The Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “Ah yes, my lord. A nasty place, I’ve heard. Now about the garden, my lord, and what the Duchess said?”

  “Oh very well. I said something then—made my presence known—and she turned into stone—nothing new in that. Now, I’m going riding. I hear that bloody effete sod, Trevor, is out marching one of my horses over my acres. Doubtless he’s marking off boundaries to see how rich he will be.”

  “But you said he would be rich, my lord. Either he or his progeny.”

  “Go to hell, Spears. This is different. This is now, and I won’t have the bugger treating Chase Park as if he’s the earl. I will put a stop to his insolence. I wonder if the peacock uses a sidesaddle.”

  “It is an interesting speculation, my lord. Will you be back for luncheon?”

  “Yes, if I can find the fellow. I think I’ll bloody his nose, no, that would make him shriek and perhaps cry. That would never do. No, I’ll offer to lead his horse back to the Park for him. Surely he’ll be fatigued by the time I find him. I wouldn’t want the poor little dandy to overtire himself.”

  “Most considerate of you, my lord.”

  The Duchess was hungry but she didn’t want to go into the dining room and face Aunt Wilhelmina. But poor Mr. Wicks didn’t stand a chance around that formidable lady so she knew she couldn’t leave him alone. She shuddered, remembering how Mr. Wicks had told her in a trembling voice how Aunt Wilhelmina had come to his bedchamber—bedchamber!—and proceeded to get everything out of him that she wanted to know because he was so startled, so taken aback, so incredulous. In short, Aunt Wilhelmina was a force to be reckoned with.

  Where was Marcus?

  He’d kissed her fingers, then smoothly introduced himself to Ursula, hugged Antonia and Fanny, then taken his leave, not looking at her again, or tossing her another meager word.

  She sat in her place at the table. Aunt Gweneth had insisted she take the countess’s chair, that it was only right. She’d merely been residing in that chair until the true countess could occupy it. She’d been charming since the Duchess and Mr. Wicks had arrived, treating the new countess of Chase as if she’d been a bastard again. The Duchess was vastly relieved. The last thing she wanted was Aunt Gweneth’s nose out of joint. The earl’s chair at the other end of the twelve-foot table was empty.

  No Marcus. She noticed that Trevor was missing as well. At least Mr. Crittaker was here, speaking kindly to Ursula.

  She nodded to Sampson to begin serving the luncheon.

  Aunt Wilhelmina said in a carrying voice, “Where is my nephew, the one who’s set himself up as the new earl? He has yet to introduce himself to me.”

  “I met him, Mama,” Ursula said as she forked up a bite of turtle soup. “He is very handsome and ever so big and nice. His hair is as black as the Duchess’s and his eyes are a light blue too, just like hers.”

  “They are related,” Wilhelmina said. “They should not have married. It is not natural or healthy. Any offspring could be gnomes.”

  “Really, ma’am,” the Duchess said easily, “it’s all perfectly legal. The Church doesn’t object, after all.”

  “The Church of England,” Aunt Wilhelmina said with a goodly dose of contempt. “What do those old fools know? If a man has a title and money to bribe them, they’ll bend any rule that’s ever been written. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  “I assure you, ma’am, no bribery was necessary. Actually, his lordship and I were married in France. It is very Catholic there, ma’am. Even the civil requirements are as strict as those of the Church.”

  “The French,” Aunt Wilhelmina said and snorted, just like Birdie, the Duchess’s mare. “It is all understandable now. Perhaps I had best ask if your marriage is even valid in England.”

  “I assure you, ma’am, that it is. Mr. Wicks will also give you assurances. He would, I daresay, even give you the assurances here, at the luncheon table, rather than in his bedchamber. Now, everyone doesn’t need to hear more of our chatter. I suggest that we eat.”

  “You’re a stupid shrew and a bitch.”

  “You didn’t . . . no, no, surely no. Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “I said all of this has come out of the blue and everything’s gone off without a hitch, for you. What else could I have said?”

  Evidently as Aunt Wilhelmina’s indignation increased, her ability to match her cover-ups to her insults lessened.

  “He should have come to meet me,” Wilhelmina said. “The new earl shows no respect. It shows his lack of breeding.”

