by Rue Allyn
Bruskingly and Richard rose as well. He shook Margris’s hand, saluted the general, then turned on his heel and departed.
The entire interview left his stomach churning. He would do as he promised, but he did not have to like it.
He’d arrange for his batman, Fitz, to be hired at Stonegreave Priory. The man was a survivor, and perhaps because of the sympathy his peg leg gained him, he was exceptionally good at ferreting out the truth. Then a few days later, Richard would visit the duchess, where he would do his best to create a negative impression, making it impossible for her to consider any connection with the Campions of Gadleigh. Getting her to dislike him shouldn’t be difficult; he’d make sure she knew how he felt about her affair with Malveux. She’d despise him even more when he delivered the long-delayed messages and false letter from her fallen fiancé. Once done, all that remained would be to watch her movements to reveal if she was or was not the spy Margris believed.
Chapter Two
March 29, 1814, Stonegreave Priory, near Peternine, Hertfordshire
Marielle stared out the window. Why must it rain? Dear Jennings had been dead for more than a year, her mother for eight, and her father . . . well, she’d not think about him now. She’d long ago lost the privilege of weeping over him. For her part in his death, she did not deserve the solace of tears. A spring downpour like this one had helped to hide the tears she allowed herself at her mother’s passing. A gentle shower had brought the notice announcing the death of Lieutenant, Sir Jennings Pugh.
La Comtesse Vivienne Trouvé entered the small drawing room and seated herself before the hearth. “Your secretary informs me you’ve hired another former soldier in the stables,” she said.
“This one has a peg leg,” Marielle acknowledged. “If I did not hire him, no one would. Then he would starve or become a charge upon the parish, and I would be supporting him anyway but without giving him the dignity of earning his keep. Too many men have served England and received little or no show of thanks.”
“Hmph.” Her aunt opened a letter and read. “I do not see why you feel it necessary to thank all of them yourself. Let the other duchies do their part.”
Marielle turned back to the window.
“The duchy already has an excess of employees, ma chère. You cannot continue to provide a living for every beggar who comes along,” la Comtesse Trouvé chided softly. “You will be perceived as easy pickings for every scoundrel. Do not forget that maid who attempted to steal the Stuart rubies. Your mother would have been shocked. The woman was despicable.”
Marielle suppressed a smile. Tante Vivienne certainly didn’t mean her sister, the previous Duchess of Stonegreave, but the guilty maid. When found out, the maid confessed she’d been desperate. She carried the babe of a footman from a neighboring estate, who’d wed another woman just two days earlier. No, Marielle would not forget. She’d not allow herself to forget that or the other myriad mistakes she’d made in the years since her father’s passing. She needed the reminders to keep her on the path to restoring the family reputation and honor.
“I will consider your thoughtful advice.”
Well intended as it was, the advice weighed on Marielle. A duchess, even one made so by her father’s service to a now mad king, bore too many responsibilities, and too many people wished to influence how she carried out those responsibilities. Jennings, her friend and fiancé, whose spirits were always high, would have understood as no one else ever had—even if he did not always encourage her to act on those plans. Jennings’s willingness to listen, as much as anything else, persuaded her to formally accept his marriage offer. Their match had been perfect, if not passion filled. As a duchess in her own right, she must marry and marry appropriately. But no woman wished to be wed for title and fortune alone. Jennings had wanted to wed her because he liked her. She knew him well enough to know he told the truth.
A gasp from Tante Vivienne drew Marielle’s attention.
“Your cousin René writes from Brighton. He takes ship today for France, there to seek out Napoleon and gain revenge if the Corsican does not approve a petition for the return of the Trouvé lands and title.”
“That is very foolish of him, but I doubt he’ll get anywhere near Bonaparte, so please do not worry. He’ll come home as soon as he realizes his mission is futile.” Marielle turned back to counting raindrops on the windowpane.
“I cannot imagine what my son is thinking. He’s so often railed against Napoleon, why would he seek favor from a man he believes is heartless and cruel?” she continued. In addition to giving unwanted advice, Tante Vivienne was always willing to share more than anyone should know or could wish to know of her private activities and the activities of others.
