Page 20 of The Earl Next Door
“She sounds very wise.”
“I’m not to give anyone any trouble so that I have to come back home before I’m properly schooled.”
Feeling quite pleased, and hopeful about the future success of the school, Adeline smiled. “I agree with your mother and that’s not going to happen, is it?”
“No, I’m going to be a good girl. She made me promise to do everything I’m told to do and not to be hitting anyone or pulling any girl’s hair.”
Adeline considered what Fanny said for a moment and then she stopped, bent down once again to be on Fanny’s level, and said, “You haven’t done anything like that before, have you?”
The little girl looked at Adeline with sparkling, mischievously calm eyes. Her lips pursed together and she shook her head, swinging her shoulders as she did so.
Finally she said, “No, my lady. Not since I’ve been here.”
Chapter 8
Lyon walked through the door at White’s, swinging his cloak off his shoulders. He handed it and his hat off to the attendant and headed straight for the reading room. A quiet place to peruse the day’s newsprint was just what he needed. After his unusual start to the morning was disrupted, he wasn’t sure he’d get that at his house. His club was the next best place. It was early enough in the day that he had no reason to believe many of the members would be gathered for their afternoon card games or billiards.
White’s had a grand history as far as gentlemen’s clubs went. Only the elite of male Society had ever made it past the front door—according to tradition. But, there was legend that contradicted that long-held belief. He’d heard rumors that in the past there’d beena few occasions where ladies had managed to slip inside the hallowed rooms by donning gentlemen’s clothing and either putting on a wig or cutting their hair in a short, manly fashion. One lady was said to have posed as a server rather than as a member or guest.
He wasn’t sure he believed any of the rumors had truth to them. To Lyon, it didn’t matter the size, height, or age of a woman. And certainly not how she was dressed or the style of her hair. Women and ladies alike had a softer look about them, a different way of walking and talking. They had an undeniable demeanor that spoke of feminine qualities that couldn’t be hidden beneath the trappings of a man no matter how clever a disguise.
After a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs, and several pieces of toasted bread smothered in a tasty mixture of preserved figs and butter, his headache went away, though in its place came the remorse that he’d scared a dozen girls so badly they’d probably not want to go to sleep tonight and would have horrific nightmares when they did. He’d considered going over to apologize for interrupting their playtime but decided that could frighten them all over again.
He’d paid a call to his solicitor only to find the man was out of his office for the day taking care of another client. Perhaps he should look into the possibility of hiring a different solicitor. Lyon had been annoyed Mr. Burns had all winter to have the account books and ledgers in order and ready for him to review last week. Four months and the man hadn’t managed to accomplish it.
For now, Lyon would see the man tomorrow. Hewanted to find out all he could about how the lovely but contrary Lady Wake ended up next door to him with a boarding school in the back half of her garden. As well as whether or not there might be the possibility she could be convinced to move the school elsewhere. Knowing the fearless Lady Wake, she would probably insist he should be the one to sell and move away.
Hell would freeze over first. His house had been in his family more than fifty years.
A low laugh rumbled in Lyon’s throat as he entered the doorway of the reading room. He paused and tapped the side of his leg with the newsprint he’d picked up from the front room.
This was not his day.
The Marquis of Marksworth had already seen him, so there would be no chance of ducking out quickly and heading to another club to avoid him. Lyon nodded to his father and he returned the greeting. Lyon might as well pick out a spot that had two empty chairs. Marksworth would be joining him as soon as he finished his conversation.
Aunt Delia was right about his father, Lyon observed, deliberately walking in the opposite direction of the group of men engrossed in a quiet discussion that seemed to be of some importance, considering the apprehensive expressions on their faces. The tall, strapping marquis, with a physique most young men would envy, looked half his true age of near fifty. It was never more prevalent than when he stood beside gentlemen his own age. Unlike the rest, there were no wrinkles making deep trails around his eyes, not a hint of pudginess around his middle, and seemingly not a hair lost from his head. Lyon had long grown used to hearing that he and his father looked more like brothers than father and son.
But in the way they lived their lives they couldn’t be more different.
The Marquis of Marksworth wore his title, privilege, and wealth with a gusto few gentlemen could match. Sharing the Prince’s love of art and other cultures, as well as having the Regent’s ear for local and foreign political matters, made the marquis sought after by friends and foes alike for any piece of advice or warning he might dole out. Marksworth relished the power and attention the friendship with Prinny gave him and took pride in the advantage of being so noted. That he had conspicuously taken care of three mistresses for years also elevated his standing in the difficult-to-impress gentlemanly community of the ton and made him the cause of much envy and awe. The marquis embraced and enjoyed his status as London’s most lusty swordsman.
Marksworth lived by the long held conviction that most gentlemen didn’t consider it a terrible offense to cheat on their wives, but if they caught a man deceitful at cards, they’d be ready to meet him at dawn or see to it he was never accepted in the houses of Polite Society again.
His son’s lack of interest in the politics of London, much less the whole of England or elsewhere, was a great disappointment to the marquis, but he’d never pouted about it. Marksworth considered Lyon’s refusal to set up a mistress in a home of her own and gift herwith money, jewels, and nightly visits an even bigger tarnish to his name and an affront to all mankind who could afford to do so and didn’t.
Lyon wasn’t a saint. When he was younger, he’d tried his father’s lifestyle but didn’t feel the need to boast about it. He freely took pleasure and gave it. A mistress was an easy way for a man to enjoy and satisfy his primal need for a woman in his bed and was the best way to stay away from innocent young ladies. It didn’t take Lyon long to realize he didn’t want a mistress at his beck and call year-round. And he didn’t plan to live a life separate from his wife after he married, as did most titled men once they produced the mandatory heir or two.
Lyon wanted only one lady to cherish—a wife whom he loved and adored with all his being.
Wanting no more drink, he waved the server aside as he settled into an upholstered chair near the back of the room. He smiled as he openedThe Times, remembering Lady Wake had the nerve to call fine brandy grog. No doubt about it, she was a lady to be reckoned with. Before he could finish reading the headlines, he heard his father making himself comfortable in the chair beside him.
“I’ve already read it and there’s nothing to take notice of in there today,” Marksworth said. “Most of it is rehashing yesterday’s stories. But, if you have nothing else to do with your time, you might as well glance through it and see for yourself. Welcome back to London.”
Lyon looked over at his father and smiled. “Thank you.” He refolded the newsprint and laid it on the tablebeside him before giving his attention back to his father. “Why didn’t you write and let me know that you planned to marry again?”
“You mean aside from the fact it appears I’m the only one in the family who’s interested in wedlock?” Marksworth grunted. “I would have written if I’d thought you cared a dram one way or the other about my matrimonial status.”
His father had always been skilled at making his point.
