Midnight Bride (8 page)

He looked up, startled. But his father answered for him. "If a viscount is not good enough to live on your estate, then neither is his son." he shouted. Then he grabbed him and dragged him from the room.

For Robert, then eleven, the next year had been frightening. His father took them First to London. There the older man and his eldest son began their careers as gamblers. Somehow—Robert never wanted to know how—his father found someone to Finance him and later to introduce him to the people he wanted to know—the wealthy or presumably wealthy crowd that surrounded the heir to the throne. Left alone in their grim rooms with only a haughty valet for company, Robert read, regretting the lost opportunities for an education. After the first time he knew not to ask his father for anything, choosing rather to run errands for people to earn his food. Gradually the valet came to respect him; now Graves was his own valet, the only way the older man would allow him to repay his many kindnesses.

As he grew older and more like his grandfather, whom he had never met but whom his father blamed for his lack of money and position, Robert's life became a constant struggle to stay out of his father's way. With Graves's help, the viscount was persuaded to send him off to school, his first year's tuition in his pocket. After that his father forgot he had
a another
son. Had it not been for his grandfather he would not have been able to complete his education; his father did not continue to pay the school's fees. Only an appeal by the headmaster to his grandfather, the Earl of
Darington
, changed his life.

The older man, then in his late fifties, decided to see the grandson he had never known. To
both their
surprise, the man and boy became friends— tentatively at first but later firm and steadfast. The two Roberts spent all of the younger's school holidays together. And
Darington
made certain that Robert, unlike his father, was well trained in estate management and in business.

For the first time in his life Robert had someone whom he could love and trust. His father had cared only for himself; his mother, only for her eldest, Edward. Neither trusted the earl; they had quarreled with him early in their married life, leaving his estate for that of Robert's mother's brother. Although his maternal uncle was fond of Robert, the boy knew that his uncle often regretted his impulsive invitation to his brother-in-law, an invitation that had cost him twelve years of support for a man he had learned to hate. Robert too regretted those early years, years he could have spent with his grandfather whom he had learned to love. Only on two things did Dunstan ever argue with his grandfather: buying a set of colors and marrying the daughter of the family who owned the next estate.

The first, buying a set of colors, he decided to forgo. His grandfather introduced him to a friend in the Home Office who found interesting work for him to do. Sometimes it was interesting, he reminded himself. Other times, like the house party, it was decidedly dull. The post would have gotten the message there as fast as he did, and he would not have needed to endure the endless round of gambling and meaningless activities he disliked so much. Of course, he would not have renewed his acquaintance with Elizabeth either, he added to himself.

Acquaintance?
he
asked himself. Then he laughed quietly. "She probably has another word for it," he said, startling the footman who had quietly entered to make up the fire on the hearth.

"Did you say something to me, your lordship?" the man asked.

"No." Dunstan lay back on his pillows, struck once again by the subtle plotting that might have been his undoing. Had he not been in his bed when the footman came in? He could imagine the stories that would have gone around
belowstairs
, especially when it was discovered that he had not been off the estate.

Remembering the humiliation of listening to the whispers about his father and his brother, he was determined he would not be the subject of gossip again.
The years of being snubbed or being regarded as a fortune-hunting gamester had made their mark on him.
Now he lived his life as circumspectly as possible, not even his closest friends knew his liaisons. In the last years his reputation had begun to improve. He did not intend to change that fact.

Like Dunstan, Hartley did not intend to change his way of living. The money he and the others had lost to Dunstan would have to be replaced. That thought was the first in Hartley's mind as he awoke that morning to the noise the footman was making on his hearth. "What's the time?" he
demanded,
his voice rough with sleep.

"
It's
past seven, sir," the footman said quietly; he had already seen Hartley's displeasure when the man thought his importance had been slighted.

"Seven!" At first Hartley reached for the heavy candlestick to throw at the servant who had awakened him so long before his usual hour. Then he remembered. He sat up in bed, pulling the sheet around him. "Who else is awake this early?"

"Lord Dunstan spoke to me when I was making up his fire." The footman paused in his work and looked at the man in the bed. The man's face was mottled with anger. Quickly the footman finished his work, hoping to be through before the wrath spilled over onto him. "Is there anything I can get you, sir?"

Hartley waved him away, not noticing how fast the man made his escape. Dunstan was in his own room. The frown on Hartley's face grew darker. Somehow the man had cheated him again. Hartley lay there silently for a long while. Then a sly smile crossed his face, making it light up in a ruthless way. He slid out of bed and crossed to the bell pull.

A few doors down the hall, Dunstan listened to the minutes tick away and tried to remember the details of the previous evening. No matter how hard he tried, the details eluded him. Finally he rose, dressed, and headed down to the usually empty breakfast room. As he walked across the threshold, he stopped in surprise. For once the others were before him.

