How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Before Jacinda knew what she was doing, she stepped forward and bent down for the fallen pillow slip. “Here you are,” she said, tucking it between the maid’s elbow and the huge bundle.

  “Betsy, is that you?”

  Jacinda hesitated, frozen. Fortunately for her, the maid’s view was obscured by the mountain of laundry. Though, just in case, she tugged on her borrowed cap to look more like a fellow servant. Then, as if she belonged there, she helped to free the maid’s apron from the door latch. “Yes, of course it is.”

  The maid laughed. “Oh, listen to you Miss Hoity-Toity. If you’re tryin’ to be chosen for lady’s maid, you’re too late. I tried it, too, even scrubbed my cheeks pink, but Fellows isn’t having it. He chose Martha, even though I’ve been here longer. And I know what you’re goin’ to say, so don’t even bother. He chose her because she wasn’t the one caught kissin’ Rodney by the stables.”

  In the stairwell above them, a door closed and they both startled.

  “Quick. Check the steps to be sure I didn’t drop somethin’ along the way. Hemple’s in a dither, to be sure. Even though none of us expected His Grace’s return from London so soon, she’ll still have my head if one thin’ is out of place. Say, aren’t you supposed to be fetchin’ rain pails for the guest chambers?”

  Distracted by the news that Rydstrom had just returned from London, Jacinda didn’t respond at first. It was a clue, to be sure. Only she didn’t know what it meant. However, she did know that they both seemed to find themselves in Whitcrest at the same time. And now, she wondered if she had come from London as well.

  “Betsy?”

  “Oh yes.” Jacinda snapped her fingers and pushed against the pile of laundry as if she were tucking something inside. “There now, nothing left behind, and I’d better get those pails before Hemple has my head.”

  With a rueful laugh, the maid walked away, and Jacinda made her way up the constricted staircase.

  At the first landing, she paused to catch her breath, pressing a hand to the sharp pain in her side, the scratch of simple fabric abrading her tender fingertips.

  The chambermaid had left the door open to this floor, providing a view of two-toned walls, painted a watery blue and trimmed in eggshell white. Sounds of quick, muffled footsteps and a hollow, echoing rattle drifted to her. With a peek into the hall, she spied a blond-headed maid carrying pails. Betsy, most likely.

  Jacinda wondered what information she might learn from her. More about the duke’s return from London? Or perhaps, the reason why everyone—aside from the duke himself—assumed that she was here to marry him. Hmm.

  Yet, before she could follow Betsy, another door opened across the hall, and Jacinda hesitated in the shadow of the stairwell.

  A sturdy, matronly woman appeared, her hands worrying the center of an apron, her short legs moving with crisp efficiency down the hall. “Betsy, have you finished with the pails? We must have them in place before His Grace ventures to this floor, which might be as soon as he finishes speaking to Dr. Graham.”

  “This is the last one, ma’am. But I still don’t understand why we’re putting pails in the rooms that don’t have leaks.”

  “Tush, now. That isn’t your concern and you would do better to keep quiet about it all the same. Even Mr. Fellows agrees that this is necessary.”

  “Necessary for what?”

  “Never mind that. Fetch some water and spill a little into each pail, and quickly.”

  Jacinda frowned, unable to find a clue in that odd exchange. However, she believed she’d just met—in a roundabout way—Mrs. Hemple, the apparent housekeeper of Rydstrom Hall.

  Then eyeing the door she’d seen Mrs. Hemple step through, a fresh tingle of curiosity swept through Jacinda. The housekeeper’s sole focus seemed to be on ensuring the bedchambers were made ready. Was it possible that she had just come from the duke’s?

  Believing that she might find more clues there, Jacinda slipped across the hall.

  But behind that door, another staircase greeted her. Ugh. The rush of excitement that had filled her with enough energy to leave the tower chamber was waning with great haste.

