Authors: Father Christmas
Even the longest journey comes to an end except, perhaps, the journey to self-awareness. By the time they reached London, Lord Ware had devised a story to tell Aunt Eudora, and thus all of town. Milsom would see it reached the servants’ grapevine, and hence to Warefield.
Despondent after Christmas, so Leland related, Mrs. Warrington fell into a decline because Tony would never see his new child. Her megrims were worsened by the offer to go traveling from a fellow officer’s widow, an offer she had to refuse because of her condition, but which she was happy to have her sister accept in her stead. Prudence’s departure made life at the vicarage more dreary, with more chores and less time to spend with her sons or resting for the baby’s sake. With Ware’s active encouragement from abroad, therefore, and his man of business’s contrivance from London, Mrs. Warrington was sent to Ware’s old retired nanny for her confinement. Liam Hallorahan was good enough to escort her on his way home; the duke left the peace negotiations to bring his cousins back with him.
“Humph!” Aunt Eudora snorted. “If you weren’t a duke, my friends would laugh in my face.”
“But I am a duke, Aunt, so they shall smile and nod politely and congratulate you on your new grandniece, as long as you accept Antonia as your kin.”
“I don’t doubt she’s my kin, boy, it’s which side of the blanket she was born on that has me flummoxed.”
“What, you think the infant is mine?”
“I ain’t blind, boy. I saw how you panted after the widow last Christmas.” She pounded her cane on the floor for emphasis. “And you better not be acting like a stag in rut unless you want everyone else to think so, too.”
Having carefully inspected the new arrival, Milsom drew his own conclusions, which he was certainly too well trained to discuss with his employer, or anyone else for that matter. “Very good, Your Grace,” he said after being spoonfed a bowl of hogwash if ever he saw one. “Major Warrington would be proud of his wife and new daughter.”
Leland swallowed his own retort and dismissed the butler to spread the word.
Ware’s friend Crow Fanshaw needed a bit more convincing. He’d stopped by when he heard Leland was back in town, and the duke was forced to introduce him to Graceanne. Ware knew he couldn’t keep her hidden away like the family skeleton, not if he wanted the
ton
to accept his story, but did she have to tote that blasted infant around with her like an extra shawl? Having the boys down to tea was one thing; let Crow see that not all children were barbarians, like his sister’s tribe. It was bad enough that Les—or Will—asked his Tulip friend how Crow turned his head without poking out an eye on the high shirt collars he wore, but did Grace have to show off the half-pint Hallorahan?
Crow was polishing his quizzing glass later at White’s when the inevitable came. “I say, Tony’s boys couldn’t be more alike if you held a mirror to ’em. Of course, the younger one—Leslie, was it?—is going to be the better dresser. You can tell.”
“You can tell which is Leslie?” Now that Les’s chin was healed, Leland hadn’t a clue which twin was which. He was ashamed to admit it to a man-milliner like Crow, however. “That is, you can tell which has better taste?”
“Of course. And deuce take it if they aren’t little Tony Warringtons come to life. Ah, can’t say the same for the infant.”
There, the question everyone was going to be asking, but not out loud. There was only one answer: “Mrs. Warrington’s mother was a redhead.”
Crow nodded and replaced his glass in its special pocket. “That explains it, then. Lovely female, Tony’s widow. Too bad she’s still in mourning.”
Too bad he couldn’t plant his best friend a facer, but Leland sipped his wine and smiled his agreement.
“She didn’t seem too in alt about being in London. Not like m’sister, anyway, who can’t wait to leave the country no matter if she has to drag the brats along with her. I mean, even if Mrs. Tony can’t do the fall Season because she’s in mourning, there are still the shops.”
There had been words spoken over Graceanne’s refusal to have the duke pay her modistes’ bills. Ware was not willing to trust her with more than pin money, so she still wore her country-made gowns. Not that he’d wash the family linen for Crow’s ears. “Mrs. Warrington is used to a quieter life, and you must have seen she is a devoted mother.”
Crow didn’t know if it was devotion or being dicked in the nob, letting those rug rats climb all over her. He did know that he’d not be taking tea again at Ware House anytime soon.
