The Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “You don’t want me here. Why are you being perverse? Is the vicar due to call on you? Do you fear he will see your wife leaving you?”

  He was silent. He turned away from her and began his familiar pacing, back and forth at an angle between the bed and the winged chair, long strides in his black boots.

  He was such a splendid-looking creature. She liked him in those tight buckskin breeches. She remembered how he’d looked in his uniform and sighed again. “I’m willing to leave, Marcus. As you know, I’m very rich. And you also know, even without the money my father left me, I can still manage. I obviously didn’t get pregnant on purpose, that, I suppose, is impossible. But I am with child and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Suddenly she sucked in her breath and whispered, “No, surely not. You don’t want me to do that.”

  “Surely not what? What don’t I want you to do?”

  “I have heard of women who try to rid themselves of their babies and many succeed. They stick things inside themselves. Sometimes they die too.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Duchess, just shut up. Yes, I can certainly see you tripping into some back alley in York asking for an old besom to rid you of the child. Or better yet, why don’t I drag you by your hair into a back alley? Just cease your asinine talk. You may be quiet or you may turn red raging at me. Just don’t be a fool.” He began pacing again, more quickly now, his steps longer, his heels clicking on the wooden floor. He was indeed very nice to look at, the sod.

  “What do you want me to do, Marcus?”

  Then he turned and he was smiling. “It seems that now I won’t have to withdraw from you. The damage is done, so to speak.”

  She could only stare at him. “You said Celeste would be here in four days.”

  “I could have lied. I’m a Wyndham and it is a possibility that I didn’t write to her instructing her to come. You possibly know I was perhaps lying, don’t pretend otherwise. Since your bouts of illness come and go with neither rhyme nor reason, then I’d best enjoy you when a propitious moment is offered. Like now.”

  She didn’t move for the longest time, nor did she speak. Then, very slowly, she rose from the bed, walked to the chamber pot, and retched.

  “Well, hell,” he said, kicked over a stool, and went to hold his wife until she sagged back against him.

  “You know,” he said, drawling out his words as he lightly stroked her hair from her face, “I just might have Celeste come after all. You are in no shape to offer me much of anything, fight or passion. What do you think, Duchess?”

  “You just try it,” she said.

  He stared at her a long moment. She could see him thinking, sorting through ideas, then he said, “I think I’m beginning to see things more clearly. I don’t think you had any intention of leaving Chase Park or me, did you?”

  “Did you not see the valises? Wasn’t Maggie all decked as fine as a nine pence? Was the carriage not there waiting?”

  “Did you?”

  Actually he was perfectly right. She was only pretending to leave, the valises had been empty, and Maggie, bless her actress’s heart, had doubtless enjoyed herself immensely. She’d prayed he would come to grips with the existence of the child, prayed that if he thought she was leaving him, he would realize he wanted her, that he wanted both her and their child. Now she had no idea at all if she’d gotten what she’d prayed for.

  She remained silent. She wouldn’t give him that kind of ammunition. Her chin went into the air.

  “You now offer me another challenge,” he said, and his blue eyes glittered. “You like games, madam? Now that I know what you’re about, you’ll soon realize you haven’t got a chance. You will be humiliated. You’re a mere babe at this. You have no clue of proper strategy, no instinct for just what to do at any exact moment. Yes, a challenge from you—when you’re not puking on the rosebushes—just might please me.”

  “I just might leave you tonight, at eight o’clock.”

  He laughed.

  “I don’t like it,” Marcus said to Badger and Spears. “She’s ill all the time. She’s pale and she’s thin as a damned stick. She’s too exhausted to even get angry, and the good Lord knows I bait her enough when she appears well, goad her until if I were her I’d shoot me or stab me with a dinner knife, but she doesn’t even take a nibble.”

  “That is worrisome indeed, for you are renowned for your bait, my lord,” Spears said.

  “I don’t like it either,” Badger said. “You are also renowned for your goads.”

