Chapter One
Rossingley Estate, Summer, 1825
I must not swive the stable boy (again).
I must not swive the stable boy (again).
I must not swive the stable boy (again).
I must not…
“Crocodile tears won’t save you this time, Master Rollo.”
Pritchard’s lisping note of triumph was unmistakeable.“No matter how prettily you shed them, you’ve pushed your papa too far.He is provoked beyond measure.”
“He’d be his usual fine and dandy self if you hadn’t gone running to inform him.”
“My primary role in the Rossingley household is to serve the earl,” answered Pritchard, as prissy and prim as ever.“Not his licentious offspring.”
Rollo harboured an ugly notion that his father’s valet had been waiting a long time for this moment, possibly since when Rollo, at age four, had sprinkled rich, resinous lily pollen amongst Papa’s meticulously folded white linens.It had been the opening salvo of a rather jolly dislike of each other.
“You’re relishing this, aren’t you, Pritchard?”
“Tremendously,” Pritchard confirmed.
Escape flitted across Rollo’s mind, but only for a second.One step ahead, and perhaps recalling the time Rollo had feinted past him and sprinted away across the lawns, Pritchard had brought along reinforcements in the form of two burly footmen stationed on either side of the library door.The window, alas, was closed.
Rollo shot a pleading look towards Kit Angel—Papa’s divine and terribly understanding paramour—currently decorating the settee, who shook his head.Everybody was loyal to Papa to a fault, and it was damned annoying.
“Sorry, old chap.”At least Kit sounded genuine.“For what it’s worth, I tried to talk your father out of it.Some of us enjoy having you around.”
What did he mean byhaving you around?Rollo wasn’t planning on going anywhere, unless swallow diving headfirst out of the nearest window and running for the hills until Papa had calmed down counted.And talk him out of what?
Before Rollo could further parse Kit’s words, Papa himself swept into the library, dressed in his favourite chartreuse silk banyan and pearls.Rollo coveted both immensely.As always, the eleventh earl was impeccably turned out, though this morning, his flamboyant attire sat at odds with the discomfiting, frigid set of his mouth.Rollo barely dared meet his pale eyes; when his mouth looked as grim as that, his gaze could freeze a lake.
“Rollo, my darling.”
Rollo winced.Only a fool would mistake the endearment for anything other than an affectation.
“Yes, Papa.”
The ice-chip eyes glittered.“You know why you’re here, I assume?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Experience taught Rollo that short answers tended to be met more favourably.Unfortunately, his smart mouth had a lamentable tendency to act independently of his mind.“Writing outI must not swive the stable boyone hundred times was a significant clue.The lack of hot water in my room this morning more subtle.But no less vexing.”
The faintest ghost of a smile twitched his father’s lips, gone in an instant.Even in the midst of a scolding, Rollo still appreciated he had the best of fathers.Most would have introduced his arse to the switch long ago.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rollo?”
Rollo straightened his shoulders.Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and all that.The importance of standing up for himself had been instilled in him from a young age; Papa could hardly complain now he was reaping what he’d sown.
“Yes, Papa.Several things, actually.”
Papa sighed.“I’d expect nothing less.”
“Firstly, my wrist aches.”Rollo waggled it to demonstrate.“I have indelible green ink stains on my second-favourite blush waistcoat, and I’m still frightfully chilly.And, for the record, Ellis was an able, willing, practiced, and—dare I say—extremely encouraging participant.”
