Dorothy sighed. “It isn’t that. I knew him as a boy, you know. He was much like his nephew in many ways. Bright. Active. A bit shy but easy to please. But the Marquess hasn’t had a chance to know the Duke we knew and loved before the accident.” With this, Dorothy picked up her tea again and took a slow sip, leaving that tantalizing hint hanging in the air.
“Accident?” Elizabeth asked quietly, hoping to sound casual. None of this was any of her business, she was well aware. But the way that Dorothy was approaching the subject all askance and carefully, seemed to imply that there was an interesting story she was wanting to tell.
“Well, between us, accident isn’t the word at all. It was murder.”
The tea Elizabeth had been swallowing caught in her throat and she coughed. “M-murder?” she managed to get out between coughs. “Did he…?”
“Oh, heavens no! The Duke wouldn’t hurt a worm. Gentle as a lamb, that boy. Always has been. Mercy me, I did give the wrong impression there, didn’t I?” Dorothy laughed.
Elizabeth scoffed, catching her breath and testing another sip of tea. “So, what happened?”
“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it? No one really knows exactly what happened or why. All we know is that the gentleman was madly in love, engaged to be married, happy as a cricket, and then his fiancée was gone.”
“Gone?” Elizabeth asked suspiciously.
“She was found dead in the garden. Poisoned, they say.”
The room fell silent save for the sound of Elizabeth tapping her fingernail against the handle of the teacup in her hand. It sounded like something out of a cheap novel. The image of a beautiful lady lying motionless on a bed of soft grass, surrounded by lush blooms, filled Elizabeth’s mind and made her stomach sour.
“How dreadful,” was all she could say after a moment.
“They suspected the Duke at first, if you can believe it. He was the person closest to her, I suppose. But in the end, no one really thought it was him. He was so deeply in love with the lady. Her death shattered him. He hasn’t been the same since. Ach, will you look at this workbasket!” Dorothy suddenly cried, reaching for a basket overflowing with mending to be done. As if ashamed of herself for telling such a salacious story, she hurriedly withdrew one of the Duchess’ silk stockings and began to mend a hole in the heel.
“I’ve never heard anyone speak of him since I’ve been here,” Elizabeth said. “Does he not visit?”
“He used to come around quite often. He always doted on his little sister; they were thick as thieves growing up. But as the years have passed and his lover’s killer has never been found he’s…oh, I don’t know. He’s changed.” Dorothy did not look up from her work.
“You’ll please excuse me for being insensitive but…has not anyone considered that perhaps there was no killer. Perhaps she…” Elizabeth shrugged one shoulder. “You know…?”
“Oh no,” Dorothy shook her head. “Of course, the possibility was looked into by the proper authorities, but no one who knew Lady Christine would believe for a moment that she would do that to herself. She was a vibrant young thing, beautiful and rich, about to marry a Duke who positively worshiped her. No, she had no reason to end it that way.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said, letting the subject drop. Though she held doubts in her mind. Murder by poison by some shadowy figure who could not be found even these many years later seemed unlikely. The possibility that a young lady may harbor some secret pain that became too much to bear seemed simpler.
“To tell the truth,” Dorothy said, lowering her voice. “I think that Her Grace has been relieved at her brother staying away. He’s not the gentleman he used to be. He was once the most sought-after gentleman in society. As charming and friendly as he was striking to look at. But the tragedy killed not only his lover, but something inside of himself as well. He became cold and withdrawn, prone to snapping at servants and even his peers.”
“If Lord Limingrose hasn’t mentioned his uncle, it’s because he dreads the gentleman’s visit. As someone who knew him before the tragedy…oh, it’s a right shame, Elizabeth. To see such beauty wasted.” The older woman tsked quietly.
Elizabeth tried to imagine a male version of the Duchess of Stonehill. The sister was petite and slender, with an elegant neck that seemed created specifically to be adorned with jewels. Masses of blonde curls spoke to her vitality and health, along with a rosy blush that always colored her fine cheeks. She was beautiful, a natural aristocrat with that royal profile and an easy smile.
The older brother would be darker, Elizabeth guessed. His cheeks would be sharper, the angles of his face more severe. But he would have that smile that, when it appeared, made his relation to his sister impossible to deny.
“Heavens, what a story.” Elizabeth said, swallowing the dregs of her cup.
“You mustn’t go bandying it about. I only told you so that you would not get your feelings hurt should he happen to speak sharply to you. I’d rather you know that he wasn’t always that way. And anyway, you’re the only one in the house who doesn’t know. Save perhaps Lord Limingrose.”
“You, of all people, should know that I never indulge in gossip,” Elizabeth said with a wry grin.
Dorothy slapped Elizabeth’s knee and laughed. “Of course not. Never.”