Leland was going on: “She’s concerned about the children here in London. I found an excellent tutor, a university student on convalescent leave, but that’s only an hour or two a day, the boys are so young.” And the tutor so weak. “But we cannot seem to find a suitable nanny, so Graceanne has the full burden of their care most times, in addition to the infant.”
Actually they’d found three suitable nannies on three successive days. None of them lasted through the night. The employment agency was referring Milsom to their competitors down the block.
Crow was shaking his head knowledgeably. “Finding a decent nanny is the devil of a job.” He spoke from his sister’s experience. “You want one that’ll keep the brats out of your hair, without worrying if she’s got them chained in irons. M’sister finally found one who actually seems to like the little beasts, and they like her back. At least they pay attention to her. First time I ever saw them not trying to murder each other. Nanny Sprockett’s almost got them civilized, by George.”
So by ten o’clock the next morning, Milsom had bribed Nanny Sprockett to Ware House. In two days she had the boys eating out of her hand—sugarplums and ginger nuts—and the fussy baby eating some kind of pap to make her grow. She even convinced the Irish wet nurse to stop putting milk out for the little people—and every stray cat in the neighborhood. Then she threatened to slap Aunt Eudora’s hand if she dealt from the bottom again.
Graceanne was pleased with the new nanny, except that suddenly she had too much time on her hands. She had no chores and no one on whom to pay calls. She had no money to visit the shops unless she was willing to have all her purchases, from toys to tooth powder, from bonnets to bonbons, credited to the duke’s account. She wasn’t.
She was amazed how the lack of funds made her feel so defenseless, especially since she hadn’t had money in her own hands for all that long. For those years before, she’d never realized the helplessness of her position. Now she did. She didn’t feel quite like a servant, since she had nothing to do in the vast, well-run mansion, but more like a poor relation. It didn’t help when Mr. Milsom deferred to her in household matters he could have handled in his sleep, after she asked to be of assistance.
No, she had to have this situation out with Ware. Graceanne’s pride wouldn’t let her tell him the truth about Nina; neither would it let her be a nonentity the rest of her life. Ware was used to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed, but Graceanne’s days of “Yes, Papa” and “No, Papa” were over.
“Your Grace, a moment of your time?” She had to disturb him in his library, a room she’d never entered lest she meet him there. He’d been avoiding her assiduously, so this was her only opportunity. Bearding the lion in his den seemed to fit her mood.
Leland gestured her to the seat facing his desk. She was not going to start this conversation being dwarfed by the wide leather chair or being intimidated by the expanse of polished wood between them. “I prefer to stand,” she said, “but you may sit, of course.”
He could do no such thing, of course. He did lean his tall frame against the desk, though, managing to look relaxed and confident, blast him.
“About my bills,” she began.
Leland held up his hand. “All of your expenses are being paid, Mrs. Warrington. No reasonable requests will be denied, I promise you. Every shopkeeper in town knows the address, so you merely have to place your order and give your direction.” He crossed his arms across his chest, satisfied.
Graceanne wasn’t, and was determined to make him understand. “But I don’t have any accounting, whether I am overspending my allowance or not. And I have to ask Mr. Milsom every time I need to tip a footman or a delivery boy. I don’t even have pin money to put in the poor box at church without asking Mr. Olmstead. It is degrading.”
“So is having to chase you to Ireland.”
Graceanne blushed, but managed to say, “I never asked you to come after me.”
“And I never asked you to account for every pound and shilling.”
“Your generosity is not in question, Your Grace. It’s a matter of trust that you won’t grant me the wherewithal to take a hackney across town, much less across the continent. And I am not permitted to hire my own servants.”
“I thought you liked Nanny Sprocket!”
“I did
not
like the dresser you hired for me.”
Leland shuffled some papers on his desk. “I admit the first choice was not felicitous.” He hadn’t stolen that one from Crow’s sister, but from his sister-in-law, who was always turned out in the height of fashion. “How was I supposed to know she did not like children?”
“And the second one? She took one look at my wardrobe and announced she wouldn’t be seen dead in my castoffs.”
He tried to hide a smile. “I daresay she was dressed better than you.”
