The Duchess's Secret (HQR Historical)

by Elizabeth Beacon

  * * *

  Ash approved his neat and spotless bedchamber at the inn. After the neat and spotless landlady went away he had a very necessary wash after his ride through the Dorsetshire hills in midwinter. He shivered in this confoundedly cold climate as he rubbed himself dry and hurried into clean clothes, then went to make sure his horse was being looked after.

  ‘A fine beast, sir,’ the groom told him and jarred him out of yet another daydream of Rosalind looking breathtakingly beautiful against a blue sky.

  ‘Aye, I only bought him last week, but he’s already proved a trooper.’

  ‘Cavalry man, sir?’

  ‘No, but my brother was.’

  ‘Ah, a sad business the Great War,’ the groom said with a shake of his head at Ash’s use of the past tense.

  ‘God send we never suffer the like again,’ he agreed soberly.

  Grief made his heart twist every time he thought of Jas dead at the end of that terrible conflict and he wanted to remember his brother with a smile and a See you again one day, big brother salute, instead of this aching gap in his life now he was back in England to feel it even more.

  ‘I’ll not argue with—Whatever are you three little devils doing up there?’ the middle-aged groom broke off to admonish a pair of unlikely looking cherubs peering down at them from the hayloft and taking in every word.

  Ash narrowed his eyes to see exactly who was giggling and shuffling about up there in order to spy on the latest stranger at the inn. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he picked out what looked like a brother and sister, as both had brownish hair and dark eyes, currently wide with curiosity and apprehension. He was about to grin and reassure them he was not going to give them away, if they could persuade the groom not to either, when the third little demon pushed her way to the front as if she had to know what was going on even if it cost her a scold as well.

  He thought seeing Rosalind again was shock enough, but Ash felt his head spin with the sheer impossibility of what his eyes were telling him now. He was looking up into his dead sister’s face. Amanda had looked just so when caught out in mischief—a little bit wary of the consequences underneath, but as bold and uncaring as a baby lioness on the surface. He was mad, then. Or sick. Yes, sick—he didn’t want to be mad. He blinked hard to try to clear his wandering senses. She was still there, looking back at him with puzzled grey eyes so like his own he wondered briefly if his father had strayed around these parts and she was his grandchild, or maybe Jas had left his mark on the world after all?

  ‘He’s gone ever so pale,’ the older girl whispered as if she was almost as worried about his health as he was.

  ‘Hard to tell when the sun has turned him so brown,’ her brother said critically.

  ‘Are you a sailor?’ the girl with his little sister’s face demanded and leaned over her friend’s shoulder to peer down at him more closely.

  The truth clicked into place like a perfectly timed mechanism. Not the ghost of his little sister Amanda, or Lord John, or Captain Jasper Hartfield’s by-blow then—she was his child! His daughter. God forgive him, but he wanted to kill Rosalind as soon as that frozen moment of recognition relaxed its grip enough for him to think at all. His wife had kept him in ignorance of this perfect little miracle for seven years. He revised the perfect bit when his imp wrinkled her brow at his silence and gave him a very haughty look, but he still wasn’t letting his wife off the hook for making him a stranger to his own child. Rosalind would have to pay for this somehow. As if anyone could repay him seven and a quarter years of his daughter’s life in this world. He was a rich man now, but the whole of his fortune could not cover that loss, no amount of money ever could.

  ‘You are very rude not to answer a direct question,’ his imp informed him as if she had been born a queen instead of a pretend Meadows.

  ‘It ain’t rude to spy on your elders and betters and ask this gentleman a mort of nosy questions, then, Miss Jenny?’ the groom demanded since Ash showed no signs of doing it.

  ‘He is very brown for a gentleman. Mr Wentmore from the Towers is pale as a ghost and his sister told me only seamen and labourers ruin their complexions out in the sun and wind in all weathers.’

  The groom muttered something uncomplimentary about the pale and interesting Mr Wentmore while Ash tried to gather his senses.

  ‘I only got back to England last week,’ he defended himself, as if his unfashionable suntan mattered a jot. So her name was Jenny, was it? Lady Jenny Hartfield did not have a very stately ring to it, but he liked the name anyway. He badly wanted to tell her what he was to her and she to him. He imagined Rosalind’s version of where her child’s father had got off to and bit back an oath his daughter should never have to hear, especially from him. He could rage at Rosalind later, after he had made it clear she and his child were not going far without him ever again, unless she wanted to relinquish all rights to her child as well as a duchess’s responsibilities. There was no question of a divorce now; he would make sure his child stayed under one of his roofs from now on and whatever plans his wife was making to whisk Jenny away again would be stopped by the coming snow, so he had time to convince her she was not parting him from his child ever again. Jenny changed everything. In an instant he had learned the lesson most parents had months to get used to—this little life was far more important than his own and whatever plans he had about the future without any trace of Rosalind in it must now be forgotten.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ his imp demanded.

