The Making of Baron Haversmere Page 3

  ‘Good enough for Cheyenne, Big Brother.’ Roselina’s attention snagged eagerly on the perfumery they were passing by. She crossed in front of him so suddenly he nearly dropped the stack of treasures his sister had purchased this morning. ‘If you hope to find me a husband, you will need to act more of a gentleman.’

  ‘I am a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her teasing frown raking him, Stetson to boot toe. ‘But you will need to look like one.’

  Blame it! His good sturdy clothes were just fine as far as he was concerned. Anybody else’s concern didn’t matter all that much.

  ‘If you buy one more thing, we are taking a carriage back to the rooms.’

  She winked at him. ‘But we will not call for one. Walking gets us seen.’

  If he did need new clothes, as Pa had warned him he would, he’d have Roselina do the shopping. She revelled in what to him was a tedious ordeal.

  * * *

  He was pretty certain they had spent more than an hour in the perfumery even though his sister insisted it had been only a quarter of one.

  Finally outside in open air, she carried her prize close to her heart, smiling happily over it.

  A bee buzzed about Joe’s nose and no wonder. With all the scents sticking to him he must seem like a huge blossom drifting down the street.

  ‘Tonight at the Duchess’s ball I will smell like my name—Rose. People will remember me because of it.’

  It was not as if she needed the scent to be remembered. Roselina Anne Steton was unforgettable.

  She was a bright spirit, a joy to everyone. She had been since the day she was born. If folks at the ball did not remember her for that, they would for her appearance. She’d got Pa’s mossy green eyes and Ma’s nearly black curls. Her lithe, pixie-like form he thought was all her own.

  His sister could not help but be noticed tonight. That was not his worry.

  What concerned him was that he was not acquainted with any of the gentleman who would be doing the noticing. It was going to be a tricky thing to determine which of them was worthy of courting her.

  With the pavement crowded, Joe scanned the faces of the younger gentlemen passing by. He watched their behaviour. There might be a few strolling along Bond Street who would attend the Duchess of Guthrie’s gathering.

  He’d heard it was to be a lavish event.

  It wasn’t likely he would learn anything of value by staring at passing faces, but it only felt natural to be on the lookout.

  All of a sudden he was aware that it was no longer the young men’s faces he was studying. Without being aware of his attention drifting, he realised it was the ladies’ faces he sought.

  One face in particular. The mother of the boy he had found in the cemetery.

  A thought struck him, nearly making him trip over his boots.

  ‘Mrs,’ he mumbled under his breath. For some reason when he met her, the idea that she might be married had not entered his mind.

  It ought to have, first thing.

  While the lady never said so one way or another, the fact that she had a child ought to have alerted him that there was very likely a husband.

  Good God forgive him if he had been indulging in inappropriate thoughts about a married woman.

  Blame it! How did he expect to make a judgement on his sister’s suitors when his own clear-headedness was in question?

  Most of the time what his gut told him was spot on. What it said, even now, was the lady seemed too vulnerable to have a man who stood with her. Perhaps she was a widow.

  He might not know the truth of her marital status, but what he did know was that it was not for him to wonder about.

  In the instant a young fellow swaggered past, his manner arrogant, a hint of last night’s bourbon on his clothing, and his half-cocked smile resting squarely on Roselina.

  His sister responded with the bright smile she gave everyone, but—

  Curse it! Just there, he spotted a twinkle in her eye—a flash of returned interest.

  And like a wisp of smoke blown in the wind, thoughts of Victor’s mother scattered.

  While he’d understood part of his reason for being here was to see Roselina well wed, in his heart she was still his baby sister. Baby sisters did not return the flirtations of grown men.

  * * *

  Olivia tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair while she waited for Miss Hopp, the next candidate to be interviewed for the position of Victor’s governess, to be escorted to the terrace.

  Idleness, she observed for the third time in less than a quarter-hour, was hardly a virtue.

  Even with the sun shining down to warm her shoulders, no matter that a hundred birds sang pleasantly to each other and the fountain tapped soothingly in the garden pond, she found it impossible to relax and enjoy a tranquil moment.

  All she could think of was the next thing to be done. Her sister-in-law seemed to have no trouble indulging in peaceful interludes. Clementine seemed content to sit in the garden and write poetic words, even with so many children needing her attention.

  Perhaps if Olivia liked poetry she could do the same. But she did not. Fancy words expressing silly sentiments was all it was.

  It was better to focus her mind on attending to Fencroft business.

  With the family on holiday to America, it fell to her to keep the estate in order. She would not fail in the task as Oliver had.

  ‘Look at me, Mother!’ Victor called.

  She would if she could see him. A sudden rustle of leaves told her he was peering at her through one of the terrace trees.

  ‘Come down at once, Victor Shaw. It is not safe for you to be up so high.’

  ‘I bet my cousins visiting America are climbing great tall trees.’ Branches lower down began to shimmy.

  ‘They are still aboard ship. They will not see a tree for at least a week.’

  ‘May I have a steer?’ A pair of short, swinging legs came into view, dangling from the lowest branch.

