Cavendish Brothers 01 - An Unintended Journey Page 2

  He could only assume that would still be the case. Although, he hoped things might have changed now that Father had finally expired like the heartless, lofty bastard he was. Perhaps Tristan had only wanted to please Father while they were lads. Perhaps he wasn’t as supercilious and patronizing as he’d led Wesley to believe all of those years. Perhaps his brotherly love and holiday cheer might outweigh his superior, Tory ideas.

  It was a risk Wesley would have to take. But then again, any chance he might have with Abby seemed to already have been ruined, so what would it matter? Much had changed in three years—for both of them, it seemed.

  He let out a sigh. “You may be correct in your assumption, my lady, but I dare not hope for as much. Tristan and Father always seemed to share their beliefs. He may maintain the banishment, despite Father’s recent passing.” Even if his brother retracted that edict, Wesley doubted Tristan would do anything to rescind society’s black-balling against him or to welcome him back into the family with open arms.

  Without that, how would he ever convince Goddard to allow him near his daughter? Or perhaps more importantly, how could he convince Abby to grant him an opportunity to prove himself worthy? Certainly, neither Abby nor her father had believed the rumors of what he’d done—but what man would allow his daughter to suffer the scorn of an attachment with an alleged rapist?

  But he was putting the cart before the horse with such thoughts.

  Lady Pritchard pursed her lips. “Well,” she said on a harrumph, “should that be the case, you know you are always welcome at Henley Green.” She poured him a cup of tea, adding a drop of milk and no sugar, as he’d always preferred it, then passed it over.

  Wesley adored the baroness for her steadfast kindheartedness. She’d been like the mother he’d never known, granting him tenderness and resolute loyalty where elsewhere in his life, there’d been none. “Thank you, madam.” A genuine smile stretched his lips and tugged against the ghastly scar on his face. Her gaze flickered as if drawn to it, and while she didn’t cringe in disgust, he recognized the hint of curiosity in her stare. He probably shouldn’t smile too often. He might scare polite society with the hideousness of it.

  In his years away, he hadn’t been forced to think of such things. There was nothing polite about the squalor in which he’d been living.

  Daniel winked at him. “It’ll be like old times—you and I running rampant at Henley Green, and Fordingham looking down his nose at us from across the way. A different Fordingham now, to be sure, but still…”

  Yes. Like old times. Sneaking around behind the trellis in Lady Pritchard’s rose garden to catch a glimpse of Abby while she didn’t know he was watching. Casting furtive glances about in the maze to be sure her brothers weren’t spying while he stole a kiss from her. Lying on his back by the creek, gazing at the stars and wishing she was there with him.

  Wesley’s heart seized at the memories. Would she still want him after the manner in which he’d left? Had she found someone else and pushed him from her mind?

  No—Abby hadn’t forgotten. That much was clear in her behavior a few moments ago. But whether she still wanted him in her life was another matter entirely.

  And all indications she’d given him were negative.

  2

  Abby untied her apron and hung it on the peg just inside the door to her family’s sitting room. When Mother had taken on the post of housekeeper and Father had become the butler at Henley Green so many years ago, the Pritchards had cordoned off an entire wing of the servants’ quarters for the Goddard family. It had become their home within the grander home.

  She picked up the tray Cook had sent with her and set their supper upon the table. It was good to have something to do…something upon which to focus her thoughts, other than on Grandmama or Wesley Cavendish.

  Thomas had already come in from the mews and was stoking the fire in the grate. When the flames rekindled, he moved to the holly wreath and fiddled with it, apparently as at a loss as she felt. Robert and Mother came around the corner from the direction of the bedchambers as Abby finished her task and took a seat.

  “Father should be along shortly,” Mother said as she sat in the high-backed chair at the end of the table across from Father’s. “He’s just finishing his meeting with Lord Pritchard.”

  So much for the idea of refocusing her thoughts. Father’s meeting with the baron at this time of night could only be due to Grandmama’s passing. A fresh set of tears sprung to Abby’s eyes, and she dashed them away.

