Page 22 of Tremaine's True Love
“You’re amenable to marriage in the general case?” Bellefonte asked.
“We were discussing your merino sheep, my lord. The herd appears in good condition, but if you continue inbreeding, you’ll soon have a greater incidence of ill health, smaller specimens, and stillbirths.”
Bellefonte rested an elbow on the mantel, which he could do easily because of his excessive height.
“So you’ll use my sheep for outcrosses, then? Improve the wool in the local strains, improve the health of the merino offspring?”
“That would make sense.” As would selling some of the pure individuals in France, the United States, or other countries. Sheep were hardy enough to tolerate sea voyages well, under decent conditions.
“And yet you do not commit to that course,” Bellefonte mused. “Others are interested in these sheep, though I’ve only recently become aware of it.”
Tremaine remained seated at the desk and busied himself pouring the sand off his letter, capping the ink, and tossing the parings from the quill pen into the dustbin. Bellefonte was a good negotiator, but if he was as cash poor as most of the aristocracy, he was in a bad bargaining position.
“Others might be interested in your sheep, my lord, but others are not here. Others probably lack the coin I can bring to bear on the situation, and others won’t maximize the value of those sheep as I can.”
“Others will marry my sisters.”
Or maybe Bellefonte was a brilliant negotiator. “My lord, allow me to instruct you about sheep,” Tremaine said, “for I blush to inform you I am an expert on the species. Sheep move about on four legs. They grow wool, they bleat. They tend to dwell in herds, and according to some, the breeding rams have an objectionable aroma.
“Sisters, by contrast, typically move about on two legs,” Tremaine continued, approaching the hearth. “They may laugh, speak, or whine. They ordinarily do not bleat. They take great pride in their hair—which has little resemblance to wool—tend to pleasant scents, and go exactly where they please, when they please. They do not dwell in placid herds, chewing their cud until the shepherd directs them to another pasture. I am interested in the sheep, and only the sheep.”
“You want the sheep; I want my sisters happily and safely married. Beckman has spoken highly of you.”
For which Tremaine really must pummel dear Beckman when next they met. Perhaps Hesketh was due a few blows as well, because the aristocracy kept close tabs on each other, and the marquess might have had a hand in any scheme that saw Tremaine marched up the church aisle.
“The issue is not what you want, Bellefonte,” Tremaine said, “but rather what your womenfolk want. I have not detected matrimonial interest from them.” Interest, yes, the same interest with which the ewes looked over a new collie or watched a horseman canter by, but notmatrimonialinterest.
Nobody was in marital rut in this household, excepting perhaps Bellefonte himself.
“Edward Nash is heir to a baronet,” Bellefonte said. “His papa and mine rode to hounds together, and our pews are situated across the church aisle from each other. He owns a tidy holding not two miles distant—Stonebridge—and he quotes poetry to Susannah.”
Tremaine had ridden by that tidy holding and recalled the property because the sign naming it was anything but discreet.
“Nash offers to relieve you of a sister, while I offer you only money. What a credit to your priorities, Bellefonte.”
Bellefonte’s reputation was one of unfailing good cheer, though his blue eyes had abruptly turned colder than the winter skies over Kent.
“Nash offers tomake my sister happy. Susannah is retiring in the extreme. She didn’ttake, and she loves her books. I love—”
Pity for the earl required that Tremaine make a study of the library’s red, blue, and cream carpets, which were wool, probably Scottish wool. The sheep suited to northern climes grew a coarse, durable product that could withstand years of trampling.
“You love your sisters, my lord, and the prospect of seeing Lady Susannah across the church aisle every Sunday is less daunting than the notion that she might catch the eye of some Italian count.”
Or, heaven defend the lady, a Scottish wool nabob?
“Nash’s sister-in-law dwells with him too,” Bellefonte said, turning another quarter, so he faced the fire. “Susannah wouldn’t be the sole female in his household. She’d have children in due course, and what woman doesn’t want children?”
Addy Chalmers, for one. Tremaine’s own mother, possibly, though in Bellefonte’s world, women sought husbands as a necessary predicate to having children.
“My lord, you must do as you see fit with your sheep. I am prepared to buy the entire herd, butonlythe entire herd. Their value decreases significantly if you send one-third down the lane as Lady Susannah’s bridal attendants and another third to sale in London. The remaining third will be in far less demand for breeding purposes if you disperse your herd, and I’ll have fewer specimens with which to improve my own stock, which is vast.”
Bellefonte wandered to the desk, where he lifted the lid off a blue ceramic bowl and brought the dish to Tremaine.
“Have a ginger biscuit,” the earl said. “Haggling on an empty stomach isn’t well advised.”
Tremaine took one. Bellefonte helped himself to three, put the dish back on the desk, and moved to the shelves lining the inside wall of the library.
“My countess likes you,” the earl said. “My brothers like you. I think Nita might like you too.”
