Page 19 of The Vagabond Viscount
Who knows. Perhaps during that time, I might come up with something compelling to make the old swine see reason. He could agree to let us marry and live happily ever after.
He huffed at the insane futility of hoping Earl Bramshaw might grow a heart. Who was he trying to fool?
I have to do something. I can’t lose her. But what?
* * *
Reaching Bramshaw House, he knocked on the front door. His father didn’t consider him worthy of a key. The old butler had once confided in him that the earl took particular pleasure in making his son and heir linger outside in the street. Flynn was simply grateful that he didn’t have to use the servants’ entrance. He wouldn’t put it past his father.
He waited the customary, infuriating ten minutes before someone finally opened the door. By the time he stepped inside Bramshaw House, Flynn’s body had cooled, and he was shivering. It would take another good hour before he managed to get warm again. It was petty, little things like this that were the constant bane of his life.
“Lord Cadnam,” said the footman. He didn’t bow to Flynn.
It was just another mean-minded act from his father. The servants were given free rein to treat Flynn like an unwelcome guest. The spiteful ones took full advantage of this directive, while the wiser ones stuck closer to the rules of expected servant-master behavior.
Flynn kept a long list of the names of servants who would be leaving this place without references the day he became earl.
He found his father asleep, seated in a chair by the fire in the main sitting room upstairs. The two enormous greyhounds were lying in the prime position of warmth in front of the hearth. They looked well-fed. A juicy meat bone sat next to the larger of the two beasts.
We must have had beef this evening.
When he said we, he didn’t include himself in that count. He hadn’t seen red meat on his plate in weeks. A thin vegetable broth had been the extent of his supper offerings earlier this evening. Flynn’s stomach growled at the sight of the meat.
He didn’t dare sneak food from below stairs. The one and only time he’d tried had seen him soundly beaten and the Bramshaw House cook summarily dismissed for not keeping the door to the kitchen locked.
The earl stirred and cracked open an eye. “Come skulking about, have you? Thinking to do me in while I am asleep—that would be right. A cowardly act to end my life,” grumbled the earl.
Most other people would flinch at such a cutting remark, but Flynn was long past the point of being impervious to his father’s bitter words of abuse. That should have been a good thing for him. But unfortunately, over the past few years, the earl had also come to the same realization and decided that what his son really needed was to feel the weight of a cane smashed across his back.
“I would never willingly seek to do you harm, my lord. I have come to ask for your consideration about me being able to take on a wife. And for you to grant me access to suitable funds to support a family.”
The earl’s top lip curled up in obvious disgust. “What woman would want you? Or is this your cock talking? Couldn’t find a stray matron who would take pity on you and let you into her bed, eh?”
Flynn steadied himself. His gaze settled on the floor. He knew better than to meet his father’s eye. “The title needs a legitimate heir. And in order for that to happen, I have to marry. My lord.”
One of the slumbering dogs stirred and lifted its head. Flynn caught sight of his father’s hand as he reached out and gave the animal a friendly rub behind the ears.
“Who is a good boy? You always love a good long nap after supper,” said the earl.
His father picked up the beef bone, and the dog lazily licked at it before turning its head away. Its stomach was no doubt still full from the earlier meal.
He loves those dogs more than he cares for me.
Flynn wasn’t naïve. The greyhounds had always come ahead of him.
“As I was saying. If I am to produce a legitimate heir, I need to marry. Which means I have to be able to provide for a wife.”
The earl kept fussing with the dog, making Flynn wait. He finally dropped the bone to the floor before sitting back in his chair and letting out a tired sigh. “As with everything, I have to hand it to you on a platter.”
“Pardon?”
“I have told you that I will find you a wife. One whose papa is rich and who will indulge his daughter when I press her for money. His purse can provide for the two of you.”
Why can’t you just let me choose my own wife?
Flynn cleared his throat, then paused. He knew enough of his sire’s temper to sense when he was treading on dangerous ground. The cane was nowhere to be seen, but no doubt it was somewhere close at hand, ready for his father to put it to evil use.
“That is very gracious of you, my lord, but I am quite capable of finding a wife. I just need a little money.”
