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Chapter 3
The Stage Is Set
“As if this guardianship were not difficult enough,” muttered Edward Morton distractedly as he blotted the ink on a letter to the Earl of Grenham and placed it in the pile to go out with the morning’s post. “Bloody hell, I do not relish the prospect of fighting with Helena and Judith once again.”
Edward reclined in his sturdy upholstered writing chair, for once ignoring the twinge in his back as he did so—the seat had once been comfortable, but he had worn the padding down to nothing with years of overuse. Now it bothered him not at all, so concerned was he with the trouble now stirring in the household.
He grimaced as he remembered the fury Judith unleashed on the night before her wedding day. And all over Helena having her dress in satin while Judith had to make do with silk. Or was it the other way around?
Edward laughed bitterly, running his hands through his curly black hair. You would think she had been condemned to the gallows, she fought so bitterly. I can hardly imagine the hell she and Helena will raise over the presence of a half-sister under their father’s roof.
He stared up at the portrait of some previous Duke St. George that peered down at him from high up on the wall of his study. The painting had hung there for as long as Edward had been using the space—two years, it seemed to him, or maybe three. He had always wondered which ancestral St. George it was decked out in that ridiculous orange hunting costume, though was never quite curious enough to bother to ask.
I wonder which you would find the greater disgrace, Duke Whoever-You-Are? That your descendent fathered a child out of wedlock, or that he had the two pettiest, cruellest daughters in London?
Shaking his head, Edward returned to his work. He drew a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer in his writing desk, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and began his next letter. But even as his pen swirled and danced the usual formalities in elegant loops, Edward’s mind roamed elsewhere.
So much had happened over the previous week, he could scarcely keep up with each new development. The death of his long-time friend, the Duke. The ascension of the Duke’s young son to his father’s title, which substantially expanded Edward’s own duties beyond what he could have imagined. If I had known taking Christopher under my wing would bring such trouble, I should never have agreed to such an arrangement, he thought with a grumble.
And now, along with everything else, the triple revelation that Lionel St. George had had a daughter, that he had kept her existence a secret for more than two decades, and that he had now granted her his name and a portion of his fortune.
Whoever that girl is, I still find it nearly impossible to imagine His Grace having a dalliance with a maid, he thought, his lips curling in a curious moue. Granted, that was before I became acquainted with Lionel’s household—bloody hell, I suppose I must have been only a child myself at the time. But the man was always so proper, so conscientious towards Lady Mary and the children, so giving of his time and favours…
Not for the first time, Edward caught himself gritting his teeth as he imagined what his own father would say if he knew such a scandalous thing about the previous Duke. Assuming the elder Morton did not have similar secrets hidden away in his own closet, of course.
For all their friendship, Father was furious when I accepted guardianship of Christopher St. George even when he could rightly assume the family was the picture of English gentility, he mused. Best to keep this quiet for as long as possible. Perhaps the girl will be content to remain out of the spotlight, and word will not get out?
He scoffed at the thought. A secret kept amid the ton? He might as well wish Lionel St. George back to life while he was at it.
That Clara does seem to have at least some manner of sense about her, at least, Edward thought, carrying on with his letter writing. She seemed to deduce the danger posed by her half-sisters straight on, so she cannot be entirely witless. And, I suppose, she is a comely young thing. Which should make it an easy thing to arrange her marriage to some grasping merchant or knight with pretensions of social mobility. Perhaps a ball should be arranged sooner rather than—
Glancing down at his paper, Edward’s eyes widened, then he broke out in embarrassed laughter. In the middle of his missive to the Earl of Hearthing, he had written “…And, I suppose, she is a comely young thing. Which should make her marriage to some grasping merchant or knight,” followed by a blob of ink where his pen had lingered.
“Keep your mind on your business, Edward,” he chided himself, screwing up the paper and throwing it into the fire. As he did so, a knock came at his door. “Enter!” Edward called, mopping up the ink that had seeped onto the desk as best he could.
In stepped the tall, gloomy form of Mr Finch. As always, his moustache was as straight and grey as his clothing, and his face gave no trace of whatever thoughts ran about under that dark beaver hat.
“Do you have a moment to speak, Mr Morton?” asked the lawyer.
“For my fellow servant of our noble masters? Certainly! Please, have a seat, Mr Finch,” Edward said, gesturing to a nearby empty chair. He had begun to consider it quite an amusing diversion to attempt to build a sense of camaraderie with the long-time family solicitor—a humbling one, as well, considering he had so far been terrifically unsuccessful. “Would you take a glass of wine with me? I know it is a bit early in the day, but given the circumstances…”
After a moment’s contemplation, the lawyer sat in the chair, folding his long legs beneath him as he subtly smoothed his hair with one hand. “No, thank you, sir. Although I would not refuse a cup of tea, if it would not inconvenience you.”
Edward nodded. Well, that’s progress, at least, he said to himself. He stood from his chair, trying not to wince at the crick in his back, and walked to the far side of the room to pull the cord that dangled from the wall.
He leaned his back against the wall, folding his arms as he met Mr Finch’s barren gaze. “So, the last St. George daughter has been made comfortable in her accommodations, I trust?” he asked in as chipper a tone as he could manage.
Needless to say, this enthusiasm was not matched by the lawyer. “Naturally,” said Mr Finch. “But as you may have surmised, that was not what I wished to discuss with you.”
Edward smiled. “Indeed, I thought as much.”
A soft knock came at the door, and a maid poked her head into the room gingerly.
“A pot of tea and two cups, please. Thank you, Anna,” Edward called to the doorway. As he crossed the room to return to his chair, he paused mid-stride, suddenly possessed by a thought that brought a curious smile to his lips.
“Strange to think that Miss Clara was performing just the same activity as recently as this morning,” he said, stroking his chin. “She likely would have done so for the rest of her life were it not for His Grace’s final wishes.”
Edward glanced at Mr Finch, who continued to stare at him, unblinking.
