by Jen YatesNZ
‘This is a long way from Wolverton Castle. Your name?’
‘Mossop, Your Grace.’
‘How do you come to be up here—ahead of me—when I’d swear you were one of the footmen waiting table at the Castle on Tuesday evening?’
The man shuffled his feet, mangled the cap in his twisting fingers, and said nothing.
‘Who sent you? Presumably someone paid you well to leave a secure post at Wolverton and ride up here with the speed you have. Someone who was at Wolverton!’
‘I—I—can’t really say,—Your Grace!’
Desperation colored the man’s voice.
Who’d been at Wolverton, who—Aunt Gussy! She’d reacted strongly when he’d first asked about Sylvaine Walsingham. And Burton had said Lally Perkins worked at Parmenter House for six months before coming north to Hopton Grange. Aunt Gussy knew and wanted what she knew kept secret.
‘Lady Parmenter!’ he barked at Mossop whose whole body sagged with the hopelessness of any denial he might make.
‘Of course it were!’ snapped Lally Albertson, now standing in the doorway of the house. A proper white lace cap now covered her grey curls and her tall spare frame literally bristled with indignation. ‘Yer might as well come inside, Yer Grace, instead of givin’ them in the village fodder for weeks of gossip—at my expense!’
Clearly, Lally Albertson was not cowed by his title! He looked back at Mossop.
‘You might as well ride back to Lady Parmenter and tell her you failed.’
‘She won’t pay me if’n I don’t bring ’er back wi’ me,’ he muttered sulkily, nodding his head in Mrs. Albertson’s direction. ‘She said she’d see me mum settled in her own cottage in Dover. It’s all me mum ever wanted. She ain’t gonna do that if I don’t do what she were payin’ me for. And now I don’t even have a job to go back to!’
‘What exactly did Lady Parmenter promise to pay you?’
‘The cottage and a small annuity for me mum—she’s got a bad heart—and ten pounds and a reference so I could get another job.’
Aunt Gussy was desperate to keep that secret!
Dom pushed Mossop into the house ahead of him. The front door of the cottage opened straight into a small, painfully tidy parlor, in which were three upright chairs, a small tea table, a battered davenport and an overflowing sewing box.
Mrs. Albertson indicated one of the chairs and said, ‘Please take a seat, yer Grace.’
Dom remained where he was just inside the door. Mossop stood before him, eyes darting about the room like a rat trapped in a corner.
‘Stand and take yer medicine like a man, Mr. Mossop,’ Lally Albertson advised. ‘Yer did yer best. ’Er ladyship is a reasonable woman and she’ll see yer right.—’E were only doin’ what ’e were paid to do, Yer Grace.’
‘Indeed,’ Dom muttered, looking from one to the other of them, then settling his gaze on the now hopeful-looking Mossop, who really was little more than a lad; quite a likely looking lad, at that. That he apparently had a care for his mother, was also a recommendation. ‘You can attend me on the ride back to London. Then we’ll see what’s to do with you.’
No sense in letting him off the hook too soon by telling him he’d be returning to his post at Wolverton, albeit on probation.
‘Now, Mrs. Albertson, tell me what you know about the whereabouts of Sylvaine Walsingham.’
‘I cannot tell you anythin’, Yer Grace,’ Lally Albertson said. ‘When I takes an oath I’ll not gainsay it, even at the risk o’ my life. If yer wants to know aught about that baby, yer needs to talk to Lady Parmenter. T’is only her as has the right to speak of it.—And now I’ll thank ye both to leave me be so I can get settled back down. Quite flustered me, ’e ’as!’ she finished, pointing an accusing finger at Mossop.
…
Thinking she might as well use her time alone before Dom returned from the north to become familiar with the running of a Duke’s establishment, Sheri had settled into the exquisitely feminine parlor over-looking a small sunny courtyard at the back of Wolverton House. Mrs. Holt brought the household account books along with the tea trolley and was seated across from her mistress, her tall, black-clad frame and decidedly equine countenance softening a little with each question Sheri asked and each sip of tea from the pot they shared.