“Hmmm.”
“How does he expect to find the man? I hope he stays away from Paris. Rumor has it the Russians will engage Marmont’s troops in the next day or so.” Her aunt’s voice blended with the streaming noise of the storm.
“Of course René will avoid riding into a battle, and who knows? Rumor is often wrong.” Grief might keep Mari from caring much about what went on in the world, but some things one could not avoid learning.
“Still,” her aunt remarked. “For René to go anywhere near Napoleon is odd.”
Mari’s gaze narrowed. Forget her cousin’s exploits. A spot on the horizon was moving fast. Since the size of the spot grew as she watched, she deduced a rider approached Stonegreave Priory. No doubt a desire to get out of the downpour prompted the rider’s haste.
“René says there is talk of Napoleon’s army in the south of France. If Paris is in danger of attack, why would the Corsican Monster be so far from the battle? And why, oh why, must my precious René choose now to attempt to get back our lands and title? Would it not be better to wait until hostilities cease?”
The rider was close enough now to prove Mari’s deductions correct. The wind blew a dark cloak about his person, and a hat hid his face. All she could really see of him was the very fine bay horse he rode with undoubted skill. She blinked as he rounded the sharp curve that separated the priory drive from the common lane beyond the gates. In such weather, even the ducal groundskeepers could not prevent the drive to the house from becoming a muddy morass. No one rode at speed over deeply mudded ground unless their skill was as unparalleled as their confidence.
She lost sight of the rider as he slowed and disappeared beyond the wing of the house, headed, she suspected, for the porte cochère that had been her father’s attempt to balance the odd proportions of a medieval priory that expanded at every century with some new architectural fashion. The result was not harmonious, but she loved her home, and if others did not . . . She mentally shrugged and turned to take her seat beside her mother’s sister. Mari needed to calm her thoughts before she faced whatever stranger had braved the late March rains to visit the priory.
“Ma chère, est-ce que tu m’écoutes?”
“I beg your pardon, Tante Vivienne. I was not attending closely. Did you ask a question?” Mari carefully arranged her skirts.
“I did, Marielle, two of them.” Her aunt blinked. It was the closest Vivienne ever came to expressing frustration, and she never raised her voice. Both of the émigré sisters, famous for their beauty and grace, had believed that intense emotion disturbed the serene loveliness of one’s face and encouraged wrinkles.
“Please ask again.” Mari bowed her head and arranged her features with the same care she’d given her skirts before she lifted her gaze to meet her aunt’s once more.
“I asked why your cousin would choose to submit his petition to Napoleon now. I also asked why Napoleon would be in the south of France when Paris is threatened. And I inquired if it would not be better for René to wait for the end of the war.”
That was three questions, but Marielle chose to ignore the inconsistency. “It may be years before the war ends, and I cannot possibly speculate on the reasons for French troop movements. As to René’s motives, you must ask him.”
&nbs
p; As she spoke the door opened and Nevensham, the butler, ushered in the visitor.
“Captain, Sir Richard Campion, your grace.”
Marielle leapt to her feet, any attempt at decorum forgotten. “Richard. How wonderful to see you, and looking so well.” She rushed to hug the only living person who knew her as well as Jennings had. Her hands still grasped his arms as she stepped back and smiled up at him.
He stared at her. Stones showed more emotion.
“Y . . . your visit is such . . . an . . . unexpected treat,” she stammered to a halt. Surely, he would say something, anything to alleviate the sense of doom twisting her stomach.
He didn’t. Despite her happy memories of him, she must rescue herself and the moment.
She extended her hand and studied the tall, unfashionably tanned man who bowed over it. He gripped her fingers, and his lips hovered a whisper above her hand. The scent of damp wool muted the aroma of lemons and leather that she associated with him.
“Your grace.” Her skin shivered beneath his warm breath. Even this close to the fire, his voice held a chill.
