassed onto Broadmere land, supposedly in chase of Connor’s dog that was after a wily hare. Said hare proceeded to lead the dog into a snare of woodbine, and if not for the Duke of Broadmere’s sharp-tongued sister, they would probably still be sitting in that thicket.”
Strath settled into an equally sumptuous leather chair and leaned forward with his forearms propped on his knees. “Are ye saying the woman ran them off her brother’s land? They’re naught but children. What harm could they do?”