  ‘India,’ he said and waited in vain for her to say, Oh, yes, my papa lives there, so there was not even that much cover for his absence from his daughter’s life. Ash wondered how Rosalind would get around the fact he was staying here as Mr Meadows, since being a duke would have caused an even bigger sensation and some strange impulse had made him sign himself so when he was still furious with Rosalind for hiding in the middle of nowhere to pretend he didn’t exist. He still wondered why he had done it, but at least it would make removing his daughter from this backwater a lot easier. Not even Rosalind could deny they were man and wife with this child between them to prove it. He felt sure she would go wherever her child went, even if she loathed the girl’s father and she must do so to have done this to him for the last eight years.

  ‘Are your saddlebags stuffed with rubies and pearls?’ the boy asked as if he thought such jewels must be scattered on the ground in exotic countries for anyone to pick up and bring home.

  ‘No, I keep them in a bank vault,’ he joked to stop himself promising his child the run of his treasury if she would only love him as her father. Adorning her with diamonds and pearls and all the riches he had gained in eight driven years of hard work could not buy a child’s loyalty. He only wished he did not have to make her Lady Jenny before he had much of a chance to get to know his own child. I have a child, he whispered it in his head—as if someone might leap in and take her away again if he dared to say it out loud.

  ‘Did you catch a fever while you were out there?’ she asked as if that might explain his dazzled silence and make him a bit more interesting.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ he said feebly, still not quite sure this was really happening even now.

  ‘My father says India is too dangerous for English women and children because fevers are rife. He was going to live there until he met Mama, but he agreed to come here instead so Grandpapa Waters would let them marry one another and have us. Grandpapa says he would rather put a knife in Mama than send her out there to die in all that heat and—’ The girl must have given her talkative little brother a sharp elbow in the ribs since he grunted a startled breath then glared at her.

  ‘He might like it, Hal, since he didn’t take a fever there and you should not have been listening when Grandpapa thought we weren’t there,’ she lectured from the advantage of what looked like a couple of years’ seniority.

  ‘You were there as well, s
o neither should you.’

  Obviously thinking the siblings were about to forget all about Ash and his fine horse and everything else except their latest quarrel, Jenny ignored them and continued to stare down at Ash as if she knew he was important to her somehow. ‘When I grow up I am going to be a sultana,’ she told him solemnly.

  Even Ash could not quite hide a grin and the boy forgot to fight with his sister to laugh so hard he began to cough and splutter, until his sister thumped him on the back so hard he begged for mercy. ‘You’ll kill me,’ he accused her breathlessly, then recalled the reason why he had been laughing in the first place. ‘Raisins are nicer than sultanas, Jenny, so why not be one of those instead?’ he taunted Jenny.

  Ash had to bite back a stern rebuke to stop the lad teasing his child, even if she didn’t know she was instantly precious to this tongue-tied stranger.

  ‘She’s been reading that book about Aladdin and whoever else is in there again,’ the older girl told her brother with a shrug. ‘Anyway, you’re the fool for not knowing a sultan’s wife is called a sultana. Not that you can marry one, Jenny, because your mother wouldn’t want you to live so far away.’

  ‘I could if he loved me and I loved him,’ Jenny said stubbornly.

  Ash silently cursed Rosalind for putting such nonsense in her head when she ought to know better by now. Love was not real; had she learnt nothing from their fiasco of a marriage?

  Yes, how to lie even better than she did before it, an inner voice whispered sternly in his ear.

  ‘Yuk, what soppy stuff and I thought you knew better,’ the boy said, pulling a revolted face. Ash almost nodded his agreement before he met his daughter’s reproachful gaze. She could not even be eight years old for months, so he had years and years to fight that battle before she was old enough to marry anyone, let alone a sultan.

  ‘Be quiet, you two, someone’s coming,’ the older girl hushed the fight about to break out between her brother and their friend as Jenny took exception to the boy’s scornful superiority.

  ‘Hide,’ the boy ordered and there was a great deal of wriggling and whispering as the trio drew back into the loft and Ash wanted to shout a protest and call them back. This was not the right time. He must make himself wait to claim his child until he had confronted her mother with her latest sins and got her to admit the truth. Then they could find a way to tell Jenny who she really was and get ready to leave for Edenhope as soon as the weather was right for such a long journey.

  ‘Seth said he thought those two eldest demons of the Vicar’s had been sneaking around the yard again and I won’t have it, Enoch. If they was to tumble into a stall and get themselves trampled half to death after scaring the horses, that Mrs Belstone would be on our tails sharpish and we’d never hear the last of it. Vicar might have his head in the clouds when it ain’t in a book, but his missus’s tongue’s sharp enough to cut a duke down to size if she was to turn her mind to it.’

  The only Duke available managed to look too modest to need a trimming while he listened to those three furtive children creeping down from their perch by whatever means they got up there in the first place. A few moments later there were delighted squeals outside and he looked through the door the innkeeper’s elderly father had left open when he came in here and saw a fat flake of snow drifting to earth like down. He didn’t want to be snowbound in a village that thought his wife’s husband must have died before his daughter was born, but it looked as if he would be staying here until the snow was gone whether he liked it or not.

