Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (13 page)

Vane did not have to ask Isabel her feelings on the matter.

“It wasn’t thievery,” she said, examining the small key in her hand. “After all, the gentleman had paid for those papers, and my mother gave them freely. It’s just—” She heaved a weary sigh. “My father, Morgan Thorne, was a remarkable man. I always thought I might be able to get his papers published so he could be honored for his work. However, this has proven to be a difficult task. Mr. Fawson and the gentlemen he represents would rather purchase my father’s notes and sketches and put their name on his work than assist me in honoring a dead man who has already been forgotten.”

Not by you,
Vane thought. “I could make some inquiries on your behalf,” he said measuring his words. Isabel could be awfully prickly when it came to accepting anyone’s help.

Her expression grew wistful. “You are too kind. However, it is more complicated than it appears.” She walked around him to the center of the study and opened her arms. She slowly pivoted on her heel as her gesture encompassed the dingy interior of the study. “It breaks my heart to part with any of my father’s work.”

Vane moved to her. “Then don’t.”

Isabel impulsively reached out and lightly touched his face. Her next words stopped him from leaning in and kissing her. “Only a man who has never wanted for anything could stand by his convictions. Regrettably, I have not been as noble. I have to balance a daughter’s love for her father with practicality. Each paper I sell provides a roof over my family’s head and food on our table. His work has given Delia the season in London that she deserves. My father would have wanted to see her happy.”

What about you, Isabel?

He already knew the answer. Much like his mother, Isabel worried about her family. She rarely spoke of her mother, but Vane had already deduced that Mrs. Thorne had depended on Isabel to manage their household after her husband’s death.

“Forgive me, I am being selfish, boring you with my troubles.” She gestured for him to sit on the settee. “I did not expect to see you this afternoon. I hope you are not too disappointed that Delia is not at home.”

Vane studied Isabel’s elegant profile as she explained why her sister had left the house without her. If the lady could read his thoughts, she would be dismayed.

No, he was not disappointed at all that Delia was out for the afternoon.

Chapter Sixteen

“Father, you should have called one of the servants to help you,” Vane scolded as he caught sight of his eighty-year-old father, his arms full of pots overflowing with lush greenery.

“Christopher,” the marquess said. His low, raspy voice held a hint of surprise and breathlessness from his exertion. “Was your mother expecting you?”

“No.” Without asking permission, Vane gathered up the four small pots and nodded toward the open door. “Were you heading outdoors?”

Lord Netherley brushed the soil from his gloved hands. “Yes. Yes, of course, but there is no need for you to do that. I was perfectly capable—”

“Where do you want them?” Vane asked, cutting him off. As long as he could remember, the conservatory and the gardens had been his father’s favorite mistresses. He often wondered if his sire bedded down on one of the benches at night; it was rare to see both of his parents in the same room.

“I was taking the pots to the east wall,” his father explained, the slight hitch in his breath, causing Vane to slow his pace as they stepped outside into the sunshine. “You can place them on the bench. I’ll go get the others.”

The muscle along Vane’s jaw tightened.
Damn stubborn man,
he thought. “Leave them. I’ll collect them for you.” As he leaned over to place the pots on the bench, he belatedly noticed that his coat was smeared with dirt. He had been so distracted by his father, Vane had forgotten to remove the garment. “Do you need anything else? Should I call Squires?”

The marquess squinted at him from under the straw hat he had slapped on his head. His blue eyes were clouded with cataracts, but his gaze was still sharp. “Squires is not as young as he used to be. He’s probably napping in the butler’s pantry.”

“Squires is twenty years younger than you,” Vane said drily, and the marquess chuckled, his sun-weathered face creasing with humor. His father had been teasing the family butler over his need for an afternoon nap for years. “I’ll get the rest of the pots.”

However, his father had already turned away and was inspecting the pots on the bench. He was probably worried that his son had bruised the fragile vines. Shaking his head, Vane shrugged out of his ruined frock coat as he headed for the conservatory.

