She’d told Alcott Brown, the pastry cook, a man in his thirties with shy eyes, a pleasant smile, and a prematurely receding hairline, that she couldn’t give the castle her family’s secret recipes. However, she could bake as many of their specialties as needed, for as long as she stayed. Aunt Ethel had been emphatic that she do anything necessary to keep Amelia’s job safe. Making a few gingerbreads couldn’t hurt. And, she thought, feeling a smile, perhaps if the duke and duchess liked her delicacies, they’d put in a weekly order from Smith’s Bakeshop, in addition to the weekly bread they had delivered each Tuesday. Aunt Ethel would be pleased.
Pouring the batter into her already greased pan, Charlotte used her spatula on the sides of the large bowl. Her thoughts drifted again to Mr. Winters and their encounter the night before. The instant he’d asked for milk, she’d scampered away and gotten some from the cook—for nobility, she’d told her. Why had he seemed so interested? She a maid. He a member of the aristocracy. When the milk had been scalding, he’d stripped out of the blemished garment to a thin linen shirt underneath that indecently showed his muscles, but he didn’t even seem to care.
After she’d done all that she could, he’d taken the garment from her, brushing his arm against hers.
A flurry of excitement by the stairs interrupted her daydream. People had descended into the kitchen.
Charlotte glanced at her apron, thankful she’d been careful and had also secured her hair using twice as many pins. No stray locks would escape her cap today.
“Our new duchess,” Alcott whispered in Charlotte’s ear. “As well as the dowager duchess and Lady Audrey.”
The young woman had strawberry-blond hair and a beautiful smile.
Mr. Pencely, the butler, followed behind.
Mrs. Darling’s heels clicked hurriedly down the corridor from the opposite direction as she rushed to receive them. Greeting the new duchess, she explained that Cook had asked for her to show them around and introduce them to the staff.
“Much younger than the last,” Alcott said, nodding toward the strawberry blonde. “I wasn’t here when His Grace was a boy, but many knew him well. The older servants speak highly of him.” He shook his head. “But who knows how a man has changed in sixteen years?”
The small group came farther into the kitchen, and the new duchess glanced around with interest, nodding at the things Mrs. Darling pointed out. The new stove alongside the old, the gas lamps that had been added a handful of years back. The water closet down the hall. The icebox.
The duchess seemed enthralled. She actually smiled at a footman and then at a maid.
Mr. Winters came down the stairs and joined the group. His gaze traveled around the room until he saw Charlotte. He inclined his head, his lips curling just the slightest bit.
She dropped her gaze, and heat scalded her face. Had Alcott seen? Had anyone? Looking up through her lashes, Charlotte noticed Margaret’s glare from the scullery door, her mouth pulled in a frown.
“Dinner last night was delicious,” the duchess said to the cook. “The duke and I enjoyed ourselves immensely.”
Charlotte thought she saw the dowager smile snidely and look away.
Cook inclined her head. “My pleasure, Your Grace. If there’s anything you or the duke want special, let Mr. Pencely know and he’ll tell me. Nothing’s too grand or rare. Just ask.”
“That’s kind of you,” the duchess replied. “I’ll let my husband know.”
“Her name is Emma,” Alcott whispered at Charlotte’s side, then turned to take a sheet of Chelsea bun cake out of the oven. A light, sugary scent of cinnamon and lemon filled the room.
The group peeked into the scullery, and the new duchess said something to Margaret, as Charlotte stayed all too aware of Mr. Winters’s whereabouts. Feeling like she might faint, she forced herself to watch Alcott run a knife around the edges of the pan.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Alcott smiled woefully and said, “Our two classes are worlds apart, Charlotte. No servant ever crosses the line without getting burned. Be sent away without a referral? That’s the end of their life in service. Most end up back at the workhouse—or worse.”
Mrs. Darling led the group in their direction. Charlotte didn’t have time to even straighten her cap before the new duchess and the old, along with Lady Audrey, stood before them. Mr. Winters stood at the back of the group, smiling—and making her hands shake.