  “Another two weeks,” Spears said. “I understand your concern, but I have studied this thoroughly, my lord. Surely just another two weeks and she’ll be much improved. Mr. Badger is preparing excellent dishes for her to eat, and what she is managing to keep in her belly is very healthful for her and the babe.”

  Marcus flinched whenever anyone mentioned the child. He still had no idea what he was going to do. Send her away when she was well again? To Pipwell Cottage? He cursed, which made both Badger and Spears regard him with some surprise.

  “I had thought, my lord,” Spears said, “that this was a meeting with a purpose, namely, to relieve your mind of your wife’s continued illness.”

  “You sound as austere as my mother, Spears. Incidentally, when is my fond parent to arrive?”

  “Mr. Sampson said she would be coming the third week of July.”

  “Oh God, can you just see my mother with Aunt Wilhelmina? She and that harpy from Baltimore will have a fine old time. Poor Aunt Gweneth—she’ll be buried along with the rest of us beneath the sweet poison darts those two will be flinging about.”

  “Your mother isn’t at all difficult,” Spears said. “She is amusing. She doesn’t suffer fools, thus I wager that the harpy from Baltimore will quickly find herself at point non plus. I told Mr. Badger that she was fanciful, what with her adoration of Medieval legend and lore. Quite harmless, I would say, my lord, and charming.”

  “Not only Medieval, Spears. She believes that Mary, Queen of Scots, is just one step earthward of the Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven. I fear that she and Aunt Wilhelmina together will send all of us to early graves. My mother is sharp-witted, you know. She quite terrifies me.”

  There was a cough at the door. It was James Wyndham and he was looking steadily at Marcus.

  “Ah, James, do come in. Spears, Badger, and I were just conferring on the possible winners at Ascot next month. What do you think, Elysian Fields or Robert the Bruce? Both are strong in the chest and run faster than a storm.”

  “I have always thought that Robert the Bruce—the man—was just excellent. I should bet on him.”

  “Just so, Master James,” Spears said. “Now, Mr. Badger, it’s best that you get back to your kitchen. We will all endeavor to curtail our worrying.”

  “What are we having for dinner, Badger?”

  “Baked cod and smoked mussels, my lord. Many other courses as well, but I won’t bore you with the recital of them. Also, some glass pudding, a favorite of the Duchess’s. It’s light so her stomach shouldn’t rebel. I might try another Frog dish, perhaps some crème de pommes de terre aux champignons would sit nicely in her belly.”

  “Potatoes and mushrooms? Yes, give it a try,” Marcus said, half his attention on James Wyndham, who was regarding Spears and Badger as if he’d suddenly stepped into a Drury Lane play and didn’t know his lines. Marcus supposed that the denizens of Chase Park weren’t exactly what one would expect, not that he cared a whit.

  When they were alone, Marcus said, “What’s wrong, James? You look all tight in the jaw.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Marcus, thinking and remembering and thinking some more. When I found the Duchess unconscious on the floor, that book wasn’t on top of the desk. I do remember that clearly. If you don’t mind unlocking the library, I think we should look in that spot in the bookshelves where she found the first one. Perhaps there are more volumes that just might give us clues about the Wyndham treasure.”

  “Let’s go,” Marcus
said. He fetched the library key from Sampson and he and James went into the gloomy room. Marcus threw back the thick draperies. Bright afternoon light poured into the room. “Let’s open some windows as well. This place needs a good airing.”

  He turned to see James on his knees gently pulling out books all along the second bookshelf from the bottom. There were no volumes behind the outside books.

  While James replaced the books, Marcus removed those on the shelf above. Still nothing.

  They continued, saying nothing much, until James let out a cry. “Goodness, here’s something, Marcus.”

  He pulled a very old thick book, that sent up billows of choking dust when he lifted it. It was set behind sermons of a certain George Common, an itinerant preacher of the early last century.

  “It’s just as old,” Marcus said. “Here, James, put it on the desktop.

  “Well,” Marcus said after a few moments, “I’ll be damned and redamned. Your brain is good, James, very good.”