  ‘You only just asked for a dog.’

  ‘My cowboy already has a dog, so I think a steer with great long horns would be splendid.’

  No doubt her child was thinking it would be great fun to swing from those long horns.

  Where in the dickens was Miss Hopp? If she did not arrive momentarily, Olivia would be late for her appointment with the accountant, which in turn would make her late in preparing for the Duchess of Guthrie’s ball.

  Which then, in turn, might cause her to be short with her maid. She did want to avoid that at all costs.

  There had been a time in her life when kindness came to her as naturally as breathing did. She had been a sweet and trusting girl full of hope and romantic dreams of the future.

  Marriage had changed all that.

  It had taken an American—Clementine—to show her what a shrew she had become, especially when it came to dealing with the servants. She was doing her best to make up for it, but even still she noticed the servants looking at her apprehensively on occasion.

  ‘My steer could stay in the stable at night.’ Dropping from the tree, Victor ran for her, then climbed on to her lap.

  ‘What would you do with it during the day?’ She hugged her boy tight. How long would it be before he considered himself too old for cuddling?

  ‘Me and my cowboy would play with him. Rope him and ride him and have quite a merry time, Mother.’

  ‘Victor, you must know that Mr Steton is not your cowboy. He is simply someone we crossed paths with at Kensal Green.’

  ‘But that isn’t so. I was lost and Uncle Oliver sent him to find me. I know it!’

  It hurt her deeply to have to crush his dream, but what help was there for it? She could not allow him to believe this fantasy.

  Especially since her sweet son was no doubt see
king the father he had never known. The one who chose a harlot’s bed over hers—a stranger’s affection rather than—

  Well, that no longer mattered. What did matter was keeping that man’s wicked choices from hurting her innocent boy. No matter what, she would not allow Henry Shaw to shatter Victor’s heart the way he had shattered hers.

  Just because the man was stone cold in his grave did not mean it could not happen.

  ‘Do you know what a coincidence is?’ she asked while fluffing his short blond curls.

  He shook his head. The silklike strands pulled away from her fingers.

  ‘A coincidence is when something occurs by happenstance. It might appear meant to be, but it is not at all. Mr Steton just happened to be there when you needed him. Your uncle hadn’t anything to do with it.’

  ‘Did too.’

  ‘I know you want it to be so and I wish for you that it was. The thing to keep in mind is that you did indeed get to meet a cowboy—to be rescued by him. That is a lovely memory to hold on to. But you must prepare yourself for the fact that you will not see him again.’

  ‘But I will.’

  This conversation was more difficult than she imagined it would be.

  ‘Of course you will in your heart—’

  ‘I see him with my eyes.’ Victor leapt from her lap, hopped up and down, wagging his finger. ‘Right there by the fountain! He’s giving that lady a kiss on top of her head. She could be his Indian princess.’

  ‘You do have a vivid imagination,’ she said with a half-laugh while pivoting about on the chair. ‘You—’

  By the saints! There he was!

  Tall and bold-looking with his hat dipped low on his forehead. He was indeed kissing the crown of a small woman whose dark hair fell in waves down her back.

  The girl, for she was little more than that, swatted his arm, then laughed, exposing a playful-looking dimple on one side of her mouth.

  She looked far too happy to be married. She must be his mistress, then—or one of them.

  He must be keeping her in one of the sets of rooms across the way.

  This was highly inappropriate. Olivia would have a word with the landlord as soon as possible. As long as Fencroft House and his property shared the garden, she did have some say in the matter.

  The very last thing that was going to happen was for innocent Victor to associate with such a man—to think he was some sort of hero when in fact he kept a woman.

  In any event she had learned an important lesson. She could scarcely imagine what had come over her, if only briefly. To allow her mind to wonder about a man, to fantasise and imagine that he might be better than most, was folly.

  There were faithful men, of course. Her brother Heath was one. And, she thought Clementine’s cousin, Madeline, had a devoted husband, as well.

  But to sort out which men were honourable and which men were not? No, Olivia would not do it. She had no intention of taking such a risk again.

  Chapter Three

  Joe stared out of his chamber window, watching rain tap on the garden two storeys below.

  Through the drizzle he could see the wavering image of the large home on the other side. He’d been told it was the residence of an earl. Fencroft, he thought the butler had said. He wondered if the Earl would be attending the ball tonight.

  If he was, would he be wearing the same sort of stiff-looking clothing that had been delivered to Joe this afternoon?

  The formal garments lay across his bed in a precisely arranged line. He’d bet the price of a steer gone to market that his toes were too wide for the gentlemanly boots.

  Were it not for the fact that his sister set a great store in appearances, he’d wad it all up in a heap and toss it out of the window.

  After all the stares he’d got during the outing to Bond Street she had become convinced he could not be presented to society garbed as an uncivilised rancher.

  Being certain of it, Roselina had sent the butler to buy the fancy duds he could not look at without feeling itchy.