  “It’s just us, Abby.” Robert plopped down in the seat beside her and patted an awkward hand on her shoulder. He’d loosened his cravat and removed the coat of his footman’s livery. “If you can’t cry now, when can you?”

  Of course, he wasn’t crying, was he? She bit down on her lip, hoping to staunch the flow. She’d never been one to openly display her emotions if she could avoid it—and right now, she thought there might be more tears ready to break free than all the water in the seas.

  Father came into their sitting room before she could respond, though. Without a word, he removed his greatcoat and hung it beside Abby’s apron. Then he moved to the table, pulled out his mahogany chair at the head, and sat. He looked at each of them in turn, holding their gaze prior to moving to the next. Father always did this when there was something serious to discuss. He wanted their full attention. Abby couldn’t bear to look up. If she met his eyes, she might very well disappear like sugar dissolving in tea, or perhaps she’d burst into a fit of inappropriate, gauche laughter.

  “Abby?” he said after several long moments had passed where she felt the weight of all of their eyes upon her. “Look at me, luv.”

  She knew she must. There was no escaping Father’s gaze…not when he intended to meet her eyes. It just wasn’t going to happen. Still, perhaps for a few moments, she could delay the inevitable. Staring studiously at her folded hands in her lap, Abby worried her lower lip with her teeth.

  Father’s rich baritone broke through the stifling silence of the room, startling her with his calm tone. “I’ll wait as long as I need to, Abby.”

  And if that wasn’t the truth of matters, she was the Queen of England. Finally, Abby forced her eyes up to meet the shining, glassy, eternally kind gaze of her father. As she did, a veritable flood spilled from her eyes and drenched the grey worsted of her frock. When she looked down at it, the fabric had darkened until it was almost black—to the very shade of Wesley’s hardened eyes. Drat, if she wasn’t thinking of him again.

  Thomas reached over and took her hand, squeezing with the ungainly sort of comfort only a brother who’d often caused such tears could provide.

  Once the worst of her sobs had subsided, Father spoke again. “Lord Pritchett has granted us all some time away from our duties to see to Grandmama’s affairs. We’ll have a small burial outside the village tomorrow morning. Mr. Langley saw no reason to delay matters and has agreed to perform a brief service in her honor. After that, we’ll all be off to Yorkshire for Christmas—”

  “Yorkshire?” Mother interrupted in shock. “Why ever must we go to Yorkshire now?”

  Robert’s jaw hung slack. “Truly, Father, at Christmas?”

  “—Lord Pritchett has graciously offered us the use of one of his carriages for the journey,” Father continued, as though he’d not been interrupted at all.

  Abby shook her head, dumbly. Yorkshire? What was in Yorkshire? Grandmama would be here, in Macclesfield, deep in the cold, hard ground. And finally, after all these years, Wesley Cavendish was here again. While she could have no possible future with him, she still could not bear the thought of leaving him when he’d only just waltzed back into her life.

  Thomas leaned back in his chair and drew a hand through his wavy, brown hair. He expelled a pent-up breath slowly. “How long must we be gone? I don’t think I can be away from the stables too long right now. We’re already a man down…”

  Abby couldn’t be concerned about how long they would be away.
She was more caught up with the fact that they’d be leaving at all. Dumbfounded by it, truth be told.

  “I don’t know how long it will take, Thomas,” Father said gravely. “Lord Pritchett has assured me that we might take all the time we need, however. You see, as Grandmama was dying, she revealed something to me. Something she’s kept secret since before I was even born.”

  Mother gasped and leaned closer, a tear shimmering unshed in her eye. “She finally told you who your father is?”

  He nodded, but stayed silent for a few moments. “Aye,” he said at last. “My father is the Duke of Danby.”

  Silver clattered against china. Thomas dropped his glass. It shattered against the table, and a river of port spread over the mahogany wood. Mother whipped off her apron and mopped up the mess, but still Abby couldn’t move a muscle.