  That was probably true, the Duchess thought, at least the respect part. “You will enjoy his company at dinner, ma’am,” she said easily. She raised her glass and Toby, the footman, poured her more lemonade. “Thank you,” she said and smiled at him.

  “He should die.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” the Duchess said, ignoring the gasp from Mr. Crittaker, who was sitting next to Aunt Wilhelmina and thus could hear even her muttered words.

  “I said the earl would cry over this ham. It is too salty and the pieces are sliced too thick.”

  Mr. Wicks sent the Duchess an anguished look. He took another bite then excused himself. The Duchess knew poor Ursula couldn’t budge from her chair until her mother gave her permission to do so. As for Fanny and Antonia, they looked too astonished to budge.

  She ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully as she looked at her young cousin James, who was just her age. He would probably be as large a man as Marcus when he reached his full growth. Now, though, he had still a boy’s slenderness. His hair was fair and slightly curly, his eyes a wonderful dark green, and his chin was square as the devil, stubborn, if she didn’t miss her guess. He was also very quiet, perhaps sullen, his eyes on his plate, eating one bite after the other without pause. He seemed oblivious of all of them. She remembered Ursula saying that he was angry because he wanted to be the man of the family, not Trevor. She noted the very beautiful onyx ring on the index finger of his right hand. It was set in an intricate gold design. She wondered idly where he’d gotten it.

  The time crawled. She had no more thought, idle or otherwise, she was too bored, too itchy. She wished Marcus would come in. She just wanted to look at him. She also wanted to look at his ribs and his arm to see that he’d healed properly.

  Finally, when she knew escape was now possible, she smiled and rose. “Forgive me, but I have business to see to. If you will all excuse me.”

  “She thinks she’s royalty, the stupid bitch.”

  “What did you say, Mama?”

  “I said her gown is lovely, and looks quite rich.”

  Mr. Crittaker choked on the muffin he was eating.

  She walked sedately from the breakfast room, though, truth be told, she would have preferred running.

  She went to the small back morning room she had taken over, and set herself to reading the London Times. She read the society pages, trying to find some amusing tidbits, but failed. It held only a mite of her attention for about ten minutes. She kept thinking about Marcus, wondering where he was.

  She couldn’t wait to see what he made of that mincing fop, Trevor.

  Marcus slowed Stanley to a canter, enjoying the fresh summer air on his face. The sun was high overhead, a bit warm, but no matter. Where was that wretched coxcomb, Trevor?

  The gall of the man, stealing his ill-tempered stallion, Clancy, despite Lambkin’s assurances that the brute was mean and vicious and not to be trusted. Lambkin had said the American gentleman had just laughed, mounted Clancy without a single problem, and ridden off to the east. So Clancy had been feeling charitable, more’s the pity. Ah, but it never lasted. He hoped his cousin wasn’t dead, yet.

  Marcus had been riding over three hours now, and still no sign of that poaching sod, Trevor. He’d stopped to speak to his tenants when he chanced upon them, feeling oddly warm inside when they greeted him enthusiastically and welcomed him home. The men had asked him all about the damned Frogs, finally beaten down into the ground just as they’d deserved, f
lattened by our British troops, aye, and about that tyrant, Napoleon, the king—no, bloody emperor—of the clobbered Frogs. His tenants treated him as if he’d been the one to make Napoleon abdicate single-handedly. The wives had smiled at him and given him cider. The children had regarded him with favorable awe.

  It had felt good, damned good. For the first time, he’d felt like he really belonged here. As the master of Chase Park, as the earl of Chase. Maybe.

  Marcus realized he was hungry. Where was Trevor? Had Clancy finally turned into himself again—treacherous bugger—and thrown him? Was he dead at this moment? A nice thought, that. No, he’d probably sprained his ankle and was limping gracefully back to the Park, one white soft hand pressed against his brow. Maybe he was even quoting some of Byron’s poetry to romanticize his trifling complaints.

  Marcus snorted, then chanced to see someone riding toward him from the north. He pulled Stanley to a stop and waited.

  It couldn’t be the fop, Trevor. No, as Clancy got closer, he saw that the man riding toward him was big, as large as he was—that is, the top part of him was. Maybe he was a dwarf with short legs, but Marcus didn’t think so. The man rode as one with that brute, Clancy, swaying easily in the saddle, in complete control, his gloved hands holding the reins easily. Damnation. It had to be that bloody Trevor.