  “My mother believes so,” James said with a cocky grin. “I’ll have to admit that she gave me the idea when she was carping on about the treasure and how to find it. And keep you from finding out, naturally.”

  “Let’s see the back pages.”

  “Marcus, I know you suspect my mother of striking down the Duchess. I know someone in the house is responsible—but my mother? It’s difficult to swallow.”

  “There’s always Trevor or you or Ursula.”

  “I see your point,” James said as he gently turned the pages.

  Marcus looked at her closely, decided she was being honest, and said, “Very well, so your belly isn’t going to revolt in the next two minutes. Here is the book James found. You’ll note there are no pictures, just writing. I’ve gone through it completely and translated it as best I could. The monk or monks who wrote it and the other two tomes tells us here where to find the abbey treasure. His rhyme is about as intelligible and lucid as my translation of it.

  “Look above to find your sign.

  Look hard to find the number nine.

  Take it to the shallow well.

  Beneath the oak tree in the dell.

  Bring a stout bucket and a cord.

  Prepare to kill it with your sword.

  Lean down deep but do beware.

  The monster lives forever in his lair.

  The Janus-faced nines will bring the beast.

  But be quick or be the creature’s feast.”

  “My translation is adequate at best, but what is this about a monster? The beast lives in the well? And a nine that is Janus-faced? A deceitful nine? That’s a kicker, isn’t it? What do you think, Duchess?”

  “That oak tree and well I’ve been looking for—why, that’s it, Marcus.”

  “Well, it can’t be that simple. There’s still this nonsense about looking up to find this number nine, whatever the devil that means. And the monster in the well—”

  “My lord.”

  “Yes, Spears, what is it?”

  “Mr. Trevor Wyndham wishes to see you.”

  “Shall I allow him in your bedchamber, Duchess? The bloody rake just might get the wrong idea. He’s a man and he’s got too much experience for my peace of mind and you’re looking particularly fetching and vulnerable, a combination to drive any man wild with lust.”

  “Do show Mr. Wyndham in, Spears,” she said. “My husband will surely protect my virtue.”

  He was huge and dark and excessively handsome, this cousin of hers. She realized that Marcus was regarding him with a vicious look and said, “Hello, Trevor. Have you come to see the book James found?”

  “You look lovely, Duchess. You’re feeling more the thing now? Has this boorish dolt been wearying you? Shall I remove him and perhaps challenge him to a duel of wit?”

  “My wit, Trevor, will always make yours look like a withered stump. However, I have a dueling pistol that trains its sights automatically on bloody Americans. Particularly hungry Americans who look like slavering wolves at my wife.”

  “You mean, Duchess, there are other men just like me who slaver like wolves at you?”

  “If there were others, they’re long gone now. Being vilely ill tends to dampen ardor, I should say.”

  “Your repartee is grating on my nerves,” Marcus said, rising. He found himself staring right in Trevor’s eyes. “Damn you, I wouldn’t have minded you being a fop, a mincing little dandy. Then I could have mocked you or ignored you, as the mood took me.”

  Trevor grinned his white-toothed grin, saying, “Sorry, Marcus, but the last time I was little I was five years old. Now, you two, James showed me the rhyme. Nothing else but that? An entire volume filled with nonsense about the abbey’s woes with signing the Act of Supremacy, their worries that King Henry would accuse them of owing their allegiance to the pope and not to him, which was, naturally, quite true. Then at the end, just that fool poem about the treasure?”

  “That’s about it,” Marcus said. “I can’t imagine that you’d have any ideas. You don’t, do you?”

  “Let me see the book and I’ll tell you.”

  After ten minutes, Marcus said sharply, “Take the bloody thing and give it to your mother. We’ve got the poem that is surely an aberration of our mad monk’s mind. There’s nothing else that James or I could see helpful. A monster in a well, a nine that is Janus-faced—two nines together yet facing apart. It seems like a mess of nonsense.”

  “It does, but I’ll give it to my mother. She’s nearly bursting her seams with curiosity, and fury at James, of course, for drawing you into it, Marcus. The poem will keep her occupied, at least for a short time.”

