But it was only Percival who sauntered into the room, giving his gold-topped cane a twirl. She hated that cane. He pretended to need it whenever he wanted to elicit sympathy, but his ankle was well healed by now. Her half brother might like to act as if he had suffered a “great war injury,” and that somehow it made him a romantic figure, but Diana knew the truth. There was nothing romantic about her brother beyond his good looks, and even those were tainted by the character she knew lay behind the facade.
Was there such a thing as an honorable man in all of England? A man without a cruel streak, an uncontrolled temper, a need to dominate every woman in his life?
Not in Diana’s experience, admittedly limited as that might be. All men were alike—forceful, controlling, and unpredictable of temperament.
“Fetch me a drink.” Percival dropped to the sofa, swinging his legs up and propping his dirty boots on a satin pillow, clearly not caring about the servant who would be tasked with removing the stains he caused. “I’m worn out.”
She straightened, ready to flee if he started toward her, fed up with his sneering demands. “No one broke your legs on the way downstairs. Get your own drink.”
“Aren’t you feeling saucy this morning?” He tapped his cane on the rug. “If I weren’t so tired, I’d give you a smack to remind you of your manners. Has the trip to London got you all in a lather? I might be too, if I were silly enough to think that getting married would solve any of my problems. Father’s already got a list of prospects. All old, fat, and in need of an heir. I don’t envy you.”
Saying nothing was often the best defense when Percival baited her, so with an effort, Diana bit her tongue.
Percival dropped the cane to the carpet, raising his chin and staring at the plaster filigree work on the ceiling. “You don’t think he’s going to give you that inheritance money, do you? The minute you marry, it won’t belong to you. It will go to your husband … and only as much as Father has to shell out to get somebody to take you off his hands. The rest he will pocket. It’s been his plan all along.” Percival pinched the bridge of his nose, as if bored with dealing with such an inferior intellect. “It’s galled him right along that he couldn’t get his hands on your trust, but if you think he’s going to turn over thousands of pounds sterling without a fight, you don’t know our dear father.”
Frustration boiled under Diana’s breastbone. Her hands fisted on her thighs. Her grandmother had left that money to Diana to be inherited upon her marriage. The old woman had done it to spite the Duke of Seaton, revenge for the way he had treated her daughter, his third wife and Diana’s mother.
“Still, having a debutante sister will fit nicely into my plans for the Season. It’s a good excuse to show up at parties you’re invited to, and I’m sure there will be a few swains willing to do whatever I want them to in order to secure a formal introduction. Your looks are passable, and you are a duke’s daughter, which should be enough to have them swarming around. I shall have to see how I can leverage things to my advantage.” He rubbed his fingertips against his thumb and grinned. “Sheep to the slaughter. I hope you last longer than Catherine did in town. I missed out on several opportunities to fleece the young bucks at the tables when she scuttled home. Whoever ruined her better hope neither Father nor I catch up to him, since he cost us so much money.” He stacked his fists and twisted them in a neck-wrenching pantomime.
Before she said something she might regret—or that would earn her the aforementioned slap—she stood. There was plenty to do in preparation for tomorrow’s leave-taking. She’d waste no more time on Percival or his hateful words. The notion of him making suitors pay for an introduction to her, of having him show up at every social function she attended, and of luring unsuspecting prey into gambling with him in order to get on his good side made her want to break something, preferably over his head. She slipped out of the drawing room and through the hall to the staircase.
Upstairs, the servants went about their packing duties quietly and quickly, trunks and boxes open and spilling their contents, maids hurrying to Mrs. Hudsworth’s directions, and everyone tense. The servants at Seaton Manor were always tense, it seemed. Like Diana herself. What would it be like to live in a peaceful, happy home, where people were kind and treated one another with respect? Did such a household even exist?
From the sounds of her father’s plans to marry her to the highest bidder, she would never know.
“I don’t see how you’re going to make sense of all this by tomorrow. Have the lists I made helped?” Diana touched the gowns lying across her bed, letting her fingers trail over ostrich feathers, tulle, satin, and silk. Several of the dresses were leftovers of her sister’s, never worn after she’d fled London last spring.
But the rest had been sewn for Diana’s debut by a seamstress imported from the city for the purpose. Diana had enjoyed the process of collaboration with the modiste, selecting fabrics and trims, adding her own special touches. Though Diana had been sequestered at a girls’ school for the past several years, she had always had a flair for design, and she took pleasure in the tiny sense of freedom making her own dress choices had afforded. She’d been popular amongst the girls at school for her taste and creativity. Then her father had summoned her home. Ostensibly to be with Catherine in her confinement, but Diana surmised it was more that her father feared he was losing control of his daughters and wanted her where he could watch her.
“Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll get it all sorted. And your lists have been most helpful. No, not that trunk. That’s for the court dress.” Mrs. Hudsworth shook her head. “Do you want any of your books and art supplies packed?”
Diana didn’t hesitate. “I want everything. If things go according to Father’s plan, I won’t be returning to Seaton Manor. I don’t want to leave anything behind.”
Not that she had much beyond the clothes she would need for her debut—and she could argue that those did not really belong to her. Her father had been reluctant to spend money on daughters, even for necessities. Leisure items were rare indeed. Diana had her schoolbooks and a few sketchpads and pencils, but little else to call her own. Even her mother’s jewelry, which should have passed to her, had been confiscated by her father.
Mrs. Hudsworth’s lips trembled, but she took a deep breath. “I’ll miss you, lass.”
Diana squeezed the older woman’s fingers, something her father would be shocked to see. One didn’t treat servants with familiarity. She left the packing in the capable hands of the housekeeper and climbed the stairs to the nursery.
A fire blazed behind a protective screen, and the nurse her father had reluctantly hired sat before it, her toe slowly rocking the cradle on the floor. The girl couldn’t be more than fifteen, but she had the necessary skills to care for the baby, being the eldest of nine, the daughter of one of the crofters on the Seaton property. Father had refused to hire a wet nurse, but thankfully, Cian seemed to be thriving on thinned cow’s milk.
“Beth, you and the baby will be accompanying us to London, so I need you to pack Cian’s things and have them ready to go before first light tomorrow.” Diana bent to the cradle and lifted the warm sleeping bundle. She inhaled the newborn scent that still clung to him, closing her eyes for a moment, her heart torn with love and worry.