course, no property, not much in the way of brains, but I like children.”
“You’ve been thinking?” Galen frowned back at the disapproving matron in the box next door. He did lower his voice a shade. “I mean, you like children? I didn’t know you knew any.”
“I’ve got nieces and nevvies by the score. Cute little buggers.”
“Dash it, I should have stayed here and sent you after the boy.”
“Here’s a secret, since you’re trusting me with your lady: I’m not really cut out for the Church.”
“No! I would never have guessed. So you think a young widow with a tidy jointure, perhaps a bit of property, would suit you, eh? It just might. If you help Margot draw up a list of whom to invite to the dinner we are holding, I’m sure she’ll include anyone you want. Now hush, it’s almost her turn to sing.”
Margot had to wait a long time for the applause to die down before she could start her first selection. She sang a popular ditty that had the audience singing the hey-nonny-nonny chorus with her, a French rondel, and yet another Italian aria. This time the heroine killed her lover before turning the knife on herself. Then, while everyone waited, she walked to Galen’s box and reached for her rose. She held it to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume, and then she tossed him the pasteboard knife she’d used to inflict the mortal wound.
“A hit, a palpable hit!” Skippy exclaimed. “You see, I knew you’d been heart-pierced.”
She sang “My Lover Goes A-Roving” to him: “Alas, I am left here all forlorn. And I shall weep one hundred tears, for every day he’s gone.”
Chapter Eleven
Whoever said that money is the root of all evil must have seen Manfred Penrose grubbing around the roots of his family tree. He even looked like something that would crawl out of a hollow log: sharp-nosed, beady-eyed, buck-toothed, with gray hair and grayish complexion. He had dirt under his fingernails, coffee stains on his cravat, and ink on his hands from the newspaper he was clutching when an equally slovenly butler showed Galen into the musty book room.
Galen hated him on sight. Of course he was predisposed to loathe the man for Margot’s sake, and the long drive into Sussex had not tempered his opinion. The viscount had taken his turns driving the carriage so they could make better time without waiting for Jem Coachman to rest, but he still felt queasy half the time, long rides over bumpy roads being too similar to sailing on the sea. He was tired, the inns they’d passed had indifferent service and worse cattle for hire, and Clegg, his valet, snored.
The nearer he got to Penrose Hall, the less Galen liked Margot’s uncle. The surrounding fields were green with crops and recently shorn sheep grazed on the hills, yet the cottages of his tenants had sagging roofs, sewage in the yards, and missing windows. The meanest, most useless residents of Woburton lived better than these Rossington villagers. The hogs of Woburton lived better than this.
Penrose Hall itself was a modest brick edifice, but the drive was unkempt, roof tiles were missing, and no one came to take the horses or show the viscount’s driver the way to the stables. Galen wouldn’t have let his cattle suffer that dilapidated structure anyway, not even these woeful nags hired at the last change.
“Walk them,” he directed the coachman. “I won’t be long.”
Clegg decided to get down and stroll around to the kitchen entrance, to stretch his legs after the journey and to gather what information he could. A fellow could learn a lot about conditions by the mood of the servants, the quality of the food, and the welcome a stranger got.
Galen got short shrift at the front door. A greasy-haired butler with an unbuttoned coat took his card and said, “Wait here.” “Here” was an empty hall, with bare spots on the wall where paintings must have hung, and dust motes kicked up from the carpet by Galen’s pacing. This was not the
“You’ve been thinking?” Galen frowned back at the disapproving matron in the box next door. He did lower his voice a shade. “I mean, you like children? I didn’t know you knew any.”
“I’ve got nieces and nevvies by the score. Cute little buggers.”
“Dash it, I should have stayed here and sent you after the boy.”
“Here’s a secret, since you’re trusting me with your lady: I’m not really cut out for the Church.”
“No! I would never have guessed. So you think a young widow with a tidy jointure, perhaps a bit of property, would suit you, eh? It just might. If you help Margot draw up a list of whom to invite to the dinner we are holding, I’m sure she’ll include anyone you want. Now hush, it’s almost her turn to sing.”
Margot had to wait a long time for the applause to die down before she could start her first selection. She sang a popular ditty that had the audience singing the hey-nonny-nonny chorus with her, a French rondel, and yet another Italian aria. This time the heroine killed her lover before turning the knife on herself. Then, while everyone waited, she walked to Galen’s box and reached for her rose. She held it to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume, and then she tossed him the pasteboard knife she’d used to inflict the mortal wound.
“A hit, a palpable hit!” Skippy exclaimed. “You see, I knew you’d been heart-pierced.”
She sang “My Lover Goes A-Roving” to him: “Alas, I am left here all forlorn. And I shall weep one hundred tears, for every day he’s gone.”
Chapter Eleven
Whoever said that money is the root of all evil must have seen Manfred Penrose grubbing around the roots of his family tree. He even looked like something that would crawl out of a hollow log: sharp-nosed, beady-eyed, buck-toothed, with gray hair and grayish complexion. He had dirt under his fingernails, coffee stains on his cravat, and ink on his hands from the newspaper he was clutching when an equally slovenly butler showed Galen into the musty book room.
Galen hated him on sight. Of course he was predisposed to loathe the man for Margot’s sake, and the long drive into Sussex had not tempered his opinion. The viscount had taken his turns driving the carriage so they could make better time without waiting for Jem Coachman to rest, but he still felt queasy half the time, long rides over bumpy roads being too similar to sailing on the sea. He was tired, the inns they’d passed had indifferent service and worse cattle for hire, and Clegg, his valet, snored.
The nearer he got to Penrose Hall, the less Galen liked Margot’s uncle. The surrounding fields were green with crops and recently shorn sheep grazed on the hills, yet the cottages of his tenants had sagging roofs, sewage in the yards, and missing windows. The meanest, most useless residents of Woburton lived better than these Rossington villagers. The hogs of Woburton lived better than this.
Penrose Hall itself was a modest brick edifice, but the drive was unkempt, roof tiles were missing, and no one came to take the horses or show the viscount’s driver the way to the stables. Galen wouldn’t have let his cattle suffer that dilapidated structure anyway, not even these woeful nags hired at the last change.
“Walk them,” he directed the coachman. “I won’t be long.”
Clegg decided to get down and stroll around to the kitchen entrance, to stretch his legs after the journey and to gather what information he could. A fellow could learn a lot about conditions by the mood of the servants, the quality of the food, and the welcome a stranger got.
Galen got short shrift at the front door. A greasy-haired butler with an unbuttoned coat took his card and said, “Wait here.” “Here” was an empty hall, with bare spots on the wall where paintings must have hung, and dust motes kicked up from the carpet by Galen’s pacing. This was not the
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