“I have refilled the decanters of brandy, sherry and port myself, Your Lordship,” the silver-haired butler assured him. “Just as you requested last night.”
Baines’ tact in not mentioning that Oswald himself had drunk the sherry and spilled the brandy only irritated his employer. Living alone as Oswald had done for so long, he had little amusement at home beyond goading the staff and making their lives harder.
“Well, I hope the brandy is up to snuff this time,” said Oswald, continuing to walk along the corridor and forcing the butler to follow him. “The last batch you ordered was very disappointing, Baines. It was not at all what I expected from a butler of your experience.”
“I was sorry to hear that, Your Lordship,” responded the man, with all the human feeling of an automaton. “You will find that all the decanters in the house have been refilled with your preferred brandy. If you require anything further, do not hesitate to ring.”
“Hmph,” returned Oswald, reaching the door of the blue drawing room. “I’ll likely ring for some food in a while. It has been a most dissatisfying afternoon and I have not eaten.”
“Of course, Your Lordship. The kitchen will be ready to provide whatever you need.”
“They better had be,” responded Lord Mulford. “Send up the food with one of the maids. There’s no sense in you fetching and carrying when I’m paying you to know the quality of brandy, is there, Baines?”
Baines failed to rise even to this jibe.
“No, Your Lordship. As you wish.”
Bowing, straight-faced, he left the room.
Oswald hoped that the kitchen would send up the newest maid, a young, nervous and tearful specimen who quaked at a single sharp word from the master of Mulford Manor. Sometimes this maid’s pale complexion and light-brown hair even reminded him of Lady Frances Harcourt and he liked to pretend that she was the one trembling before him, rather than a gardener’s daughter whose name he could not remember.
How he would like to have Lady Frances equally at his mercy, unable to even leave the room without his permission and bound to obey his orders…
The faint resemblance between the two sometimes actually tempted Oswald to deflower the young maid, but he did not want the hassle of little bastards running around the estate or local villages. He preferred to satisfy his needs with paid companions who knew how to take care of such matters. He would leave the maid untouched.
One day, of course, Lord Mulford planned that Lady Frances herself should belong to him completely. He was sure that Lord and Lady Scovell would be susceptible to his blandishments and Frances’ refusal of all other men surely implied that she had a husband in mind, at least secretly. Who else could that be but Oswald Keeton?
Yes, whatever she said, and however much she pretended to resist him, Oswald was sure that Lady Frances knew she was destined to be his bride. Once they were married, she would have to pay, of course, for every insult, injury and slight…
Having filled a glass with brandy, Oswald turned to a long portrait of a gay-looking woman with long red hair and a dress of crimson silk. Penelope Keeton, Lady Mulford, might have been dead for almost seven years, but in this painting, she was as vibrantly alive as she still remained in her son’s imagination.
“I shall bring her home here one day, Mother,” Lord Mulford promised the image in the painting. “Just you wait and see. Then I shall have my revenge for what she and Lord Scovell did to you and to Father.”
Chuckling to himself, Oswald Keeton tossed back the rest of his brandy in a single gulp and then went to the window, rubbing his hands together in glee at the prospect of such a future with the helpless Lady Frances finally entirely in his power.
Chapter Nine
It was done. They were married. Winifred had a stepmother and the child’s future was secured, both emotionally and financially.
The wedding ceremony itself had passed in a blur for the Duke of Westall, as had the journey back to Scovell Hall for the wedding breakfast and the round of short speeches from Lord Scovell, the Duke of Redford as best man, and, of course, the groom himself.
Afterwards, having left Frances talking to his grandmother, it seemed Ambrose must run the gauntlet of well-wishers for a second time, the cheers and felicitations outside the church not having been enough.
“Congratulations, Your Grace. What a beautiful ceremony!”
“We wish you both joy, Your Grace. How happy your grandmother must be today!”
“A wife for you and a mother for Winifred – what a lucky man you are!”
Ambrose soon felt as though he must had shaken the hand of every single wedding guest several times. Perhaps he had. His face was also aching from its permanent smile.
At an eventual lull in the rush, the duke let out a long sigh and finally reached up to loosen the stock that had felt too tight at his throat all day, after being adjusted outside the church by his grandmother.
His eyes finally found and followed a slim figure in pale blue silk with a gauzy silvery overlay that made her look touched by moonlight. The sight of Lady Frances today made Ambrose think of that night on the balcony when he had kissed her under the silver of the real moon.
Her response had been so very sweet in spite of herself. Yet it had been a risk to make such a move and he could not guess when such an encounter might be repeated, or expanded. A hearty hand clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting such speculation.
“That was a long sigh, Ambrose. You’re not regretting your marriage already are you?” asked Colin Pratt, Duke of Redford, merry with champagne and jollity as usual. “I don’t see how you could be with such an elegant bride. You looked almost like a street ruffian at the altar, standing beside that angel.”
