Page 20 of Dangerous Illusions (Dangerous #1)

G IDEON’S IMAGE OF HIMSELF had been severely shaken.

Riding away from the house, he had all he could manage to maintain his dignity, for the memory of St. Merryn’s demanding to know if he should send for his servants to escort him out had been nearly more than his temper could bear.

Bad enough that it had happened at all; much worse that it had happened before such an audience.

In his mind’s eye, he could still see Seacourt’s expression of contempt, and it brought forcibly to mind certain incidents of his school years that he would just as soon forget.

Briefly he wondered if Jack had ever made a cast toward St. Merryn’s daughters, but a moment’s reflection told him he had not.

He had had no interest in galloping gentility, as he called it, and since he had not yet been on the lookout for a wife, and preferred to spend his time in such manly pursuits as boxing, gambling, hunting, and shooting, he was more likely to have been found at the Newmarket races than at Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

Gideon smiled, suddenly remembering the way Daintry had leapt to his defense against her irascible parent, just as if she had not torn a strip off him herself less than half an hour before.

The wench had some odd notions in her head, thanks to that formidable aunt of hers, and was too much accustomed to having her own way of things, but she was nonetheless beautiful or desirable for all that.

Penthorpe would have been no match for her, of course—would have found himself living under the cat’s paw within a month.

She was a termagant, but a magnificent one, and his own temper could match hers any day.

It was a pity that St. Merryn’s commands would make it a trifle awkward for him to pursue the acquaintance.

Still, she was determined to end the old feud, and she seemed the type who, once she’d got a bee buzzing in her bonnet, would do all in her power to put it to rest. Moreover, it was the house-party season, and he had received a number of invitations.

No doubt Daintry Tarrant would turn up at some of the same houses.

His thoughts remained thus pleasantly occupied until Deverill Court came into view, at which time they shifted abruptly back to the scene at Tuscombe Park.

Unaccustomed as he was to the sort of Turkish treatment he had received from St. Merryn, he could not deny that he had deserved the man’s anger.

What his own father would have to say about it did not bear thinking about, and he had still not made up his mind whether to confess the whole to him or hope he never learned about it from anyone else—rather a forlorn hope considering the number of persons present and the fact that one of them, Lady Catherine Chauncey, was completely unknown to him.

And, too, Sir Geoffrey Seacourt, having been a crony of Jack’s who had enjoyed helping him make life miserable for the younger boys at Eton, was scarcely a man whose discretion he ought to rely upon now.

Sighing, he gave his horse into a groom’s keeping and went into the house, removing gloves and hat and handing them, with his whip, to the footman who was the sole occupant of the hall.

“Is my father at home, Thornton?”

“Yes, my lord”

“The book room?”

“Yes, sir, and begging your pardon, my lord, but I’m afraid there has been a bit of a dust-up of sorts.”

Gideon raised his eyebrows. “A dust-up?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Kibworth and Mr. Shalton, sir.”

Gideon grimaced. “I’ll deal with them later.

First I must see my father.” His erstwhile batman and the fashionable valet his father had thoughtfully provided for him at Jervaulx Abbey had not yet managed to come to terms with each other for the simple reason that Shalton had accompanied him north while Kibworth had proceeded directly to Deverill Court, but it had become clear even before they all left the Abbey that the two men were not precisely kindred spirits.

Gideon had accepted Kibworth’s services because Jervaulx clearly had expected him to do so, but Shalton was more than just a servant to him, and if he had to decide between the two, it was Kibworth who would go.

In the book room, a fire crackled on the hearth, and Jervaulx was standing by the window overlooking the south lawn. When Gideon entered he turned, saying, “Thornton said you had gone out. It is a good day for a ride, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.” Gideon was not generally one to charge before his defenses were in place, but he could see no reason to delay once he had made up his mind to a course.

Shutting the door, he said bluntly, “I rode to Tuscombe Park, sir, to clear up some unfinished business. St. Merryn ordered me off his land.”

“Precisely what one might have expected him to do. ’Tis odd he did not do so yesterday.

