The valet looked out the window. “We should probably depart the ship as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m ready. I finished the letter to Hanes. I told him I’ll search for the will once I return home. Apparently, he thought I had it in my possession while I was away.”
Morgan’s lips thinned. “I haven’t seen it. Why does he think that?”
“Meri apparently wrote in his personal papers that he’d given the original to me before I left for the war.” He exhaled abruptly. “Perhaps he did, but frankly, I have no recollection of such an exchange.”
“Shall I deliver your letter to Mr. Hanes when we arrive?”
Christian shook his head. “Wheatley will have several footmen in attendance. They’ll unload our possessions. I think it best if I have one of them deliver it as soon as possible.” Christian smiled briefly. “What are you looking forward to now that we’re home? What did you miss the most?”
His batman’s cheeks flushed. “Many things. A hot meal, a dry, warm bed, a perfect cup of tea first thing in the morning. And of course, the smile of a pretty girl.”
“Those are all things that will be welcome, I agree.” What would it be like to have a special someone waiting for him with a pretty smile? He exhaled silently. All in due time. He glanced down at the desk, hoping the longing he felt wouldn’t be visible. “I’m looking forward to tending my roses once again.”
The look of surprise on the man’s face wasn’t unusual. Christian had received many a wide-eyed stare when he shared that part of his life with others.
“I didn’t know you were interested in flowers, Captain.”
“Only roses. I have been since I was a child. I’m anxious to see how they’ve managed in my absence. Before I left for the war, I was trying to create the perfect orange blossom by grafting various colors together.”
“Unusual hue, sir.”
“Indeed. Every attempt failed. The bloom turns more yellow than red, I’m afraid.”
Morgan held out Christian’s coat, the green wool and black velvet collar and cuffs, the dress coat of his regiment.
“I’m wearing my formal colors today? Is it a special occasion?”
“Yes, Captain.” Morgan smoothed the heavy wool and straightened Christian’s sleeves. “When you step off that ship, I want everyone to see who you are. A war hero.”
Christian chuckled softly. “Nothing as grand as that. I’m simply a man returning home.”
Morgan grunted as he brushed a few pieces of lint from Christian’s coat. He examined his handiwork and nodded once in approval. “I respectfully disagree, Captain. You’re a duke, but in my eyes, you’ll always be the man that saved all those men, including Lord Sykeston.”
“But you’ll be the man who saved me from a French bayonet aimed directly at the middle of my chest,” Christian pointed out. “I’d say we were both just doing our jobs.”
One of Morgan’s rare smiles tugged at his lips. “Thank you, sir. That’s a compliment I’ll hold dear. We did our jobs extremely well if I do say so myself.”
Before Christian could answer, another soldier was at the door announcing that it was time to depart.
For some unknown reason, it felt like they were preparing to face a firing squad. When they’d sailed home, Christian had studied the shoreline for as long as the eye could see. What did it say about him, a man who would prefer to stay in a foreign land and continue to fight instead of facing the fact that his only sibling, a half brother, had passed while he was away?
The unease that inched its way up his neck was unfortunately too familiar. Whenever he was involved with Meri’s affairs, ordinary things turned into extraordinary chaos. He feared even death wouldn’t keep Meri from creating havoc in some way, shape, or form.
“Captain?” Morgan held out a black, velvet band.
As his valet tied the cloth around Christian’s arm to signal the loss of Meri in his life, a sense of emptiness seemed to rattle around in the middle of his chest.
It wasn’t sadness as much as irritation.
He would have to once again deal with Meriwether’s disgraceful behavior. Perhaps he would have Mr. Hanes manage Meri’s affairs. Then Christian could put all this proper mourning business aside and concentrate on something more pleasant, such as his roses.
It was much easier and safer to feel nothing but frustration and impatience when dealing with his younger brother’s matters.
Half brother, he reminded himself.
Several minutes later, Christian stepped onto the gangplank, then stopped. “For the love of . . .”
“Captain, I’ve never seen such a sight. Or such color.” Morgan stopped directly behind Christian. The utter shock in his voice was akin to exactly what Christian was feeling.
A riot of color below them moved in mass like a packed field of wild flowers caught in a breeze. The gathering pressed to the edge of the dock. An orchestra played in the distance. Its lyrical movements lost in the cacophony of noise below.
“Duke,” someone shouted.
“Your Grace,” another yelled.
“It’s like a battalion. Instead of the soldiers armed with rifles, it’s handkerchiefs,” Morgan said in awe.
They continued down the plank toward the crowd. For an instant, Christian wondered if he should reboard the ship. The closer he walked toward the people on the dock, the more discomfort he felt. The majority who waited to greet him were women.
The vast majority.
Whistles increased in volume. Desperate for his attention, women called out his name.
But at the end of the plank was a familiar face, his butler. As if he’d imbibed in a bottle of champagne, Christian felt bubbles of joy escape, much to his surprise.
“Wheatley,” he called out.
His elderly butler lips spread into a wide grin. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
As soon as Christian reached the man, the crowd seemed to push closer to the edge of the dock and surround them. Immediately, the footmen dressed in the Randford livery politely eased the crowd away from the departing passengers.
