“I would not know, Mama,” Lady Matilda said, holding the vinaigrette over her bag, reluctant to let go of it. “I have always been assiduous about avoiding him and gentlemen like him who really do not deserve the name. And he is not so young either. But Viola has no choice, you know.” She flushed deeply. “They were caught living in sin together.”

“Ha!” the dowager said. “Good for Viola. It is about time that girl kicked up her heels a bit. But I am concerned about her marrying the rogue. Why should she when all she did was kick up her heels? Half the ton—the female half—will feel nothing but secret envy if they ever find out, which I daresay they will. We will go, Matilda. You may write to Lady Estelle. No, I will do it myself. I want to take a good look at the young man. If I do not like what I see, I shall tell him so. And I shall tell Viola she is a fool.”

“Mama,” Lady Matilda protested. “You are overexciting yourself. You know what your physician—”

“Nothing but a quack,” the dowager said, thereby signaling an end to the entire discussion.

Fifteen

After two weeks at home, Marcel was still feeling savage. He had never spent so much time at Redcliffe. He had spent enough time here now, however, to have learned something disturbing about himself. He was nothing but a weakling. It was a nasty realization for a man who had always prided himself upon being just the opposite.

He had come home to assert himself, to restore his household to order, to put an end to all the petty bickerings, to make himself master of his own domain. But he wondered at the end of the two weeks if he had accomplished anything at all—and this was even before his life was to be further disrupted by the arrival of Viola Kingsley.

His aunt Olwen, the marchioness, was a very elderly lady. She did not move about with any great ease, but her mind was sharp and there was something stately about her heavy figure. Her daughter, his cousin Isabelle, Lady Ortt, was an overblown blond fading to gray and liked to bully all around her, including her daughter, Margaret. And including her husband. Irwin, Lord Ortt, was a reedy individual, one-quarter head shorter than his wife, with receding fair hair, a chin that had never been anything else but receded, and an Adam’s apple that bobbed with unfortunate frequency since he swallowed whenever he was nervous and he was habitually nervous.

It should have been the easiest thing in the world to gather them all together and announce a move to the dower house for the lot of them. It would not even have been a cruel pronouncement. The dower house was within the park one mile away from the main house on the far side of the lake. It was sizable and in good repair—he had taken a walk there and looked it over for himself. There was room to spare for all of them. They would be away from the constant aggravation of Jane and Charles Morrow’s presence in the house with their adult children.

“Those people,” Isabelle told Marcel when none of those people were within earshot to defend themselves, “do not possess a title among them, Cousin Marcel, and they are not even Lamarrs but only relatives of your long-deceased wife.”

“Who was a Lamarr,” he reminded her. “And they are the appointed guardians of my daughter and my heir.”

Isabelle had looked somewhat disconcerted, perhaps at his tone and the fact that he was holding his quizzing glass only just below the level of his eye. She was not ready to concede defeat, however. “But they do not take precedence over Mama,” she said, “or over Irwin and me. Sometimes they behave as though they do.”

“I looked at the dower house this morning,” he said in an apparent non sequitur, though it became quickly clear that both ladies understood him perfectly well.

“It was built too close to the lake,” his aunt said. “It would be very bad for my rheumatics over there.”

“We have dear Margaret’s wedding to Sir Jonathan Billings in early December,” Isabelle said. “The house is going to be full of guests. You were not here to consult when we began planning, Marcel, but you could not possibly begrudge her a wedding befitting her rank and fortune.”

No, Marcel could not, though he did wonder why, if Ortt was in possession of a fortune, he was living off Marcel’s bounty at Redcliffe and not putting on a grand wedding for his daughter in his own home. Marcel would certainly broach both that subject and the removal to the dower house after Margaret’s wedding, but it did seem a bad time to do it now with the wedding plans well advanced. He could not help the niggling feeling, however, that if he were the man he thought he was, he would not have waited even one hour.

Jane and Charles Morrow’s children—his nephew and niece—were both grown-up. Oliver had been seven or eight when the twins were born, Ellen only a few years younger. Yet they were both permanently ensconced at Redcliffe. Marcel intended to have a word with them, or with the young man, anyway. Ellen was her mother’s concern, though it was hard to know why she was not already married. She was neither ravishingly pretty nor notably vivacious, but she was not an antidote either. Charles Morrow, though not poverty-stricken, was not a notably wealthy man. His son could surely not afford a life of permanent idleness—unless he continued living at Redcliffe, that was. That was out of the question. Marcel was going to be living here himself—with his wife.

Upon which topic his mind preferred not to dwell.

Oliver liked to trail about the estate with Marcel’s steward, giving unsolicited opinions and suggestions and advice, which on more than one occasion Charles had tried to convert into orders—which the steward resented, as was to be expected.

The matter ought to have been easy to resolve. Marcel ought to have backed his steward, counseled Charles not to interfere where he had no business interfering, and given his nephew his marching orders. However, nothing was easy these days. For the truth was that after some long talks with his steward and a bit of tramping about the farms, and after a close look at the books, all of which activities went severely against the grain, Marcel could not help coming to the conclusion that his nephew had a point. The steward was an elderly man, not doddering exactly, but certainly past his prime and set in his ways and unaware of the fact that his domain was no longer running as efficiently or even as sensibly as it ought.

What he really needed to do, Marcel realized, was sack the steward and hire a new one—and then give his nephew his marching orders. He would write to his man of business in London when he had a moment. He was half aware, of course, that he had any number of moments. Life in the country was not exactly characterized by its hectic schedules. He would do it after this infernal party, then. Meanwhile, he noticed that Bertrand was rather fond of his older male cousin and looked up to him with some admiration. And Charles, though more than a bit on the stuffy side, was a decent sort and doubtless meant well.

André had remained at Redcliffe despite the fact that there was nothing there to entertain a man of his tastes. Marcel had paid off all his debts and increased his allowance from the estate, but he had done nothing to force a permanent solution to the problem of his brother’s extravagance and gaming. As André had pointed out, it was a family failing, though Marcel had got his own habit under control, damn it. He had been given no choice. He had had two children to support long before he inherited his title and fortune. His income, though more than adequate, had not been limitless.

The housekeeper, closely backed by the cook, complained that too much was expected of them—by too many people. Lady Ortt’s wedding plans for her daughter were becoming more and more demanding even though she was not and never had been the mistress of the house. Mrs. Morrow consistently refused to hear of extra help being taken on, as those who worked there already never seemed very busy. And Mrs. Morrow demanded that they all attend morning prayers in the drawing room before breakfast every day. And now there was this party Lady Estelle was planning . . .