Miss determined, p.1
Miss Determined, page 1
Miss Determined
Mischief in Mayfair—Book Seven
Grace Burrowes
Grace Burrowes Publishing
Miss Determined
Copyright © 2023 by Grace Burrowes
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
To my dear readers
Miss Dashing—Excerpt
A Gentleman Fallen on Hard Times—Excerpt
Dedication
To all the determined ladies and lords.
May your persistence be rewarded!
Chapter One
“I am a looming scandal.” Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock, had learned in recent years how to decipher the arcane dialect of the solicitor, and yet, he was confounded—and not a little angered—by the figures on the page.
“My lord overstates the situation.” Across the gleaming mahogany table, Giles Purvis tidied a half-dozen documents into a stack. “By the current standards of the peerage, you’re in fine fettle. You own an enviable number of assets, but are plagued by a temporary shortage of revenue, which you are ideally situated to address. Had you tarried in France another few years, one might not be as sanguine.”
How could Purvis be anything but sanguine when his office boasted walls hung in burgundy silk, Aubusson carpets chosen to complement that staid hue, and furniture as well upholstered and substantial as the solicitor himself?
“Let’s have another look at the list of properties,” Trevor said, shifting on a chair built to accommodate shorter frames. “Most are familiar to me, but some of the smaller ones have escaped my notice in recent years.” As had, apparently, the state of their finances.
Purvis sorted through his papers and passed over a single page. “That’s in order of size, though not necessarily in order of value. Larger properties can require more maintenance or have less land under cultivation. The bigger the dwelling, the smaller the market for potential leaseholds, and mortgage terms varied with the fortunes of war.”
Trevor’s finger stopped halfway down a list of about a dozen properties. “Mortgage terms?” He had a healthy dread of mortgages and the people who offered them. If his father had had one redeeming feature—if being the operative word—Papa had at least bequeathed to his heir a solvent marquessate.
“Why, yes, my lord.” Purvis beamed at him patiently. “A mortgage is when a bank or other lender provides money, a sort of loan, and takes a security interest in a real property as a guarantee of repayment. Your father arranged for mortgages on the Yorkshire land and nearly paid them off. We’ve renegotiated the terms since his death. The Tavistock seat and the other entailed assets are not mortgaged, because those would be harder to sell. Your heir would have to agree to break the entail, and in the present circumstance…”
Purvis trailed off delicately and reshuffled his stack.
“I comprehend the concept of a mortgage, Purvis.” And the present circumstances referred to Trevor’s bachelor status, though a cousin of sorts racketing about on the Continent served as the Tavistock heir presumptive.
“What of this Twidboro Hall?” Trevor asked as a clerk brought in a tea tray. Jones was sandy-haired, soft-spoken, and good with figures. “I can’t think of any reason I’d need to bide in Berkshire when I own a monstrosity in Surrey. Why not sell Twidboro Hall?”
“One could,” Purvis replied, steepling his fingers and tapping his thumbs together, “but Twidboro Hall is a self-sustaining little jewel barely a day’s ride from Town. The DeWitts have been good tenants, insofar as they pay their rent timely and haven’t burned the place down. Twidboro will hold its value and might make a perfect dower property twenty years hence, while some of the others…”
Financial discussions were necessary when one had wealth, but part of the joy of biding in France had been distance from the solicitors, bankers, tenants, and other plagues intent on blighting a fellow’s freedom.
Trevor nonetheless grasped his duty and further grasped that he’d ignored that duty for too long. Step-mama never chided him, but her letters always included passing references to time flying and this or that splendid match getting off to a fine start.
He thus endured the item-by-item review of his holdings, something he should have insisted on when he’d made his annual gallops through London. He’d instead contented himself for most of the past decade with glancing at reports and tossing them into a drawer.
The clerk—Jones—returned to remove the tea tray after some hour and a half of manor houses, mangel-wurzels, and hay meadows, by which time Trevor’s head spun and his belly roiled. No wonder Papa had had such a sour nature, if regular lectures from the solicitors had figured prominently on his schedule.
Though they likely had not. Papa had indulged himself liberally with blood stock and blood sport, neither of which interested Trevor in the slightest. Wine and winemaking, by contrast, fascinated him. He was also fond of the ladies, competent at the pianoforte, and something of an amateur artist.
“I’d best go on an inspection tour,” he said. “I’ve never laid eyes on some of these properties. I should look them over before I decide which to sell, which to rent out, and which to keep.”
Or he could—novel thought—actually live on one of the country estates. Grow some grapes, paint a few vistas dotted with sheep and cows. The notion appealed far more strongly than spending the rest of his days in Town to the accompaniment of droning solicitors.
Purvis jerked his chin toward the hearth, and Jones obligingly moved the screen aside and added more coal to the flames.