He took the butler’s hand. “I’m honored you’re here.”
“It’s I, sir, who is honored.” The elderly man bowed. “My prayers have been answered. You’re home.”
Christian smiled at the affection in Wheatley’s voice. “I’d like you to meet Jacob Morgan, my batman.”
As the two men exchanged greetings, one of Christian’s footman approached. “Welcome, Your Grace.”
He nodded. “Edward, it’s good to see you.” He turned to Morgan. “Edward Soffit, this is my new valet, Jacob Morgan.”
The two men shook hands.
“I look forward to working with you, Mr. Morgan. If you’ll tell me where His Grace’s items are, Franklin and I will retrieve them.”
Morgan gave directions. Immediately, the footman gathered the other man, then set about his task.
“He’s well-mannered and efficient,” Morgan said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he has a military background.”
“He does. Edward served with me before you came to work for me. When he returned to England, Wheatley hired him as one of my footmen.”
Wheatley nodded his approval. “His Grace insists that any new staff must have served in the military.”
“Your Grace,” a woman with black hair called out as she pushed herself past a footman and reached Christian’s side. She sank into a deep curtsey as her knees creaked in protest. “Your Grace,” she said again somewhat breathlessly. “A token of my esteem.” She laid the green silk handkerchief she’d been waving over her head on top of the covered basket.
Christian bowed briefly in response. “Ma’am.”
She fluttered her eyelashes provocatively. “My famous buns.” She handed the basket to Christian.
“Thank you.” What else could he say? He had no idea who she was or why her buns were so famous.
The woman moved a little closer to Christian, and in answer, Morgan move
d to stand between them.
Old habits were hard to let go. Jacob Morgan had done that same maneuver time and time again when he thought Christian was in danger on the battlefield. Though a woman with a basket of buns was hardly in the same category as a bullet whizzing by.
“It’s fine, Jacob.” He stayed him with his hand, then turned his attention back to the woman. “I’m curious. Tell me why your buns are so famous?”
“They’re always hot.” She wrinkled her nose, then winked at him. “As in . . . they’re always hot for you, Your Grace.”
Wheatley overheard the woman’s comments, and a deep red glow colored his cheeks. Without missing a beat, he said, “Off with you now. His Grace has official business.”
Christian took another gander at the crowd and waved in acknowledgment. If they’d come all this way to see him, then the least he could do was offer a greeting of some sort.
By then, another woman arrived by his side and curtsied. “Your Grace.”
When she rose, he recognized her. It was Lady Dyston, a widow in her late thirties who’d lost her elderly husband right before Christian had left for war. Since his family was famous for their notorious behavior, she’d actually offered him a liaison once long ago. He’d declined, as it wasn’t in his nature to keep mistresses or dally in meaningless affairs. But such was the legacy his family had left him.
“My lady, a pleasure to see you again,” he said politely.
She took his hand and pressed a yellow handkerchief into it; the cloth covered something hard and long.
“What is this?” he asked.
She smiled seductively.
After three years without female company, Christian would have thought he’d be moved by the sight, but it did nothing.
“I’ve given you the key to my heart and my . . . bedroom.”
Wheatley snapped his fingers at one of the passing Randford footmen. “George, will you see Lady Dyston safely away?”
“But I’m not finished,” the lady protested.
“Yes, you are,” Wheatley said in his most formal butler voice.
Lady Dyston turned with a huff, and the footman walked two paces behind her.
Wheatley turned his attention to Morgan. “Before His Grace receives any additional ‘tokens of appreciation’”—he sniffed and tilted his nose in the air—“perhaps we should leave.”
“Good thinking,” Christian said. He kept his head down, ignoring the repeated calling of his name and the hundreds of handkerchiefs flying through the air. He caught a glimpse of his carriage about fifty yards in the distance. A relieved sigh escaped that he was finally away from the rambunctious crowd. A groomsman opened the carriage door as he drew near, but a woman stepped into his path.
He could tell from Morgan’s stance that he was about to shoo her away, but Christian stayed him with his hand. There was something different about this one. She held a handkerchief in one hand as she carried a baby in her arms. Another child, probably no more than four or five years old, held to her skirts as if terrified she’d lose her mother.
“Pardon me, Your Grace.” The woman curtsied briefly, but her bright brown eyes held his the entire time. Nervous excitement practically shimmered around her. She pulled her daughter closer. “My husband wrote and asked me to be here today. He was concerned no one would be here to greet you.” She looked at the crowd and a slight grin appeared briefly. “I’ll have to tell him that all of London came to welcome you home.” She swallowed as if gathering strength, then returned her gaze to his. “My husband is currently serving in a camp that was close to yours.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He always speaks so highly of you in his letters. He writes as often as he can. He said you fought beside him in a brutal battle several months ago.” A tear fell down her cheek.
The sight tore his heart in two. “His name?” he asked gently.
“Ralph Palmer,” she choked briefly on the words.
Immediately, the image of a big bruiser of a Welshman appeared. “I remember him. He’s a courageous man. One of the best I ever fought beside.”
She nodded and smiled. “He was so thankful that you were with him. He wanted me to tell you that. He said after the battle, he never saw you again.”