  When Clancy got close enough, Marcus, absolutely furious, feeling like a damned fool, shouted, “Why the hell didn’t you change your bloody fop’s name?”

  The man didn’t answer until he’d pulled Clancy to a well-mannered halt directly in front of Stanley’s nose. He grinned, a white-toothed grin that held mockery, an infuriating understanding, and a good deal of humor. He shrugged, then said, in a soft southern Colonial drawl, “I presume you’re my cousin Marcus? The earl?”

  Marcus stared at the man, a man with vibrant, nearly harsh features, strong nose and jaw, thick black hair and eyes as green as the water reeds that grew thick in the pond in the Chase gardens. He was muscular as hell, his body powerful, obviously an athlete, his posture indolent yet bespeaking authority. He simply didn’t look like a Trevor, damn his sod’s eyes.

  “Yes. Why didn’t you change your name? Good God, man, Trevor! It’s enough to make a real man puke.”

  Trevor laughed, showing dimples that didn’t look at all effeminate, but rather powerfully charming. Marcus would wager this man was a terror with women. He wanted to hate his guts, but he found he couldn’t. He even found himself smiling back at those damned dimples. Trevor said in that lazy drawl of his—stretching out endlessly, like thick honey, just taking its time—that should have made him sound like an affected half-wit, but didn’t at all, “It does tend to lead people to think of me in a different way,” Trevor Wyndham said easily. “That is, naturally, until they meet me. I believe my late father, another one of your uncles, thought it an elegant name. That aside, in all honesty, it is better than the other names he and my mother landed on my head.”

  “What are they?”

  “Horatio Bernard Butts.”

  “Good God,” Marcus said blankly. “Butts?”

  “Yes, Butts was my mother’s maiden name. Awful, isn’t it?” Trevor Wyndham stuck out a strong black-gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally, cousin.”

  Suddenly, Marcus began to laugh. He threw back his head and laughed louder. His cousin was content to watch him. Finally, Marcus wiped his eyes, then took his cousin’s proffered hand and shook it vigorously. “The image I’ve had of you ever since Mr. Wicks told me about the American Wyndhams—good God. I’ve referred to you as a mincing fop and damned coxcomb, and much worse. Forgive me, cousin. If you like, you can smash me in the stomach. Just not my ribs, they’re still sore from a small contretemps I had in Paris.”

  “A contretemps? I would say you’re a dirty fighter, Marcus. Perhaps we can find some ruffians and see which of us is the dirtiest. No, I don’t believe the Duchess would like that. Nor would she like me to strike you. I daresay since you’ve been married such a short while, she still believes you the most handsome, the most noble, the most exquisite of all God’s creatures.”

  Marcus grunted, looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Trevor raised a thick black eyebrow.

  “I would also say that the Duchess is quite the most beautiful woman I’ve even seen.”

  “Have you been to London? To Paris?”

  “No, but I am a man and I’m not blind. You don’t think your wife is immensely lovely?”

  Marcus grunted again, saying nothing, his anger at her simmering and bubbling like a witch’s caldron just beneath the surface. He’d just met his bloody cousin, who, it turned out was a man and not a fop, but he’d be damned if he would spill his guts to him. How dare he carry on about the Duchess as if she were even remotely available to him?

  “Needless to say, my mother was rather perturbed when our Aunt Gweneth informed her upon our arrival that you had married—before the magical date of June sixteenth. She was prostrate with a headache for a good four hours. She quite contemplated the topic until I took over her headache from her.”

  “I did not know you were here at Chase until three days ago. The Duchess had left me a message and I followed.”

  “The Duchess said you were in Paris, seeing to the restoration of the Bourbon.”

  “Yes, consider him restored. As for the rest of it, there will be a congress convened in Vienna this fall. It will probably be as entertaining as the shows at Astley’s Amphitheater.”

  His cousin cocked his head.

  “Ah, Astley’s is a theater of sorts where you will find men and women doing tricks on horseback, girls going into the audience selling oranges and themselves, men harassing bears to make them dance, that sort of thing. The children love it and the young men go there to ogle the scantily clad females.”