  “Trevor,” the Duchess said after he’d left her bedchamber, “isn’t remotely a fop.”

  “No, he’s more the beast in the well, the bloody scavenger.”

  23

  THE DUCHESS SLAPPED her riding crop against her boot. She felt wonderful, her belly was happy with Badger’s scones and honey, and she’d ridden Birdie without incident all around the St. Swale’s Abbey, to the north this time. She just hadn’t found anything. No oak tree, no dell, no bucket, no well, nothing. Not even a monster of any repute, not even a nine that was just a simple nine, much less a nine that was front-faced and one that was backward.

  But she wasn’t cast down, oh no. She couldn’t wait to see Marcus. The past three days he’d not come to her bed, but he hadn’t avoided her; he’d been as assiduous in his attentions to her as a mother superior to the Virgin Mary herself. She wanted to pound him into the ground for not acting remotely like he should act, like he’d always acted since she’d met him when she was nine years old—irritating her until she was raging at him, mocking her, making her want to kill him and kiss him and tease him. No, he was acting like a reasonable man, a man who was calm and deliberate, a passionless man she disliked immensely.

  She began to whistle a tune that had popped into her mind and still hadn’t words yet to go with it. She had the idea though. It made her grin just to think of the Congress of Vienna and how Caroline Lamb and Lord Byron should attend. Just imagine what those two could achieve in the way of new boundaries for conquered countries.

  She was still whistling when she turned the corner around a huge row of yew bushes that gave onto the front drive. There was a carriage with its four horses blowing and the door was open and there was Marcus helping down a very delicious piece of feminine confection, and this delicious piece was dressed elegantly in a traveling gown of dark green with a matching bonnet tied charmingly beneath her chin. One dainty foot was showing in a soft kid traveling boot of matching dark green.

  She watched Marcus raise her gloved hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. She heard a clear, sweet laugh. She saw the woman lightly stroke her gloved fingers over his cheek. She saw her go up on her tiptoes and kiss him right on his mouth.

  She saw red.

  “How dare you! Get your hands off my husband. Marcus, get your mouth off hers, you rotten sod!”


  She skittered to a halt when the lovely creature turned to look at her, clear gray eyes wide with what? Puzzlement? Amusement? She didn’t know.

  “Oh,” the woman said sweetly, “and who are you? Do you work perchance in his lordship’s stables?”

  “She does anything I tell her to do,” Marcus said, and patted the woman’s hand, “a good thing in a woman. Actually, Celeste, you can call her the Duchess. She’s the wife of mine I wrote to you about.”

  Celeste!

  The red she saw was turning more crimson by the moment. “You told me you probably lied, you wretched real liar! You didn’t, you wouldn’t dare bring her here, you rarefied lout. Gracious heavens, I’ll kill you!”

  She didn’t think, just acted. She’d already struck him with a riding crop. She needed something else. There wasn’t anything else unless she could rip a branch from that time tree, and that damned branch was too high for her to reach. She sat down in the driveway, pulled off her riding boot, leapt back to her feet and headed straight at him, swinging it over her head.

  She yelled as she swung, “I told you I would make you sorry. Oh, why don’t I ever have a gun when I need it?”

  She struck him hard on his shoulder. He quickly set Celeste away from him. “Now, Duchess, you have been ill, you know. I’ve been a saint these past days, allowing you to rest your fill, but I’m a man, Duchess. Surely you don’t want to be a selfish wife, one who doesn’t see beyond the needs of her own sick belly. Celeste here is really quite congenial. She’ll see to me quite nicely. There’s no reason for you to be upset or to worry.”

  “I haven’t been ill in four days. Four days and you’ve acted like a man bent on obtaining sainthood through celibacy! You haven’t even yelled at me once. You haven’t even made me want to hit you a single time. You’ve been a bloodless fool and I’ve hated you.” She swung viciously and the heel hit his forearm hard. Where was that woman? Ah, she was still hiding behind Marcus. No matter that she was a woman, she was a coward and the Duchess despised her for it.