“My lord must do as he wishes, of course,” Purvis said, “but Town will soon be filing up, and your return has been much remarked. The hostesses would be disappointed if inspecting hog wallows in Berkshire held more appeal for you than turning down the ballrooms with the young ladies.”
Purvis wiggled his bushy eyebrows while Jones found it expedient to sweep the spotless hearthstones.
“The ladies have other bachelors to stand up with them,” Trevor said, setting the list of properties aside. “The marquessate has only me. Please send along a copy of this list with the names and directions of the relevant stewards and tenants. I’ll start with the holdings closest to London and work my way north as the weather moderates. You are not to alert anybody to my plans, Purvis, and I mean that. Not the tenants, not the stewards, and certainly not Mayfair’s hostesses.”
Step-mama would know of Trevor’s plans because he would tell her himself. If he tried to keep his intentions from dear Jeanette, she’d drop a question or three before her husband’s vast and nosy family. Within a sennight, Trevor’s arrangements, right down to what vintage filled his traveling flask, would be common knowledge among the Dornings.
“My lord, if I might speak frankly.” Purvis grasped his lapels like a barrister preparing to harangue a jury. “You have all but absented yourself from London for better than five years. In that short space of time, England has changed. Tens of thousands of former soldiers have come home to drive wages into the dirt. The weather has disobliged us with failed harvests. The destruction of the French blockade and the ceaseless enterprise of everybody from the damned Americans to the Swedes has upended commerce and decimated our trade. Fewer and fewer heiresses come to Town each spring, but this year they will all be setting their caps for you.”
In other words, Trevor was to take his place in the long and miserable line of Vincent menfolk who’d married for money. He’d suspected as much, but to have that suspicion confirmed blighted an already dismal mood.
An answering lecture begged to be delivered: I am no longer sixteen, new to my title, and tolerant of presuming, self-appointed honorary uncles whose fingers always seem to be in my pockets. You have overstepped for the last time.
Papa had excelled at delivering such lectures.
Trevor stood, his back stiff from sitting too long. “One appreciates the benefit of your thinking, Purvis. I will want to see income and expense statements for each of these properties. I also need to know how they were acquired and for how long the Vincent family has held them.”
Purvis rose and came around the end of the table. His coat brushed the stack of papers nearest the edge and sent them cascading to the carpet.
“Jones,” he said, snapping his fingers at the papers on the floor, “make yourself useful.”
Jones scurried over to clean up the mess, a much easier task than cleaning up the marquessate.
“From now on,” Trevor said, “I’d also like for Smither
Purvis rubbed his brow with pale, manicured fingers. “But, my lord, assembling such detail will take additional effort that will only increase what we must charge you.”
Nice try. “Oh, perhaps,” Trevor replied, “but without that detail, you cannot possibly know how to accurately bill me for your services. To make one more copy of what must already be in your files wouldn’t take Jones but half an hour. Isn’t that right, Jones?”
Jones rose, a stack of papers in his hands. “My lord is correct, of course.” He set the documents on the table and began organizing the cups, saucers, plates, and napkins on the tea tray.
“Another half hour’s effort will be well worth the additional expense,” Trevor said, lest Purvis trot out more sermonizing and prevarication. “Let’s start with this quarter’s billing and, as Jones has the time, work backward for a year. I’m at the town house for the nonce and will expect that list of properties and names by… tomorrow afternoon, shall we say?”
Purvis offered up a martyred sigh. “A week from today would be more reasonable, my lord. With everybody returning to Town, the clerks are kept quite busy. Leases to be signed for fashionable rentals, first-quarter reports assembled, marriage settlements discussed in anticipation of happy news later in the Season… We are at springtide, my lord.”
Bollocks to that. “Purvis, you have my deepest sympathies on the surfeit of business your firm is enjoying. Nonetheless, if the request of a client of long standing for the simplest information takes you a week to prepare, then perhaps that surfeit has become a mixed blessing.”
Purvis stared at him oddly for a moment, and Trevor thought perhaps he’d spoken in French. He still did that, when tired or vexed or taken by surprise.
“I’ll have the list to you by sundown, my lord. Jones, fetch the marquess’s coat.”
“I’ll see myself out.” Trevor bowed politely and accompanied Jones from Purvis’s office. The other clerks were all bent over their desks, scribbling away, suggesting Purvis had spoken honestly.
“Is the firm truly deluged with work this time of year?” Trevor asked as he accepted his coat from Jones.
Jones sent a glance back in the direction of his fellows. “Smithers and Purvis needs more staff, my lord. You work a fellow too long and hard, and he makes mistakes, and then the work has to be done over, and apologies have to be offered all around. Mr. Purvis the Younger tries to reason with his pa, but Old Purvis won’t hear of it. Says clerks with time to linger over their nooning are clerks who get up to mischief.”