He resumed his military stance, and some unknown emotion flashed in the blue-gray eyes glowering above thinned lips.
She suppressed the urge to blush. “Aunt, you remember Richard Campion. Captain, you will recall my aunt, la Comtesse Trouvé.”
He bowed to Vivienne. As he straightened, Mari saw him smile. Even in profile she recognized the difference between the stony expression he had presented to her and the warm encouragement he gave her aunt.
Have I offended him? He hadn’t been rude, but he’d certainly greeted her with a much greater chill—dare she say disdain—than she’d received from the ton after that debacle three years ago, when she’d deserved every cut direct and frown of censure. All she had done here was to greet him as the friend she believed him to be.
“Please have a seat.” She indicated a slipper chair that was much too small for his large frame. Other than the space next to her on the settee, it was the only remaining seat in the small parlor. Disapproval emanated from him in waves, so she refused to invite him to sit knee to knee beside her, and finding an excuse to shift seats would be much too awkward.
The smile vanished. He perched and once again fixed his censorious gaze with hers. The changeable gray light in his eyes captivated her attention.
“Shall I order tea, niece?” Tante Vivienne interjected.
“Of course, aunt. Thank you.” Marielle gazed silently at Richard. The icy-eyed man was not the friend she’d seen off to war with her fiancé. Was it just the years of silence? She’d written faithfully to both him and Jennings. Her fiancé had answered every letter. Not so Richard. She’d convinced herself that he was simply busier than Jennings. When Richard had been home recovering from wounds, she’d made excuses for being turned away from Gadleigh Park. She discovered later that Richard had left before he fully recovered without a single attempt to see her. She’d worked hard to bury the hurt of his neglect.
Now he was here. She’d longed to see him, thinking of the happy relief he would bring from her sorrow and her outcast’s life. As he exchanged polite phrases with her aunt, one glance at his blank face showed he clearly had little desire to be here. That was a vast change. When they’d been young, Stonegreave had been his refuge from an overbearing father. Richard was his own man now. She supposed he no longer needed a refuge from the baron. She sighed inwardly, for those lost years, when friendship was easy. So if Richard did not need her or want to be here, what was he doing here?
“Ahem, Captain Campion, what brings you to Stonegreave in such weather?” asked Tante Vivienne.
Startled from her thoughts, Marielle straightened. She’d been staring at him in the same way a rabbit might stare transfixed at a python. She relaxed back into her chair, unwilling to let him see how greatly his manner unnerved her. She could do chilly as well or better than he.
“I have come to deliver messages too long delayed.” His rock-steady gaze nearly crushed her ability to speak.
I am Duchess of Stonegreave and better act like it. She straightened and lifted one brow. “Why? Messages long delayed surely have little purpose.”
“Possibly, but in delivering these messages, I also discharge a promise to my friend, Lieutenant, Sir Jennings Pugh.”
Jennings, dear Jennings. Her heart hurt for what might have been. She leaned forward, hands pressed to the settee upholstery to keep from twisting them in urgency. By tone and words Richard excluded her as both his friend and Jennings’s, and that hurt even more. “What message?”
He blinked, and a tiny vee formed in the middle of his brow. “I came upon Jennings during the battle of Salamanca. He was severely wounded, and before he would permit me to help him, he begged me promise to deliver a message to you.”
“And you allowed a wounded man to overrule commonsense?” She was suddenly angry. Not just at the renewed sense of loss but at Richard, who related events as if by rote, as if Jennings’s death were just one among hundreds. “Surely, you could have gotten him to medical care, had you not waited to hear his dying words.”
Richard’s jaw tightened, and a tic formed in one cheek.
What wasn’t he saying?
“Marielle, where are your manners? I am certain Richard did everything he could. Did you not?”
“I pray it was so,” said Richard. “I believe Jennings knew his wounds were mortal, and felt more concern for your grace than for his life. I, too, could see that help was too far off to save him.”
She straightened and placed her hands in her lap. Campion had possessed the messages for more than a year and not bothered to discharge his promise until now. “Delay seems to have become a habit of yours. You will account for it, I am certain, but first deliver Jennings’s messages.”