He had not planned on visiting his parents’ town house. With Susan and her destructive little monkeys wreaking havoc, Vane was content to keep his distance. Nevertheless, his time with Isabel had put him in a contemplative mood. He had called on the Thorne residence in the hope of breaking down those invisible walls the distrustful young woman had erected. His goals had hardly been noble. Even if Delia had been at home, Vane had intended to find a way to corner Isabel and perhaps steal a few kisses. Instead, he had spent part of the afternoon with a lady who was heartbroken because she had to part with her father’s work to pay her creditors.

Vane had discovered something about himself this afternoon. He was not the thoroughly selfish bastard he knew he was capable of being. Frost, and possibly Saint, would certainly have manipulated Isabel to gain what they wanted. He was not proud of his actions, but he had done the same. For some reason, though, that had changed: He could no longer treat Isabel in a callous manner.

When he returned to his father, he had discarded his coat and waistcoat. There was nothing that could be done about his shirt. If he had been alone, he might have untied his cravat and removed his shirt. When he was more lad than man, however, his mother had forbidden him from stripping down and overwhelming the female staff with his physique. Ah, those were the days. He recalled with fondness that there was a time or two when he had managed to get the maids to remove their clothing as well.

“Sun already getting to you, Christopher?” the marquess asked, leaning on the shovel he was gripping. “You have an odd expression on your face.”

“I’m fine, Father.” Vane walked by his father and put down the pots. “What are you planting?”

“I intend to entwine the honeysuckles and virgin’s bower so it grows into a lovely tangle and provides shade for the alcove.” He placed a trembling hand on one of the pots and chuckled hoarsely. “Though I shouldn’t have to explain a virgin’s bower to a Lord of Vice, eh?”

Vane’s gave him a sheepish shrug and glanced away. It was fortunate he did not share Isabel’s propensity for blushing, but he felt his face burn under his father’s knowing perusal.

“I do not have your enthusiasm for gardening, Father,” Vane said. “I don’t have the patience for it.”

“True enough,” the marquess said genially, straightening as he prepared to use the shovel.

Vane stepped forward and reached for it. “You should let someone help you. If not someone from the staff, then hire some jobbers for the manual labor.”

His father surrendered the shovel easily. “I ask for help when I need it.” He slowly lowered himself onto the bench and began removing his gloves. “If I don’t, I have to deal with your mother. The woman likes to make a fuss.”

“On that, we can agree.” Vane gestured at the ground. Someone had already cleared the section of withered vines and rocks. “How much space do you want between each hole?”

“This will suffice,” the marquess said, measuring the distance with his hands.

Silence settled between father and son as Vane stabbed the earth with the blade of the shovel. Neither one of them ever had much to say to the other. There were many reasons. No common interests, different temperaments, even his father’s advanced age. Lord Netherley had been fifty-one years old when Vane had been born. All reasonable excuses, Vane silently mused, but they only scratched the surface of their complicated relationship.

The real problem was … he was never supposed to be Lord Vanewright. The title had belonged to William, his father’s true heir. A brother he had never met, but one he had come to secretly despise. William, the perfect son. At twenty-five, he had been a lieutenant colonel in the Fifteenth Light Dragoons and by all accounts was loved and respected by all. On April 24, 1794, his heroic older brother was slain in the Battle of Villers-en-Cauchies. His lady mother was already pregnant with Vane when she learned of the death of her firstborn. When he was a boy, one of the servants had told him that his mother had been so grief-stricken by her loss that there were concerns she might miscarry the child in her womb.

On September 1, his mother delivered a healthy son to replace the one she lost. Even then, he was a superfluous addition to the family. It was Arthur who had been burdened with taking William’s place—an unenviable position, to be certain. Vane paused for a second and wiped the moisture collecting on his brow. How old had Arthur been? Seven, perhaps, or thereabouts. He had grown up watching his father mold Arthur into a young man worthy to replace the heroic William. Unlike Vane, Arthur never seemed bothered by the expectations placed on him.