“I’m the one who’s thankful. He made me braver that day.”
The woman stared at him in disbelief. A tear meandered down her cheek, and she wiped it with her handkerchief. “That’s my Ralph. He makes me braver too.” She hugged her daughter again. “How was he?”
“He was well.” Christian held her gaze. “After everything had quieted for the day, he walked off the field beside me.” The look of utter relief on her face punched him in the gut. The heroic men who fought in the war weren’t the only ones who made sacrifices every day in service to their country.
“Thank you,” she said. “I was supposed to be honoring you, and you’re the one who’s honored me by offering comfort.”
“Mrs. Palmer, if there’s anything you need for yourself or your family, it would be my pleasure if you’ll let me know.” Christian took her small hand in his.
In response, Mrs. Palmer squeezed it. “We’re doing well. Thank you, sir. I just want him home.” She smiled briefly, then glanced at the baby in her arms, then her daughter by her side. “We miss him so.”
He had nothing in response to those heartfelt words. Hence, he simply nodded.
By then, tears streamed down her face. “Welcome home, Your Grace.” Without a goodbye or another word, she turned to leave.
As Christian watched Mrs. Palmer weave herself and her small family into the gathered crowd, he motioned for a footman.
“Yes, sir.” Edward nodded.
“Will you follow Mrs. Palmer and ask her where she lives? I’d like to send a letter telling her about my experience with her husband.” He pulled another letter from a pocket sewn inside his uniform. “Afterward, will you deliver this personally to Mr. Hanes? Not his clerks.”
The footman nodded, then disappeared into the crowd.
“That is a kind thing to do for her, Captain,” Morgan said softly. His valet’s eye shined with the sheen of tears. “I’m sure Mrs. Palmer would treasure any recollections you shared about her husband. He’s a lucky man to have such a loving wife.”
Christian nodded. “To think she made the effort with two children in tow to see me.” He shook his head in awe. “If those other two women hadn’t stopped me, I might have missed her.” He chuckled slightly. “Perhaps I should be glad there’s such a crowd.”
“Indeed, sir,” Wheatley said in agreement. “Everyone is ecstatic about a war hero duke.”
“Let’s not exaggerate, Wheatley, but that’s kind of you to say.”
A boy, all legs and arms, stood close to the horses and carriage with wide-eyed wonder. Christian plucked a guinea from his pocket and flicked it with his thumb in the boy’s direction. “Help me celebrate. Buy a gift for you mother.”
The boy caught it as it tumbled through the air. “Thank you, sir.”
Christian climbed into his carriage. “I think I’ll send a basket of food with my letter to Mrs. Palmer.”
“Food is always appreciated.” Wheatley followed Christian inside the coach. “No one should struggle because their loved ones are serving the country.”
“Or go hungry.” Morgan was the last one to enter the coach. “I’d hate to see that happen to Mr. Palmer’s family.”
“That will never occur under my watch.” Christian’s voice rumbled with conviction. Whether Mrs. Palmer knew it or not, she’d gained his friendship. He’d watch over the family until her husband returned.
A groomsman closed the door behind them, then the coach slowly started to move forward.
Christian glanced at the window. The massive crowd around the ship still waited for him. It unsettled him to think that they thought of him as a hero of some sort. He felt anything but a noble champion. All he wanted was to lead a normal life . . . whatever that entailed.
“Perhaps y
ou should send some clothing and shoes for the children,” Morgan added.
“Clothing and shoes?” he asked. “Good thinking. I would have never thought of sending such gifts.”
“I know,” Morgan said with a smile. “You’re not a valet.”
Wheatley waggled his eyebrows. “He’s a war hero duke.”
Chapter Three
“Wake up,” Kat said softly as she knelt beside the bed of Rodney Smith. He worked as her delivery boy. She had no idea the lad’s age, but she suspected he was about ten or so years old.
Had it only been a year ago that she’d found him hungry and begging in front of her business? As soon as she’d seen him huddled and shivering, she’d insisted he come inside her workshop. After a bath and meal, he’d decided that he might stay for a while. He thought of himself as an honest “man” and had declared that it was proper for him to repay Kat’s kindness by keeping watch over her business. Since then, he’d slept every night in a small room located in the back of her workshop.
He slowly opened his eyes and sat up in his small bed. “Good morning, m’lady. I must have slept late.”
Kat smiled and placed a basket of food next to him. Somehow she contained the urge to sweep his hair off his brow. Though he was still a child, Rodney wouldn’t take it kindly if Kat treated him as anything other than an adult. But the urge to take him home never left her. She wanted to pamper him.
“It’s still early. I’m here to work on my correspondence before anyone else arrives.” She glanced around his makeshift room at the back of the building she rented. The fireplace still had the wood that was laid there last evening. “Were you warm enough during the night?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“You are always welcome at my house. I promise Willa would feed you three times a day.”
He groaned as he stretched his arms over his head. “My lady, who would watch the shop if I didn’t stay here? It’s part of my work, and I enjoy the peace and solitude.” A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “No one has broken into the place since I’ve been ’ere, ’ave they?”
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