An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  Charlotte hurried forward. “We don’t have to keep the pigeon in the shop, Aunt Ethel. He’s better off in the barn with the other animals. I’m sure the duchess intended that all along. I’ll care for him, and you won’t even know he’s there.”

  “I’ll know when you’re out there fussing ta see if ya have a message. I can just imagine it now.”

  “There’s plenty of room in the loft, by the window,” Charlotte went on quickly. “I think it’s perfect.” She looked at Tristen. “It’s male, then?”

  “That’s yet to be determined, but the duchess seems to think so. She’s named this white-and-gray one Romeo and the other, which is pure white, Juliet. We’ll just have to hope she’s right.”

  Verity clasped her hands in front of her chest, and her face colored a pretty pink. “How romantic,” she uttered on a deep breath. She glanced away when she saw him watching her.

  Mrs. Smith jabbed a finger at him, her face still etched with annoyance. “That’s mighty presuming of the duchess. Must be her American ways. Still, I don’t want—”

  “And she’s sent along five pounds for any inconvenience my being around during training might cause you,” he added. Anyone would be crazy to turn down money like that. The duchess was either very shrewd or very generous—or both. He dug the money out of his pocket and held out the offering.

  The frown fell off the woman’s face, and she snatched the money from his palm. “In that case, Mr. Llewellyn, you can go about your business in the barn. That is as close as Romeo is going to get to Smith’s Bakeshop, unless he’s in a pie. And I make no promises he won’t end up there if he becomes a pest. Do I make myself clear?”

  Tristen nodded, having won. “Absolutely.”

  “Or if Charlotte loses too much time out there doting on the thing. It’s bad enough she tends so lovingly to that old pony. Whenever I can’t find her, I know where to look.”

  With the decision made, a smile burst onto Charlotte’s lips. She hurried forward. “Come with me, Mr. Llewellyn. We’ll go out front and circle around so we won’t take him through the kitchen.” Charlotte passed by him out the front door. “I’ll show you where to build the coop. Thank you, Aunt Ethel,” she singsonged.

  Tristen turned on his heel and followed before anyone else contradicted her idea. This was the closest he’d been to Charlotte in two weeks. He’d been hoping for her return to Ashbury each time he visited the kitchen, but he’d been disappointed each time. He wondered if that pesky Mr. Winters was still sniffing around. Charlotte deserved better than that man. And Tristen would take it upon himself to see her innocence wasn’t jeopardized.

  She hurried along in front of him as if she feared her aunt might revoke permission at any moment. Across the alley from the back of the bakeshop, she opened the rickety door to the barn. Inside, the aromas of grass hay, grain, and feathers made him sneeze.

  “God bless you,” Charlotte said, a sweet smile on her lips.

  The pony he’d seen pulling the bread cart looked up from her manger with a mouthful of hay. Her flaxen tail swished away several flies. The building, which was more a shed than a barn, also held a good-size rabbit hutch, and he presumed they bred rabbits for the meat pies they sold. On the far side of the dirt floor was a chicken coop, with a portion wired off to keep the poultry in.

  He gestured with a nod. “They’re fenced in on the outside as well?”

  “Oh, yes.” She pointed to a hen-size hatch door that was now closed. “That goes to a small yard behind. But they’re fenced and protected from foxes and dogs and hungry nomads of all sorts.”

  He’d never given much thought to a business like this before, but running a bakeshop wouldn’t be easy with all the butchering and cleaning one would have to do. He wondered if Charlotte actually did that herself or if the chore fell to her brother. He couldn’t imagine the delicate and shy Verity wringing any necks or chopping off bunny heads. Nor could he see Charlotte or Amelia completing the task either. But Aunt Ethel filled the bill perfectly.

  Her apologetic smile twisted his stomach.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “We have to survive somehow, and this bakeshop has belonged in the Smith family for many, many years before me. Still, butchering is difficult to think about. Especially when the new babies come along and, after a while, become so friendly, as if me or my cousins are just another one of them, a bunny or chicken, only larger and strange-looking. They trust us . . .”