‘Not much different to an earl’s household, just grander! I think we shall deal very well with each other, Mrs. Holt. I certainly value your experience,’ Sheri had just said with a smile, when Grigg knocked and entered to say Her Grace had a visitor.
‘T’is your mother, I believe, Your Grace. Lady Parmenter.’
Mama! At this hour?
‘Lord Hadleigh is with her also.’
‘It’s not yet eleven o’clock!’ What on earth could be wrong? ‘Mrs. Holt, we’ll have to pursue this later. Grigg, please show Lord Hadleigh and Lady Parmenter into the morning room and have the tea trolley sent in. I’ll be along directly.’
Once she was alone, Sheri sat for a moment, trying to discern what she was feeling. Mama and Lord Hadleigh together, at this unfashionable hour of the morning? Had they just been waiting for her to be settled so they could be together? She wished Dom was here to share the moment. With a warm smile she hurried through the halls to the morning room.
‘Mama! Lord Hadleigh!’ she cried, immediately crossing the room to embrace her mother. ‘You’re my first callers!’
Even as she reached out Sheri knew something was terribly wrong. Augusta was anything but her usual elegantly presented self. She wore an ordinary morning gown—as if she’d dressed without the aid of her maid and it was the first thing to hand—or the easiest for Lord Hadleigh to help her into.
Where had that thought come from?
Gripping her mother’s hands she tried to read the troubled blue eyes staring back at her. Make that troubled and tear-filled.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
Something awful must’ve happened to someone who mattered to Sheri herself, for her mother to be looking that tragic. And since Mama was here before her, safe, whole—
‘Dom?’ she whispered, unbelievable pain already slicing through her heart. They’d only just found each other—dear God, no!
Suddenly Mama was gripping her hands—she hadn’t even pulled on a pair of gloves before leaving the house!
‘No, Sher! Dom is fine. It’s—no one! Everyone is safe and well—oh—Govatt!’
The swimming blue eyes were turned on Lord Hadleigh, who rose to place a hand on Augusta’s shoulder. They were on first name basis? If they were going to tell her they were marrying, that was happy news—surely?
Sheri stared from one to the other, then at Lord Hadleigh’s insistence, subsided into a chair, as her mother took the one beside her. Augusta still held Sheri’s hand with a surprisingly strong grip while her other was firmly sandwiched between Govatt Hadleigh’s large masculine palms, also minus gloves. So many little pointers that these two had been deeply distracted from the normal niceties of society visiting.
‘Firstly, Your Grace, we’d like to ask your blessing on our marriage. Your mother has finally agreed to become my wife,’ Lord Hadleigh said formally.
Her gaze still dancing from one to the other, trying to read what was really going on, Sheri allowed her happiness for them to show in her smile.
‘Most certainly you have my blessing! Not that you ever needed it! Never tell me, Mama, you were waiting to get me settled first?’ she cried, then shifted her gaze to Lord Hadleigh. ‘And in light of that revelation I think it definitely time you began using my given name.’
She darted forward to hug her mother and plant a kiss on her flushed cheek, and then she rose to press another to Hadleigh’s grizzled one.
His eyes suspiciously bright, he said, ‘Thank you, Sheri—and I hope you’ll feel able to call me Govatt.’
Noting that imparting their happy news had made no difference to the pain in her mother’s eyes or the worry in Hadleigh’s, she sank slowly back into
her chair.
‘So—why,’ she began slowly, ‘do you both look as if you’ve come to impart news of a tragic death?’
Augusta’s mouth trembled alarmingly and suddenly she was clinging to Lord Hadleigh’s hand with both of hers.
‘You have to do this bit, Gussy,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s your story, and I think you might allow that your daughter is an intelligent, loving—and forgiving young woman. She’ll understand—eventually. We’ve already agreed she’ll be entitled to some sort of emotional reaction. It’s inevitable. Just as it’s inevitable this story will be told—if not by you, then by Wolverton when he finally returns.’
‘What—are you talking about?’ Sheri whispered, wishing quite desperately Dom was already here, standing beside her, sharing his strength with her as Hadleigh was with her mother.
Augusta squeezed her eyes tight as if she was in pain, sucked in a deep breath, and muttered, ‘You—are Sylvaine Walsingham.’
