A Dangerous Nativity

Chapter 4

Will leapt up the steps to Eversham Hall and walked with purpose to the butler's pantry. Stowe jumped up from the desk, where he had been enjoying a surreptitious nip, probably of His Grace's brandy. He ought to look guilty. Instead, his pursed lips all too eloquently showed his opinion of an earl who stormed into his refuge dirty from road and horse.

The old man quickly shifted his gaze past the earl's left shoulder. "May I assist you, my lord?" he oozed.

"You have been butler at Eversham many years, have you not, Stowe?"

"I had the honor of serving His Grace's grandfather, the seventh duke," Stowe told him.

Will considered Stowe's likely loyalty to Emery, his ingrained belief in Eversham's routines, even the ones Will abhorred, and knew a moment of doubt. Impulse drove him anyway.

"Can you tell me what lies between Eversham and its neighbors at Songbird Cottage?"

"Lies between, my lord?"

"Why, for example, does the kitchen of this house not obtain its eggs from Songbird?" That should be a safe enough start.

"His Grace so ordered it, my lord." Stowe clamped his lips closed.

"But why?"

"It isn't my place, my lord, but..." he hesitated.

Will nodded. "Go on, go on."

"The seventh duke knew the vicar's daughter was no better than she ought to be. He went so far as to step aside when he saw her in the village."

"What about his son?"

"The seventh duke forbade his son to see her," the old man said as if it explained everything. "Will that be all?" He looked ready to escape.

"The seventh duke? You mean the current duke's grandfather?"

Stowe found it unnecessary to reply while Will stood looking at an equestrian print on the butler's wall, reasoning it out. Charles's grandfather forbade Emery "the vicar's daughter," and so Songbird Cottage. Why should that apply to Charles? Is Catherine the vicar's daughter? She can't be. He tried to remember when the seventh duke died. After Sylvia's wedding, but when?

He seized on the one solid piece of information he had. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"

Stowe looked pained.

"Come, come, man. Speak up."

"Master Arthur didn't know his place," the old man said through tight lips.

"His place?" He called Wheatly "Master Arthur," as if he knew him as a child.

"The duke forbade his sons to go near the vicar's daughter, that is what I know." He clamped his jaw shut.

Will no longer doubted that Lord Arthur was Emery's brother. Their father had forbidden both his sons to go near the vicar's daughter. One, or both, failed to respect their father's wishes.

I see no sign of vice at Songbird, but what if Emery, for once, had good reason to keep his son away?

More than one aristocrat kept his bastards away from his legitimate family. Will needed more information, and he needed it quickly.

An hour later, he sealed a carefully worded message with the Chadbourn signet ring. Private messenger would get it to London faster than the post, and more securely. If anyone could unravel Wheatly family secrets, it was the Marquess of Glenaire, Will's boyhood friend. Glenaire's discretion could be counted on.

A groom left for London moments later. Will dispatched a footman carrying a request for an interview to Squire Archer soon after that.

Now what? Will had met few men and no women who had as much passion for the land as he. Catherine Wheatly seemed to be the exception. It would be interesting to press her knowledge. It would be interesting to watch her eyes light up when he did. It would be interesting to watch those eyes if he bent to kiss her. He shook his head to clear that thought. Slow down, Will!

His impulse was to invite the Wheatlys, father and daughter, to dinner. Who would object the loudest, Wheatly or Sylvia?

"You wish to do what?" Sylvia exploded when he asked her an hour later.

"They are gentry. They are neighbors. It is merely a thought."

Sylvia sank back on her chaise longue. "I cannot entertain. I am in mourning. I am ill."

Even in mourning, a family dinner is unexceptional. He didn't dare say that out loud.

"Emery would not permit it. He refused even mention of them in this house. They are not received."

"Emery is dead." God be praised, he thought without shame. "Who is Lord Arthur Wheatly?"

Sylvia laid an arm dramatically across her eyes. "The old duke forbade that name in this house. We do not receive them."

"Squire Archer receives them," Will said. The squire had responded with an enthusiastic invitation, all admiration for Catherine Wheatly.

"A country squire is not society, William Chadbourn, you know that," Sylvia said wearily. "I can bear no more about Songbird Cottage."

Will sighed to himself. At least I've planted a seed, he thought. "You best be prepared to entertain, however. I've invited Richard Hayden for the holidays."

She popped upright. "The Marquess of Glenaire, here? You can't be serious. His mother, the duchess, is the highest of high sticklers. I can't entertain; I can't." The last came out in a long wail.

"I didn't invite the duchess. I invited Richard, my friend." Glenaire might be more than a bit stuffy, but he would not scoff at Sylvia. The more Will thought about it, the more sure he was that the invitation was just the thing to get Sylvia out of this suffocating room. "It will be a small, informal visit, but you will entertain him, Sylvia. I demand it," he said, forcing his voice to sound firm.

"As you wish, Chadbourn," she sniffed. He left her weeping.

It's for your own good. And call me Will, damn it. I'm your brother.