  She turned away.

  Without thinking, he set a comforting hand on her shoulder, and a bolt of awareness whizzed up his arm. Instantly, he drew back. He had a past, one that was not respectable for a woman like Charlotte. An ex-convict had no place feeling anything for a woman like her.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said softly, looking at the rabbit hutch to keep from staring into her eyes. The chopping block he’d missed before came into view. “You give them a good life while they’re alive. That’s better than some get.”

  Several bunnies poked their twitching noses through the wire mesh. He’d been behind bars, just like them. Paid the price for his temper. But that hadn’t brought back the life he’d so abruptly ended. Though the man’s death had been an accident, Tristen had been stewing for a fight. He’d started the argument, and he’d landed the punch that had sent his opponent—someone he didn’t even know—into an iron fence. If he hadn’t run off, perhaps the judge would have been more sympathetic.

  No, he’d gotten a just punishment. Now he had to get on with his life. But watching Charlotte now, he knew it would never be the life he longed for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Embarrassed, Charlotte took the ladder rungs one hand over the other. The loft wasn’t large, but the roof was tall enough to store hay, which meant she could easily stand, but Mr. Llewellyn would need to hunch over, just a little, like Thomas had to do when he came up here. She liked the loft. As a girl, she’d often escaped her aunt’s complaints by sneaking away when the work was done and climbing up into the warmth—or cold, depending on the season. The privacy was golden. She loved the sound of the rain on the roof so close to her head. She could imagine a limitless world from up here. And now, she’d have her very own carrier pigeon, to write notes with the American duchess. She blinked away her surprise and delight.

  She made her way to the loft door and pushed it open, showcasing the lovely view of Brightshire. Winding Creek was only thirty or so feet away, and the cobbler and dress shop next door were even closer. With her emotions finally corralled, she turned back to face Tristen.

  He’d followed, with the pigeon cooing uneasily in its new surroundings.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, talking about the animals.” He was searching her eyes. “People need to eat, there’s no exception to that. And make a living.”

  “How is the duchess?” she asked, to move away from the hurtful subject. “I haven’t seen her or anyone else from Ashbury for two weeks.” Her face turned pink. “Well, Mr. Winters did stop by for some tarts. But only for a moment.”

  “I’m not surprised.” With a set mouth, Tristen placed the carrier onto a mound of grass hay and gazed out the window at the scenery.

  She flushed. Had she said something to anger him? His manner had gone from friendly to annoyed. “This is where I thought the coop would work, here out of the way.” They should hurry or Aunt Ethel would come out.

  As she pointed, an Adonis butterfly flittered into the open loft window and landed on the pigeon cage, its large wings beating slowly. She gasped. “Look!”

  “That’s a male,” Tristen said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Females are chocolate brown. The male uses the vibrant color to attract a mate.”

  Her cheeks heated. She liked that he knew so much about animals. “I can see how a female would be attracted,” she whispered, not wanting to frighten their visitor away. She chanced a quick glance at Tristen, thinking he needed no blue coloring to help him. Not with his ex
pressive eyes, strong jaw, and chiseled lips. “Isn’t that the most exquisite color you’ve ever seen? Every time one of these beauties crosses my path”—she moved a bit closer—“I imagine a gorgeous silk dress covered in glittery stones. Then the music begins and I . . .”

  Embarrassed, she snapped her mouth closed. How silly he must think her. A country baker, dreaming of Adonis-blue gowns and dancing in a ballroom. Conscious of his eyes on her, she watched as the butterfly took to the air and glided out the window without so much as a by-your-leave. Thank goodness, she thought. She’d been silly enough since Tristen’s arrival. First the talk of butchering and now dancing in a ballroom. She reached for a safe topic he’d know something about.

  “And your aunt and uncle, how are they?”

