The Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “Where the devil are you, Marcus? You’ve been silent as the Duchess you’ve told me so much about.”

  “I’ve told you very little about the Duchess. Very, very little.”

  “Just last week when you were quite foxed, you told me a bit more than very little.”

  “Contrive to forget it. I have. I’ve forgotten her. I hope she has a protector, she’s her mother’s daughter, isn’t she? Actually I was just thinking about my cousin Trevor—Jesus, Trevor!—it’s too nauseating to contemplate. I’m certain he’s slender as a girl, with soft skin and hair, ah, but just hair on his fop’s head, nowhere else on his body. And he probably lisps and wears his shirt points to his ears. He probably has as much muscle as Lisette.”

  North laughed and punched Marcus in his good arm. “Here we are at Lisette’s charming apartment. Go relieve yourself, Marcus, and try to enjoy yourself as well. Have Lisette position you in a more charming frame of mind. After all, I’m the one with the dark soul, with the black meanderings, not you. See that she takes care of you and I, well, I believe I will have a tidy little dinner and see what else the evening has to offer.”

  The men separated and Marcus knocked on Lisette’s front door. He listened, hearing her light footfalls as she ran to answer the door. Lisette never walked or glided. She was never silent when he made love to her. Ah, how he loved to hear her scream when he brought her to her release. Not like that damned Duchess. Doubtless she’d be silent as the tomb.

  Lisette DuPlessis looked pleased to see her Major Lord, as she called him in her lisping English—bloody foppish Trevor probably said it just the way she did—only he didn’t have her marvelous breasts that drew his hands and his mouth in rapid succession.

  She took his cape, his cane and unstrapped his sword, touching it lovingly. She ran her fingers over his scarlet and white uniform, delighting in the feel of the fabric and of him, just beneath it, speaking all the while, telling him what she’d done since she’d last seen him, which had been only the night before. She spoke to him now in French, save for his title, and since his French was nearly as fluent as his Portuguese, he had no difficulty speaking and understanding. Ah, but she’d taught him sex words over the past weeks that curled his toes and made him hard as a stone.

  He kissed her, then discovered he didn’t want to stop. Her breath was warm and sweet with the rich red Bordeaux she’d drunk. She was drinking too much, he thought, but for the moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to be inside her. Her breathing quickened, and her hands, never still, never lingering, made him wild.

  He wanted to go slowly, but Lisette knew men very well, despite her tender nineteen years. She knew he wanted her, knew that he was wild with lust—a young man was always wild with it—and thus, she accommodated him with aplomb, stripping off his clothes in a moment of time, drawing him quickly into her bedchamber and onto her bed, covering him, urging him to come inside her. He did and it was over too quickly.

  He said finally, once his breathing had slowed, and his heart was nearing its normal pace again, “I’m sorry, Lisette. I’m a pig.”

  Her busy hands were busy on his back, stroking him, long deep strokes, sweeping over his buttocks to gently ease between his legs. She giggled, bit his chin. “True, my lord, but I will be understanding. Will you promise to do better next time?”

  He grinned down at her, feeling all the grinding boredom of the day fall away from him. “Yes,” he said, rolling off her to rise to stand beside the bed. “Yes, I will do much better.”

  “Already, my lord?” She eyed him with enthusiasm.

  PARIS, HOTEL BEAUVAU, RUE ROYALE

  Badger wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  She eyed him with growing impatience. “Come, Badger, did you find him? Do you know where he lives?”

  “Yes,” Badger said, nothing more, nothing less.

  She waited. Obviously he was disturbed about something. He didn’t want to tell her what it was. She walked to the gilded blue brocade settee and sat down. She said nothing more, merely waited. She began to sing in her mind, Lord Castlereagh needs more bombast. He speaks too softly, never will he last. He needs to take lessons from Talleyrand, who has more guile than any man.

  It was a beginning. Actually Canning had sufficient guile for any two ministers. She started to hum, realized that the melody was too close to another, and paused, her brow furrowed, trying to think of a different tune.