“And this is our pastry cook, Mr. Alcott Brown, and his assistant, Miss Charlotte Aldridge. He’s been at the castle for five years and Miss Aldridge only two days.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brown,” the duchess said. “And you as well, Miss Aldridge. Charlotte’s such a beautiful name. A beautiful name to match a beautiful face.”
Heat scalded Charlotte’s cheeks again. She made a deep curtsy, not knowing exactly how she should respond. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she finally said. The duchess’s outstretched hand meant she intended to take hers. Charlotte slowly reached forward.
“I feel a bond, Miss Aldridge. We arrived at Ashbury Castle on the same day and are learning the ropes together, so to speak. That must mean something, yes? And you strongly resemble my younger sister Katie, who I left behind in Colorado and miss terribly.”
The deep affection in her voice froze Charlotte’s tongue. She imagined she saw the duchess’s eyes mist up.
“I feel we may be friends,” the duchess went on, smiling into her face.
A look of displeasure pulled the dowager’s mouth. “It’s time to rest before our outing later, then the dressmaker will have you for several hours before the evening meal.” She started for the stairs. Lady Audrey and Mr. Winters followed.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Charlotte mumbled, keenly aware of everyone’s gaze on her. Alcott and Mr. Winters looked surprised, as did Mrs. Darling and the cook. But Margaret Malone, her eyes narrowed to slits, turned back to the scullery and stomped away.
CHAPTER NINE
You’re awfully quiet, my boy,” Lord Harry said, climbing out of the coach. “What’s bothering you?”
The coach clattered away, and they began their walk toward the office of the solicitor Beranger’s father had used for years. A filmy mist hung over the ground, making the air chilly even for September. Tall buildings blocked the sun. Back in Colorado the sun would be shining, the air warm and clear.
“I don’t like leaving so soon. Not with Emma staying behind.”
But deep down, I wanted her to stay, his mind argued. Until I’m sure of my reception in London, sure I’ll be accepted as Duke of Brightshire, in the courts and especially in the House of Lords. If I’m going to be shamed, I don’t want her to witness it. Only time will tell if others still think of me as illegitimate.
“That couldn’t be helped. Gavin left Ashbury in dire straits. I hadn’t realized the coffers were near empty. And there may be more debt than we know of. Such was the case of the land we lost several months ago. He’d told nobody he’d gambled the acres away until the new owners showed up on the doorstep. The news hit everyone hard. Your family and the tenants alike. They fear for their positions. Each time you have to sell land, the new landlord may throw them out. They’ve lived on those lands for generations.”
Beranger nodded. The estate had been successfully passed down through his lineage since the fifteenth century. Ashbury would not be ripped from the Northcotts on his watch.
Lord Harry gave a low grunt. “Ours is not the only grand estate in jeopardy, Beranger. Many lords have done just as your brother did, and your father, for that matter. Paid little attention to detail, believing the resources would always be there as their luxurious lifestyle bled bank accounts dry. Then the cheap imported American grain has all but put most tenant farmers under, making payment to their lords nearly impossible, and the same thing is happening with other crops too. Something must be done. I’m thankful you’re home to tackle the problem.” He clapped Beranger on the shoulder. “Not only that, but more than
a handful of lords have gone looking to America to solve their problems. Marrying an heiress to bankroll their lifestyle and save their reputations is an easy fix. Such arrangements happened all the time, and still do, I’m sure.”
Beranger scowled. “Americans want the titles.”
“And the English need the cash to save their tattered reputations.”
Surely no one thought that of him and Emma, did they? He hadn’t even known he was a duke until his uncle had turned up in Eden. By then, Emma had already captured his heart. If she’d refused to come to England with him, he might not have ever returned.
“Turn here, the way is faster,” Lord Harry said, striding down a small side street. The narrow road, deserted except for shadows, was almost an alley. Brick walls lined the way, interrupted by a door or dark window every so often. Behind them, the sounds of the city faded, making the click of their heels on the cobblestones more noticeable. About a half a block in front of them, moving in the same direction, appeared a solitary man.