* * *
“How can I be expected to do my lessons when it’s raining out?” Lord Limingrose whined.
“You had the same excuse when it was sunny. You’ll find that all sorts of weather conditions stay neatly out of the way when one is inside working.” Elizabeth slid his paper back across the table in the parlor.
“I want to see my mother.” The boy’s shoes were slightly muddy from a morning excursion out of doors already, and he swing them under his seat, sitting on his hands petulantly.
“Your mother is resting. We must give her plenty of peace and quiet.”
“Mother is always resting. Why’s she so tired?”
“Your letters, My Lord,” Elizabeth warned, pressing his pencil into his hand to do another line of b’s.
“Is she sick?”
“She isn’t sick. She’s worn out from getting ready for your new little brother or sister. You needn’t worry.”
“The one in her stomach?”
“Yes. Your letters, Lord Limingrose.”
The boy took the pencil with an exasperated sigh, and for a couple minutes at least, he applied himself to making neat little rows of letters. His handwriting was appalling but was improving slightly with practice.
After a while, he looked up and squinted suspiciously at her.
“What?” Elizabeth asked.
“How is the baby going to get out?”
“Shush. That is not something for children to worry about,” Elizabeth answered, her color rising. She fought to stifle her blush lest it encourage his questioning even more. The question had come up more than once during his mother’s pregnancy, and each time Elizabeth found herself at a loss to explain.
“Will it…. come out her mouth? One time I ate too many sweets and I was sick as the devil. How will it get past her teeth, though? She’s gotten enormous.”
“Goodness. You do know how to distract yourself from your work, don’t you? You must ask these sorts of things of your parents, not me. And don’t let your mother hear you calling her enormous.”
“Why do I have to ask my parents? Don’t you know? I thought you knew everything.”
“It must be time for your Latin lesson,” Elizabeth said, in an attempt at redirection.
The boy was still eyeing her with distrust, but Elizabeth was quite done with that line of questioning.
“I’ve been told that your uncle is coming to meet the new baby,” Elizabeth tried.
Lord Limingrose looked down somberly. “Yes, Mother told me.”
“Aren’t you happy? He must love you very much. You’re his first nephew, after all.”
He shook his head, subtly pushing way his Latin book. “No, he do
esn’t. He doesn’t like me.” The little boy turned his face to the window, his large blue eyes tracking one drop of rain as it trickled down the pane of glass, merging with another drop on its journey to the windowsill.
“Now, what makes you say that?” Elizabeth asked softly. Although her charge could be as rambunctious as any other five-year-old boy, she had discovered early that he was also remarkably sensitive.
That explained his shyness.
It also came out in moments where any perceived disapproval would cause the boy to close in on himself and go quiet for the rest of the day.
He shrugged. “He just doesn’t.”
Elizabeth cocked her head to the side, pressing her lips into a sympathetic line as she placed her hand on top of his little one. “Sometimes adults can be complicated, My Lord. But I’m certain that your uncle loves you, even if he isn’t very good at showing it.”
He just shrugged again, sliding his hand away from hers. He let the subject drop then and applied himself to his lessons for the rest of the morning. Elizabeth’s mind was not so easily trained on her work, however.
The manor was so often visited by friends and family members of the Duke and Duchess, but none of them caused a stir the way that this gentleman did. He hadn’t even arrived yet, and he was all that any of the servants seemed to be able to talk about. Even talk of the imminent birth seemed to have dropped off in favor of gossip about the enigmatic Duke.
Mostly, what Elizabeth had gathered from various maids, was that the Duke of Hadminster was a god among gentlemen in terms of looks. If she went solely off the testimony of the house maids, Elizabeth would be forced to believe that he towered above the crowd at seven feet tall, with eyes that flashed like lightning, and hair softer than the finest silk.
She had to laugh, wondering how much of this description was influenced by his personal wealth. She did have to concede that it was rather romantic, the story of a gentleman irrevocably altered by the death of his lover.
The element of danger owing to the fact that he himself had been, even if only briefly, a suspect in her murder added to the gentleman’s mystique.
Elizabeth fought to regain control of her train of thought, reminding herself that the chance that she would ever even be introduced to the Duke of Hadminster was scant at best.
Chapter Three
Gerard Watton, The Duke of Hadminster, fought to bring his attention back to the papers in front of him. The duties of his station were normally more than enough to keep his mind occupied and directed away from personal matters, but the letter from his sister sat, unopened, on his desk, taunting him.
He glanced at it once more. He would know her curly, slanting handwriting anywhere. He didn’t want to read the letter because he already knew what it contained. Her nine months were nearly up, and he had promised that he would be there this time to welcome the new member of the family. With Thomas, he had waited nearly a full six months before going to visit, and it had been a point of contention between the brother and sister ever since.
