Page 10 of The Favourite

“Nonsense!”

Vawdrey’s lips twitched again, damn him. “Havering?” he proposed.

“He’s on the lookout for a rich wife,” Alisander pointed out scathingly.

Oswald Vawdrey hesitated. “If the King could be persuaded to endow the child with the estate at Kinnerton,” he said slowly, “then the Lady Jane might be considered well-dowered, indeed.”

Alisander felt himself turn cold. “Who would persuade the King to do such a generous thing as all that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Me,” answered Vawdrey mildly. “If the mood took me.”

“Well, then don’t! She’d have every fortune hunter and opportunist in the country after her!”

Vawdrey spread his hands. “At least that way, she could have her pick of the bunch. Come now, you must admit that broadening her current prospects would be the kindest thing I could do for her. Already my wife is lamenting poor Jane’s fate and hinting at my intercession. I do not think I can hold out for much longer without tarnishing my image in Fenella’s eyes, something I never do, if I can help it.”

Alisander frowned furiously but could think of no reply. Even his wits were failing him now.

Lord Vawdey settled back once more against the tapestried wall behind them. He tipped his head to one side. “Why don’t you simply marry the lady yourself, Alisander?” he asked. “Put yourself out of your misery.” Alisander choked on his reply. Ridiculous, he wanted to object. Unthinkable, absurd! “Why don’t you look at it as a challenge?” Vawdrey suggested. “See how many months it would take for you to turn her hair gray.”

Alisander eyed him accusingly. The bastard was definitely smiling now.

*

Long after he had left the reception, Alisander could hear the words of the King’s Chief Advisor rattling around his head. Why don’t you simply marry her? Why could he not dismiss that troublesome advice? Why, oh why, did the proposition keep reverberating through his head?

Marry her. As if that was even on the table. Jane Cecil would no more accept his suit than she would a brimming cup of poison. He knew full well Jane was not as in tune with her feelings as he. She thought the antagonism that crackled in the air between them was purely caused by dislike.

Maybe, on her part, it was, he conceded, but he had always known deep down, that the reason he liked to tease Jane was not due to dislike. Far from it. And now Vawdrey was going to hang a fortune over her head, plague take him. It would act as a target for every fortune hunter to take a shot at.

He braced himself and brought Sir Richard Havering to mind. In truth, he had nothing against the fellow. He was on the right side of forty and had a pleasant, if slightly bovine, appearance. It wasn’t even his fault that he stood in dire need of funds. Havering had inherited most of his struggles from his debt-ridden sire.

Alisander rubbed his eyes. No, it was no good trying to be generous. He detested the thought of that clod, Havering, getting his meaty paws on Jane. There was no point in lying to himself. The mere thought of Jane becoming Lady Havering made his gorge rise. The gall of the man, thinking he was fit to touch even her feet!

“My lord?” quavered his aged manservant, Robert, who was haphazardly piling logs next to the fireplace. “Have you been taken ill?”

Alisander looked up from the goblet he was white-knuckling. “What was that, Robert?” He forced a smile to his face and his fingers to unclench from the stem. “Nothing ails me, nothing at all,” he assured the worried-looking man. “I am merely contemplating my future.”

A faintly anxious look returned to Robert’s countenance. “The future, milord?” he faltered. One of the logs slipped out of his gnarled grasp and rolled across the rug. Instead of scooping it up, the old man simply stared at it. His lips quivered. “Will we be returning to the old country?” he asked in a choked voice.

“Never. Put that out of your head,” Alisander responded quickly. “Set those down and come sit here with me a while. Wat can sort those. He has a stacking technique that pleases my eye.”

The old man clambered to his feet and shuffled over to the chair. “I’m old now and useless,” he mumbled. “Wat can manage better without me, muddling everything.” His rheumy eyes filled with tears as he lowered himself into a chair.

Alisander poured him a cup of wine and passed it to him. “Nonsense. Wat is all very well, but he has not known me since I was a babe in arms. He is not Lasconian, like we. He does not remember.” Precisely what they were supposed to remember, he was not sure. He profoundly hoped that Robert’s memories were nothing like his own. “Drink,” he prompted after a moment.

Robert lifted the goblet and took a sip. “This is your good stuff, milord. You should not waste it on an old servant like me.”

Alisander rolled his eyes. “You are my oldest friend as well you know, you cozening rogue. I would no sooner part with you than I would my ruby necklace,” he added flippantly. “Now quit your mopes, for your master has need of you.”

Robert’s face brightened, and he sat up in his seat. “Yes, milord?”

“I am thinking of taking a wife,” Alisander hedged. “What say you to that?”

Robert nodded slowly. “’Tis high time, Master Sander,” he said gravely, and apparently without noticing, he had fallen back on a manner of address not used for many years. He hesitated. “What’s the young lady like, if I might take the liberty?” he asked, looking hopeful.

Alisander tipped his head to one side. “How to answer, that is the question,” he said slowly.

Robert looked unimpressed. “How, but truthfully?” he said with the familiarity of a very old family servant. His bluntness brought a smile to Alisander’s lips.