  Suddenly, without warning, Badger said, “He’s got a mistress, damn his eyes for being young and randy and like every other young randy man!”

  “Talleyrand?” she said, at sea. “Canning?”

  “No, no, his lordship. I followed him and Lord Chilton—a man we want to avoid at all costs, Duchess, trust me, he’s dangerous—they separated, and his lordship went in to see this young girl who greeted him and I know she was his mistress because she hugged him and kissed him and drew him inside this narrow building on the Rue de Varenne. Her hands were all over him, Duchess. He must live there, with her, or at least visit her all the time, nearly.”

  “Well,” she said reasonably, keeping some distinctly hateful feelings at bay. “He doesn’t have all that much money. He must practice economies, I suppose. Two households would doubtless place a strain on his budget. But I will wager you, Badger, that he has his own apartment. Marcus wouldn’t live with a mistress. I don’t know why I’m so certain, but I am.”

  “You shouldn’t be so damned understanding.”

  “He is perfectly free to do exactly as he pleases and with whom he pleases. At least at this particular moment he is. Does Spears live in this apartment as well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There, you see, he does have his own lodging.”

  “Again, I don’t know. I hung about for a good two hours, and then he came out with her on his arm and off they went to one of those Frog restaurants that pride themselves on serving that nasty tripe covered with even nastier sauces. Animal entrails! Jesus, it makes me shudder. No, I didn’t see Mr. Spears.”

  “We must find him before we begin The Plan. Spears must approve. I’m so pleased Mr. Wicks at least told us Marcus was with Wellington’s staff here in Paris. Even that upset his lawyer’s innards.”

  “I know. Tomorrow morning, early, I’ll go back to the apartment and see where the earl goes.”

  “Make it very early, Badger. He has his own lodgings.”

  “His arm is stiff.”

  “What do you mean?” She was sitting forward, suddenly rigid, suddenly very afraid. “What do you mean?” she asked again.

  “I asked around, all discreet. He was wounded in the final battle, at Toulouse.”

  “Oh God. Did you—did you see any pain on his face, Badger? Do you believe he has suffered? Oh God.”

  Badger looked at her full in the face. This was odd, he thought, but hopeful. “I don’t know. Don’t worry, Duchess. Tomorrow, no matter what else, I’ll find Mr. Spears. Shall I bring him here?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, but she appeared distracted. Good God, he thought, she’s thinking about his lordship being wounded. It bothers her. Glory be, this was better than he’d ever imagined. If only they’d heard from Mr. Spears before they’d left London.

  Spears said in his patented bland voice, “Did you hear, my lord, that when old King George—while held in the kind restraining hands of his two wardens—was told the Allies had marched into France two months ago, he asked who commanded the British forces. He was told it was Wellington. Old George shouted, ‘That’s a damned lie. He was shot two years ago.’ ”

  Marcus grinned. “Poor old mad George III. If he ever becomes lucid and discovers his son is the most scorned prince in history, it would likely split his spleen and push him into eternity. Before he became as raving mad as a jackdaw, he wasn’t all that bad a ruler.”

  “I think he knows, my lord,” Spears said. “Yes, many believe the stupidity and endless greed of the son led the father into insanity. Now, my lord, it is time for
you to bathe and dress. I believe you’re commanded to attend the festivities at the Hôtel de Sully.”

  Marcus grumbled and cursed, but nonetheless, he was garbed in immaculate evening wear, and on his way in a hackney coach to the Marais, to the Hôtel de Sully on the Rue Saint Antoine, for a diplomatic ball. He didn’t believe he’d mentioned the ball to Spears, yet he’d known. The bloody man always knew everything. Marcus just shook his head and leaned back against the surprisingly clean squabs of the hackney. No surprise, really, for Spears had seen to the fetching of the coach, as well as everything else, curse his eyes.

  Spears waited patiently until he saw his lordship well ensconced in the coach and on his way. He donned his cape and hat and took himself to the Rue Royale.

  To his surprise and displeasure, she answered his knock. “Duchess,” he said formally. “Why are you not in the drawing room? Why did you answer the door? It is not done. Mr. Badger shouldn’t allow this. I will speak to him about this.”