  “In Baltimore we have a similar sort of entertainment. It’s called The Fat Man’s Chins.”

  Marcus laughed.

  “It’s odd,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “You look a lot like me. Except for the eyes.”

  “Yes. You’re as dark as a sinister midnight. Our uncle, the former earl, called me the devil’s own son. Does that apply to you as well, cousin?”

  “Perhaps. Recently, at least.” Trevor shrugged, then shook his head at him, dismissing unpleasant thoughts, Marcus thought. He continued, “Your lands are impressive. I borrowed Clancy, though I thought your stable lad, Lambkin, would explode with fear believing this nice fellow would dash me beneath his hooves.”

  Trevor leaned over to pat Clancy’s chestnut neck. Clancy, the perverted bugger, snorted and nodded his great head.

  Marcus wished he could punch the damned horse in his nose. He said, eyeing the stallion with disfavor, “He isn’t known for his sweet temperament. Let him near a mare and he turns into Attila the Hun ready for an orgy. However, you seem to have him well in hand.”

  “I have a way with horses, actually I have a way with most animals. A gift, I suppose. Sometimes an embarrassment, particularly when a lady’s little lapdog bites her mistress to free herself and comes leaping up on my leg, barking her head off. Incidentally, Lambkin seems to worship your every footstep.”

  “Lamb’s a good lad and excellent with the horses. My uncle didn’t like him. Why, I don’t know.”

  “Probably because he’s lame,” Trevor said. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you’re right.”

  “My brother, James, has my mother’s fair coloring and very green eyes. My father’s eyes were a much darker blue, like the Duchess’s. Ah, forgive me. It makes sense since the earl was her father.”

  “Yes,” Marcus said curtly. “You appear to know most of the machinations that have landed upon my head.”

  “Yes. My mother is excellent at badgering people into telling her everything she wants to know. Your Mr. Wicks was no exception. He scarce presented her a challenge. She told me this morning that after everyone had gone to bed, she went to his bedchamber last n
ight, and he was so flustered, he spilled every scape of information he had. Don’t worry yourself, cousin—”

  “Call me Marcus.”

  “Marcus, don’t worry. I will convince her that there is absolutely nothing here for her and remove her as quickly as possible. I’ve a mind to see London again and I think Ursula and James would enjoy themselves, perhaps even at this Astley’s of yours.”

  Marcus pulled on his earlobe, a habit that Badger had. “I don’t mean to pry, Trevor—Good God, that name still curdles my tongue!—but there is no financial problem with your family, is there?”

  “None whatsoever,” Trevor said, his voice becoming quite cool, odd considering that the drawl was still in full force. “My mother simply came without considering that it would be highly probable that you and the Duchess would marry. I tried to make her wait, but she refused. I had no choice, really, but to accompany her here.”

  “Why did she wish to come to Chase Park? Even if the Duchess and I hadn’t married, the Park is entailed, and thus it wouldn’t have been part of our uncle’s legacy.”

  “I don’t know. But she insisted. Father spoke so longingly of Chase Park, perhaps he created this myth in her mind and she had to come. Perhaps she is just nosy. Who knows?”

  Marcus laughed.

  “There is also the Wyndham legacy.”

  “The what?”

  “My father spoke of the Wyndham legacy, his voice always low and whispery, as if he feared someone would overhear, as if it were some sort of dark secret and no one else could know about it. He said that someday he would come back and find it and we would be richer than the mandarins in China.”

  “I have never heard of it. My father never mentioned such a thing nor did the former earl, at least not that I know of. This is very curious. Did your father give you any clues as to what kind of treasure?”

  “I don’t think he knew, even though he spoke of jewels and gold pieces, that sort of thing. But he told my mother of the clues he’d pieced together before our grandfather kicked him out. It was old, he’d say, buried long ago, buried back in the reign of Henry the Seventh, just before Prince Arthur died, when the future Henry the Eighth was just a lad, a golden little boy, he’d whisper, riches beyond belief and all belonging to the Wyndhams. And you’d lean toward him, half-afraid and utterly held by his voice and his words. Then he’d change it the next week and claim it was buried during Henry the Eighth’s time or Queen Elizabeth’s. Who knows?”