Then, out of a doorway ahead, three rough-looking scoundrels emerged and pushed the man to the ground. Several punches were exchanged. Beranger saw the glimmer of a knife blade.
“Hell!” Beranger pushed the leather satchel holding Ashbury’s account books to Lord Harry and ran forward. Grasping one assailant by the back of his shirt, Beranger threw him headfirst into the wall. The man slumped to the ground. His fellow attackers hadn’t noticed Beranger’s arrival. One pressed the knife blade to the victim’s throat and demanded money. The other watched, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I have something for you,” Beranger growled, spinning the second ruffian around. He landed a powerful blow under his jaw that actually lifted the man into the air. When the fellow landed, he stumbled back, catching one foot, and fell to the cobblestones. Staggering to his feet, he took a quick look at Beranger and Lord Harry and ran off in the opposite direction.
The one holding the knife jumped to his feet and vaulted forward to meet Beranger. A snarl twisted the ugly scar that ran down the side of his face. Crouching, the two circled each other. Evil gleamed in the man’s eyes.
“May as well stick you,” he panted. “Hand over your money if you want to walk away alive. Him too!”
For one instant, Beranger’s mind flashed back to his first month on board the Destiny, when he was only thirteen. The sailors had gone ashore. The midshipman, although twenty-one years old, was small and reedy, and the men often teased him that Beranger was larger. Somehow, the shy midshipman found himself beset upon by three drunken sailors from another ship. They pushed him from one fellow to the next while they laughed and sneered. When the first punch was thrown, Beranger jumped in the fray and held off the beating until the Destiny’s burly cook and purser arrived, both shouting and itching for a fight. Beranger had been celebrated as a hero that night and carried on the men’s shoulders into the pub, where they proceeded to get him drunk.
The victim on the ground stirred. For one instant, the attacker glanced his way. That was the moment Beranger needed. He kicked out. The knife sailed into the air. He lunged forward, taking the man down to the hard stones, and the two rolled several feet. The brute was stronger than he appeared and was able to land a punch to Beranger’s jaw. Furious, Beranger flipped the man to his stomach, pinned his hands behind his back, and forcefully drove his face onto the stone street.
The man howled in pain and stopped struggling.
Sitting atop the criminal, Beranger wiped away a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
The victim had recovered and staggered to his feet. Seeing his assailant on the ground, he stripped off his braces and handed the lengths to Beranger, who secured the brute’s hands and feet. Glancing to the wall, he saw that the first attacker had awakened at some point and sneaked off as well.
The victim, though bruised and dirty, smiled and put out his hand. “I owe you my thanks, and perhaps my life.”
They shook vigorously.
“Stanton Wellborn the third,” the man said. “And whom shall I give the great credit of saving me?”
“Beranger Northcott,” Beranger responded, not at ease using the title he’d recently acquired.
Lord Harry shifted his weight. “His Grace, the Duke of Brightshire, sir.”
“The Duke of Brightshire!” Wellborn clearly looked taken aback. “But I heard you had died in a hunting accident quite some time back. Was that rumor?”
“Not rumor. That was my older brother.”
Wellborn’s brow furrowed. He looked to be in his early thirties and was nicely dressed despite his disheveled hair and the long tear that had opened his shirt beneath his gentleman’s jacket. Once more tucked under his arm was a leather briefcase, much like the one Beranger had thrust into Lord Harry’s arms before the fight. “Then you are the only other son of William Northcott?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The one who has two different-colored eyes? It’s too shadowy here to see, but am I correct?” he asked.
“You are.”
He nodded, and a grin appeared. “I’ve heard of you! Actually, I was up in Scotland, and the subject came up there as well. You’re famous, I’d say. The eyes, their ability to curse. I don’t believe in curses, but some do.”
Uncomfortable, and aching at several points in his body, Beranger shifted his weight. “No curse, just a stepmother who spread the superstition far and wide.” He glanced at Lord Harry, who stood quiet. “But I had Lord Harry, my good uncle here, to help offset her malice.”