He forced his attention back to the business correspondence in front of him, adding a flourish to his signature at the bottom of the page. He was conducting business in his office, hoping that the burgeoning late summer sunlight would lift his spirits. So far it had failed to do so.
“Come now, Gerard, you said you would take the day off of work. Can this not wait?” Martin Bamber, the Earl of Woodsford, a business partner of the Duke’s and Gerard’s closest confidant, whined.
“Don’t do that thing with your voice, Martin. You sound like a child.” Gerard replied.
“But Gerard…” Martin said, drawing out the last syllable annoyingly, then laughing when Gerard glared up at him. “There’s bound to be no good riding in London. You’ve got to have a few good rides in before you go. You can answer letters anywhere, but you’ll miss these woods when all you’ve got to look at is babies and city ladies.”
“I shan’t be looking at any city ladies, Martin. I assure you.” Gerard said, folding the letter and sealing it with his crest. He glanced once more at the letter from his sister and, finally, picked it up.
“Last one?” Martin asked hopefully.
“Yes.” He had saved the letter for last, but there was no avoiding it now. He slid his silver letter opener underneath the wax seal and popped it open. Bridget’s handwriting met his eyes and he could swear that he heard her voice in his ear as he read.
Dearest Brother,
I know it’s impolite to speak of such things as this, but my time draws near and I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’m afraid. Of course, the midwife says everything is fine and that I have nothing to fear, but you never can tell about these things. I know you don’t like to see me, though I don’t pretend to understand why. But please, for my sake, come soon. It puts me at ease to see you. I want my children to know you as I do.
Your devoted Sister
Gerard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You know, I’ve never seen a gentleman so determined to hate his own holiday,” Martin broke in.
Gerard shook his head. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“No, I took the whole day off to spend it with my friend before he leaves for the city,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”
Gerard dashed off a note to his sister saying that he would leave the following afternoon, then followed Martin out to the stables. The day was uncharacteristically cloudless for northern England, and the breeze that swept off the hills was almost warm. As the gentlemen mounted their horses, Martin regaled Gerard with inanities about the weather, about how he loved the warm weather.
Gerard, for his part, had a difficult time paying attention. As the gentlemen directed their mounts into the woods surrounding his country estate, Gerard could think only of his impending trip to Stonehill. He’d known for months that he would have to visit his sister again, and he’d dreaded it all along. His dread was made all the worse by the fact that he could not explain it to anyone, not to Bridget, not even to Martin.
The truth was, it pained him to see her so happy. Seeing her in the flush of new motherhood and wedded bliss only reminded him of everything he had lost. The Stonehill manor, as beautiful and stately as it was, felt like a tomb for Gerard’s hopes and dreams. His sister had the life that he had wanted. The family he had wanted.
His jealousy ate at him like an invisible disease, rotting him from the inside out. No matter how many solemn vows he made to himself before visiting her, he always found himself being ever colder and more snappish at them whenever he visited.
It was better just to stay away, he reasoned. It was better not to soil their happiness with his bitterness.
Unfortunately, Bridget didn’t seem to see it that way. The more he stayed away, the more letters she sent, begging for his company. They’d been close as children, and when their parents died, he had taken upon the mantle of fatherhood to her. His sudden change in demeanor must have been jarring.
“You really do need the time off, to rest,” Martin said in a teasing voice.
“Yes, Martin. I know. You’ve said that before. I leave tomorrow afternoon. I trust that everything will be managed to my satisfaction in my absence?”
“I could run your entire Dukedom with one hand tied behind my back and my eyes blindfolded,” Martin boasted.
Gerard shot him a withering look. “Yes, well. We shall see about that, I suppose. I expect daily letters detailing the business. Mister Andrews will serve as my go-between.”
Martin nodded silently. Gerard had been talking about his expectations of how his manor and his business would be run in his absence for weeks. Gerard couldn’t put his finger on it, but this visit to Stonehill seemed to carry some inexplicable importance in his mind. There was something in his gut that told him that he would not come away from this trip unchanged.
Perhaps the birth of a child would heal this gaping hole in his chest where Christine had been. Perhaps socializing, parties, dinners, and ti
me spent with Thomas would bring the color back into Gerard’s life.
“Gerard, if you don’t mind my asking…are you hesitant to return to London because of…her?”
Gerard exhaled. No one said Christine’s name out loud around him. They didn’t need to. Her presence was always hovering around him, always there, always watching. The years that had passed had not changed that. The last time he had seen her was at her home in London. The morning before she was found lifeless in her own garden. He would have to pass right in front of that very house on his way to Stonehill.
“It’s been seven years,” Martin said.
“I am aware of how many years it has been,” Gerard snapped. Martin seemed to notice Gerard’s poor mood then, and they passed the rest of their ride through the woods in silence.
Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess Page 2