Then again, he never lived long enough to enjoy his eighteenth birthday. He died a hero. Just like William.

His father had taken one look at his remaining son and found him lacking. The marquess retreated to the conservatory, and Vane was sent away to school. It was an arrangement that both of them were content with.

“Was there a particular reason why you decided to honor us with a visit?”

Vane’s thoughts flickered to Isabel. Her sadness had filled the gloomy study when she spoke of her father. He had wanted to offer her more than a sympathetic ear, but Isabel had too much pride to accept anything more. He grimaced. “Not particularly.”

“Well, I am pleased we have a private moment to speak,” the marquess said gruffly. “You and I have a few things to discuss.”

Vane stilled. “Business?”

The marquess gestured broadly with his hand. “After a fashion.” He placed his palm on the seat of the bench to help him stand. When Vane moved to assist him, his father waved him away. “I’m fine. Just a bit of stiffness that will fade once I get moving. No, I wish to discuss your upcoming marriage.”

It was a jest. Then again, Vane never credited his father with much of a sense of humor. He slammed the blade of the shovel into the earth and rested his hands atop the handle. “What marriage?”

“The one your mother assures me will be taking place soon.” The marquess turned away to pick up one of the pots, missing his son’s expression of unadulterated fury at his mother. He carefully schooled his features into something more acceptable.

“And did my mother give you the name of my soon-to-be bride?”

His father was not fooled by Vane’s calm demeanor. He knelt down and gently tapped the side of the pot to free the plant from its confines. Vane did not offer to help.

“It’s time, Christopher.”

A chill settled in his spine. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to explain to your wife that I prefer to select my own bride,” he said coldly.

His father did not look up from his task, and the slight only infuriated Vane further. “Is that what you are doing? Selecting a bride? Yes, Christopher, your legendary reputation has reached even my old ears. I am well aware that you’ve been happily sampling every willing miss within reach. I also am aware that you have no intention of marrying any of them.”

“And what business is it of yours?”

The marquess might have been on his knees, but he was not cowering. He gave Vane a withering glance. “By God, you are my heir! Every decision you make is my business. Now, about this search for a bride—”

“Are you even listening? I am not searching for a bride. Mother is—although she has had little success since I refuse to cooperate.”

“Then you will start cooperating.”

“No.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten that I am your father.”

“No, my lord, that particular fact is one I can never overlook.”

“Good. Then heed me, my boy, when I tell you that your wild ways have reached their zenith. You have duties to me and this family, and by damn you will fulfill them even if I have to take that shovel from you and beat some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

“You are welcome to try.”

“Do not challenge me on this, Christopher,” his father warned as he dropped the plant into its awaiting hole with uncharacteristic roughness. “Your mother is expecting you to select your bride this season, and you will not disappoint her.”

“You are asking too much.”

“No, my fault is in not asking more of you. It has made you arrogant and disrespectful. Well, this afternoon it ends.”

Vane opened his mouth, prepared to tell his elderly father that he could go to the devil with his demands.

“I am dying, Christopher.”

The quiet confession forced Vane to swallow his bitter oath. “Dying is inevitable for us all.”

“I am an eighty-year-old man and not remotely senile. I do not need a condescending lecture from my son.”

“Is this merely speculation or have you been examined by a physician?”

“I haven’t told your mother, but I suspect she has guessed by the frequency of Dr. Ramsey’s visits.”

“You’re lying,” Vane said flatly.

“Am I?” The marquess’s raspy chuckle filled the air. It soon disintegrated into a mild coughing fit. “Well, time will prove one of us right. In the meantime, perhaps you will appreciate a more direct threat. Your mother has gone to great efforts to find you a bride. You will accept the lady she has handpicked for you.”

Never
. Vane swallowed, attempting to free the muscles in his throat from their sudden paralysis. “And if I refuse?”

His father staggered onto his feet. “I will beggar you. Not one penny until I’m dead and the Netherley title is within your grasp. And don’t expect your mother to take pity on you. She will respect my wishes, and my man of affairs will make certain of it.”