Charming Artemis, page 20
“How proceeds your courtship of your wife?” Mr. Layton asked.
“Slowly.”
He saw empathy in their expressions rather than the pity he’d feared.
“I recently received the advice that I ought to learn more about Artemis’s interests,” Charlie said.
Philip nodded too somberly to be sincere. “Sound advice from one of your very wise brothers, no doubt.”
“The suggestion was made by Mr. Layton and Mr. Barrington.”
“Ah,” Philip said. “Intelligent gentlemen, both.”
“We speak not from intelligence,” Mr. Layton said, “but from having mangled our own courtships years ago.”
“It is not merely a Jonquil tendency, then?” Charlie asked lightly.
“No one manages it quite to the extent of Lucas or his boys,” Mr. Layton acknowledged. “But no.”
Philip indicated Charlie ought to take a seat among them. As the bench at the foot of Philip’s bed was the only available place to sit, he did so there, the three of them watching him with unabashed curiosity.
“Spill your budget,” Philip instructed.
“Artemis has a very significant interest in fashion.” He felt foolish the moment he said it. “You all, of course, know that. Anyone who has spent more than five minutes with her knows that.”
“You are not going to be scolded for moments of inarticulacy,” Mr. Layton said.
“Perhaps not by you,” Charlie said. “Older brothers have no such qualms.”
Philip held up a hand as if taking a solemn oath. “I will behave.”
Charlie had ample reason to doubt that. In the meantime, he would count on the steady characters of Wilson and Mr. Layton. “Fashion is a deeply held interest of Artemis’s. She knows far more about it than I do, obviously.” He motioned to his lackluster attire and appearance. “Being so careless with my appearance when I know that she takes such pleasure and delight in the intricacies of fashion feels . . . unkind, I guess. Dismissive of her interests, at the very least.”
Philip looked to Mr. Layton. “That was far too insightful for a Jonquil. I think we should check the tadpole for a fever.”
“Even Jonquils can have moments of enlightenment,” Mr. Layton said. “Rare and fleeting but not unheard of.”
“I’m taking advantage of this one while it lasts.” Charlie looked to them all. “I’ve come in the hope that the three of you would help me address the shortcomings of my wardrobe, within the constraints of my income.”
At this declaration, the ever stoic, ever regal, often silent Wilson spoke, emotion a bit thick in his words but not so much as to render him difficult to understand. “Every one of your brothers—other than his lordship—dresses like vagabonds. You haven’t the first idea how to dress to advantage, and it is an absolute waste. Lest I make my opinions known on their dereliction of duty, I have had to refrain myself from so much as speaking to any of your valets—those of you who actually employ one.” He added the last bit with a look of scolding flung at Charlie.
Behind his hand, Charlie asked the other two, “Am I in trouble?”
“Get thee a valet,” Mr. Layton replied.
He didn’t know that he could afford one, but that was a discussion for another time. At the moment, he simply needed to adjust his appearance so that—what was that phrase Artemis had used?—she needn’t expend the “enormity of her endurance” looking at him. “I would appreciate whatever advice you can give me,” he said to them all, but with extra emphasis when he looked at Wilson.
His emotions in check and his baring regal once more, Wilson turned to Mr. Layton with an air of alliance. “Digby, we have work to do.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Layton rose and followed Wilson toward Philip’s dressing room.
Charlie attempted to stop them. “My clothes are in the clothes press in my—”
Wilson stopped on the spot and turned slowly back to look at Charlie, an ebony brow raised imperiously.
“Allow me to translate,” Philip said. “Your clothes are likely to be burned before this is said and done, so retrieving them from where they are currently being stored is a waste of Wilson’s time and talents.”
“I cannot afford to replace them,” Charlie said, panic beginning to surge.
Mr. Layton laughed. “Consider whatever needs acquiring to be a wedding present from the Gents. In the meantime, Wilson and I intend to steal unabashedly from your brother.”