  By the time he stepped outside with directions to Furze Cottage and a frown from Enoch to wonder what this stranger wanted with a respectable widow, Jenny and her not very saintly friends were long gone. Ash jammed his expensive beaver hat on his head, pulled his collar up around his ears and hoped those three scamps were safely back at the vicarage having nursery tea by the time he got to Rosalind’s house, because he didn’t think he could wait to talk about their past, present and future until his daughter was supposed to be asleep tonight.

  * * *

  Now the snow had actually arrived Rosalind had to accept it was ridiculous to even try to travel, so she almost welcomed the cool slide of a fat snowflake against her flushed cheek. She scurried away from the vicarage with a promise from the Belstones and a delighted Jenny happy to stay the night while Rosalind attended to unexpected business. Judith Belstone shot Rosalind a sharp look, as if she could see how agitated she was under the pretend calm, but she agreed the children would be happy to play together in the heavy fall of snow it looked as if they would have by morning.

  Now her daughter was safe with the Belstones she could hope against hope Ash would make a hasty retreat to Dorchester after all, so she and Jenny could sneak off in the opposite direction as soon as the coast was clear. If this desultory snow was all they were going to get he might even be able to leave first thing in the morning. So there was still a slim chance he might never find out about Jenny, if she kept her fingers crossed and a myriad of small chances all went her way. She rushed across the churchyard and out on to the lane leading to Furze Cottage, eager to grasp a last straw of hope.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Ash’s deep voice rumbled on the still air. What a giveaway to put a hand to her racing heart to stop it leaping clean out of her ribcage. She blinked at him and thought he looked stonier than ever.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed warily, ‘here I am.’

  ‘On the way home?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, deciding it would be silly to deny it when anyone in the village could have directed him there. He loomed over her in this murky half-light as snowflakes began a slow dance around them. Earlier there was still a hint of the old humour in his voice, but now it sounded so hard and stern she wanted to shiver. A moment ago she felt almost too warm from hurrying down the hill, then dashing about the village to find Jenny, but now cold was nipping at her fingers and toes and she was shivering.

  ‘Good, I was on my way to see you,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Why? It will only stir up gossip.’

  ‘Your neighbours will be even more interested if I throw you over my shoulder and carry you there, if that’s the only way we can talk out of the cold.’

  ‘I didn’t make you turn up here like a bad penny. I will struggle and cry out if you even try it and they will all come to my aid.’

  ‘If you prefer us to have an open and honest discussion of the past and the state of our marriage right here and now, where anyone can listen who cares to risk frostbite, then let’s get on with it. I don’t care what a pack of strangers think of me, but I suspect you do.’

  ‘I don’t want my friends to think ill of me.’

  ‘They don’t really know you, though, do they?’

  She shivered at his implied threat to say who she really was and gave in. Jenny wasn’t there, so did it matter if Ash was inside her home? Except it had been her sanctuary for so long and he would look down his aristocratic nose at its humble proportions and low-beamed ceilings. Telling herself his contempt for her humble home was the least of her worries, Rosalind led the way. The snow was still only an odd flake of feathery whiteness, but heavy clouds were cutting out more and more daylight. They walked in silence, but she was conscious of every muscle and sinew of this newly powerful man loping alongside her. He even felt furious, as if suppressed rage might keep winter at bay. A familiar ache deep inside shocked her with stupid fantasies of his newly powerful body intimately entwined with her own and how could it betray her at a time like this? Maybe she had longed for him so much it hurt at times during the last eight years, but she was only six and twenty and she still had the usual womanly needs. She dreamt of him as well—warm and loving again as he was for one glorious night all those years ago. Then she would wake up with tears on her cheeks and feel so terribly lonely it hurt. Now here he was, about to rip her whole world apart again and those eight years of longing felt like a traito
r force inside her defences. She frowned up at him before she tapped on her own back door to warn Joan she was back. She opened it just wide enough for him to follow her in before even more warmth escaped.

  ‘It’s only me, Joan,’ she called out as they stood in the narrow hallway shaking snowflakes off their outer wrappings. Through the half-open door to the kitchen she could see a fire still burning and there was no sign of hasty preparations for a reckless journey. Rosalind sighed at her own idiocy—fancy her believing there was any chance of getting away in such weather.

  ‘There’s going to be far too much snow for us to go anywhere until—’ Joan stopped on the stairs as soon as she was far enough down them to see Ash’s towering figure in the tiny hall where the shadows cast by the rush light burning in its holder made him look even more alien. Joan glared at him before descending the rest of the way in tight-lipped silence.

  ‘Do continue,’ he invited so smoothly Rosalind glared at him as well.

  ‘I have nothing good to say to you, young man,’ Joan said sharply.

  ‘You used to like me,’ he said, a half-smile smoothing away the thunderclouds for a moment as if he was pleased to see her.

  ‘I used to be a fool then.’

  ‘No, I think Rosalind and I were those,’ he said with a hint of regret in his voice to make Rosalind think so as well, until she remembered why he was here and hardened her heart.

  Joan glanced warily at Rosalind, who shrugged and could not say where Jenny was in front of Ash, since there was still the faintest chance he would not find out about her.

  ‘I know I have a child,’ he announced as if he could read their hastily exchanged looks far too easily. ‘I presume you left her at the local vicarage to keep her out of my way?’