An Unexpected Gentleman (35 page)

“Aye,” Gregory agreed. “And you’ve a family to be thinking of.”

Connor decided to let them argue a bit longer. They’d abide by his decision in the end, but there would be less grumbling in the long run if they felt they’d had their full say on the matter first.

Five minutes of heated debate later, the door opened and Graham crossed the room to toss a stack of letters on the desk. “These them?”

The room fell silent. Connor grabbed the top one and scanned the contents. “Bloody hell.”

“Is it them?”

“Yes.” He tossed the letter with the others and eyed Graham speculatively. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or shout at the man. “How did you get these?”

“Usual way. Saw the box weeks ago, thought the contents might be worth something.” His mouth hooked up. “And they didn’t get checked so often as the silver.”

“Are these all of them?”

“Aye, and I want a hundred pounds for ’em.”

Connor didn’t take offense at the sudden rise in price. It was business. “I’ll give you the fifty and won’t break your neck for not having turned them over earlier.”

“Seventy-five and I’ll slip word to Sir Robert’s new valet that someone ought check the box.”

“Done.”

Connor flicked a glance at Gregory and Michael. After more than a decade of working together, a single pointed look was understood as readily as a verbal order. They rose together and left the room in silence, closing the door behind them.

Graham looked from the door to Connor. “If you’re thinking to snap my neck after all, you’ll find it’s got more steel than most.”

“I’ll not snap your neck. The deal is done.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve made a tidy profit these last few months.”

“Man’s got to live.”

“If he wants to live here, he’s got to mind the silver.”

Graham smiled at that and shook his head. “If I’d been after harming you and yours, I’d have used those letters same as Sir Robert.”

“Why keep them secret?” Connor asked, tapping the letters.

Graham shrugged. “I figured if the boy didn’t know the letters were about and you didn’t know the letters were about, then the lass didn’t know they were about. What was the point of bringing ’em to light?” A scowl settled over his face. “A girl don’t need to know every foul deed her brother’s done.”

“You could have destroyed them,” Connor pointed out.

“Aye, but this particular brother . . .” Graham narrowed his eyes and gave a quick shake of his head. “. . . I don’t trust. Never know when a bit of leverage might come in handy. You aim to use it?”

“No. I’ve my own means for keeping Wolfgang in line.” Financial manipulation and, failing that, brute force.

“I’d wager you do. Are we done?”

Connor jerked his chin in agreement. “We’re done.”

As Graham let himself out, Connor flicked the edge of one of the letters and swore. Bloody hell, they were going to break Adelaide’s heart.

A
delaide told herself she wasn’t heartbroken—no more so than she’d been an hour before, anyway. There was only so much grief she was willing to bear for Wolfgang, and the last of it had disappeared when he’d threatened to take George. She was done with him.

She accepted the letters and Connor’s explanation of their contents with quiet resignation and watched them burn in the fireplace. When they’d gone to ash, she turned to Connor, wrapped her arms around him, and held tight until the heartache she refused to acknowledge was eased.

Wolfgang left Ashbury Hall at dawn the following morning. He was to go south, to another of Connor’s holdings, and wait there until he received word of his post.

His departure was a subdued event. He looked in on his sleeping son, nodded to Isobel in the hall, and walked to the waiting carriage with Adelaide. At her request, Connor and his men stayed away. There was no sense in forcing polite good-byes. No point in pretending the departure was anything other than what it was—a banishment.

He offered an apology. A single, softly spoken “I am sorry,” before he climbed inside the carriage and shut the door.

Adelaide believed he was, but whether he was sorry for the sake of his family or sorry that he’d made himself so miserable, she didn’t know. And because she couldn’t know, she made a conscious decision to leave the question alone and concentrate on what was right before her.

George was safe, Isobel was happy, and Wolfgang’s carriage was rolling away. He would start a new life far away from them all.

A hesitant smile spread slowly across her face as she turned away from the drive and walked into the house. With every step she took, she felt another weight slip from her shoulders, and the last of the marionette strings snap free.

She intercepted a maid carrying a fussy George in the great hall. The young woman cooed patiently, bouncing him gently on her hip.

“He woke up a mite cross, ma’am. I thought a walk about—”

“I’ll take him.” She transferred George onto her hip and brushed a hand over his disheveled hair. “Will you bring a small glass of milk to the parlor, please? And a plate of those pastries Cook made yesterday.”

“The pudding filled, ma’am?”

“Yes, please.”

She felt like indulging. She wanted to pamper herself and spoil George.

“Let’s be a trifle reckless,” she whispered to George as she carried him into the parlor. She set him down on the plush carpet and watched him dart to the settee and shove his hands between the cushions. “There’s no spoon in there, darling. But just you wait, I’ve something even better coming for you.”

When the pastries arrived, Adelaide cut them into thirds while George slurped down his milk. She wiped pudding from her fingers, took a slice for herself, and set the plate on the floor for George. Then she watched with tender amusement as he hunkered down on his haunches in front of the offering.

“Biscuits!”

“Biscuits, indeed.”

She took a seat next to him, uncaring that she was setting a terrible example by eating sweets on the floor with her fingers. A few moments of silliness would hardly ruin the child, and it was such a joy to watch him giggle and squirm and reach out to squeeze the creamy white pudding from one of the slices.

“Ooooh. Beetle.”

“Beetle? . . . Oh, ew.” She laughed and ruffled the silken curls of his hair. “No, it is not a squished beetle. It’s . . .” She took a bite of her slice and made a humming noise. “Mmmm.”