  “Pray do not, Spears. Badger is preparing our dinner and Maggie is doubtless preening. I believe she is seeing a Russian soldier this evening, not an underling, mind you, but a man of standing, and doubtless of grand good looks. She says she has a vast interest in Russian history and this young cossack is just the man to teach her. Oh my, let me take your cape and hat. Don’t look so disapproving, Spears. I’m not helpless just because I’m no longer a bastard.”

  “It simply isn’t done,” he said, stepping away from her, “but I can see that you will continue to disagree with me. Now, this female, this Maggie, she’s the one who saved Badger’s life in Portsmouth before you sailed to France? The woman who saved him from being run over by a runaway mail coach?”

  “Maggie saved him all right. She yelled and knocked him right out of the way. She says she doesn’t know why she did it, she just did. She’s an actress, you know, and she tells me she’s quite good. However, she was temporarily, er, without acting employment, and thus I offered her a position as my maid, something she’s never done before, but as she says, she’s bright and willing and Paris is ever so exciting. And so she’ll give me a trial.”

  “That is quite the oddest thing I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t sound appropriate as your personal maid.”

  “I think, Spears, that Maggie will change your mind. I like her. She’s different, somehow whole and unsullied, despite her rather colorful background. There is kindness in her and the sweetest devilment imaginable.”

  Spears divested himself of his own outer garments. His attitude was stiff. It wasn’t her duty to see to him. If she were lax in matters of propriety, he most certainly wasn’t. He would speak both to Mr. Badger and to this Maggie, who was a sweet devil.

  “Do come into the parlor or salon, as the French say. I want to hear everything. First, why didn’t you write me? I had to find out from Mr. Wicks that Marcus was here in Paris. Then it took Badger nearly three days to find him.”

  “I know,” Spears said gently. “I will tell you everything.”

  “His arm, Spears, is he all right? Why didn’t you tell me he’d been wounded? Why didn’t you write to me or send a messenger?”

  Spears was silent a moment, then shook his head slowly. “I had no wish to worry you.” He sighed deeply. “I fear it still gives his lordship a lot of pain. The bullet fragments are still embedded, you see, in his upper arm. Many times he can’t sleep with the pain. Naturally he refuses to be quacked. He won’t even allow a tincture of laudanum in a cup of tea. I have, of course, many times ignored his wishes to do what is best for him.”

  Her face was perfectly white and Spears quickly added, his voice smooth and persuasive as a vicar’s, “But for the most part, it continues to heal. A physician could do nothing really. The fragments are very, very small and they eventually make their way out of the arm, which sounds rather disgusting, but it happens and it’s a good thing it does happen. It’s just a matter of time until he is perfectly fit again, Duchess.”

  “Time grows short.”

  “Actually,” Badger said from the drawing room doorway, a huge wooden ladle in his hand, “time runs out in exactly two and one half weeks. I, for one, hate to leave things to the last minute. Last minute endeavors never succeed.”

  “Mr. Badger has told me of your plan, Duchess. It will work. We will contrive.” She believed him. He would make a splendid Foreign Minister, she thought, and took his arm as they walked into the dining room. There was no one to remark that the very rich young English lady, who had no chaperon and whose personal maid was upstairs arranging her glorious red hair in preparation to drive a young Russian cossack mad, was eating in the splendidly decorated dining room with her cook and an earl’s valet.

  The Duchess didn’t hear a thing from Spears until the following evening.

  “His lordship,” Spears said with admirable control, and with two bright spots of color on his lean cheeks, “got into a fisticuffs last night. He is in bed with two cracked ribs, a black eye, and nearly an entire set of bruised knuckles. All his teeth, however, and thank the good Lord, are unharmed, still white and even and whole. He was also grinning like a sinner.”

  “How could he fight with his arm still hurt?”

  Badger laughed. “Mr. Spears, did he tell you how his opponents fared?”

