“Put the gun down, David.” Grant heaved a bored sigh. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Time’s up,” said his brother, making the words a sing-song chant.
As Grant ducked and tore the bedclothes aside, revealing the army saber in his hand, a shot rang out. Grant didn’t hesitate, but went forward, sword out, ready to thrust it deep into his brother’s flesh. This man had threatened him, threatened his wife.
But his sword met thin air. David was already on the floor, and as Grant leaped to the floor, his brother started screaming.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dorcas sucked in a breath as her husband leaned over David. “Is he dead?”
“Does he sound dead?” He had to shout over David’s wails.
The sound of thumping feet came just before the door was shoved open. The connecting door opened at the same time and, suddenly, the room filled with shouting people, mostly men.
Grant ignored them all, but put his hands on her arms. “Where are you hurt, sweetheart? Tell me.”
“My bottom,” she groused, and laughed when his eyes widened in surprise. “That pistol has a kick. Knocked me off my feet and I landed on my backside. I’m going to have a huge bruise.”
“Ah, love!” Not at all gently, he dragged her up and into his arms, kissing her face and her lips, easing her hair off her face. “I thought he had you before I realized it was the other way about. I thought his shot had found you!”
“No. It went up there somewhere.” She glanced up in the direction of the ceiling.
The people who’d come in brought lights with them, candles and lamps. Someone went about lighting the candles in the sconces on the wall, so now light blazed and everything was clear.
Armstrong, Johnson, Trace and both Gormans were supplemented by Brigstock, and then Gerald and Annie, robes thrown on hastily over their night wear. And they were all talking at once.
When Grant would have laid her on the bed, Dorcas struggled to be put down. “I’m no more an invalid than you. No, Grant, let me see.”
And David was still screaming. Even more when his mother rushed in and immediately fell into a bout of strong hysterics. Now nobody could hear themselves think. Striding around the bed, Dorcas did what she’d been longing to do since she’d first met the woman. She swung her hand back to get some force, and gave the Dowager Duchess of Blackridge an open-handed slap across her face.
The noise stopped when the dowager gasped. She clapped a hand to her cheek. “How dare you!”
And now that her son was moaning instead of screaming, Dorcas could make herself heard. “I’m terribly sorry, your grace, but you were in danger of falling into madness. Look, both your sons are alive and well. You have nothing to scream about, other than one of the men trying to kill the other.”
“What?” The dowager duchess looked from David to Grant and back again. “Are you mad enough to say that my son caused the fall at the mine?”
“Not at all. But he has tried to harm Grant before.” She moved forward, pushing her face close to the duchess’, invading her space. “And I will not have it. Do you hear me?”
“I have never loved anyone more than I love you at this moment,” Grant murmured, his mouth close to her ear. He straightened. “Yes, I woke up. Now, will you take this man out of here, please, and lock him up somewhere safe? Take all potential weapons from him. I fear for his sanity.” He shot David a smile that was decidedly nasty. But then, David more than deserved it.
“I am not mad!”
“You’re either mad or guilty of attempted murder.” Grant’s smile broadened. “You choose.”
David closed his eyes. “I’m hurt. Take me somewhere safe.”
A pool of blood had gathered on the carpet, ruining both that and David’s glorious robe. She’d nicked him on his shoulder but by those screams, anyone would have thought that somebody was murdering him, when it had been the other way around.
Grant nodded to Gorman and Trace, who unceremoniously hauled Lord David up and half-walked, half-dragged him out.
The dowager duchess made to follow him, but Grant stopped her. “No, Mother. You can’t go with him.”
She spun around to face him, the skirts of her pink robe whirling around her legs. “You have never liked him, have you? Are you satisfied now? You drove him to this, Blackridge, you and your father!”
Grant reared back as if she’d returned the slap Dorcas had given her. She would not see him hurt that way, so she stepped between them.
“Your second son tried to kill your first son. There’s no other way of explaining it. I don’t know what you did to Lord David, what poison you poured into his ear, but you have to take some of the blame. You’ve drip-drip-dripped venom into him until he was full. Personally, I think he’s run mad and he needs locking up for his own good. But we could always send him to trial. We have ample evidence.”
Actually they hadn’t, but she could always threaten that. And if Grant put his mind to it, now they knew the man behind the attacks, Dorcas was sure they could track down the men he’d employed to do his bidding.