“Which one?” Charlie asked.
“The only one with taste,” Wilson replied, then spun about with something of a flourish, and glided from view to where Philip’s fashionable clothing was kept, Mr. Layton on his heels.
Charlie pushed out a breath. “This might have been a bad idea.”
Philip rose and moved to sit on the bench next to him. “Anything that will bring your wife joy is never a bad idea.”
“Is that your latest bit of advice for me?”
“That is advice I obtained from a much wiser source than me.”
Charlie relaxed a little, growing more confident that he was not about to be bombarded with brotherly instruction. “From whom? Sorrel?”
“She is inarguably my intellectual superior. But the advice was Father’s.” Philip offered him an encouraging smile. “He had fetched me from Cambridge to bring me home for term break—and we were returning by way of Derby, no matter that it was terribly out of the way, because a merchant there had in his shop a shawl that had caught Mater’s eye. I told Father I thought it an overly long diversion from our path for something that felt rather insignificant. He told me, ‘It will bring your mother joy. No effort a husband makes in contribution to his wife’s happiness is ever a waste.’ I have reminded myself of that any number of times in the years since Sorrel agreed to take her chances on such a sop-head as I. His words have saved my neck more times than I can count.”
Bring your wife joy. “Artemis likes the flowers I gather for her. I mean to continue doing that.”
Philip nodded. “Wise. She also seems to enjoy moments of nonsense and amusement. I would suggest continuing to find opportunities to laugh with her.”
“That may very well be the best advice I have received from any of my brothers.”
With a quick and knowing smile, Philip said, “That is because the advice is actually Father’s.”
“I hardly remember him.” The admission emerged quiet and a bit broken. He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Sometimes it feels like everyone knows him better than I did, or ever will.”
“I remember him well,” Philip said. “I can tell you so much about him, Charlie. The Gents knew him almost his entire life. And anything we don’t know, Mater does. Between all of us, you could come to know anything and everything about him.”
“Mr. Barrington said he liked mountains.”
Philip nodded. “He did. Do you remember walking up the mountain near Brier Hill with him?”
“I don’t. I do remember spending time with him in the flower garden.”
A nostalgic smile spread over Philip’s face. “He was very particular about that garden, wasn’t he?”
“Very.”
“Green.” Wilson suddenly returned to the room with that single word as if he were making a prophetic pronouncement.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Charlie asked.
“It’s a color,” Philip said in overly serious tones, his dandified mien making a very abrupt reappearance. “A bit more cheery than blue but less jaundiced than yellow.”
Wilson, it seemed, had little patience for jesting just then. “Henri wore a waistcoat of green paisley yesterday, which was quite fashionable, shockingly so when one considers how seldom he is in London.”
“The man is regularly in Paris,” Philip returned. “They’ve at least a basic knowledge of clothing and fashions in France.”
Again, Wilson did not take the teasing bait. “Henri’s green waistcoat with your navy jacket and buff trousers.”
“Charlie’s hair will appear more ginger if you dress him in green,” Philip said, rising and crossing to his valet.
“His hair has an appealing hint of red, one that warrants accentuating, not diminishing.” Heavens, Wilson couldn’t have sounded more imperious if he were the Prince Regent himself. “That he regularly dresses in the drabbest of browns and robs his coiffeur of its depth of color is a crime.”
“I have reclaimed the role of squire for this neighborhood,” Philip said. “Shall I arrest Charlie?”
“I would have you arrest his manservant, but he does not keep one.” Wilson tossed Charlie yet another scolding look.
Charlie held his hands up. “I know. Get me a valet.”
“I am off to obtain a green waistcoat.” Wilson moved with singular purpose out of the room.
“Did he call both Mr. Layton and Mr. Fortier by their Christian names?” Such familiarity with distinguished gentlemen, especially ones by whom he was not employed, was unheard of for a valet.