  “Yes. Evidently one of the English officers called him the Dispossessed Earl, and his lordship beat the, er . . . he gave better than he got. He was hurt because this opponent had friends. It was one-sided, you see. His arm wasn’t harmed Duchess. It was unfortunate that Lord Chilton was occupied elsewhere, or his ribs just might have survived.”

  “I see,” the Duchess said, her voice faint. “However does anyone know about the stipulations of my father’s will?”

  “These things have a way of spreading,” Badger said. “Like the plague.”

  “That is an excellent analogy, Mr. Badger. Very apt. Any news that titillates precludes secrets. His lordship’s, er, mistress is with him, at his request. She very prettily asked me to provide her with the appropriate nostrums. I left her gently daubing his lordship’s brow with a soft cloth dipped in rosewater, and humming one of those new ditties to him, by that English fellow.”

  “His mistress with him?” she said, her voice thin and high. “Soothing his fevered brow?”

  “I do not believe his brow is fevered. Despite his injuries, his lordship was giving her many, er, interested looks, which bodes well for his general feeling of well-being. However, despite his lordship’s wishes as regards her, I will nonetheless contrive to send her back to her own dwelling this evening. It may be very late, but it will be done.” He gently flicked a piece of lint from his dark blue jacket sleeve. “You will be relieved to know she isn’t a harpy, Duchess, nor is she always pestering his lordship for baubles and jewels and the like. Indeed, I believe she cares as much for his lordship as a creature of her stamp can care for anyone.”

  Like my mother, she thought, but said aloud, “I am delighted to hear it. Actually, relief is an emotion I’m not feeling at the moment, Spears. Perhaps I should invite her to tea to thank her for her restraint.”

  Spears turned away, hiding his very small grin, saying over his shoulder, “Perhaps it isn’t such a good idea. She would expire with shock.”

  “That would be a good start,” the Duchess said.

  Rancor, Spears thought. It was indeed rancor, a goodly dose of it.

  He said, “Her name is Lisette DuPlessis.”

  The Duchess said nothing to that.

  “His lordship likes her name. He thinks it sweet.”

  “I don’t trust Marcus,” the Duchess said finally, looking over Spears’s right shoulder. “I don’t want to chance leaving this business until the last minute. I agree with Badger. I want to complete the matter tonight.”

  “If his lordship will allow me to remove his mistress from his bedchamber.”

  “You said you would contrive.”

  “That’s right,” Badger said. “Mr. Spears wil
l see it done, Duchess. Don’t worry. With his lordship at less than his full strength, it should make things easier. Also, Lord Chilton is at Fontainebleau and thus won’t be in our way.”

  She remarked to the heavy brocade draperies, so typically golden, and so typically French in their heaviness and opulence, “His lordship is incapable of making anything easier. It isn’t in his nature. If you both believe otherwise, you don’t know him well.”

  9

  IT WAS DARK. There was no moon, no stars to lighten the sky. Rain clouds bulged thick and heavy. Even as they spoke, it began to drizzle sullenly. There were no people on the Rue de Grenelle. A few candles were lit in the huge mansions, but not many.

  Literary salons, she thought.

  Men enjoying their wives or mistresses, Spears thought.

  Mincing French chefs preparing menus, Badger thought.

  The Duchess pulled her cloak more tightly about her neck. “No, don’t say it,” she said sharply to Badger. “I will not hang back and wait for you to whistle to me. I’m staying with you and I’ll hear no more about it. No more arguments.”

  They walked the last few steps to the earl’s lodgings.

  “He’s asleep,” Spears said, pointing to a third-floor window that was completely dark. “I didn’t give him all that much laudanum, but enough to send him into a stupor.”

  “What if he can’t speak?”

  “Don’t worry, Duchess,” Badger said. “We will sprinkle his lordship’s face with some of his mistress’s rosewater until he’s conscious enough to do what he’s told.”

  She shot Badger a look, but held her tongue. Damn Marcus for making all this intrigue necessary. She realized, even as she damned him for it, that she was enjoying herself. Hugely.

  “It is nearly three o’clock,” she said. “I have timed this two times now. Everything is on schedule. The official you bribed will be here in ten minutes. What is his name, Badger?”