  “Well enough. My uncle’s been a bit out of sorts with the topic of the young duke’s death being resurrected. Seems the new duke has spoken to the constable, for whatever reason, and the constable came out to see if my uncle remembered anything out of the ordinary that day. The duke and the duchess heard disturbing talk in Goldenbrook that the duke’s brother may have been murdered. The duke wants the questions investigated and answered.”

  Charlotte tried to keep her apprehension off her face. “Murdered? Why would they think that?”

  Tristen shrugged. “The position of the wound on his neck would be difficult for him to do in a fall.”

  She thought of that day. Tristen’s uncle limping away. Could he have actually killed the duke and been hurt in the process? The thought was too horrible to imagine. And what about Thomas being there as well?

  His gaze roamed her face. “Something on your mind, Charlotte? You look alarmed.”

  She swallowed. She hadn’t meant to draw attention to her dark thoughts. “I was just thinking that you and your uncle seem very close. It’s nice you were able to join him here in Brightshire in his time of need.”

  Tristen’s face softened. “We are. Very close. It’s more he was nice to ask me. I needed a new direction, and he and my aunt supplied that. I admire him greatly. And owe him a lot. I’d do anything he asked of me. I hate to see his body and legs weaken.”

  Do you know him, really, Tristen? Is he capable of murder? I just don’t know. “I see.”

  Romeo cooed softly, the sound pleasant.

  “So will this work?” she asked. “You’re not planning to leave him here in that small cage today, are you? He can’t even stretch his wings.”

  Tristen shook his head and then began feeling around the side of the structure next to the loft door. “Not at all. I’ll build something right here, not too large, but he’ll be able to easily land and then enter his cage. If things go as planned, Juliet and he will be trained to fly back and forth between your bakeshop and the castle. The distance is nothing for them, and they can make it in a matter of minutes. Almost as good as those telephones that are being installed in some of the wealthier places.”

  “A telephone! Now that would be magic. I’ve never seen one. I think I’d be frightened to speak into a wire.”

  He plucked a piece of grass hay from his shoulder and glanced over at her. The light from the window hit his eyes. More beautiful than the Adonis butterfly.

  He put his attention back to his work. But why was her heart beating faster than usual?

  “I’m to charge the lumber I buy to Ashbury,” he said, “but it won’t be much. I’ll do that as soon as I take a few measurements and then be back sometime tomorrow to begin work. I’ll stay out of your aunt’s way. I can tell she doesn’t like me.”

  “No, that’s not true. She likes you fine, Tristen. She just doesn’t like things revolving around me. If the pigeon had been sent here for Amelia, she’d be more than happy, even without the payment. But I don’t care.” She hadn’t meant to complain. But she didn’t want him thinking her aunt’s behavior had anything to do with him personally.

  Something flickered in his eyes. “I best get to it.”

  “Yes, and I need to go back to the bakeshop too, before she comes out to see what I’m doing. I have several batches of scones to make, as well as some ginger and brandy snaps.” She looked down at the cage, and her heart warmed. “But first, I’ll fetch a saucer of water for Romeo to hold him until you take him home. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to him before he has a chance to fly.”

  Tristen’s words about his uncle echoed through her head, worry underscoring her pleasure. The duke had inquired with the constable about his brother’s death—but that didn’t mean any new suspicion would fall on Thomas. She was the only one who could put him in the forest that day, and she’d never do that. Taking one day at a time was critical.

  She glanced up to find Tristen watching closely. What was he thinking? She had no idea, but his moods seemed to change with the wind. She found herself wanting to do things that would bring those rare smiles to his face. Then something in his eyes transformed once more, sending heat to her toes, and she took that opportunity to hurry down the ladder, the warm goodness making her feet fly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Emma whirled around the bedroom, panic pushing up her throat like sour bile. Since returning from the stable after their talk with Mr. Llewellyn, she and Beranger had been passing a quiet afternoon in the sitting room connected to their suite. After the frightening way he’d lost his balance in the stable, she hadn’t had the heart to saddle him with the happenings with the dowager and Hyacinth. Besides, she wanted to handle the matter on her own. She’d told him the minimum, that she had a new lady’s maid named Carmichael. But then she went directly to find Mrs. Darling, who had blanched when she’d told her to find Hyacinth at all costs. Emma supposed she was probably the first person ever to stand up to the dowager.