“Are the wages adequate?” Maintaining a vineyard required skilled labor. A slip of the shears, negligent watering, haphazard harvesting… all very costly. Working exhausted was a recipe for regret. One paid well for a job done properly, according to any self-respecting vintner. Anything else was a false economy.
“Oh, aye, the wages are decent.” Jones passed over Trevor’s hat. “That’s how Young Purvis gets us to sign on. Offers good pay. What he doesn’t say is that we’ll never see the sun once Old Purvis gets hold of us. We have the information you’ve requested, my lord. I collect it up myself and do the figuring, but we’ve been on forced march since the new year, and the errors have started. Somebody forgot to list one of your properties, for example.”
Trevor tapped his hat onto his head. “Thank you for keeping a sharp eye out, Jones.” Better another hog wallow to inspect than another grand ball to attend. “Add it to the list, and I’ll get around to calling there. Where is it?”
“Right next to Twidboro, my lord, which is why leaving it off the list was such a glaring mistake. The two were one property a couple of centuries ago, then the fourth marquess divided the parcel and put a new manor house on the prettier half. If you want to see the marquessate’s little jewel, drop in at Lark’s Nest.”
Trevor pulled on riding gloves. “You’ve seen it?”
“Gone past. I’m Berkshire-born and bred, and my granny dwells out that way. She was on staff at Lark’s Nest years and years ago. You’ve plenty of good lumber in the Lark’s Nest home wood too.”
The rain had let up, which meant it would come down in torrents before Trevor reached his own doorstep. The weather was much better behaved in Paris.
“When was the last time you saw your granny, Jones?”
“Not since I started work here, sir. I do write, but Gran isn’t much for trusting the post. You haven’t a coach, sir?”
“I prefer to stretch my legs rather than make a coachman and team loiter about. Please say nothing to Purvis about the omission of Lark’s Nest from my list of holdings. I wouldn’t want to see anybody castigated for a harmless oversight.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Trevor ducked lest his hat hit the top of the doorway and moved off up the street. The list had been prepared in Purvis’s hand, and the oversight had to have been his. Trevor had thus set a trap for Purvis, which was bad of him.
Nonetheless, when the list of properties and stewards and whatnot arrived, Lark’s Nest had once again been omitted.
“I’ll go to Town in your place,” Diana said, striking her favorite pose by the hearth, a hand resting at her throat, her adoring gaze on Papa’s portrait. “We still have time to hem your new dresses to fit me, and I know all the dances. My French is good, and I’ve been rehearsing my sonatina for the musicales.”
Amaryllis DeWitt continued knitting and sent up a prayer for patience—another prayer for patience. Sixteen was so very much younger than twenty-five. “That’s a noble offer, Di, but you’ll have to convince Mama to approve your sacrifice.”
Diana flounced off to the sideboard, a hint of coltishness about her stride. “Mama’s determination makes Wellington look like a ditherer in comparison. You have to ask her for me. Mama listens to you. We need a fresh pot.”
The DeWitt ladies needed a miracle. “Why don’t you ring for one? I could use a sandwich or two.”
“I must rehearse my Clementi.” Diana tipped her chin up in what she clearly believed was the essence of feminine self-possession and sashayed from the room.
“One ought not to hate,” Grandmama said from the depths of her favorite chair, “but that sonatina has worn out its welcome with me. Diana’s plan is worth considering.”
Amaryllis reached the end of a row and stashed her knitting into her workbasket. “I agree, but Mama cannot be swayed. She’s very loyal to Papa’s memory.” Then too, convention declared that the oldest sister married first, and Lissa was, by a pathetically wide margin, the oldest.
“You are a diplomat,” Grandmama said, her embroidery needle moving in a slow, graceful rhythm. “You get that from your father, along with your considerable settlements.”
“I wish I could keep the diplomacy and give the money back.” Along with Papa’s nose, another difficult legacy. His stubbornness made the list, too, as did his loyalty to family. How much easier life would be if Lissa could simply take Grandmama to Paris and knit shawls by the dozen.
“I had three Seasons,” Grandmama said, a point she raised frequently. “Many girls would envy you those settlements, Lissa. It could be worse.”
“You’re right, of course. I could be five years older, five inches taller, or have five thousand pounds more a year. My hair could be flaming orange instead of dark red, and I could be inclined to tittering.”
Grandmama smiled at her embroidery. “You’re testy when you’re peckish.”
“I am peckish. I’m also plain, common, and tall. Dangling after heirs and Honorables is beyond me.” Lissa knew that now, after last year’s disastrous, interminable Season at an age considered antediluvian by Mayfair standards. Her initial foray into fashionable Society at eighteen, equally disastrous, had been cut short by Papa’s death.