  A duke? Yet Grandmama had worked herself to the bone her entire life as a maid of all work for Sir Andrew Penthurst, right up until the day she died. And Father had been forced to work his way up through Lord Pritchett’s household until, at length, he reached a respectable position, while Abby and her brothers could only look forward to the same, if they were lucky.

  Abby’s heart raced a frantic pace through her veins, pulsing something fierce against her temples. Why had Grandmama kept it a secret all these years? And why would she reveal the details now?

  When Mother settled in her chair once again, she stared down at Father. “And the purpose of our trip to Yorkshire, Hugh?”

  He took a long sip from his glass and then locked his gaze onto Abby’s. “He cannot make a difference in the direction of my life, Mary. Nor do I expect him to particularly do anything for Robert and Thomas, though I would hope he might offer something—a recommendation for a better position, something of that nature. But there is one way in which he most assuredly can help our family.” Father took a bite of his bread and chewed it pensively before he went on. “He can give our Abby a respectable dowry.”

  *

  Just after sunset, Wesley rode his horse to the stables at Blacknall unhindered. Not that he’d expected to be stopped at gunpoint or anything of the sort. Perhaps if his father was still the master of the manor, but he hoped things would not be so dire now that Tristan was Fordingham.

  A groom Wesley remembered from his childhood bowed to him in greeting. “Mr. Cavendish. We weren’t expecting you, sir.”

  No, of course they weren’t expecting him. Why would they, after their former master had banished him from the estate, sending him away with a gash across his face and telling him never to step foot on Fordingham property again if he valued his life?

  Wesley didn’t bother to answer. He grunted in response, tossed the reins into the groom’s hands, and took off towards the manor without a backwards glance.

  The butler who met him at the door was clearly new to the post. Not surprising. Most of the staff had turned over numerous times during the past years. Why should that have changed in the three years he was away?

  The butler looked down his long, bespectacled nose at Wesley and raised an overgrown grey eyebrow. “Yes?”

  Wesley strode past him into the grand foyer. He handed the butler his beaver hat and gloves. “Inform Lord Fordingham that his brother—the prodigal son, if you will—has returned home. I’ll await him in the gold parlor.” Somehow, he kept himself from laughing at his own poor joke. Mayhap he could maintain his droll humor while at Blacknall, for once. It would be a first.

  The butler pressed his hat and gloves back into his hands. “His Lordship shall not be receiving guests at this late hour, sir. Kindly return tomorrow.”

  Such a friendly, welcoming greeting. Had Tristan upheld Father’s edict, even after all this time? Surely not. Wesley placed his hat and gloves on the occasional table just inside the door and faced the butler. “Is he in his study? Or has he already retired for the evening?”

  The old codger stood there with his mouth agape, not saying anything.

  “Never mind, then.” Pushing the door back, he marched out into the corridor. “I’ll find him myself, since you refuse to oblige me.”

  “Now, stop right there, Cavendish.” The old butler proved himself much more spry than his looks attested, as he darted past Wesley and put a staying hand against his chest. “You’ve not been granted leave to step one foot inside any part of this house. Fordingham will not suffer such disrespect, sir.”

  Disrespect. The word left a sour taste in Wesley’s mouth, like rotting cod in too much lemon juice. He removed the butler’s hand from his chest, put three paces between them, leveled the older man with his frostiest glare, and continued on his way.

  “Stop him!” the butler called out behind him, and two footmen in gleaming livery rushed into the walkway to block Wesley’s path. One of them reached out, nearly getting his hand on Wesley’s arm, when a cold cough sounded from the stairs.

  “Leave him. What brings you to Blacknall, brother?”

  Turning, his gaze landed on Tristan. His brother strolled leisurely down alongside the iron baluster, his hands trailing delicately over the austere railings in an almost loving manner.

  “I had thought to return home, now that—”

  “You’d thought things would be different for you now that Father is no longer master here?” Tristan interrupted with an icy glint in his near-black eyes. “You’re still a damned Whig revolutionary, are you not? We support the crown in this home, sir.”