"I say, Dunstan, you look chipper this morning. Did you sleep well?" asked the youngest, a brother of one of Charles's closest friends. He winked at Dunstan.

"Yes," the viscount said quietly. "Until the footman woke me as he lit the fire, I slept wonderfully well."

"You should have," the young man said, laughing. The others quieted him quickly.

"What do you mean?" Dunstan looked from Hartley to the others suspiciously

Hartley stepped in quickly, flashing an angry look at his companions. "You were so castaway when you went up to bed that we made bets whether you would be able to rise today," he added, his voice smooth as treacle.

Dunstan laughed. "I am lucky that I have such a hard head. I rarely feel the effects of the evening before. But that does explain why my stomach is so unsettled this morning. Now, who bet on me?
Fd
like
to give him my congratulations."

"None of us," Hartley said quietly, a slight edge
to his voice. "Charles is the man you must congratulate."

"Charles? I will have to give him my thanks for his confidence later." Dunstan looked around the room, his face unconcerned. "What has Cook provided for breakfast this morning?"

While the others continued their conversations, Dunstan selected his breakfast from warming dishes set along the sideboard. Recognizing the difference between appetites, the cook had prepared not only the usual buns, cakes, coffee, chocolate, fruit, and preserves, but also a ham of noble proportions. Dunstan had the footman slice him some, adding it to his strawberries and bun, and made his way to the table. His stomach still slightly unsettled, he ate slowly, adding a bit to the conversation here and there when someone addressed him.

Although the others drifted off to find amusements at the stables or in the stream, Hartley stayed behind to keep Dunstan
company
. He signaled for the footman to fill up the other man's cup. Then he leaned casually back in his chair. "I never thought you were much like your brother Edward until last night," he said musingly.

"My brother?"
Dunstan's face became a mask of disinterest. "How did you know my brother?"

"We met occasionally," Hartley told him.
"Had some friends in common.
Last night you reminded me of him."

The viscount stood up, knocking his chair to the floor. As a footman hurried to set it upright, Dunstan asked, his voice icy and quiet, "How?"

"Oh, nothing specific.
Perhaps just the way you were playing or perhaps
your
drinking."

"Thank you for the warning."

"What?"

"I do not consider the comparison a compliment."

"Nor, dear boy, do I," Hartley assured him.

"Your brother was as big a scoundrel as I ever hope to meet." And stupid as well, he added to himself. Dunstan, he knew, was anything but stupid. "Remember that scandal he caused with the daughter of some cit? Had the poor girl believing he would marry her. It did make an amusing story at the club."

Remembering the flurry of gossip that had surrounded the event, Dunstan had to agree, but his face never changed. He merely nodded and walked out of the room, heading outside to the garden. After walking through the quiet pathways for some time, he found a marble bench in an isolated corner and sat down, allowing his anger to show on his face. Would he never be free of the reminders? He laughed sardonically. Of course he wouldn't, not as long as men like Hartley wanted to keep the memories alive. And for some reason Hartley did.

Wondering what his brother had done to the man, Dunstan reviewed what Hartley had said and what he had seemed to say. "Damn! I don't trust him," he said under his breath.

"
'Scuse
me, sir?" A gardener stood only a few feet away, pruning shears in his hand.

Startled, Dunstan got up, nodded to the gardener, pulled out his watch, and headed to the house. The morning was far advanced.
Only a half hour until his meeting with Elizabeth.
She had to agree to marry him; he refused to let his name become part of a scandal again. His stomach began churning again, and he rubbed it, wishing he had eaten less that morning.

Upstairs in the master's chambers Charles
Beckworth
had just begun to stir. His first movements caused disastrous results. Only his valet's knowledge of him kept him from ruining his bed. Porter stood beside the bed, a basin in his hands until Charles finished heaving.

"Don't look at me like that, Porter," he said huskily when he could speak again and his valet had returned.

"I am sorry, Master Charles. Tell me what you do not like about my expression, and I will be happy to change it," the older man said soothingly.

"You can start by calling me Mr.
Beckworth
," Charles said as he had often done before, regretting that he had allowed his mother to persuade him to keep his father's valet for himself. There was something intimidating about a valet who had known you before you were even in short pants.

"Of course, Master Charles."
The other man continued to lay out the clothing his master would need for the day. "How was your visit with Miss Elizabeth?" he asked with the familiarity of an old retainer.

"Elizabeth?" Charles asked. The fact that even his older sister was still a
child to Porter soothed his feelings somewhat. "We had a rare dustup."

"Somewhat quicker than normal, wouldn't you
say, sir?" Porter continued with his duties as calmly as if Charles had told him that Elizabeth and he were getting along well. "How were Lord and Lady
Ravenwood
and the children?"