  He hadn’t wanted a butler but it seemed as if the fellow came with the place. Joe did not think this could be a common practice, having a servant as part of a rental arrangement, but it was one the landlord had insisted upon. His sets of rooms were for ladies and gentlemen of distinction and standards must be upheld.

  Since the landlord did not forbid Sir Bristle’s presence Joe accepted the butler in turn.

  From what Roselina had to say, the fellow had experience in serving Americans. The last tenant had been a wealthy industrialist who married his granddaughter off to the Earl who lived on the far side of the garden.

  Evidently, Mr Bowmeyer would take pride in dressing Joe in the fancy garments that seemed more foreign to him than the moon.

  He didn’t have to turn to see the shiny black top hat, its absurd image was reflected in the window glass.

  How tall would he be if he wore it? He’d probably collide with a chandelier and set the ballroom ablaze.

  Maybe he ought to pretend to be ill. If he were forced to wear the thing, it would not be a lie.

  But no. He would not find a noble husband for Roselina by hiding away at his room.

  The sooner she was betrothed, the sooner he could travel to Grasmere, see to business at Haversmere and then go home—home to Wyoming, a vast open space where what he put on his head was no one’s business but his own.

  The ranch in Wyoming was where he grew to be a man. It suited him. The busy streets of London with everyone strolling along to be seen, greeting each other so properly, so mannerly, it all felt very foreign to him.

  Perhaps if Pa had ever brought him along on the yearly trips to England, he would not feel so much like a fish gasping on a riverbank. But Pa had felt it best for Joe to remain at home to watch over Ma and Roselina and tend to the business of cattle ranching.

  One distant day from now Joe would become Baron, although he tried not to think about it much because it would mean—

  Once again he put the thought away. Every time Pa taught him about Haversmere, about raising sheep instead of cattle, Joe shied from the lesson. It wasn’t that he had anything against sheep, or Haversmere, but the ranch was home—the place in the world his roots grew deep.

  While he had shied from those lessons in his heart, he had paid attention to them. On the far-off day he became Baron he would need to know.

  He wondered if by then he would have a son of his own who would care for things at the ranch while Joe made the journey to Haversmere.

  Just like Pa did, he would remain at the estate for a few months, meet with folks, make plans with the estate manager, then go home where his heart lived.

  A soft knock rapped on his door. It slid open without a squeak and his sister’s head poked into view.

  ‘Mr Bowmeyer is ready to serve tea. You must come at once.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, and little sandwiches. You’ll like them.’

  ‘I’ll hate them. Is there at least coffee?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You go ahead without me.’

  She came inside and snatched his sleeve. ‘You are my guardian. You must learn to take tea in a proper way. Mr Bowmeyer has offered to instruct you. It is quite a kind gesture and we will not offend him.’

  ‘Quite?’ He could not recall ever hearing his sister use the word that way. ‘When did you start speaking so properly?’

  ‘I’ve had lessons. It just never seemed right to speak so formally at the ranch.’

  ‘You sure you really want to marry a society fellow?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded confidently, hauling him towards the door. ‘Quite.’

  ‘All right. For your sake I will learn, but I’m not wearing that top hat tonight. There are some things a man just can’t do.’

  ‘Every other gentleman will
be sporting one and feeling fashionable.’

  ‘The difference between them and me is that I’m not a gentleman.’

  ‘As the son of Baron Haversmere, you most certainly are.’

  ‘Heaven help me.’ He shook his head going down the stairs. ‘If I didn’t love you and Ma so dang much, I’d hightail it to Haversmere tonight. Pa does say it is a bit of paradise.’

  ‘I love you, too, Joe. I recall that, as much as Pa loves the ranch, he always says he left a piece of his heart here. I suppose it had to do with your mother as much as anything.’

  Mr Bowmeyer stood beside the parlour door, stiff and proper looking. He nodded when Joe passed by him.

  ‘Mr Steton,’ he greeted him with a nod. Joe caught sight of the small sandwiches. He’d eat one in a single bite. Didn’t figure he’d even need to chew.

  It was the teacup that worried him, though, being as dainty a piece of porcelain as he’d ever seen. If he didn’t snap the fragile-looking handle off, he’d consider it a wonder.

  * * *

  Had Olivia been invited to any other ball this evening she might have remained at home. She had hired Miss Hopp as governess and the lady had already begun her service.

  It would have been good to stay close at hand to be sure that Victor and Miss Hopp got along. Luckily Mrs Hughes had agreed to keep an eye out and Olivia had faith in her housekeeper’s judgement.

  Since an invitation from Her Grace was a summons more than a request, she instead found herself on the short carriage ride to the Duke and Duchess’s Mayfair estate.

  The rain had cleared, giving way to a lovely starry sky. Olivia might have easily walked the distance, but to go out at night without a man to accompany her would be folly even for a widow.

  Within moments she found herself mounting the steps, wondering who would, and who would not, be in attendance.

  Now that she was entering the house, the vestibule sweet with the scent of spring flowers and gaslight from the chandeliers casting the room in an elegant glow, she was glad she had come.

  Having become used to the company of Clementine and her brood, Fencroft House seemed too quiet.