“You may go to your room.” She glanced up at her white-faced brother, who nodded.
“And the rest of you may leave. Lock the door behind you. I intend to spend what is left of the night in my bedroom, where my husband may join me. But nobody else.”
She stalked to the door, opened it, and walked through, waiting only for Grant to follow her. Then she fell into his arms, shaking with shock. “He could have killed you.”
“No.” Grant held her tightly. “He’s never been a good shot, and I had my sword.”
“I d-didn’t want you to hurt him. It’s not good for a brother to hurt his brother.”
He stroked her hair, which was tousled into a rat’s nest. While she enjoyed the caress, it would take much more effort to disentangle the mass. “I know. But I would have done it for you. You are so much more important.”
“And you’re important to me.” She lifted her face and smiled into the tender kiss he gave her. “So promise me you won’t go into an unexplored mine again.”
“I promise,” he murmured, his lips against hers.
“I didn’t even know he was interested in yellow roses.”
Grant huffed a laugh as he lifted his head and led her to the bed. He threw back the covers. “He isn’t. He’s only interested in the dukedom.” After helping her into bed, he walked around to the other side.
“But I thought…”
“So did I.”
He climbed in next to her and drew her into his arms as if he couldn’t let her go for more than a few seconds at a time.
She knew how he felt. She needed his heart against hers, his arms holding her safe. The delayed reaction was wearing off, but she wouldn’t forget the terror of losing him for some time.
“And I thought he couldn’t walk. Since his room is below this one, I never imagined it could be him. Until a few hours ago, the possibility never crossed my mind. And when it did, I dismissed it. I was imagining things, I told myself. I let my prejudice overcome common sense. But he could walk and it was him all along. He doesn’t care for roses, yellow or otherwise. Only for the succession. We married and slept together, so the possibility of a child raised its ugly head.”
He smiled and kissed her, pulling the covers over them and tucking them around her. “I can’t wait. But he had to move faster than he’d planned.”
“I can’t believe he admitted all that” And why had he done nothing before?
“I’ll work out the rest,” he admitted. “But we’re safe now. Sleep, my love. Rest.”
In the morning, they took their time, eating breakfast in their rooms and then dressing. Dorcas needed the sanctuary of her plants, so she went to the orangery, where the Crombies were already at work, as if nothing momentous had happened.
She was tying the strings of her apron when the outer door opened to admit Johnson. Did he have a note from Grant? A message?
> No. He held the scraps of paper from the parcels. He placed them on a bench, carefully placing a nearby plant pot over them to stop any breeze dispersing them. Dorcas wondered what he’d made of the mess in Grant’s bedroom this morning. Likely she’d never know. The valet did not wear his emotions on his face.
He bowed. “Good morning, your grace.”
“Yes, it is. Good morning, Johnson. Did you manage to get anything out of the papers?”
He rose. She could have sworn a smile skimmed over his thin mouth, but it was there and gone so fast she couldn’t be sure. “Yes, your grace, eventually I did. And when I knew what I was looking for, the rest was easy.” He glanced at the papers. “It’s rice.”
Astonished, Dorcas stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Varieties of rice, your grace. Not all rice is white, and it isn’t all the same shape. We know that some rice is used in kedgeree and savory dishes, and the other is used in desserts. The Chinese have many more varieties of rice.”
Dorcas blew out a breath. “Rice. Well that explains why we’ve been having such bad luck. We need to soak the trays, do we not?”
Johnson shook his head, folding his hands neatly before him. Everything he wore, from his simple but beautiful wig down the deep green coat, waistcoat and breeches, and down to his polished shoes, was the epitome of cared-for elegance. “I fear the seeds will not thrive.”
Dorcas raised a brow. “You don’t have to tell me. Rice?” she said in disgust. “I paid through the nose for those seeds. Still,” she continued, brightening up. “The roses are working well.”
Crombie the elder joined her. “Maybe we should carry on for a bit. But rice isn’t rare and it isn’t expensive.”
Thinking of the dish she’d been served for breakfast, which contained an abundance of rice, Dorcas nodded. “And we thought they were trying to kill us for it. How ironic if they’d succeeded?”
“More than ironic.” Grant came in on the heels of his manservant. After closing the door carefully behind him, he came to stand by his wife. “I don’t care to think about it. How are the roses?”
Dorcas beamed. “Doing very well. We decided to leave off grafting until next spring. So we can leave for Scotland whenever you like. I’ll take Crombie the younger and a plant, and leave one here.”
