Page 35 of Lady Daring
“Your presence, son,” Jasper said mildly. “A good manager keeps an eye on his business. Take Hetty’s example.”
“Lord Darien,” Henrietta said, apropos of nothing, “is an expert on early Mediterranean art.”
“He is also an amateur engineer,” Rutherford volunteered. “He spent much of his time on the Continent documenting the building practices of the ancients and the Renaissance greats. His library is full of drafts and sketches for various sorts of machines and improvements for his and his father’s estates.”
Everyone at the table looked at Darien with expressions that ranged from polite interest to incredulity. Lady Pomeroy seemed dubious that he had ever had a thought in his head beyond what waistcoat to wear and which woman to seduce next, which made all his contrary impulses rise to the surface.
“An inventor, are you?” said Jasper. “Care to design me a loom that will improve on Arkwright’s? The wretch patented his mechanism.”
“My scribbles are nothing so useful, I’m afraid. Most of them have to do with drainage. My land is in Huntingdonshire, near the fens, and I need to address the flooding if I expect to grow anything other than moss.”
“Hetty,” said Sir Jasper, “are you taking heed? Our guest might be able to help you with some of your schemes.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Henrietta answered, with that cool, shrewd look that so annoyed him.
It had been a fatal mistake to fix her frock. He was having a difficult time looking away from her. Every glance revealed a detail he had not hitherto noticed: the delicate shape of her ear,the deep hollow between her collarbones, the dainty bones of her wrist as she sipped her glass of expensive port. The candlelight turned her hair a deep, lustrous auburn. In a society ballroom, looking like this, she would draw every eye.
Darien forced a smile. He’d expected Jasper would pitch Henrietta at him. Perry had warned him that the bourgeois wouldn’t hide their daughters; on the contrary, his rank would outweigh his reputation for those eager to advance their status. It would give the marquess apoplexy, though, to think a cit, a man who made his living by trade, would presume to consider a Bales a match for his family.
“Miss Wardley-Hines seems to be involved in many schemes,” Darien said.
Henrietta put her chin on her fist. “I should like to hear more of your estate, Lord Darien. What are your feelings about enclosure?”
Darien went on the alert. He was not accustomed to discussing politics with women at the table. So far, he had passed muster on his attitudes toward slavery—could not condone—and the revolution in France—optimistic that Louis XVI would institute the reforms for which the National Assembly was calling. He had avoided commenting on Britain’s next moves in India, a place he could only think of with red rage. For his usual circles, a repertoire of witty remarks was all that was required for conversation.
“I have not thought of enclosing my own lands,” Darien replied, “though my brother Horace tried it at his estate of Bellamy. But The Revels has done well enough since we introduced crop rotation, and we only pasture the animals the farm can use. Are you in the market for wool sources, Sir Jasper?”
“Our mills are cotton,” his host said. “Which I can’t buy from the Americas any longer, since Hetty won’t let me support theslave trade. Won’t even take sugar with her tea if she suspects it comes from the West Indies.”
“I should like to see these designs of yours,” Henrietta said, business-like. “I am interested in ways to improve land.”
Jasper smiled, confirming Darien’s suspicion that her father played a large role in encouraging Henrietta’s unladylike endeavors, allowing her greater liberties than most unmarried girls could claim. Her elegant but languid stepmother saw no need to exercise corrections, and Lady Pomeroy’s exertions to refine her niece, while heroic, had no effect.
The footmen cleared the table, and Sir Jasper rose. “Lord Darien, Mr. Bales, we do not observe the postprandial segregation of the sexes in this household. If you have eyes and but look on my lady, you will understand why. Dearbody will bring our port through, and we can quiz Hetty on her debate topic for the rest of the evening, eh?”
“Perhaps Marsibel will favor us with a piece or two at the pianoforte,” Lady Pomeroy suggested as the party adjourned to the formal drawing room.
This attempt to elevate the tone of the evening met with little success. Henrietta made a beeline for Rutherford and cornered him in conversation on the desperately dry subject of library catalogues. She sat next to him on a low settee, her knees nearly touching his, that graceful body bent toward him as she hung upon his every word. Light from the whale oil lamps cast lovely bronze shadows over her fair skin and cinnamon hair.
Darien’s pointed stare went ignored. It was insulting enough that she should be fascinated by Rufie, the dullest stick in the room, when she ought to be fascinated with Darien. They were both supposed to be allies in his crusade but, having ensconced themselves in scholarly conversation, they left him on his own.
Very well, then. Once Sir Jasper wandered off to flirt with his wife, who sat behind the tea tray, Darien bolted a glass of brandy for courage and made his opening move.
“Sir Pelton. I wonder if you might advise me on a small matter.”
Pelton, leaning on the Italian marble mantelpiece framing the fire, lifted his gray eyebrows. “Not sure I know a whit of the subjects that interest you, lad.”
Darien tamped down a flare of irritation at the barb. “Legal issue,” he averred. “Concerning a man whose son and heir has been missing for seven years. His men of business think he should have the son presumed dead so the succession can be fixed on the next in line.”
He felt a burning ball in his throat and swallowed past it. The fare at table had not been of so inferior a quality as to cause dyspepsia. “Others of the family, however, feel he should be making a better effort to find the current heir.”
“Who’s next in line?” Pelton watched him shrewdly. He knew exactly what situation Darien referred to. He’d wager Sir Pelton knew every family listed inThe New Peerage; it made him potent in forming alliances.
“A worthless younger son,” Darien said. “Rather a rakehell, I’m told. No substitute for the missing son, who’s a soldier and a fine man.” That burning lump grew larger, pressing on his windpipe. God, how he missed Lucien. He should be here, sparing Darien all this.
“Where’d the heir go missing?” Pelton asked.
Darien swallowed hard. “Mysore. During the second war.”