  Trudging up this next flight, she wondered if a person could die from climbing stairs. Then, at last—with lungs burning on every wheezing breath and pain stabbing her side as if she’d swallowed a knife—she reached the door at the top. A single sconce burned at the end of a dark paneled corridor. Beside it stood a door, left ajar.

  No matter where or how delicately she walked, the wooden floors creaked beneath her squeaking shoes. Regardless, with a splunch, splunch, splunch, she made her way to the end of the hall, but found, yet another stairway.

  Having come too far to turn back now, Jacinda made the climb.

  Yet she should have been more careful because when she reached the top, someone was waiting for her.

  * * *

  The constant ping of water dripping into pails accompanied Crispin’s heavy footfalls out of the keep and through the wide, domed corridor toward the gatehouse. The storm made him all too aware of the repairs Rydstrom Hall needed.

  Up ahead, Fellows directed two of the footmen to capture the most recent leaks. This ritual was such a commonality that there was a closet solely dedicated to pails. Among the groomsmen he employed, one of them was a cooper’s apprentice, who not only made ale barrels but kept them in a good supply of rain pails as well.

  Still, it never stopped bothering Crispin. The irritation he felt over the gradual—and often times not so gradual—decline of Rydstrom Hall crawled beneath his skin like a thistle barb that sent an angry jolt to his nerves whenever he brushed against it. He wished that his predecessors had thought more of securing the future of their legacy instead of spending all their days, and fortunes, on adding more rooms that required upkeep.

  Consequently, over the years, Crispin had learned a thing or two about repairing roofs, plasterwork, and loose stones from the outside walls. Especially the ones to the south that bore the brunt of the sea’s attacks, the outer curtain having all but fallen ages ago. Chimneys were rather difficult with his broad build, however. So he closed off the rooms where the damage was too severe and his funds too limited.

  Living in a crumbling castle was a costly endeavor. What had once been a small estate with tenants and farmers enough to turn a profit on the land, had grown far beyond the means of its income. In truth, he could only afford to employ thirty servants and keep them well fed. But because of the size of Rydstrom Hall, they were spread thin to perform their duties.

  Though once he continued the family tradition and married his own heiress, his first order of business would be to hire more—not only servants but stonemasons and carpenters—in order to ensure that Rydstrom Hall would be safe for Sybil.

  Crispin expelled a weary breath. He should be in London finding a wealthy bride, not here, beleaguered by an unwelcome guest and wondering what disaster might befall him next.

  Frowning, he stood in one of the alcoves and stared out the window. Sheets of rain obscured his view, turning the sea and cliffs into a child’s watercolor landscape. It would be easier to live somewhere else, in a place that wasn’t so full of his own regrets. But this was his home.

  Beside him, he heard the unmistakable step-shuffle of Dr. Graham coming closer. Continuing to stare out the window, he said, “If the rain doesn’t let up soon, the roads will be impassable.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” Graham stopped near him, propping his cane against the wall. Then he proceeded to remove his spectacles for cleaning as if he hadn’t delivered the worst news imaginable. “Even if it were to stop this instant, the flooding would take time to recede. At least overnight. And there’s the mud to consider, stodgy enough to rob a man of his boots and trousers.”

  Crispin already knew this, but he’d foolishly been holding on to one last hope.

  Rubbing circles over the lenses with a yellowed handkerchief, Graham slid him a sideways glance. “However, I don’t
believe your concern is for the state of the roads, but rather for having unexpected guests.”

  “Henry is a good lad, and Miss Beels knows her place well enough.” They wouldn’t think of trespassing in his aunt’s apartments. Only one person beneath this roof would dare such an intrusion, if given the chance.

  “Ah, then it is only the presence of one that bothers you.”

  “You know the reason.”

  “I’m not certain that I do,” Graham said. “If your concern is that rumors regarding Sybil’s true identity would make their way to London, I’d say that the chances of that happening rely upon you. Miss Bourne would only learn of this if you chose to tell her.”

