“Remember,” she’d once said to Augusta, “when a man or a woman—even a child—has a title, you must abide by what they’re called.”
That was before she’d rattled off titles and their forms of address. Mama’s old charges, for example, were called “my lady”. Father thought it was all mad. He didn’t see how Augusta would ever really need to know these things, but Mama pointed out that she very well could find herself employed in a noble household one day. It was better to be prepared, because one never knew where life could lead.
Augusta never did get that kind of position, but she did assume that a duke was probably more dignified than common folk, as well as better dressed, and if God had blessed him, handsome.
Lord Ainsworth had endured the unimaginable.
Yet, in her eyes, the duke was not nearly as hideous as he was rumored to be.
His body, for one thing, was lean and perfect.
Why, her father was uglier when he was drunk and violent—which was to say, all of the time.
Lord Ainsworth’s face was nowhere near normal, nor was it strictly pleasing to behold. But in it, she could find traces of beauty, even though he frowned at her most of the time. His eyes were an intense shade of dark green, though she conjectured they might have been brighter before he had suffered injury. He could indeed see, of that she was sure, but she did not know how keen his eyesight was.
She didn’t think it could be perfect. The way he cocked his head at her and his aunt reminded her of a very inquisitive bird, but mostly it told her that he had adopted such a mannerism to compensate for a lack of sight.
He had dark brows that pulled together in a nearly teasing manner any time he frowned at her, and his hair was curly and rather long, held behind his neck by a band. Like a pirate from a book, she’d thought when she first realized how long it was. He was tall, too, towering above her in an imposing manner which could have scared her had he not been the same one who tended to her all night.
Still, there was something magnetic about him, Augusta concluded. Not that she would willingly tell him anything he asked.
As she caught her breath on the chaise, she reflected that she could not quite forget the hands that tended her all night. Perhaps his attention to her health biased her, but Augusta could not call the duke hideous.
The whole of the right side of his face appeared to be sewn on like a worn leather mask; the skin appeared badly damaged. Things were a little better on his left side, though the area was not spared.
How terrible it must have been for him, thought Augusta.
He was nothing like the monster either her imagination or some of the villagers had made him out to be. Thinking back on her earlier notions of him, she felt slightly ashamed. He was rather cutting and surly but, as his aunt had told her, she did not think he was capable of biting more than barking.
Besides, you might very well be dead if he had not found you, she told herself. What is bearing a little rudeness from one who has been given a lot to bear, himself?
Still, he did want her gone and she was not ready—physically or emotionally—to face the idea of leaving. At least his aunt was firmly of the opinion that Augusta could not be turned out, and Augusta would bet her eyeteeth that the duke acquiesced to Lady Jane in nearly every matter.
Abruptly, Augusta realized that she actually could not have planned things any better. Perhaps fortune had smiled upon her.
Lord Ainsworth’s manor was the one place where her father could not bluster his way in, and it was the one place where he would never be admitted unless there were rare circumstances. Anywhere else in Brookfield would leave her vulnerable to his designs—and Brom was very wily when it came to getting what he wanted—but the manor was unassailable. She was, quite frankly, out of his reach so long as she remained here.
Maybe it is fate, she mused. Maybe I was meant to escape him, finally. There was the small matter of persuading the duke to allow her to stay until she figured out what to do next, but with Lady Jane’s iron will and some playacting on her own part, it would not be the most difficult thing she had accomplished in her young, but hard, life.
Augusta nested into the chaise and under the blankets and quilt she had been provided, making herself more comfortable. Everything was softer than her own bed.
Before she succumbed to more sleep, she thought on Lady Jane’s behavior and prayed that she would continue to tell Lord Ainsworth that Augusta needed to stay within the manor.
*
Even if he had been sober, Brom still would have gone outside in the dead of night to look for his whimpering excuse for a daughter. It was his right, his God-given right to find her and bring her back, even if that meant dragging her. It didn’t make a difference to him. She could come willingly, or not. He’d thought he had her well in hand, but evidently she was still in need of some breaking.
The ungrateful bitch walked out on me, he thought, stumbling through the lanes and shaking his head to clear it. He’d slept off most of the drink, and was hovering in an unpleasant state of being parched and fuzzy-headed. How could she have done such a thing? I put a roof over her head for twenty years, kept her fed… he tripped over a loose cobblestone and landed on his knees, then the palms of his hands with an “oof”. He knew better than to curse aloud because it would inevitably draw attention, yet he wanted to. But there wasn’t enough space between him and the houses. Someone would overhear.
He didn’t need some well-meaning Samaritan to meddle in his affairs.
When he righted himself, still weaving unsteadily as he got to his feet, he lurched in the direction of the square.
Augusta had nowhere to go. They had no other relations, and she had no friends. The foolish chit was probably hiding away somewhere, though perhaps not in any of the pubs or the inn—afraid of her own shadow, Augusta was—and the weather was fair. She was outside. She must be.
Brom sniffed, rough and wet. He cleared his throat. I shall find her.
*
“Aunt Jane, what on earth do you mean by any of this? I will have a candid answer. I am acquainted with your ways… you don’t do anything in vain.”
Will turned to his aunt as they made their way into his library, a cavernous room lined to the ceilings with books. After giving her a long, annoyed stare, he carefully went to the fireplace and coaxed the embers back into low flames. He did not want to admit it, but the library’s low light made his eyes strain so much that he may as well have closed them. At least he would have less of a headache.