  A frightening thought had occurred to her: Had Beranger’s stepmother somehow taken her revenge for their earlier conversation? Was his illness some sort of curse?

  She was being silly, of course. And Beranger already seemed to be feeling much better. But when she returned to their suite, she discovered—

  “Beranger!”

  He glanced up from the open ledger in front of him and pushed up from the desk, his mouth pinching into a hard line. Without saying a word, he rose and strode to her side. “What is it, Emma? What’s wrong?”

  He reached for her trembling shoulders, but she pulled back, barely able to voice the words rolling around in the empty cavern that had been her heart. Hot prickles broke out over her body, and she raced through her mind, trying to put the last twenty-four hours in order.

  “My letter from Father! It’s gone!” She rushed to the highboy where she’d placed the letter the very first day of their arrival. The private words from the man she’d only known for the first few years of her life were more important to her than anything, including this entire estate. His dying words were more precious than anything she owned, with only Beranger’s love taking precedence.

  “I saw the letter this morning,” he said, almost angrily, as if trying to convince himself she was wrong. That somehow the letter hadn’t disappeared. “Right there!” He pointed to the spot, conspicuously empty. “I’ve been waiting for weeks for you to read it.” He ran his hand over the delicately carved wood furniture. Grasping the side of the highboy, he hefted it away from the wall and looked behind. Finding nothing, he settled it back against the wall and opened the top drawer, sifting through the array of monogrammed handkerchiefs and gloves with his large hands, searching, hunting, hoping.

  She grasped his arm. “It’s not there! It’s not anywhere! I searched all the drawers before I called to you. I looked carefully through each, making sure,” she said as he closed the top drawer and began to search the second. “And how would it get in a drawer, anyway, if I didn’t put it there? I’m not feeble. I would have remembered something that important.”

  As if not hearing a word she’d said, Beranger dropped to the ground to place his cheek to the cold stone floor to peer underneath. A moment later he reached forward and ra
n his hand this way and that under the dresser.

  “Someone’s stolen it! There can be no other explanation,” Emma said heatedly, controlling the wobble that was threatening her voice. And I know who! “I’ve searched every corner of this room, keeping my panic at bay, wondering the whole time why anyone would touch a personal letter—let alone move it.” She gazed into his worried eyes. “But that’s the point. They didn’t move it while cleaning. My letter isn’t here. Someone has taken it on purpose. But why? There’s no value except to me.”

  Beranger strode to the decorative fabric pull that would sound a bell in the servants’ hall and yanked down so forcefully Emma was surprised the thing didn’t come out of the ceiling. “We’ll get to the bottom of what’s happened this instant.”

  Despair and self-incrimination pushed painfully inside. “Why didn’t I read Father’s letter when I had the chance?” Emma collapsed on the side of their large bed, burying her face in the pillow. “On my birthday, when I was supposed to. Like Father asked, and all my sisters have done. Those were Father’s wishes, and I disobeyed,” she whispered against the pillow, struggling to hold her tears at bay.

  The bed sagged. Beranger took her shoulders and began to draw her near when there was a swift knock on the door. He stood and Emma followed, wiping her eyes.

  Carmichael came through the door and gave a small curtsy. “Your Grace, is there something you need?”

  Beranger practically pounced as he strode angrily forward. “Yes, there is,” he thundered. “A personal letter is missing. It’s been on the dresser for days—since we arrived. What have you done with it?”

  Carmichael blinked several times and then gazed at the dresser, doing a good impression of being surprised.

  “You’re mistaken, Your Grace. I saw the letter,” she said, “and it was on the dresser when I left these rooms.” Her voice was steady and clear, her chin lifted defensively. “Do you think I’d like to lose this fine job on the very first day? I can assure you, I would not. But if you trust me so little, maybe I should go now.”