Philip nodded. “Wilson has known them for thirty years, since not long after he arrived in England from India.”
Thirty years. Father had only been gone for thirteen. That bit of quick mathematics revealed something unexpected: Wilson had almost certainly known Father and known him for twice as long as Charlie had. That list was growing.
Mr. Layton emerged from the dressing room with a few bits and baubles in his hands. “Accoutrements can change one’s appearance entirely.”
How he hoped Artemis would appreciate all of this; he was having second thoughts. “I would feel ridiculous donning dozens of fobs and rings and bells on my waistcoat.”
“My dear boy,” Mr. Layton said, “Wilson can be a bit much, but I assure you he is exceptionally good at what he does. And I have played a not insignificant role in his training on these matters. We do know the difference between choices that highlight a person’s true self and those meant to hide him. We’ve no intention of fashioning you a disguise.”
“Artemis might prefer if you did,” Charlie said.
Mr. Layton pushed out a breath, the sound one of lighthearted annoyance. “Lud, all you boys are as thickheaded as your father was.” He held up a few watch chains, eyeing them and Charlie in turn before, for reasons unknown, selecting one.
“I do have a leather strap for my watch,” Charlie told him.
“I know,” was the dry response.
Philip laughed. “We have our father’s featherbrainedness but our mother’s implacable stubbornness.”
Mr. Layton chose a cravat pin and set it beside the watch chain on the chairside table. “Charlie is far more agreeable in these matters than you were when Wilson and I undertook your transformation not many years past.”
“I had my own ideas about fashion,” Philip said. “Charlie’s opinions are reserved for mathematics.”
“Mathematics is not subject to opinions. Mathematics deals in facts.” Charlie made the observation almost without thinking.
Mr. Layton grinned at him. “Your mother’s child, for sure and certain.”
“I still cannot believe no one told me of her mathematical interests and aptitude,” Charlie said.
Philip’s laughing expression turned to surprise. “Her what?”
“Your mother is a lady of remarkable depth.” Mr. Layton set a pair of cufflinks beside his other selections. “Now that you boys are grown, I suggest you come to know her as something other than your mother.”
Wilson returned, a green paisley waistcoat draped with care over his arm. “Divest the boy of his current monstrosity. We will have him well togged in a moment.”
Charlie met his brother’s eye. “He is a dictator.”
“I have never claimed otherwise.”
Wilson motioned to the adornments on the table. “Excellent choices, Digby.” To Charlie he said, “Henri’s valet is an expert in matters of hair. He will be here shortly to cut yours.”
Heavens, this was more extensive than he’d been expecting.
“I’ll quickly take in the side seams of this waistcoat; Henri is not as beanpole-like as a Jonquil.”
“No one is,” Philip tossed back.
Wilson ignored the jest. “The rest of the items are your brother’s, and you two are very near in height and build.”
Charlie looked to Mr. Layton. “Will Artemis actually appreciate this?” The man had undertaken enough conversations with Artemis to reliably answer the question that lingered in his mind.
All three men nodded emphatically.
With a deep breath of determination, Charlie stood. “Then work your miracle,” he said. “Heaven knows I need one.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The sisters-in-law had been divided into two groups to deliver baskets in the area of Collingham. Mater, who had insisted Artemis call her by that familial name, had returned to Lampton Park with Sorrel. Artemis was going about with Catherine and Marjie. Catherine put Artemis firmly in mind of her quietly discerning sister Daphne. Marjie had curly, golden hair similar to Artemis’s but fell somewhere between Catherine and Artemis in the matter of her talkativeness.
The three of them had easily fallen into friendly conversation. Both ladies had a son, and Artemis learned a great deal about the boys as they made their way from house to house. She also discovered, by listening closely to tiny clues left here and there, that they had both endured very difficult childhoods, that they were now quite happy, and that the Jonquil sisters-in-law were as close as sisters could be.
