Page 63 of Miss Determined
Tavistock consulted his watch, a gold article that might well have been willed to him by his father. “I am not asking for delicate maneuvers, Purvis. I am giving you an order: Sell those damned farms. If Jerome’s creditors do come crawling out of the Continental swamps, I want to pay them off without delay. We have no idea how many losing ventures Jerome backed, how many by-blows he left behind. Liquidate the properties at the first viable opportunity.”
Tavistock sounded exactly like his father, and Purvis would manage him exactly as he’d managed the previous marquess.
“If my lord wants to alert all of Mayfair to his lack of ready cash,” Purvis said, adopting a martyred tone, “then selling two properties that your family has held for generations will achieve the purpose nicely. That they are the most distant properties from Town will only underscore to any gossip that you are trying to raise funds without attracting notice.”
Tavistock took another biscuit. “Given that my solicitors pride themselves on their discretion, how will anybody know I’m selling?”
He was as proud as his father, thank the Deity, and almost as thickheaded. “Land records are public, my lord. Tenants complain. The buyers will crow over their new acquisitions. Later in the year, when many other properties are changing hands, the matter would not be as obvious, but if you are determined to ignore my advice, then I will have those farms on the market by this time next week. Don’t blame me when speculation about your financial situation starts up the week after that.”
And how gratifying it would be to start that speculation. How easy.
A muscle in Tavistock’s jaw twitched. “Oh, very well. Get both estates caught up on repairs, and stand by for further orders. I’ll wade through Jerome’s affairs and defer decisions affecting my own holdings. Bad timing on Jerome’s part. As usual.”
“Terrible, my lord, and so very sad. I do appreciate your bringing the news to me directly.” Though a note would have served as well and been one-tenth the bother.
“When it becomes known that I have no heir, I will have no peace. I will spend the next few weeks treasuring my privacy. You are not to thrust Miss Brompton in my path, Purvis. Your word on that.”
Idiot.“You have my word, sir, though I cannot control the lady or her dear mother. I will do my best.”
“I’ll see myself out. Must alert the household. Crepe on the knocker, black armbands, and all the other whatnot. Jerome is probably vastly amused on whatever celestial cloud he occupies.”
Why did the aristocracy always assume a heavenly fate for their departed loved ones? “Shall I make some charitable donations in Mr. Vincent’s memory, sir? Soldiers’ widows and orphans, aged seamen, the Magdalen houses?”
“I’m putting a new roof on St. Nebo’s?”
“You are.”
“Then I’ll donate a new organ as well, in Jerome’s memory. He loved music and had a fine tenor singing voice. If I ever attend services while visiting my Berkshire holdings, I’ll at least be spared the bleatings of an ancient wheeze-box.”
Of all the brainless impulses… “Lavish of you, my lord, though commendable.” An organ? Anorgan? Purvis had had in mind a handsome bank draft made out to bearer…
“I’ll be off. My thanks as always for your time and expertise, Purvis. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You flatter me, my lord.” Purvis let his client strut as far as the door before dropping the critical question. “My lord, that factor in Bordeaux who might present Mr. Vincent’s unpaid bills—can you give me a name? We get all manner of correspondence from the Continent, but if you give me a name, I’ll have the staff bring those epistles to me directly, unopened.”
“Good thought. The firm is…” His lordship stared at the tea tray, upon which one biscuit remained. “Marchand et Fils. Probably trying to sound English. Offices on the Rue du Vignoble. Back a few streets from the harbor.”
“Very good, my lord, and again, my condolences.”
Tavistock took the last biscuit, sailed through the door, and bellowed for Jones to bring him his hat.
High-handed, just like his father. Exactly, precisely like his father.
“Are you sure, Lissa?” Diana murmured, fingering the rim of a straw hat trimmed with embroidered ribbons. Tiny birds in shades of blue, cream, and brown flitted about on intricate green satin boughs, and a bouquet of silk bachelor buttons adorned the right side of the brim. “I’ve never seen such delicate work.”
Because Diana had never shopped anywhere save the Crosspatch shops and markets. “I’ve never seen trimming that so effectively flatters your coloring. To replicate this pattern would take us weeks.”
“Maybe you could do it,” Diana said, lifting the hat off its stand, “I haven’t the patience for it.”
“Try it on, miss.” The clerk was young, handsome, and doubtless half the reason for the millinery’s sales. “Is this your first Season?”
“Stop that,” Lissa said, leavening her scold with a smile. She didn’t blame the fellow for flattering the customers, but even flattery needed limits. “We are in Town to see the sights, and you know quite well that if we buy the hat, we’ll need matching gloves and a shawl to go with it.”
Diana perched the hat on her head and allowed Lissa to do up the ribbons in a trailing bow tied off-center.
“Let’s have that blue silk shawl,” Lissa said, “the one hanging in the window, and we’ll try a pair of blue gloves the same shade as the bachelor buttons.”
The clerk scurried off like a man carrying news of victory back to his general, while Diana beheld herself in a cheval mirror.