Sheri stared from one to the other of them. Her mind had gone a complete and utter blank. Mama’s words made no sense.
‘What—do you—mean?’
‘You were not born Sherida Dearing. You were born Sylvaine Ann-Marie Walsingham. It’s you Dominic is tracking down—for my brother!’
Sheri blinked, and slowly the unbelievable meaning of the words her mother spoke filtered into her shocked mind.
‘You—I—you’re not my—mother, then?’
‘Not your biological mother, no.—But, Sher! I couldn’t love you more if you were! You were everything to Robert and I. We weren’t blessed with children of our own for some reason and when Maynard wrote and begged us to come, it was like a gift from heaven!—Sher, please say something!’
Say something? What? Her whole life had been a lie. She’d always thought it strange she bore no resemblance whatsoever to either of her parents and they’d always told her she took after her grandmother, Lady Rosaleen, late Countess of Astonbury for whom she’d been named—Sherida Rosaleen Dearing.
Mutely she stared back at the woman who for twenty-four years she’d thought was her mother, but who now turned out to be what? A distant relation? Her frozen mind wouldn’t draw the connections on the family tree for her.
The ice that had been her friendly façade for years had infiltrated her entire body.
‘I—I don’t know what to say—M-Mama.’
What did she call her, if not Mama? Which she wasn’t! Sheri bit hard on her lip, not sure whether she was trying to bite back words too hurtful to be spoken or to make her body react to the pain. Because at this moment, it was certain she might never react to anything, ever again. Might never thaw from this statue, frozen on the chair.
‘Oh dear God! I knew it would be like this!’ Augusta cried, tears spurting from her eyes and tumbling down her cheeks. She stretched one trembling hand towards Sheri. ‘Please, Sher, talk to me.’
‘I—I can’t,’ Sheri whispered, and rising slowly to her feet, muttered, ‘Grigg will show you out.’
She was suffocating. She needed air, open spaces, simplicity. As if this marriage to Dom was not difficult enough, she now discovered she had never been Lady Sherida Dearing. Did that mean she wasn’t the Duchess of Wolverton? Was her marriage even legal?
Horror and a terrible pain in her gut propelled her up the stairs and through the elegant upper halls to the Duchess’s apartments she’d only just begun to settle into.
‘Maggie?’
Her voice came out a raspy whisper, and she stood in the middle of the boudoir with one hand on the back of a chair and the other pressed against her wildly beating heart.
Mama’s pleas as she’d left them downstairs, and Lord Hadleigh’s deeply soothing tones, were still echoing in her mind but they held no meaning.
‘Maggie!’
She managed a louder call, and her maid’s mop of bright red curls popped out of the dressing room where she’d been organizing Sheri’s wardrobe, which had been brought from Parmenter House after she’d left for her wedding.
‘Yes, Your Grace?’ she began, then assessing her mistress’s state in one glance, swiftly crossed the room and pushed Sheri down onto a chair.
‘Sher? What is it?’
Now she called her Sher? Was her shock so obvious Maggie was pushed to the more familiar form of address she so rarely agreed to use?
‘I’m not Sher.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Maggie demanded. ‘What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘I—’
Sheri almost choked on the bubble of rabid words tangling with the sobs already trying to erupt out of her throat.
‘My mother just called. No—not my mother—Lady Parmenter. And she said—she—told me—’
‘You’re not making sense, Sher,’ Maggie growled, gripping her shoulders. ‘Are you hysterical? Do I need to slap you? I only ask—cos it’s not like you to fall into a fit of the megrims over—anything! What is it?’ She gave Sheri’s shoulders a small shake. ‘Has someone died, or something?’
The laughter won over the sobs; ugly, crying kind of laughter. For it was funny in a macabre kind of way; or so it seemed at this moment.
‘Yes. Me! I died! As of this moment, Sherida Dearing—Beresford—Duchess of Wolverton—whatever!—no longer exists! I am, it appears, Sylvaine Walsingham—or am I? I did marry Wolverton, didn’t I? Or does using a false identity nullify it? Dear God, Maggie? Who am I?’
