“I liked the brothers,” John said. “I knew them as a boy and then we lost touch to a great extent after I joined the army. We didn’t move in the same circles.” Even if his rank had been equal to the brothers’, it would have been unlikely they’d have met except at the larger society events. Army circles and aristocratic circles didn’t always meet. Society consisted of different overlapping spheres of interest and influence, continuously engaged in a dance that some found satisfying, but bored others to tears. John thought they could count him in the latter group. He wasn’t looking forward to the social events he would have to attend, particularly when they had come out of mourning completely. “I was glad to renew our acquaintance, and devastated to lose them so soon after our reunion.”
“My lord, may I ask why both came to visit you in Canada?”
John raised a brow, deciding on the arrogant. That piece of information he would keep to himself or rather, he would not share with Roker. He’d answer up to a point. “Family business.” Then a thought struck him, a mild distortion of the truth. “Lady Graywood was anxious for me to marry, preferably one of her daughters to secure the succession. She sent her sons to me as soon as they discovered I was alive.”
Roker tutted. John ignored the disapproving sound. “If her younger son failed to remarry, and her other son continued in his refusal to enter that state, she wanted the next generation secured.”
In fact, he knew that Lady Graywood wanted him to sire children she could then commandeer, if necessary. It was one reason he’d refused to marry before then. He had no intention of allowing any child of his to go through the same suffering he had, studying dusty books that would have no relevance to his real life. Such was the improbability of the “Just in case.”
Well, the “Just in case” had happened. Here he was, so it was as well he’d discovered he had a flair for business and had prospered. A year trapping bear and beaver and a week to realise that the real money didn’t lie there, but in the centres of commerce. Although he’d enjoyed his year in the wilderness, having time to think and plan, his return to civilisation hadn’t been without its merits, either.
Except that Halifax had its share of matchmaking mamas, too.
London did not have the monopoly on that.
The brothers had wanted him to find a bride, that was true, but they had other information to divulge to him. Suspicions only, but he appreciated their concern. He’d intended to do a little investigation of his own when he arrived in London.
Which had gone up in smoke when the Earl of Graywood and his brother had died. Although that had changed everything drastically, he still meant to investigate their suspicions. They’d probably amount to nothing but John believed in checking and rechecking the facts before he came to a decision. “It surprised me to discover I had a wife,” he confessed. That was true enough.
“Although I knew Faith before my memory failed me. She told me that we married shortly after the death of her first husband, when I promised to take care of her.”
“We will need the relevant documents for the family archive,”
Roker said. “If a question should arrive in future years...”
“Heirs, yes, I understand. The documents, or legal copies, will be conveyed to you.” If he decided to create any by whisking Faith off to the first church that agreed to do the deed. He’d tell Roker the first marriage was irregular. Not now, because he suspected Roker worked hand in glove with the dowager, who would still be delighted to see one of her daughters become the Countess of Graywood. He’d announce it to his man of business when they’d done the deed, and not before.
“My lord, it would make most sense to join your business with the estate,” Roker said then. “Would you allow me to arrange the transfer of the relevant papers to my offices?”
“No.” On that he determined, despite Roker’s barely concealed chagrin. “Neither will any new holdings become part of the entail.”
That way if the worst happened and he died without issue, he could keep most of the wealth out of the grasping hands of the government.
Roker spluttered. “I must protest, my lord, in the strongest possible way. As your man of business, I need to oversee your holdings...”
John held up a hand, palm out, to stop him mid-rant. “You are the dowager countess’ man of business. I have not yet appointed you to that role on my behalf, although until probate is through, I would prefer you remain in that post. I will watch your performance during this period and decide your suitability for the long-term management of the estate.”
“My lord, it will be a busy time. My family has served yours in that capacity for many years. I assure you—“
John recalled the saying about eggs and baskets. He didn’t want to listen to any more blustering. Roker had turned red, his narrow face almost the same colour as the wine in the decanter set at the centre of the table. “No more, please. I will give the matter urgent consideration. I have my own man of business, who serves my interests in London and abroad and I’ll continue to use him to supervise that part of my property.” From which he would settle a large amount on Faith, so she would not be destitute if he should die before his time. Or if she bore him only girls. Anything was possible. Besides, he had complete trust in his own man. “I’m calling on him in the morning.” He gave Roker an unholy grin.
“Her ladyship, that is my wife, will be accompanying me to the most important meetings. I want her to know every part of the business. I’ll not have her left helpless.”
“Women have no brain for such things,” Roker said, fighting valiantly.
He had no chance against a master of strategy. “My wife handled the pension and the small income due to me most admirably while I was gone. She even made a profit.” He had no idea if she had, but she hadn’t seemed destitute when he first met her here. “I would trust her brain against some of the most acute ones I have ever met.”
Only then did he realise he was speaking the absolute truth. In that, at least.
Chapter Eight
Two days later, the first of Faith’s mourning gowns arrived. She was forced to recognise that Robinson could not handle her role when the maid had difficulty fastening the hooks and buttons. It took her too long, and Faith privately considered that she could have dressed herself faster. Not that she’d have chosen this gown. At least, not until she took a look at herself in the mirror at the end of the process.
Black wasn’t the best of colours for her, but Cerisot had considered that when she’d cut the gown as low as respectable daywear allowed. Faith’s skin to show glowed in contrast with the rich black. Black was an expensive colour, the depth of colour hard to achieve in cheaper fabrics, as Faith knew to her cost. Her old mourning gown, although perfectly acceptable, had an unfortunate tinge of green to it.
The cut was masterly, though the dressmaker had only taken a ready-made gown and altered it for Faith. Her custom-made gowns would arrive as soon as they were completed, but she hadn’t ordered many full mourning. She only had two weeks. Less, if she bolted.
Her carpetbag lay in the powder room seemingly abandoned, but she’d ensured it contained everything she needed if she wanted to leave quickly. She’d had it since her marriage, and didn’t feel entirely safe if she had no idea of its location, or she didn’t keep it packed.
Robinson had brushed Faith’s hair, but then she’d had to use the curling iron, so the scent of hot, though fortunately not burned, hair still lingered in the air. Absently she reached for the cologne bottle. She only ever used ordinary eau-de-cologne, so she’d have to put that on her shopping list. And she needed black gloves. The only pair she owned were distinctly shabby.