Wellborn clapped Beranger on the shoulder. “I’d tell anyone the Duke of Brightshire was my lucky charm today. By the gallantry you have shown, I have no doubt that is true for others as well.”
Now even more uncomfortable with the man singing his praises, Beranger said, “I suggest we move on before someone else tries to finish off what those three started. We can alert a constable to this fellow’s whereabouts.”
Lord Harry and Wellborn nodded. In three short minutes, they were back on the busy main road.
“So much for your shortcut, Lord Harry,” Beranger said. “Next time, we shall stick to the more well-traveled streets.” He looked at Wellborn and chuckled. “I’m sure you will as well. You’re feeling fine then to make the walk home, or wherever you were going?”
“I am. But I must thank you again for your bravery. Not many would jump into a fray when outnumbered.”
Beranger shrugged. On board the Destiny, he’d learned early on that to be a man was to step up when the time arose, if you ever wanted someone at your back in a time of need. “Ideally no man would stand by when another is outnumbered. What I did is nothing to be singled out for.”
Once Wellborn had taken his leave, Harry handed Beranger his handkerchief without a word. Beranger dabbed at the crusted blood at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t taken a blow since a bar fight in Eden when Emma had marched inside in support of her sister Katie, disregarding the room full of drunken men. A swirling goodness warmed his gut. After the fight, Emma had tended to his cuts and bruises. Then and there, he’d promised himself he’d win her heart, no matter how jaded she was about love. The doing hadn’t been easy, but oh, the chase had been worth every bit of grief she’d given him.
“How’s the jaw feel?” Harry asked, stopping in front of a tall brick building. A list of names on a brass placard was anchored beside the door.
“I’ll live.” Beranger glanced up. This was only the second time he’d been to London in his life. The first time he’d accompanied his father’s groom when his father had gone to see this very same solicitor. Beranger had only been about five at the time, and compared to Brightshire, everything had seemed so large, so busy.
“Stay with the coach and mind the driver, Beranger. Do not run off. This is not Brightshire. London is large and fast-paced. People don’t tell the truth. Everyone here will want something from you. Be good. Do as I say.”
Beranger remembered the deep longing he’d felt during that brief, rare moment
when the duke had squatted before him and tousled his hair. The duke never touched Beranger like he did Gavin, never offered his younger son words of encouragement or wisdom. The only time he’d seen pride in his father’s eyes was when the duke was addressing Gavin. And if his stepmother, the duchess, was present, the duke barely spoke to him at all. Lord Harry had explained many times that Gavin was older. As the heir, he was the child they doted on. But Beranger had felt there was more. Because he was illegitimate, his father was loath to touch him.
“When I get home tonight, I’ll look in on you. If you were good, I’ll bring you something.”
But his father hadn’t looked in on him that night and had barely said a word on the trip home. Once they’d returned to the castle, Beranger had watched from the hallway as the duke lavished gifts on Gavin, his heir.
“Your silence is worrying me,” Uncle Harry said. “You must have some good feelings now that you’re home in England. Please tell me that.”
“I’m just recalling my first visit to London. I’d been surprised Father asked me to come along, but I later learned the duchess had a special gathering planned for Gavin and didn’t want me around. She said she could feel my gaze even when I wasn’t in the room. The duke hadn’t wanted my company—just the opposite,” Beranger said gruffly, palming the doorknob.
Lord Harry grasped his arm. “Not a good memory.”
Beranger shook his head. “They rarely are, concerning my family.”
“That’s the past. Let that go, or resentment will eat you alive. Bitterness and hatred rarely care who they destroy. You’ve married a delightful girl, you’ve been named Duke of Brightshire, and the world has essentially been placed at your feet. Soon you’ll be a father, I’m sure. Don’t waste everything you’ve gained by staying stuck in the past with a father who was weak and a brother who didn’t deserve you. The people in Brightshire are delighted you’re home. Prove to them their memories of the resilient, clever, and courageous thirteen-year-old boy are correct. Show them you have come back a man, and you have all those qualities and more.”
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