  Crispin scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. He was still in complete disorder, missing button and all. “If we were speaking of any other person in England, I would agree with you. However, Miss Bourne likes to live by her own rules. She has this impossible tenacity etched into her character such that—if she senses a secret, no matter how trivial—she won’t stop until she discovers what it is. Why else do you think she’s here?”

  “Apparently, you know.”

  Crispin gritted his teeth and proceeded to explain the nature of their acquaintance, beginning with his aunt’s stipulations and ending with finding Miss Bourne in his study.

  Graham’s mustachio twitched at the corners as if he were holding back a grin. “Then it is fortunate for you that she has amnesia.”

  “Indeed, but for how long? An hour? Two? Even you said her memory could return at any time.” He glanced toward the corridor that led to the tower. Thinking of her there and wondering if, even now, she was remembering everything, helped him dismiss how tempted he’d been by her. It was simply a reaction to physical exertion, he told himself. Nothing more.

  “And then you’ll explain that she traveled all this way, only to discover what everyone else believes—that you have taken your housekeeper’s young relative under your care.”

  “To which she would reply with a request to see the graves herself in order to confirm the story,” Crispin said ruefully.

  Graham chuckled. He didn’t understand that, since Crispin had first met Jacinda, he hadn’t had a single moment’s peace. It was as if he’d sensed, all along, what havoc she would wreak in his life.

  And here she was, having traipsed all the way to Whitcrest, recklessly putting her own life in danger, simply because she was curious about a name she’d read in a damn letter! A woman like that wasn’t apt to believe the story that the villagers had accepted so readily. Not without proof.

  He expelled a hard breath and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck where the past two days had tied every nerve ending into a tight knot. Perhaps he was being paranoid. It wasn’t as if she possessed a preternatural power for seeing through him and reading his secrets. Even though he feared that was true.

  Then, caught by something he detected in Graham’s last words, Crispin felt the flesh between his eyebrows pucker as he turned his head. “What did you mean when you just said ‘and then you’ll explain’? Is Miss Bourne already asking questions? Or do you have news for me regarding your examination?”

  “Actually,” Graham began, but paused to replace his spectacles with care. He took a moment to smooth down the bristly hairs on either side of his mouth before he continued, the hesitations marked by the drips falling into the nearby pails. “I wanted to speak to you about that. And believe me when I say that I understand you are a man who prefers order. So it is with a certain degree of wariness that I must ask you if she could remain—”

  “No. Absolutely not,” Crispin interrupted. “Miss Bourne is not staying beneath this roof until she regains her memory.”

  Graham held up his hands and wore an expression of patient trepidation as if he were trying to calm a wild horse, his tone low and soothing. “You are her only link to herself. If we put her in an unfamiliar environment, it’s entirely possible that she will never regain her memory.”

  “Rydstrom Hall is not a familiar environment.”

  “Perhaps not, but you are familiar to her.”

  Even worse. Crispin took a step back, gesturing with a sweep of his arm toward the door. “She has a family. As soon as I send word, they will come for her.”

  “Days from now, perhaps. You will get no messenger to them today, nor tomorrow with the roads as they are,” Graham reminded needlessly. “And more to the point, Miss Bourne is in no condition to travel.”

  He suspected that, of course, but hearing it didn’t make it any easier to accept. “When will she be?”

  “I do not know, and quite frankly I worry about overtaxing her. If she were to return to her family too quickly, I fear that their affection for her might hinder her recovery.” Graham tapped his head to make it clear they were speaking of her memory.

  Crispin leveled the doctor with a dubious glare. “Come now, this excuse sounds far too convenient. A family hindering her recovery? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Perhaps think of it this way,” Graham began with his usual patience. “Families see their loved one struggle to remember and, with the very best of intentions, begin to regale them with memories of childhood antics, former pets and playmates, of deceased relatives and all manner of recollections that you and I take for granted. Yet without the link to the memory, the only emotion gained from these picture-less stories is not love or fondness, but irritation and frustration. And I believe that those who are not allowed to heal on their own become nothing more than mimics leading hollow lives and forming no attachments. It is a terrible way to live.”