“Won’t your brother want his orangery back?”
Dorcas glanced at Crombie. They shared a smile. “Not until we’re ready. I might even persuade him to build a hothouse.”
Grant smirked. “I already have one. I can tell people you married me for my hothouse.”
“Oh, no,” Dorcas said. “No, I married you for much more than that.”
Epilogue
Two years later
Sitting in her elegant orangery at Blackridge Castle, Dorcas surveyed her work, curling her fingers gently around the velvety petals of her yellow rose. Although not the first to produce something acceptable, she was still in the race to produce the most beautiful and robust specimen. This one might just do it.
Crombie had gone home to his new wife and baby daughter. He’d settled in Scotland, as had Dorcas. She gazed out of the tall windows at the lovely rolling hills beyond. She’d fallen in love with this house the minute he’d shown it to her.
Much like she’d fallen for its owner.
As she thought of him, he came into the room, striding across the black and white tiles. “This is it, then?”
He carried a bundle in his arms, white-shawled, and currently blessedly silent, apart from a few gentle snorts as their baby slept.
“And this is him.”
Gladly, she exchanged the rose for her baby. She eased her bodice down, and gave the snuffling infant her breast.
Immediately, Lucas woke up and started feeding. Dorcas gave a gentle sigh at the sensation of the release of milk. Society had decreed that feeding one’s own child was good for the baby and, even more importantly, fashionable. Dorcas had found the process easy and pleasurable. Besides, she didn’t like to be apart from Lucas for long.
“Our son.” Grant watched him feed for a few moments, a smile that nobody else ever saw curving his lips. Only then did he turn his attention to the rose. “And your other offspring.”
“Hush,” Dorcas said absently.
“It’s lovely.” He surveyed the full blossom uncritically, sniffed it and sighed. “All that trouble for this.”
“It still has traces of pink in the middle. It’s not completely yellow. But it’s only the second year. I’ll try to make a butter-yellow one.” She had a range of roses, now, that she used for different grafts. There was barely room for Grant’s prized pineapple plant in the hothouse for the roses.
Dorcas had made a name for herself after publishing a few discreet monographs in select periodicals. Other horticulturalists had contacted her, and they shared some information—though not all. But now, she was known as “The Rose Duchess”, which pleased her no end.
Unlike her sisters, her occupation was perfectly acceptable for a noble lady. Flowers, apparently, were not as bluestocking an occupation as astronomy and ancient Romans. But although the women didn’t see one another as much as they would like, they were still close, thanks to the letters they exchanged.
Under her husband’s fascinated and increasingly lustful gaze, Dorcas switched Lucas to her other breast. “Such a good baby,” she murmured. Her son grunted.
He cleared his throat. “I heard from my man of business. The house in Berkshire is ready. My mother wants more refinements, but she’s not getting them.”
Rather than being tried in public for attempted murder, David had accepted confinement. He was now registered as a lunatic, and in the opinions of Grant and Dorcas, he wasn’t far from that. Instead of rebuilding the Derbyshire house and inflicting the unhappy pair on Dorcas’ brother, Grant had a minor property of his, a manor house in Berkshire, rebuilt. He employed men to build a strong wing especially to house David. He would be kept there for the rest of his life, with carefully supervised visits to the outside world. But no more plots, no more gallivanting in society. His mother was free to come and go but she chose to stay with her beloved son. As far as she was concerned, Grant didn’t exist. That was fine with Grant.
“I had a letter from Delphi,” she told him, and nodded to the papers by her side. “She’s coming home.”
“Hmm.”
“With her husband.”
“Ah.”
And that was a whole new set of problems, right there.
About the Author
I write stories, and I always have. And I love a happy ending, especially a well-deserved one.
I’m an award-winning, best-selling author of historical romance. I fell in love with the eighteenth century when I was nine years old, and it’s my dream job to write about the people who lived and loved back then.
I used to work in marketing, and I have more letters after my name than in it, but I don’t use them much anymore.
I live in the UK with my family, including my muse, Frankie the Nonsense, a ragdoll with no decorum. I love traveling, and I get over to the States at least once a year.
My website is at lynneconnolly.com. Twitter @lynneconnolly and my Facebook page is here: facebook.com/lynneconnollyuk. My blog is at lynneconnolly.blogspot.com.
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