George mimicked her by cramming half the remains of his pastry into his mouth.

“You may have two,” she informed him, knowing full well he had no idea what that meant. It didn’t matter; she liked saying it.

Connor’s teasing voice floated overhead. “He’ll be fat as his namesake within a year.”

A pleasant shiver chased over her skin as he stepped up behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his powerful legs against her back. She had the passing thought that it was a pity she’d not had the foresight to agree to his original demand of sharing her bed ten times a day.

“He’ll not,” she said pertly, tilting her head back to give him a smile. “And he’s not named for the Prince Regent. He’s named for his mother’s father.” Who had been, now that she thought on it, a bit round about the middle as well. “Perhaps you’re right.”

She reached to put the plate of pastries away. One was more than plenty, really.

“Leave it.” Connor stepped around and bent down to take the plate from her. “Spoil him awhile longer if it gives you pleasure.”

He set the pastries back down, took her hand, and drew her to her feet. Worried green eyes swept over her face.

“How are you?”

“Fine. Quite well, considering. I feel . . .” She closed her eyes on a happy sigh as he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb and brushed a feathery kiss across her cheek. “I feel myself. I feel more like myself than I have in ages.”

She felt his lips curve against her skin. “Have you been someone else?”

“No. And yes. Parts,” she reminded him and smiled sheepishly when he pulled back to look at her with a curious expression. “I used to enjoy being carefree, even a little reckless. When circumstances changed for my family, I set those parts aside. I suppose I forgot about them.” Because she’d had no other choice, she thought. Careless, reckless individuals did not make for ideal heads of households. “I think I’ve begun to remember them.”

“Am I to understand that you are not the woman I thought I’d married?”

“You’ll find your bride was far more biddable than your wife.”

“If I had a pound for every new husband to have heard those words . . .” He smiled when she laughed, and he tapped her chin lightly with his finger. “You were never that biddable, love.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed. But she had been more cautious, less interested in taking risks, being silly, and exploring the world around her. Which reminded her . . . She glanced out the window toward the stables as Connor bent down and helped himself to a small slice of pastry.

“So you’re feeling reckless,” he said and ate half the pastry in single bite.

Oh, drat. In light of what she was about to ask him, reckless had not been a wise choice of words. “Not reckless, really. More . . . Responsibly adventurous.” She smiled at him sweetly as he polished off his food. “May I ride your stallion, Midas?”

Connor stared at her, swallowed, and said, “You may.”

“Really? When?”

“When I am dead, buried, and in want of your company.”

“Ah.” She tilted her head. “That was very nearly romantic.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled mischievously as she laughed, then jerked his chin in acknowledgment of the footman who entered. “What is it, John?”

“Begging your pardon, sir. Mr. O’Malley, Mr. Birch, and Mr. Sefton have sent me in search of you, sir.”

Connor dismissed the footman with a quick nod, bent down to give her an equally quick kiss, and walked out of the room.

Adelaide frowned at his retreating back, then at the empty doorway, then at George.

“Was I just dismissed?”

George grabbed his second pastry, squeezed mightily, and looked mildly disappointed when the folded end piece failed to produce a gush of pudding.

“Take a few bites, darling, then it will mush.” She glanced at the door and tapped her foot. “Do you know, I believe I was dismissed.”

Connor might as well have nodded at her and kissed the footman. Just like that, she and her questions had been put aside. If she wished to continue their discussion, she could do so after he’d finished meeting with his men.

To the devil with that, she thought. She wasn’t staff, and she was heartily sick of being put behind his men . . . and Sir Robert. No one should have to come after Sir Robert.

“We’ll just see about this,” she muttered.

Mind set, she scooped up George and his pastry and chased after Connor.

The heels of her half boots cracked loudly in the hall, a quick staccato that pulsed in time to her rising temper. Thought she’d been unbiddable before, did he? Thought he was the only one with moods and parts? Oh, she’d show him unbiddable. She’d show him a mood.

She caught him with one hand on the study door. “Not your stallion, then. Another.”

He didn’t start—as she’d rather hoped would be the case—but merely paused and lifted a brow. “Beg your pardon?”

“I want another horse to ride,” she ground out. Honestly, the conversation was less than thirty seconds old. Just how easy to dismiss was she?

“Ah. Right. So choose another. We’ve a dozen mounts.” He opened the door and stepped into the study.

Determined not to be brushed aside twice, she took a steadying breath and followed. Gregory, Michael, and Graham sat around the desk arguing and digging through a veritable mountain of papers. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt at her entrance.

Good, she thought. Let
them
wait.

“We’ve several horses suitable for pulling carriages, along with one stallion and one old nag,” she pressed, shifting a squirming George.

Connor walked around to the back of the desk and shook his head at Gregory, who’d reached out to put the papers away. He turned back to her. “Why can’t you ride the nag?”

Gregory withdrew his hand, shrugged, and resumed his argument with Michael and Graham. It was irritating, trying to carry on a conversation with Connor when there was another conversation being carried on two feet away. It was particularly annoying that Connor appeared to be giving both equal attention.

“I have been,” she said, raising her voice over Gregory’s. She dodged a careless swing of George’s pastry-filled hand. “But I should like something that can go faster than a plod. Why on earth do you even own an old nag?”

“I thought George might like to sit her in a few years.” He turned to Michael. “That’s not the baron’s seal.” He turned back to her. “You’ve funds of your own. Buy a horse if none of those in the stable suit you.”