Richard’s brows snapped together, and he all but glared at her. “As you wish, your grace. As for explaining myself, I am not in the habit of catering to frivolous demands. Had you given it any thought, you would realize that duty takes precedence over even the most sacred of promises.”
In another age, she would have had him boiled in oil and fed to the crows. Regrettably, they lived in a more civilized time. Arguing with him would only prolong his visit, and she wanted him gone. He’d changed too greatly in ways she could not bear to tolerate. She let her anger flow out the ends of her fingers, smiled as sweetly as she could, and batted her lashes at him. She’d show him frivolous.
“Oh la, I couldn’t possibly imagine what a man of your sensitive nature must deal with. Military duty is such a heavy responsibility. Please deliver your message.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Vivienne struggle to choke back a laugh.
He gave her a quizzical look, frowned, and cleared his throat.
“Jennings asked me first to beg you not to cry over his death.”
Mari’s mouth dried, her throat tightened, and moisture damped the corners of her eyes. She was as close to weeping as she’d been since father followed mother to the grave. She sniffed then nodded acknowledgement, and the incipient tears dried. Her throat relaxed, and she found a tiny bit of saliva coating her tongue.
Vivienne had produced a handkerchief that she now used to stem the water dripping down her own cheeks. “I already weep, Richard. What else did dear Jennings tell you?” her aunt asked.
He briefly inclined his head toward Mari’s aunt but said nothing until it was clear that Mari would make no remark.
“He asked me to tell you, your grace, and I quote, ‘You were right. We should have wed. I do not regret the life I give for my country. I do regret the life I stole from you by asking you to wait for me. Forgive me for not coming home as I promised.’ Those were his last words. He also gave me these letters for you.” The captain handed her a packet wrapped in oiled cloth and tied with string.
She took them, willing her hands not to shake with the rage she felt. Richard had been there, maybe even held Jennings as he died. It should have been her.
Better yet, Jennings and she should have lived a long and happy life, dying together in old age. Damn her for yielding to his desire to play soldier. Damn Richard. His neglect had denied her the ability to know—until now—how very angry she was that Jennings had died, leaving her to endure without his understanding company.
The rain outside ceased, and she donned her hauteur once more. “My fiancé died more than a year ago. Why has it taken you so long to deliver his messages?”
The tic in Campion’s cheek vanished, and he shuttered his eyes with long, dark lashes. “I can only plead the exigencies of my military duty. I would not be here now, had I not been able to take personal leave from my current assignment.”
The excuse was too smooth. And his complete lack of remorse screamed falsehood. The shuttered gaze, the returned tic in his cheek, the tightened jaw, everything about him shouted the lie. Why?
She stood, and her aunt followed suit, forcing Richard to rise. “You must understand, sir, that the past three years have seen both Jennings and my father pass from this world. I have had—as all of England has—much more grief than I ever anticipated experiencing at this point in my life. I appreciate that you brought your message as soon as you felt you could. Please do not delay your needs on my account any longer.”
She held out her hand.
He bowed over her fingers, gave his farewell to Vivienne, and left.
Thank heaven. The sun had come out, and she had not been forced to dismiss him into the storm that had delivered him here. But she could not have borne one more moment of his patent lying. Oh, she suspected that the message from Jennings was true. It sounded all too much like him. Noble and self-sacrificing to the end. And often annoying, in the dearest way.
Richard Campion, on the other hand, was too dedicated to his work to even send a note suggesting a meeting so he could deliver his messages. She very much doubted that the man would send to his love—if he had one—anything resembling Jennings’s words should he die far from her arms.
No, Richard wouldn’t die at all. He was the type of man who would fight death tooth and nail until he’d kissed his woman and left her with child. Then he would succumb, leaving her to raise the babe on her own. If she weren’t glad to see the last of him, she’d hound him until she knew why he lied about his reasons for waiting more than a year to discharge a promise to the man she had hoped to spend her life with.