Page 77 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

“Ah. The agreement.” Joseph tugged off his other glove and slapped them together. Treen was becoming overbearing about pressing this alliance. He insisted he’d been in a business partnership with Reuben, though the solicitor could find no record of any agreement.

“I know, as a gentleman, you’ll honor another gentleman’s word,” Treen said with an oily smile.

But Treen was not a gentleman, Joseph wanted to point out. His father had been a publican who had failed at public houses in Saltash, Liskeard, and Pensilva before finally making a go of the Half Moon in Stoke Climsland. Treen’s mother had been a barmaid and gave herself more airs than Favella ever had. From what Joseph could tell, Treen’s record as a businessman was at least as fraught as his father’s; the millinery shop was the second if not the third venture he had undertaken in Callington.

“Remind me again what the agreement was,” Joseph said. “Mr. Hoskyn has so far been able to produce no trace of it.”

“We had not proceeded to the step of putting things in writing, I grant you. Your cousin was a man of honor, as am I. And I was offering to help him, as he knew. Buying a few acres of the more worthless property, the ones he couldn’t farm. With the attendant rights, of course. Water, and so on.” Treen grimaced. “We would have had all things signed and tidied if he hadn’t taken ill, poor devil.”

“Ah.” Joseph looked around the room. He would be some time cleaning up Reuben’s messes. “I would offer you refreshment, but I understand my housekeeper has been unexpectedly called away.”

“The lovely Mrs. Da Costa,” Treen said. “We should all be so fortunate to have a housekeeper so comely.”

Joseph gave him a severe look. “She is a woman in my employ and therefore under my protection.”

Treen wore a small, satisfied smile, as if he’d discovered something, or had a suspicion confirmed. Then he adopted a moue of concern.

“I suppose I should warn you, then. Mrs. Da Costa came to my shop just yesterday. I did her the honor of introducing her to my mother, as I supposed would be the kind thing to do— A woman of her, shall we say, complexion may not be welcomed by the better people of Callington without our example. I am gratified to say that my mother and I have always been very open-minded. We take seriously the biblical injunction to love all of God’s creatures.”

“There is not a single reason Inez should not be perfectly presentable to your mother,” Joseph said icily, aware he lied.

Mrs. Treen would be unlikely to welcome the daughter of a lascar into her drawing room, and certainly not, given her own social aspirations and affectations, the daughter of a trull. A woman who had set foot in Dark Lane would not be accepted into the parlors of those aspiring to gentility. It was only someone very innocent or very eccentric or very tender-hearted, and Amaranthe was all of these things, who would overlook a person’s past and see an opportunity to provide assistance.

Now that she was the Duchess of Hunsdon, Amaranthe could be as eccentric as she wished, and be admired for it, if not imitated. A Mrs. Treen of Callington could not afford to be eccentric, at least, not if she wished to rise.

What was Treen playing at, introducing Inez into his mother’s circle? Attempting to show her that Treen, as her protector, could offer her a parent and a lively social circle, which Joseph could not?

Treen’s smile shifted to one side. “I ought to tell you, man to man. Mrs. Da Costa made certain…advances to me. Indications, if you take my meaning. Of course, I wouldn’t take advantage of a woman in her circumstances.”

Joseph’s head went up and back as if he were a bridled horse and Treen had yanked on the ribbons. “What circumstances do you believe she is in?”

“Did I say circumstances?” Treen raised his brow. “I meant rather…profession.” He withdrew a snuffbox from his coat and opened it. “My friends will tease me that I am too nice, but I confess I am not tempted by common women. One simply never knows what they might bring with them. And such a woman will never be moved by affection.”

Treen took a pinch of snuff, deposited on the back of his hand, conveyed his knuckles to his nose, and sniffed deeply. Immediately his eyes began to water, and he held the box out to Joseph.

Joseph shook his head. His father had smoked pipe tobacco, but had never taken snuff, nor had his mother. Amaranthe said Reuben and Favella had taken so much when she lived with them that she could no longer bear the scent.

“Inez,” he said instead, “made overtures to you.” He’d never heard his own tone sound so deadly.

Treen, preoccupied with closing his snuffbox and returning the enameled case to his pocket, then withdrew his handkerchief, a heavily embroidered silk affair.

“It seems she is on the hunt for a new protector, my friend. The reason for her current absence, one might suppose?”

“You’ll forgive me if I have another appointment,” Joseph said. “It is pressing.” He was betraying himself, and he did not care if he showed Treen that his barbs had landed. Keeping up appearances with this one would be a daunting and never-ending task.

“I beg your pardon if I have upset you. I shall take my leave.” Treen gathered his gloves and walking stick. He carried his chapeau bras beneath his arm, the better, Joseph supposed, to show off his freshly curled and powdered wig.

“Those lands,” Treen said again. “We can discuss them at another time? I’m willing to pay a fair price. I want to see our new baronet well-established in the neighborhood, and I have leave to know, sadly, the straits in which the former baronet left you.”

The thought of this man knowing the state of his finances was nearly as enraging as his suggestion—false, of course—that Inez had thrown herself at his head. Inez didn’t like the man and made fun of his cologne.

“Do be careful as you are riding about,” Joseph said as he showed his guest to the door. “I heard someone shooting on my property the other day. Someone I hadn’t given leave to hunt here.”

“Shooting?” Treen’s dark eyebrows were incongruent against his pale wig. “How dreadful. I do hope ruffians are not making free on your acres.”

“Nor the acres you’re hoping to buy,” Joseph said. “Rest easy, I will identify and deal with the interfering ape. I don’t think enough people know it, but Reuben bred his dogs to be quite vicious.”

“Did he.” Joseph couldn’t be certain, as Treen wore powder, but his face seemed to blanch momentarily. “I will be certain to warn my friends.”