  Crispin felt contrite for his assumption. A fresh wave of worry rolled over him, churning in his stomach. The thought of Miss Bourne experiencing such a dire fate bothered him, and more than he expected. Of course, he would feel the same stirring of sympathy for anyone in this circumstance, he told himself. And yet he was suddenly at war with his duty to protect Sybil and an unexpected compulsion to do the same for Miss Bourne.

  Disgruntled by this undesirable emotion, he rubbed his palm against the building pressure at his nape. “You speak as though you have experience with this.”

  “My own brother,” Graham answered quietly. “We fought together on the Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar. While he was healing from the cannon blast, I was the one who made the mistake of feeding him his past, which ultimately confused and overwhelmed him. He was sent home and lived another year with our parents before he put an end to his own torment.”

  Crispin briefly reached out and clutched the doctor’s shoulder. He knew all too well what it was like to blame oneself for a loved one’s death. “I understand what you are saying, and no matter what my feelings toward Miss Bourne might be, I would not wish such a fate on her. Nevertheless, I cannot keep an unmarried debutante beneath my roof without a chaperone.”

  Then he reminded himself that it wasn’t his ultimate decision to make. Her uncle was her guardian. Eggleston would have to make the choice.

  “For tonight, she has the local doctor to keep her reputation intact. Tomorrow or the day after, you could ask Miss Beels to stay on—”

  “The town’s feather-wit is hardly a suitable chaperone. I could seduce Miss Bourne while in the same room with Miss Beels and likely receive applause instead of condemnation.”

  The doctor lifted his wiry brows. “Are you afraid that you’ll be unable to resist Miss Bourne’s charms?”

  “I would sooner have my way with Miss Beels,” he said with a convincing amount of effrontery. At least, he hoped it was. “If she stays here long, her reputation will likely be in ruins—unless you are her chaperone. I can see no other way.”

  The doctor turned, accepting this with a nod, and then stared out to sea for a moment. “I cannot help but think that Miss Bourne would have had a maid with her.”

  Crispin’s gaze drifted to the water as well. “I had thought of that when I saw the flotsam rising and falling with the swells. It looked to be the remains of a small skiff. I d
idn’t want to bring it up in front of Miss Bourne in case . . .”

  He didn’t finish. Both of them knew that the body of a maidservant might very well wash up on shore in the coming days.

  “Yes. Silence is best, until we know for certain.”

  “When the weather clears, I’ll send footmen out to the bordering villages to ask for any information, including the name of the boat’s owner.” Perhaps then he’d discover why she hadn’t taken a coach directly to Whitcrest. Then again, she may have altered her route by design, negating the chance that their paths would cross. She was too clever by half.

  “Then you’ll keep her?”

  After all was said and done, Crispin didn’t see that he had another choice. Yet, more than anything, he wanted to confine her to the tower, keeping her far away from Sybil. He nodded with reluctance.

  “Her injuries, are they”—he broke off as another disconcerting clench of worry gripped his stomach—“more severe than you first thought?”

  Graham pulled thoughtfully on his beard. “She has many contusions, though not as many as I have seen from other near drowning victims. As you know, our coastline is not the most forgiving. And then there’s the reef . . .” He shook his head. “I cannot imagine how she navigated it all.”

  Now that clenching sensation began to burn with anger because of the danger she’d put herself in. “Miss Bourne’s resiliency and resourcefulness does not surprise me. As we already have proof, she was determined to sail, swim, and likely even crawl her way to Rydstrom Hall.”

  “Then she has earned the rest she was so eager to have before I left her.”

  Crispin went still. “What do you mean . . . eager?”