Sir Richard's eyes narrowed. The wretch was dredging up some sort of nasty and irrelevant retort. Vander thought about perforating him with his own dagger just to shut him up, but daggers were for cowards. He threw it across the room and it pierced the door and stuck there, quivering.
Sir Richard fell like a sack of flour after a single blow to the jaw, a disappointingly quick finish. Vander prodded him with his boot. The man's head rolled to one side; he was alive, but insensible. Satisfied, Vander walked to the servants' bell and rang for assistance.
Gaunt materialized within moments. He took in the situation with one swift look, and said, "Dear me. Sir Richard seems to have fallen and injured his head."
Vander shrugged. "Something like that. Have a footman load him in the carriage. He can recover in his own home."
"Would you prefer he be sent to his country estate or to his townhouse?"
"Where is his estate?"
"It runs just to the east of here."
"That's right," Vander said, remembering what Sir Richard had said. "What happened to Squire Bevington? His family's been on that land for generations."
"I believe that Sir Richard took Squire Bevington's estate as partial payment for an action he brought for assault and battery against the squire." Gaunt put his toe in Sir Richard's ribs none too gently. "He appears to be devoid of consciousness."
Vander boxed regularly in Gentleman Jackson's salon. When he struck someone squarely on the jaw, the bout was over.
"Assault?"
"Squire Bevington was under the impression that Sir Richard had interfered with his daughter," the butler said, his face expressionless. "Unfortunately, it was proved in court that the young lady was an impudent young baggage who had made advances to Sir Richard herself, thereby rendering her father's attack an unjustified action of battery. The Bevingtons have since emigrated to Canada."
"Christ." All this had happened under his watch. He damn well should have known about it. Hell, the Dukes of Pindar may be responsible for appointing the justices of the peace in Berkshire, though in view of his father's condition, Lord only knew how the Honorable Mr. Roach had been appointed. "Pack Sir Richard off to Bevington's house for the time being, Gaunt."
The butler summoned a pair of footmen, whose faces revealed a mixture of glee and pure hatred as they hauled Sir Richard from the room.
"Send his things after him within the hour," Vander said. "He is unmarried, is he not?"
"To the best of my knowledge. His valet can pack his clothing. It's a matter of a trunk or two."
"You'd best lay on more men to patrol the grounds. I wouldn't be surprised if Sir Richard attempted revenge."
Gaunt's face lit up for all the world like a jolly-albeit murderous-elf. "Let him try, Your Grace. Just let him try."
Sir Richard, it seemed, had not made friends among the servants. "The duchess will want her ward to live with her, so I will reduce this household to a necessary few," Vander said. "We'll find employment for people in my other houses; there's always room for more. Was there anyone you know of wrongfully dismissed after Sir Richard moved in?"
"I shall make you a list," Gaunt said, beaming.
A list. Bloody hell.
Vander turned to leave. But something nagged at him, and he paused to look back at the butler. "Gaunt, I take it you were acquainted with my duchess' former intended?"
The butler inclined his head. "Indeed."
"Send a couple of footmen-or hire a Bow Street Runner-but I'd like you to make absolutely certain that the man still lives. It strikes me as exceptionally convenient that she was jilted. He referred to ‘my estate.'"
Gaunt's eyes widened. Clearly, the idea had never occurred to him.
Vander was a great deal more cynical; a life spent in and around the stables had taught him that men like Sir Richard Magruder felt that they had a right to effect change wherever they wished, and the devil (and the law) could take the hindmost.
Quite likely, Mia's fiancé had actually fled the responsibility of a wife and child. A vision of Mia came into his head, lips rosy after his kisses, breast heaving.
Or not.
Chapter Twelve
NOTES ON PLOT
1. Flora left 100,000£ by the ancient but kindly Mr. Mortimer. Proviso she spend it on herself (a struggle, bec. of sweetness of her nature). Torn between Count Frederic, who wants none of the money & Mr. Wolfington.
2. Gives up bequest; Count Frederic jilts her.
3. She ends up nearly dead in countryside, rescued by the evil Lord Plum, who has designs on her virtue.
4. Although Lord Plum offers her a castle, she cannot forget her first love. Bec. he is wild and reckless and has a devil's heart (and an angel's form).
5. Escapes from castle. Lord Plum wld. rather she die than marry another. No: Boring.
6. Evil Lord Plum has a pet tiger! Trained to attack. Excellent!
"I'll take my ward home with me to Rutherford Park," Vander told Gaunt, after Sir Richard had been dispatched. "Have my carriage brought back around in thirty minutes. You can send over all personal belongings at leisure."
At that, Gaunt took on the air of a stern yet attentive grandfather. "Is Her Grace aware that you are fetching Master Charles Wallace?"
Vander was not accustomed to being questioned by servants. He gave Gaunt a look. "Show me to the nursery, if you please, or must I find it on my own?"
The butler didn't even twitch at this set-down, but began pacing up the stairs, keeping Vander behind him by dint of walking in the middle of each step. "The young master has faced challenges in his short life," he said, pausing on a stair as if to catch his breath. "Yet he has all of his father's courage and forbearance. He is a Carrington to the bone."
"Good to hear it," Vander said. The disquisition was irritating, but he admired the butler's loyalty. It was good that the amphibious child had supporters.
When they reached the nursery door, Gaunt gave him yet another inappropriate look, saying without words that he had better be kind or else.
It seemed to Vander that everyone he'd met in recent days was challenging the hierarchy that underlay all society. It was unsettling. "I'll introduce myself, Gaunt," he said.
With obvious reluctance, the butler bowed and retreated down the stairs.
At first, the nursery seemed empty. It was a large chamber, bright and cheerful, though it could use repainting. Its walls were covered with lumpy-looking paintings on foolscap, which he assumed must be the artistic efforts of young Master Charles.
Vander had never seen anything like it. His nanny hadn't allowed paints, and if she had, his crude efforts would surely not have been displayed.
From the corner of his eye he caught a movement. A young boy had put a thick tome aside and was rising from a chair, pushing himself up awkwardly. Vander had no experience with children; his new ward looked around five or six.
As he watched, Charles Wallace picked up a small crutch, hitched it under his armpit, and stood. The problem seemed to be his right leg, though Vander didn't see anything particularly deformed about it.
"Good afternoon," the boy stated. "May I inquire who you are?"
Not five. Older. His voice was clear, composed, and-unexpectedly-authoritative.
Vander approached, but not so close that he threatened the boy in any way. "I am the Duke of Pindar, your new guardian. And you must be Charlie."
A moment of silence ensued before the boy said, "If you will forgive the impertinence, Your Grace, I am Master Charles Wallace to those who know me, and Lord Carrington to those who do not."
Vander felt a flare of amusement and it took everything he had to suppress a smile. Instead, he swept into the bow he had been trained to give to royalty. "Lord Carrington."
On straightening, he was disconcerted to discover that the gray eyes opposite his showed distinct signs of disapproval.
"If you are expecting me to bow in return," the boy said, "I shall disappoint you. As you can see, my right leg does not function as well as it might."
Vander had never had much to do with children, though he was extremely fond of Thorn's young ward, Rose. India had told him once that it was best not to deceive children. They saw through you.
"My bow acknowledged your rank," he said. "In the event that a gentleman is unable to bow with a bended leg, whether through illness or injury, he bows from the waist."