Maggie, now crouched before Sheri, had gone quite still—all but her eyes that were blinking, over and over, as if by so doing she could see more clearly what Sheri was telling her.
‘You’re not making sense, Sher.’
‘You know Dominic—my husband—has been commissioned to find Lord Astonbury’s missing grand-daughter? It seems he’s gone on a wild goose chase, right up into the wilds of Derbyshire—looking for me. Mama—Lady Parmenter—has just confessed she isn’t my Mama at all, and Papa—was not my Papa! I’m the daughter of Maynard Walsingham who ran off to America with the Duke of Halcombe’s youngest daughter after the Duke died in a duel! That scandal has been whispered about the ton for years. I’m the product of the greatest scandal of the century!’
Maggie’s large frame suddenly engulfed her.
‘If that be true, you’ve had a terrible shock, Your Grace. How about a tisane—or a tincture of laudanum and I tuck you back into your bed for the day? After a good sleep things will look different and you’ll be better able to face this and understand what it means.’
‘Oh, Maggie! You know me better than that,’ Sheri rasped. ‘Just get me out of here. I need to be at Springwoods.—I wonder if Grandmother Parmenter knew who I was—or whether they duped her too? Would she have left Springwoods to me if she’d known?’
‘T’is useless speculating, Your Grace,’ Maggie said soberly. ‘You truly want to be at Springwoods?’
‘I do,’ Sheri answered steadily.
Maggie nodded.
‘T’is likely best,’ she agreed, and rang for a footman to order the carriage.
…
The closer he got to London the more impatient he was to return to Sheri. It was laughable. He’d considered himself master of his heart, master of control, master of seduction, Master of Virgins. His heart had been inviolate—ever since he’d thought it broken by a grasping, society-climbing Lady Veronica Castleton. He’d been an eighteen year old with a boy’s perception of love—something that began and ended in his gonads. It had taken another eighteen years, and his obsession with Jassie, to learn love had little or nothing to do with the lust inspired by a beautiful woman.
In the few short weeks since he’d begun courting Sherida Dearing, her presence in his life had become as necessary, if not more so, as her presence in his bed. Dammit, he’d only had the chance to make love to her a handful of times. A curse on Hadleigh and all Walsinghams for taking him away at this time.
It was evening when they reached the White Hart Inn on the Edgeware Road, but it p
romised to be a clear moonlit night. Telling Mossop to rest up and continue his journey to Wolverton on the morrow, he wrote him a note of reinstatement to give to Broughton, and rode for London, leaving a suitably grateful and contrite Mossop behind.
All he’d been able to think of for miles was Sheri, at Wolverton House in Bruton Street. His wife, the passionate woman he’d found beneath the frozen, regal poise of the Ice Queen.
It was gone midnight when he finally roused a grumbling Grigg to let him in.
‘Your Grace!’ the butler stuttered, as Dom pushed past him into the house.
‘Don’t just stand, there. Lock up!’ Dom advised the gaping butler as he ripped off his hat, coat and gloves and tossed them into the man’s flapping arms.
Then he was bounding up the stairs with more enthusiasm than he’d have shown even at eighteen. Sheri awaited him.
‘But, Your Grace—!’
Grigg’s harried call followed him up the stairs. He didn’t stop to listen. Whatever Grigg needed to report could wait until morning—until after he’d made love to his wife—as many times as they were able before dawn.
When she’d want to hide herself from him.
Well, he was no longer going to allow that. It was time she trusted him with all her beauty—and time he trusted her with his heart.
Entering his own rooms, he was removing his clothes as he crossed to the dressing room. Wearing only a silk robe, he pushed open the connecting door to the Duchess’s apartments, candle held aloft—and knew immediately they were empty.
Any desire to laugh at himself for falling in love vanished as he stared at the undisturbed bed and then at the cleared top of the dressing table that surely should be littered with feminine fripperies and paraphernalia and—at least that brush he’d been imagining pulling through her gleaming silver-gilt hair.
Whirling about, he hurried back down the stairs calling for Grigg. The butler still stood in the middle of the hall like a coat tree, draped with Dom’s discarded outer wear.