An Heir of Distinction, page 1
part #1 of Book Five Series
An Heir of Distinction
The Bad Heir Day Tales
Book Five
Grace Burrowes
Grace Burrowes Publishing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter One
“Lady Barclay is Scottish.” Bernard Huxley paced the understated elegance of St. Didier’s library as he leveled this accusation. “His Grace did not bother to warn me that her ladyship is a Scottish, red-haired, Amazonian, and unfashionably devoted to her children.”
“The last strikes me as a maternal virtue.” St. Didier poured two brandies. “Do Lady Barclay’s height, hair color, or antecedents truly matter?”
Bernard hesitated before accepting his drink. Strong spirits for other than medicinal purposes struck him as extravagant hedonism, but to refuse would be rude.
“My thanks. To your health.” He sipped, not sure what to expect.
“I picked up a case of this vintage on my last jaunt to France.” St. Didier took a wingchair that might have been related to a throne a few generations back. Commodious, deeply cushioned, generously proportioned, and beautifully upholstered in green brocade.
Not quite extravagant but dubiously inviting.
“Thank the merciful powers,” St. Didier went on, “Napoleon didn’t wreck the wineries, distilleries, and vineyards. He is said to be quite an appreciator of champagne.”
Bernard took the proffered seat because manners required that as well. Then too, he was tired and the chair was exquisitely comfortable.
“We wish l’empereur the delight of his epicurean tastes,” Bernard replied, “as he enjoys his flea-infested purgatory in the south Atlantic. What am I do to about Lady Barclay?”
“You’ve met her?”
“That pleasure yet awaits me. I have observed her cavorting in the park with her offspring.” Laughing loudly enough to turn heads, for pity’s sake. Flying a kite. A bright, red kite with a fantastical white creature in the middle—a winged unicorn or a dragon or some such. “One child each, male and female. Ages seven and six, respectively. Jordan and Bridget. His Grace of Chanderton claimed they are both quite bright, but then, he’s their uncle. He would say that.”
“You are their cousin. What do you say?”
“Chanderton is my uncle too, else I should tell him that this little bit of family business is not my business and I have far too much else to contend with to be guardian of Lady Barclay’s progeny.”
“Bit of a shock, I’d guess, learning that your grandfather was the late Duke of Chanderton, and your biological papa was a courtesy lord.”
St. Didier had a gift for understatement. Tallish, quiet, soft-spoken and dark-haired, he also had a sense of self-possession Bernard envied. Bernard had learned during his years in the church to exercise self-restraint, but St. Didier had self-possession.
A different and more precious quality entirely.
“The real shock was learning that my mother was a fraud,” Bernard said, taking another small sip of his drink. He knew next to nothing about brandy, but the libation in his glass was smooth, redolent of apples, and even boasted a touch of nutmeg in the finish.
Very pleasant, in small quantities.
“Your mama,” St. Didier said, “daughter of an earl, disported with a ducal scion, got with child, and then had to be hastily wed to the mere brother of a baron. Not that unusual a tale in polite society, but you only recently learned of your own antecedents. That cannot have been easy. Have you been told how much your papa’s family added to her settlements?”
St. Didier also had an ability to discuss the most distressing subjects as if they counted for less than the weather. A vicar aspired to the same talent, and in that regard, Bernard had considered himself modestly successful.
When is the baby due? Do you know who the father is? Have you any relatives in Scotland or the Home Counties? Nothing on the scholarly road to ordination prepared a vicar for those discussions, and yet, they were necessary in even the most devout parishes—rather frequently.
“I am quite solvent,” Bernard said. “My father apparently insisted that half the sum contributed to Mama’s settlements be set aside for me, and that annual contributions be added to it from his funds and from his estate. I was entitled to claim the whole when I turned five-and-twenty, but had no notion the money was mine.”
“And that hurt,” St. Didier said, getting up to retrieve the decanter. “Your mother, leading light of the congregation, self-aggrandizing saint of the parish, and general meddlesome busybody, lied to you, tried to steal from you, and was more of a sinner than the whole rest of your flock put together. The Antipodes are welcome to her. How are you getting on with the present duke?”
“To be honest…” Bernard checked himself. He avoided honesty on most occasions. He was careful, kindly in the conservative fashion of an earnest churchman, and he tried to keep the Commandments. One could avoid bleating unhappy truths about without telling falsehoods. “Chanderton looks like me.”
Tall, blond, beaky, but on the aging duke, those qualities were distinguished.
“How lucky for him. You are very close to the English aristocratic ideal, though you’re too skinny and academic for most of Mayfair’s matchmakers.”
“I beg you, St. Didier, do not say that word. Do not whisper it. I have been in London a mere six months, and it’s as if nobody thinks of anything else save matrimony and its preliminaries. Settlements, courting, understandings, waltzes, and scandals. I am in Town to learn about and manage my cousin’s commercial enterprises, not to appease the curiosity of Mayfair’s numerous gossips. Where did you say you found this brandy?”
“Thought you’d like it. A little family operation in the Charente Department, quite near the coast. I can give you their direction. As far as I know, they lack a British distributor.”
