the schedule, Lord Chatham—’ Maura began.
‘Didn’t you like our lessons?’ he broke in with a soft, melting smile.
‘Lessons?’
‘I told you the lessons would take care of themselves and they did. We had etiquette about how to ride in a carriage, we had science about wind and lift and some about the water, too, when William and I were at the pond. We had history and geography, Italy and volcanoes.’
‘So we did,’ Maura conceded with a modicum of surprise. He’d been thoughtful and inventive about the day’s interruption. She’d not known many men like that. Indeed, she’d not known any until today.
He gave her one of his playful winks. ‘You are not the only one, Miss Caulfield, who can turn fun into more noble ends.’
‘Today was lovely, but there is also merit in structure.’ Maura stood her ground. ‘We can plan outings. We can set aside a certain day of the week for them,’ Maura cajoled. ‘I’m not saying we can’t have outings. I believe in them wholeheartedly.’
The carriage pulled up to the town house, effectively curbing further conversation. All she managed to wring from Lord Chatham by way of closure was a lukewarm ‘we’ll see’ before they began the process of getting the children inside. She helped William into the house while Lord Chatham carried a sleeping Cecilia up the steps, looking more like a father than an earl. It was a heart-warming sight that would have made it all too easy to forgive him his myriad sins: the indifference that led to children eating breakfast alone, a messy nursery, the anarchy by which he ran his town house and the rakishness that led him to flirt unashamedly.
Surely a man who was so good with children wasn’t all bad, which made it that much worse for her. It would be better if he were an irredeemable dissolute like Wildeham. Then she’d know what to make of him, how to manage him.
The butler, Fielding, met them in the foyer with a stern look. ‘Milord, your solicitor is waiting to see you. He’s been here since two o’clock.’ Maura sensed it was as close to a reprimand as the butler would dare. Except for a slight tightening of his jaw, Chatham looked unperturbed over the development.
‘Miss Caulfield, if you could take Cecilia?’ Lord Chatham deposited the child in her arms. ‘It seems I have forgotten the appointment. Fielding, show Mr Browning to my study. I will see him immediately.’
Maura climbed the stairs with her bundle, William trailing beside her. She was starting to see reasons for the earl’s indifference. No wonder he wasn’t interested in the children’s schedule and ignored the importance of structure. Lord Chatham couldn’t even keep his own.
Chapter Five
‘Well?’ Riordan took his seat behind the large walnut desk and fixed the solicitor with a stare he hoped would qualify as ‘imperious’.
‘It’s not good news,’ Mr Browning began, giving the glasses on his nose a push with his middle finger, a gesture Riordan found singularly annoying.
‘Of course it isn’t.’ Mr Browning never managed to bring good news.
‘Lady Cressida Vale and her husband, the viscount, want custody of the children.’ At least Mr Browning wasn’t sugar-coating anything but that didn’t stop a cold stab of fear from settling in Riordan’s stomach.
‘You mean they want custody of the trust funds.’ Riordan held his temper, but just barely. He’d expected this. Lady Vale had intimated as much at the funeral.
Mr Browning gave Riordan a censorious look over the rims of his glasses for speaking so baldly. ‘There is no proof of such motivation.’
‘She is a maternal cousin of their father and I am a paternal cousin. When it comes to next of kin, we are equal, except that my family stepped forwards to care for the children when her side had the chance and did not.’ Riordan remembered very well Elliott swooping in to save the day four years ago when the children had become penniless orphans.
‘Things are different now.’ Mr Browning was prevaricating this time. It could only mean there was more bad news.
Riordan leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands. ‘Naturally things are different. Elliott left the children well provided for. Ishmael, their father, left them nothing but a mouldering estate.’ No one had wanted to take on the burden of two young children with no prospects.
‘The guardianship is different now, too,’ Mr Browning pressed on uncomfortably. He pushed a paper forwards in explanation. ‘The former earl was deemed a proper guardian.’
‘Are you suggesting I am not?’ Anger started to simmer.
‘I’m not. They are.’ Browning nodded towards the paper, urging him to read it.
Riordan scanned it, his anger boiling at the list of sins enumerated against him: an improper lifestyle of womanising and gambling, no structure for the children, an incoherent education—the list went on. All of which could be remedied by the presence of a motherly figure in the household, presumably Lady Vale. The thought was laughable. Lady Vale was about as maternal as … well, no apt comparison came to mind, to borrow Miss Caulfield’s word from earlier in the day.
‘The children will have their structure. Tell the Vales that.’ Riordan pushed the paper back across the desk with a sense of satisfaction. ‘I have a governess.’ Ha, the Vales could try to trump that. The Vales argued for structure—well, he had it. Miss Caulfield and her appreciation for such structure would feel vindicated.
Browning coughed and fidgeted. ‘With all due respect, milord, you’ve had five governesses.’
‘I haven’t exactly “had” five governesses.’
Browning coughed at the vulgarity. ‘Hired. You’ve hired five governesses in an unseemly short period of time.’
‘And the point is?’ If that skinny ferret of a solicitor was going to agree with the opposition, Riordan would make damn sure he had to come out and do it blatantly.
‘Well, five, milord, seems to undermine your case rather than help it.’
‘That’s your opinion.’ Riordan skewered Browning with a hard look. ‘My brother left those children to me. He did not leave them to the Vales and for good reason. The Vales can disagree with me all they like, but Elliott’s will is uncontested.’ He was relying on the immovable bulwark of English law to hold firm.
Mr Browning was silent and Riordan felt the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. ‘Mr Browning, say something,’ Riordan said quietly.
‘I am sorry for the loss, milord. I liked the earl a great deal.’ Meaning that he didn’t care for the current earl nearly as much. Riordan was used to it. It wasn’t the first time he had been measured against the perfect standard of Elliott and come up lacking. ‘The nature of the earl’s death does call into question the sanctity of his will.’
‘Put that in plain English for the rest of us.’
‘The Vales could argue the earl was mentally unstable.’
Riordan studied his hands. ‘Would they win?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’ Mr Browning offered astutely.
It wouldn’t. It was the scandal of it all coming out that mattered. Elliott’s memory would be besmirched. Riordan would put a stop to that if he could. His brother had been an upstanding saint of a man who’d met with a mysterious end. He didn’t deserve to have his life publicly examined and criticised.
Riordan reached for the paper again. He stared hard at the words itemising his fall: womaniser, no home structure, lack of a motherly presence for the children. Browning was most regrettably right. A governess would not plug the dyke. He tapped a finger on the polished surface of the desk, thinking. A governess might not, but a wife