“Are you thoroughly overwhelmed amongst all of us?” Marjie asked her after they’d finished the last of their basket deliveries. “We number twenty-five now, thirty with Mater’s gentlemen friends.”
Artemis grinned. “Her gentlemen friends. We should begin calling them that. I suspect every one of her sons would be up in arms, panicked at the very thought.”
“They are very protective of her,” Catherine said, “and so loving. I wish I had known the gentleman who taught them to be thoughtful of her. He must have been remarkable.”
“Did your husband know the late earl?” Artemis asked. Catherine’s husband, after all, had been unofficially adopted by the Jonquil family, but Artemis wasn’t entirely sure when that had happened.
“He did,” she said. “And my Crispin speaks very highly of him.”
“The late earl raised seven exceptionally good sons and proved a remarkable influence in the lives of both Crispin and Arabella.” Marjie looked to Artemis as she added the second name; the Arabella she referred to had married Artemis’s brother, after all. “Though we did not know him, I feel like we see him all around us. And not a day passes when I am not grateful to him for raising his boys to be good and kind.”
Good and kind. Charlie had shown himself to be both those things. He’d listened to her on the occasions when her grief or exhaustion had rendered her a puddle of frustrated emotions, and he’d done so sincerely and without complaint. He’d been as good as his word and not done anything to embarrass her ever since the disaster that was the game of questions and challenges. And she knew as long as she lived, she would never forget the tenderness with which he’d combed and braided her hair that morning. Or the all-too-brief kiss that had followed.
Her heart still jumped to her throat at the mere thought of his arms around her, his forehead pressed to hers, the warm fall of his breath on her lips, the spicy, woody scent of his shaving lotion. Her fingers had shaken as she’d brushed them along his jaw. And the momentary feel of his lips on hers . . . Heavens.
If not for the ringing of that infernal clock.
“Oh dear.” Catherine’s worried whisper pulled Artemis back to the present.
On the road up ahead of them was a gentleman Artemis did not know. Catherine looked a little afraid.
“Who is that?” Artemis asked.
“Mr. Finley,” Catherine said. “He is . . . ” She swallowed down whatever she meant to say, but Artemis felt she understood. This Mr. Finley was a bounder, though of what variety she did not yet know.
There was no real means of avoiding crossing paths with him. Catherine grew more nervous as they drew closer. Marjie hooked her arm through Catherine’s, offering her silent support but appearing nearly as unsure of the coming encounter.
If only her new sisters-in-law understood how long Artemis had been preparing for these moments. Adam had not allowed her or Daphne to grow up without the weapons necessary to put people firmly in their place, and Artemis had learned long ago how to appear utterly unshakeable.
She kept her expression uncaring as they approached the gentleman. He offered a bow, his gaze lingering on Catherine. The required curtsy she answered with was too abbreviated to go unnoticed.
Mr. Finley didn’t seem to care. “A pleasure, as always, Catherine.”
“Oh dear,” Artemis said innocently. “It is pronounced Cavratt. And you’ve neglected to include Lady.” She gave him a look of commiseration. “I know it is a lot to remember.”
For just a moment, he looked confused, but he quickly regained his oily composure. “The newest Mrs. Jonquil, I believe, and the legendary diamond of Society.”
“No, sir, she is Lady Cavratt, not Mrs. Jonquil.” Artemis looked to her companions, assuming an expression of bewilderment. To the ladies she said, “Do you know him? Ought we to see to it he is safely returned somewhere?”
“He is Mr. Finley,” Marjie said. “He lives on the other side of Collingham.”
“Then he has wandered very far afield.”
Mr. Finley dipped his head. “My home is Finley Grange, a fine and grand estate. Large and spacious and . . . cozily isolated.” He stepped a bit closer to Artemis. “The perfect place to escape an overly large family and an unwanted husband.” He moved nearer still and lowered his voice, assuming a husky tone. “I assure you, ma chérie, I am a very accommodating host.”