Bernard nearly told him I could not possibly impose to that extent, the polite version of I could not possibly deal in the wickedness that is expensive, French, spirits.
No bishop was on hand, though, and brandy was merely a drink, no more wicked than ale or hard cider. Wickedness was the province of human beings, and did not come aged in oak barrels.
“That would be appreciated,” Bernard took another sip. “What can you tell me about Lady Barclay?”
St. Didier had issued an invitation to dine at his club, where conversation had been mostly political, and surprisingly Whiggish. Bernard, as befit a loyal churchman, was more familiar with the Tory presentation of most issues. Seeing the realities of London life in all their squalid glory had invited a broadening of perspective.
This nightcap, which St. Didier had suggested as an apparent afterthought, now struck Bernard as the point of the evening. Bernard’s cousin Camden, who held the Lorne baronial title, had sent St. Didier to look in on the nursery, as it were.
Camden’s businesses were prospering. Bernard was not sure the same could be said for Bernard himself as he learned to manage those businesses.
London stank, never slept, and was never quiet. London teemed with an unfathomable abundance of people from an unfathomably broad sampling of the world’s locations and professions. Diseases, prostitution, commerce, and gossip thrived in London.
Bernard had failed to divine how any sane soul could likewise prosper in the capital, and yet, hordes and scads and hundreds of thousands or people did.
Case in point: Lady Barclay, laughing like a dairy maid and flying her red kite in to the yellowish-gray skies over Hyde Park.
St. Didier set his drink aside. “I can tell you that Lady Barclay, like you, is only partly Scottish. Her grandmother was English, as your grandmother was Scottish. She was well dowered, married quite young, and Lord Barclay left her well set up. She will not purloin her children’s means or fritter away her own. Barclay courted her in the usual fashion, the usual negotiations ensued, and the first child came along a decorous year after the wedding. The second followed a year later, and then Barclay’s health began failing.”
“How will her ladyship take to having a guardian appointed for her children?”
“A successor guardian,” St. Didier said. “The old duke was the guardian appointed in Lord Barclay’s will, and he and her ladyship got on well. His Grace left her alone, and she’s been raising the children quite without interference from her ducal in-laws. Your uncle now has the title, and he’s petitioning to have you appointed as successor guardian to the old duke.”
Bernard spoke aloud the question that had been haunting him since last week’s summons from Chanderton. “Why me? I am a legitimate by-blow, a family secret, evidence of scandal, albeit scandal from years ago. I have no qualifications for the post of guardian. I have no children and I was a poor excuse for a child. I was neither bright, nor charming, nor adorable.”
“Perhaps,” St. Didier said, “you were normal, and the present duke knows how rare and precious that experience can be for children raised under the penumbra of a title.”
Penumbra. Shadow. Bernard’s entire life had progressed under the penumbra of his mother’s perfidy and meddling. Bernard sent up a short prayer, one of many, for the unfortunates soon to endure Mama’s company in the Antipodes.
“Might you provide me an introduction to Lady Barclay?” Chanderton had not bestirred himself to see to that detail, and yet even a red-haired, kite-flying, Scottish Amazon deserved the courtesies when meeting the proposed guardian of her children for the first time.
“I’d be happy to. Her ladyship hacks out in Hyde Park most fine mornings, and I enjoy the occasional horseback outing myself. Meet me by Tattersall’s tomorrow at dawn.”
Dawn. Dawn in springtime was inhumanly early this far south. Needs must.
“Until tomorrow then,” Bernard said, finishing his drink, and rising. “My thanks for a very pleasant evening.”
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Huxley. Shall I send a footman with you, or would you prefer to take my coach?”
That question, like so much of Bernard’s London experience, baffled him. “Neither will be necessary. I know my way. I’m three streets from my own quarters, but I thank you for the offer.”
“Huxley, you are in London. At this hour, a pickpocket bides on every corner, two footpads lurk in most doorways, and an abundance of rats and stray dogs will menace the unsuspecting simply for entertainment. You will stroll along, mentally comparing Greek and Latin translations of some old prophet, and find yourself relieved of your purse, cloak, top hat and boots.”
St. Didier was genuinely concerned. Bernard could not think why. “You would expect a footman, anywhere from six inches to a foot shorter than my skinny, scholarly self, to make his way back here safely, when I—sword stick in hand, knife in my boot, and fists at the ready—am somehow unsafe without supervision. You need to breathe some fresh country air. St. Didier. The coal smoke is addling your wits.”
“But you—”
Bernard held up a hand. “I know to carry little coin. The thieves are welcome to the small amount on my person, and I will not fight them over it. No honest work is available for most of them, and that leaves only the dishonest kind or starvation. I am no longer a churchman, but I still hope to claim a share of basic human decency.”
A bit preachy, but St. Didier merely smiled and nodded. Like a good host, he accompanied Bernard to the door, and helped him on with his coat. Wished him a pleasant evening, and peaceful dreams…
Bernard walked out into the damp evening air feeling a little like he’d just escaped tea with the bishop and his wife. One bore up under the strain of duty, and was permitted some relief when that duty had been faithfully executed.