” Jervaulx moved away from the window to a wing chair near the hearth.

Resting one slender, well-manicured hand on the chair back, he looked directly at Gideon.

“Perhaps now you will be content to let the matter rest.”

The order was clear, and Gideon experienced a sense of being swept backward in time to a period when defiance had been utterly unacceptable.

Nevertheless, he said evenly, “Before I can do that, sir, I would like to know how the feud between the two families originated. The oddest thing in all of this is that no one at St. Merryn seems to know.”

“There can be no good cause to rake up old quarrels. Suffice it to say that grievous fault lay with the Tarrants, and the families have not spoken since. No reasonable man requires to know more than that, and at present you would be far better occupied in putting an end to the conflict between your servants before it disrupts this entire household.”

“I’ll attend to that,” Gideon said, accepting the snub for the moment at least, knowing from experience that it would do no good to press Jervaulx any further. “You seem to have a great many papers piled on your desk, sir. Is there anything I can do to be of assistance to you, since I am here?”

Glancing toward the desk, Jervaulx said, “An inexperienced assistant is more trouble than good, but if you wish to learn about this estate, no obstacle will be placed in your path. Put yourself in Barton’s hands.

He is an excellent steward and will show you what you will need to know when this house is yours.

Most of the papers on the desk concern magisterial affairs.

The parishes of Bisland and Alturnun request that new constables be appointed, and the poorhouse in Bodmin requires a new overseer. ”

“Really, sir, should you not be turning such duties over to someone else? There must be several competent men, and I own, I find it amazing that you have not already found one, particularly now that you must spend so much of the year in Gloucestershire.”

“One does not shirk prior obligations merely because one ascends to higher estate,” Jervaulx said coldly, “and one must understand the common people in order to serve their needs. Davies Giddy, the member for Bodmin, recently had all his windows broken because the local miners believe—understandably—that with the war over, the food shortages should likewise be over. They want higher wages, but in fact, two more mines will soon close. Pray, who would you suggest should assume the local magistrate’s duties at such a dangerous time? St. Merryn?”

“Have you reason to believe him incapable?”

“There is a good deal to be accomplished here before the Assizes begin next month,” Jervaulx said abruptly, moving to the desk.

“Whilst you remain at Deverill Court, you will best serve your interest by submitting to Barton’s instruction.

A sensible man will attempt no more until he has gained experience.

Once you have learned all Barton can teach you, you may apply to Shilcroft at the Abbey—a very good man in his way—and no doubt Lynmouth will wish to add his mite.

But more than likely, you will have found more amusing pursuits before then. ”

The marquess took his seat at the desk as he spoke, and Gideon accepted his dismissal.

He had little desire to submit to his father’s stewards for instruction, but since the estates would one day be his, he supposed that soon he would have to do just that.

As to applying to Lord Lynmouth, the previous marquess’s maternal uncle and primary trustee, he had a strong sense of resistance to the very idea.

Deverill Court was one thing. It was his home, and the thought of owning it one day was not particularly unsettling.

Jervaulx Abbey was another matter. All his life, the Abbey had been the seat of the senior branch of the family.

He had visited it only one time before his father had inherited the title, and only once since then.

He had no sense of attachment whatsoever to the place.

As a matter of fact, he felt oddly detached from life as he had previously known it.

For as long as he could remember, he had been the younger son, whose primary task was to find his own niche and carve out a place for himself.

He had gone from being a quiet supporter of boys that his brother and others of the same ilk had tried to bully to commanding a number of those same lads in Wellington’s Army.

He knew he was good at organizing others’ lives and saving them from the consequences of their own folly; he was not so confident of his ability to organize himself.

Having taken leave of Jervaulx, he went to his own bedchamber, a well-appointed and comfortable but at the moment a rather impersonal room, and rang for Ned Shalton.

Ten minutes later, Shalton entered, a stocky man of medium height and middle age with a soldierly manner and a shock of grizzled curls. “Aye, Major, what’s the drill?” His voice was low and gruff by nature, but his light blue eyes twinkled.