“Immeasurably, I’m sure. Now that Nanny Sprockett is here, I might take the time to do some shopping, if you will show me an accounting of my bills, but that’s not the point. The point is, I do not need you or one of your hand-picked watchdogs overseeing my every move. I never had a dresser before in my life, and I do not require one now.”
“Oh, you know the right shops to patronize, do you? Fair prices so no one overcharges you? Unsavory neighborhoods to avoid?”
Graceanne had to admit that she didn’t.
“Furthermore,” he went on, on the attack, “a lady is never, I repeat, never, seen abroad without escort in London.”
“Are you implying that I am not a lady?” It was a good thing she wasn’t sitting at the desk; the letter opener was a safe distance away.
“I am implying that without a maid in attendance, you are subject to worse insults than that.”
“They couldn’t be any worse than the way your aunt looks at me.” Or the way he did, like she’d crawled out from under a rock. With Nina in tow.
“You are not that naive, Grace. There are a great many indignities you’d find more offensive than Aunt Eudora’s disapproval. If it’s any consolation, she is more incensed with me than with you.” He tidied another pile of documents. “She, ah, believes me to be the infant’s father.”
“You?” And she laughed, which was possibly the worst insult to Ware’s pride of all.
“Is that all?” he asked, taking up his pen to signal the end of the conversation. “See Mr. Olmstead about an accounting and an allowance if that’s what you wish, but for your personal needs only. The boys’ expenses are part of my household. And hire your own abigail, if you want to be bothered with references and such. Hire any blasted servants you want, as long as you don’t go out of this house without one of them. And,” he added without looking up from his papers, “as long as you aren’t using them and my blunt to shab off again. Believe me, the consequences of another runaway liaison will be far worse than having to suffer Aunt Eudora’s lectures.”
Graceanne wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d just won the battle yet lost the war. He was never going to trust her, and she was never going to be more than a prisoner in his house; a prisoner whose every want and need was met, who was treated with distant courtesy, but a captive all the same.
As for the duke, he was grimly satisfied that he’d made his points: His wards’ mother was going to behave with propriety, and he wasn’t financing another tryst. “Good day, Mrs. Warrington.”
* * *
The words still left a bitter taste in his mouth when he returned with the boys after their riding lesson at an indoor rink. Lesson, hell, Hallorahan had made the twins into regular Lilliputian centaurs, although the Warrington blood had to get some credit. He had only to stand back and watch, and make sure they didn’t attempt any jumps higher than their ponies could take. They’d be ready for Hyde Park any day now—any day he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen bear-leading his little cubs. He was already a laughingstock at White’s, having been caught teaching them to roll hoops in Grosvenor Square. Then there was all the time he devoted to their riding and taking them places. Boys new to London had to go to Astley’s and the menagerie at the Tower and Gunter’s for ices, didn’t they? He couldn’t very well entrust them to that weak-kneed tutor, no matter how his friends chuckled behind his back. Besides, the twins were better company than those rashers of wind at the Parliamentary sessions he was missing these days. His business ventures were also suffering, and his social life, too.
He couldn’t seem to enjoy himself at the rounds of routs and ridottos now that summer was over and the
ton
was coming back to town. He’d think of Graceanne sitting in the house every evening with her endless sewing, or being fleeced by Aunt Eudora at cards, and the champagne would seem flat, the conversations insipid. More often than not, he just spent the nights at his clubs. Drat the woman, she was cutting up his peace more every day!
* * *
Then Sergeant Rawley got to town. The first jarvey he asked directed him right to Ware House. The door was opened by the starchiest butler Rawley’d ever seen. Why, if the fellow hadn’t been wearing an old-fashioned wig, Rawley’d think he was the duke himself. The chap took his blessed time fetching Mrs. Warrington, too.
Graceanne came flying down the stairs, baby and all, shouting his name when she got the message. She pushed the infant into Milsom’s arms, then threw herself at Rawley’s massive chest, weeping her happiness into his shirtfront.
Leland stepped out of his library to see what the commotion was in the hall, and did not like what he saw at all, Graceanne in the embrace of a large, rough-looking individual.
Rawley didn’t like what he saw any better. Crying, was she? So was the infant. And that toff in the niffy-naffy pantaloons was looking as jealous as a ram with one ewe. So Rawley planted him a flush one, right-handed.