As he strolled along in no particular hurry, footsteps sounded behind him in the same relaxed tempo. St. Didier had sent along an escort, no doubt, or might even be himself keeping pace with Bernard.
Not surprising. St. Didier was something of a nanny for hire where the peerage was concerned, though coin was probably never overtly discussed even with him. His specialty was shepherding reluctant heirs into their new duties and into society’s good graces.
Thankless notion, though Bernard, having been handed management of Cam’s businesses and now guardianship of two half-Scottish children appreciated the show of support.
“I miss Yorkshire.” Bernard had put the sentiment in quiet Latin, a habit along with preaching that wasn’t likely to leave him any time soon.
How would one say, I am partly Scottish in Latin? Partim Scotus sum, or something of that nature. Partly Scottish, a duke for an uncle, very likely possessed of Scottish cousins.
Truly, pigs might be winging their away aloft somewhere high above London’s dark and dreary skies.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Bernard Huxley?” Sorcha’s mare stepped delicately around a pile of horse dropping steaming in dawn’s early gloom. “Is he as stodgy as his name suggests?”
Stodgy was bearable. When Lord Barclay had been stodgy, Sorcha had known how to deal with him. Walk softly, speak only when spoken to. Wear mauve and stitch dull samplers featuring boring platitudes and intricate floral borders.
A former vicar almost had a right to be stodgy.
“Huxley is…” Leopold St. Didier paused to navigate his gelding past a pothole in the cobbles. “He is at sea, I believe. The church suited his intellectual appetites, though he has taken to commerce with astonishing aptitude. He’s logical, always a good thing, in my estimation, and also cautious.”
“Will he meddle?” The only question that really mattered.
“He will be a conscientious guardian to your children. If his assessment of their best interests differs from your own, you will at least have a fair hearing.”
“Leopold, I do not want a fair hearing from some pious stranger whose aptitude for greed is excelled only by his ignorance of childrearing. Why are you smirking?”
St. Didier comported himself at all times with decorum and discretion, but his dark eyes occasionally took on a sparkle that hinted at hidden merriment.
“You grow more Scottish when impassioned. You can always apply to me for aid should Huxley prove dunderheaded.”
They reached the corner of the park occupied by Tattersalls horse trading establishment. Today was not an auction day, and Sorcha would not have set a booted foot on the premises in any case, but the activity characterized any busy stable early in the day.
Barrows of steaming manure and damp straw came out of the shed rows, fresh straw went in. Horses at the water troughs slurped noisily, other steeds waited, saddled and bridled, for a morning hack.
Homesickness hit Sorcha with a vengeance. A longing for the mist rising over the Scottish hills, for the sharp springtime sunlight in Perthshire. An ache that yearned for impossibly tall pines and painfully fresh air.
“That’s him,” St. Didier said, gesturing discreetly with his chin. “On the gray at the corner.”
Sorcha halted her mare, and St. Didier did likewise with his gelding.
Both horse and rider needed some extra weight. The horse had the excuse of coming off winter rations.
“Mr. Huxley is woefully English-looking,” Sorcha said. “English vicar-ish looking, or he might be a headmaster at a particularly severe public school.”
A disquieting thought.
“He was a vicar for years, and well liked by his congregants. Given to brevity in the pulpit, from what I heard. Take heart, my lady. The guardianship has not yet been formally transferred, so Huxley is merely a family acquaintance at this point.”
“Of the scandalous variety.” Sorcha urged her mare forward.
“Lord Jerome has long since gone to his reward, the scandal was old news thirty years ago, and Jerome provided adequately for his offspring, even to the point of finding Huxley a decent fellow to serve as the legal papa. Smile, Sorcha. The evidence of my own eyes tells me that you can be charming when you wish to be.”
Sorcha. So few people called her that any more. She mustered up the requisite cheerful expression and brought her mare to stand two yards from Mr. Huxley’s ribby grey.
“Huxley,” St. Didier said, “good morning. Lady Barclay, I am honored to introduce to you Mr. Bernard Huxley, whom you know to be a cousin to your children and a friend of mine. Huxley, Lady Barclay.”
Sorcha held out her gloved hand. Introductions on horseback could be awkward, but she’d not wanted to put off an assessment of her foe—if a foe he was.
“My lady, a pleasure.” Huxley took her hand briefly and nodded over it. “Shall we find a bridle path? I am not yet familiar with all Hyde Park has to offer, having come to London as winter set in. Perhaps you might show me your favorite trail?”
Oh, he was correct to a fault. He sat his horse as if he were posing for a Stubbs portrait, Gentleman Contemplating Philosophy Atop His Hunter. The words were polite, the overture appropriate to the occasion. Huxley’s attire was perfect for a morning hack in polite society’s backyard.
“I keep to the quieter choices,” Sorcha said. “The Season is upon us, and the popular paths can be congested with those interested in socializing rather than riding.”
Mr. Huxley slanted her an unreadable look. “The quieter the path, the better. Lead on, your ladyship.”
