A Rake by Any Other Name Read Free

husband assured her that it wasn’t good business to spend too much time with those with whom one is attempting to negotiate. “It’s not too early for you to bathe and dress for dinner. Everything must be perfect this evening. If you would be taken for a lady, you must dress the part.”
    â€œAnd have a father with deep pockets,” Sophie said tartly as she rose from the settee and stomped off to her room. “That seems to be counted a lady’s best feature in this benighted country.”
    ***
    Mr. Porter had already ordered the proper turn out Lord Hartley demanded, and the thorough airing of Barrett House had begun days ago. Fortunately, the inside of the place was in better shape than the outside. Of course, the patches of damp rot would take some carpentry and fresh paint to fix, but there was time for that. Now that the heir was back, things would turn around.
    They simply had to.
    Porter set off for Somerfield Park, trotting up the long lane leading out of the village as fast as his bowed legs would carry him. Chest heaving, he burst into the grand manor’s kitchen with the news that Lord Hartley was taking tea at the village inn and would likely be home in less than an hour.
    â€œWell, who don’t know that?” Mrs. Culpepper didn’t look up from the pot of stew she was stirring. “The kitchen boy from the Hound and Hare beat ye here by a good five minutes. Careful with that hen, Eliza,” she said to the girl who dipped a freshly killed chicken into a pot of boiling water to loosen the feathers. “That has to stretch for supper for all of us below stairs, mind. Won’t do to have ye dropping it on the floor. That’d put Himself on a right proper tear and no mistake.”
    â€œBut does Himself—” Porter stopped and cleared this throat. It irked him that Mrs. Culpepper bestowed the honorific of “Himself” on Mr. Hightower. The fellow was the butler at Somerfield Park, not God Almighty. Porter was a butler too, albeit in a much smaller household, but no one ever called him “Himself.” “I mean, does Mr. Hightower —”
    â€œHe’s alerted the Family to the news and is assembling the staff in the great hall as we speak. There’s not much we can count on in this world, but one thing certain is that Himself will see everything done good and proper.” The cook wiped her hands on her apron and turned a kindly eye toward him. “Have ye had tea yet, Mr. Porter?”
    â€œNo, Mrs. Culpepper, that I haven’t.”
    â€œWell, then, sit ye down and I’ll sort ye out.”
    Porter watched as the round woman sliced bread and set out jams and a pot of clotted cream for him. While he sipped the aromatic blend and thanked her, he was pleasantly mindful that the Mrs. before Mrs. Culpepper’s name was only a formality. There wasn’t now, nor had there ever been, a Mr. Culpepper.
    Not that Porter was likely to ratchet up his courage to do anything about it, of course, but still… It was enjoyable to contemplate such things while a man ate a woman’s bread and drank her tea.
    ***
    As the carriage approached, the last rays of sunlight glinted off the upper windows of Somerfield Park. If Richard half closed his eyes, the four-story Georgian manor seemed to twinkle like a jewel on its green, velvet lawn.
    â€œThere they are,” he said, “spilling out of Somerfield like bees from an upturned hive.”
    It was tradition. When one of the family had been gone for an extended period of time, everyone came out to greet them. In deep blue Somerset livery, the servants lined up on the right side of the big double doors.
    Richard frowned. There seemed to be less than half the usual number.
    â€œSomething amiss?” Seymour asked.
    â€œNo. It’s fine. Everything will be all right.” If it wasn’t, he’d have to make it so. And pretty quickly too. After all, Antonia and her