  Wesley let out a ragged breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “Why must political inclinations divide us? We’re family, for God’s sake.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes, not moving any further down the stairs—a means to maintain the power position in their discussion, of course. “So you do not deny it.”

  “Deny what? That I wish to serve in the Commons? What would be the point in denial, when you’ve plainly already decided what is truth and what is fiction?”

  “You’ve not changed at all these three years…so why do you expect that anything else would have changed?” Tristan untied and retied the belt around his silken dressing gown, adjusting it just so like the dandy he’d always been. “If you leave right now, peacefully, I’ll be certain my men do not harm your person. I won’t leave this offer very long, however, so I would advise you to take me at my word and make your exit post haste.”

  A fury like he’d thought long abandoned roiled within Wesley’s stomach, clenching his abdomen and blurring his vision. “So you intend to be as much a bastard as Father ever was, do you?”

  “The only bastard I see in this manor is you,” Tristan said with a mirthless chuckle. His tone was unfeeling and his eyes were bereft of anything save hauteur. “Or have you forgotten that Father disowned you? Disavowed himself of anything to do with you?”

  “On the contrary,” Wesley said. He forced his muscles to cease quivering. “He cannot change the factors of my birth, much as he would have liked to do. Nor can you.”

  “True.” Tristan took three more steps down the stairs, until they were almost on a level. “But he blackened your name within society more thoroughly than I would have given him credit for. And I’ve made certain you’ll not receive even a ha’penny of Fordingham monies, so long as I shall live. I cannot imagine what you might want from me, considering all of that.”

  “I want the truth to be known.” Wesley glared at his brother, and a flash of fear pulsed across Tristan’s countenance. “Father is in the ground, and his lies will die with him.”

  Tristan’s features returned at length to their normal, placid state. “Is that a threat?” He cocked an eyebrow and gestured with a single finger to the footmen still standing behind Wesley. “I should very much like to discover what you think you can do against me should I fail to do as you wish.”

  The urge to strangle his brother was strong. Too strong. This wasn’t why he’d come. He didn’t want to reawaken old animosities…he just wanted to begin his life anew. Even if Tristan wouldn’t restore his place within the
family, wouldn’t grant him a living or anything of that nature, he could at least repair his standing within society.

  “I just…” Wesley blew out a pent-up breath and shrugged, searching the heavens for an answer to his problems. “I want the truth to be known. That’s all, Tris. Is that too much to ask?”

  “It’s Fordingham, in case you’ve forgotten. I can see how such a mistake might be made, since you’ve been from England so long.”

  Ha! As if such a thing were possible. Father and Tristan had each made it a personal priority to remind Wesley as frequently as possible that he was something less than they were.

  Tristan took the final steps down the stairs, coming to stand directly before him. In physique, they could be identical twins. Tris had sandy hair and eyes of indeterminate color, whereas Wesley had black hair and eyes like the midnight sky, but those were their only differences. Well, their only physical differences. “This is about that Goddard chit, isn’t it? You’ve been mooning after her like a lovestruck calf all this time. Pathetic.” His nose crinkled, as though the foul stench of the unwashed masses had stuck to his upper lip.

  Barely contained rage simmered under the surface of Wesley’s cool façade, but he couldn’t let his brother see that. Not now. “If it is?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Proof enough for me. You couldn’t even bother to deny it.”

  “Will you renounce Father’s lies?” Wesley asked before he lost his patience. “Will you remember, for one brief moment, that we are brothers? Beelzebub’s breeches, it’s Christmas.”

  A curious look sparked in Tristan’s eye, so briefly that Wesley wondered if perhaps it had merely been his imagination playing tricks with his mind. But then Tristan gave a curt nod. “Just this once, I’ll do what you want. I’ll inform Pritchard tomorrow that the rumors spread about you were falsehoods. Surely word will spread, though I cannot ensure the speed with which such a thing will occur. It is Christmas, after all, as you were so keen to remind me. The Quality of the world are all at their country homes, not convened together in London.”