Of course, he kept his eyes open.
“We are helping a poor woman in a bind, are we not? It is such a simple matter, really, even if we do not know her,” replied Jane, an innocent look on her beautiful face as she daintily settled in a chair.
Shaking his head, Will had none of it. “You know very well what I’m insinuating. What are you up to?” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Your nature may incline you to open my home to a stranger, but I have no such tendencies. Not anymore. I will continue to insist that we determine who the young lady is so that we may send her on her way. Might I remind you that you were worried about her reputation before we brought her here?”
Jane made an expression of utter indignation that he could just make out in the weak firelight. “You will not send her away while she is in such a state, William. Might I remind you that you suggested I was a suitable chaperone? Having thought over your suggestion, I find I concur with it.”
Her eyes dared him to disagree. Will had to admit that she’d caught him out in that respect. “Fine,” he breathed, offering up yet another silent prayer for his patience. “But why are you suddenly so protective of this woman?”
“Why are you suddenly so callous toward someone who needs your care?” Jane retorted. “I have known you your whole life, and it is quite unlike you to cast aside someone in need.”
Will rubbed at his face thoughtfully. He was glad that it no longer hurt to do so. It had been a tough habit to break
while he was still recovering. “I don’t know. I don’t…” he trailed off. It would do little good to elaborate upon his strange anxieties. His aunt was highly intelligent, but she had not suffered in the ways that he had. Therefore, he was not convinced that she could understand his point of view. “It is highly irregular.”
“What is?”
“Having her here.”
“Now you are interested in decorum?” Jane arched a perfect eyebrow. “William,” she said, her voice softening on his name. “You have locked yourself away for months with little care for what anyone thinks about it. We have done a fine thing. I was wrong to even intimate that her reputation was at stake. You have no visitors. It may be that no one will ever find out about her.”
“Servants talk,” grumbled Will.
“Yours do not. They are exceptionally loyal.”
“That driver will talk, then.”
“He might, but he won’t be taken very seriously, will he? It was rather late and he’d been sleeping before I roused him to take us back to Blackbrook. Anyone he tries to tell will probably think he was dreaming or drinking.” She frowned and added, “Besides, you do not have to let anyone in if they come here looking for her. It is your home, as you are so fond of reminding me.”
“You’ve an answer to everything.”
She leaned back in her chair, yawning. “It will probably be my downfall, being so right all the time.”
Will smiled at her. He leaned against a low table, knowing that if he sat down properly in a chair he might fall asleep. “I don’t think so.”
“I have been thinking about those marks on her,” said Jane. She grew serious.
Will nodded cautiously. So had he, but he didn’t want to fixate on them. It would make him feel all the more guilty for turning the young woman away. “They seem to have come from a riding crop.”
“That is what I thought. If she is being beaten by someone, we cannot let her go without determining the circumstances.”
“We may have no ability to change them for her, if they are inflicted by a husband or father,” observed Will, thinking aloud more than trying to justify such deplorable behavior.
Jane, though, seemed to feel he was being unduly callous. She sounded scandalized. “You forget that you are a duke, and you very well may possess the power to do so.”
He disregarded her words and teased, “Have you considered that this may all be a brilliant ruse performed by someone who wishes to rob us blind? Well, one of us, at any rate. Thank goodness that you have your London home and that is where most of your belongings are.”
“William.” She sat up straight as a rod.
“Do relax, Aunt. I am merely trying to bring some levity to the situation.”
“I do not think it very appropriate,” she muttered. “What is there to find humorous? What has happened to my gentle, dear nephew?”
Everything, he thought.
If he was not, strictly speaking, bitter now, he was often touched by a sense of loss and change that he could not allay. He could not find it within himself to be moved by others’ misfortunes as easily as he had before his own in Salamanca.
Perhaps that made him a bad man. He couldn’t say.
“Nothing has happened to him,” Will said. “He is just trying to be rational.”
She looked down her nose at him, which was impressive given her small stature and the fact that she was seated. “What harm will possibly come from her? One does not get her callused hands from sneaking… and… and stealing! Rather, they point to a life of working.”
Will was just as stubborn in his reticence. He voiced the unthinkable, and what he did not really believe. He only meant to antagonize Jane again. It was one of his few entertainments. “It may be true that she has had a hard life. Perhaps, she has entered another profession in a bid to lessen the hardships.” He paused as his aunt gave a sharp intake of breath. “Surely you have heard of men who take pleasure in paying such innocent-looking ladies to harm themselves while they look on.”
“If that poor young woman has beaten herself with a riding crop, then I am the Queen of England,” Jane scoffed.
“You certainly act as though you are,” Will murmured under his breath, resigned to her stance on the matter at hand.
“And you act as though you are a monster, William. You are hardly that.”
“It is difficult to imagine myself as anything else.”
She softened a little. “Why do you think I am trying to coax you back into the ton? I refuse to believe that anyone but you can be so harsh on yourself.”
Sitting wearily on the edge of the table, Will sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since he’d acquired his surprise guest. It already felt like it had been a week since he found the body by the brook. “Because you choose to see the best in people. Do you not know what they’ve started to say about Malliston? I don’t believe for an instant that he killed his lady wife… nor should any other sane person. Yet, there the gossip goes.”
The newspapers ran mad with it. A society column had even printed the awful nickname—the Duke of Havoc. Unfortunately, it would most likely gain a foothold.
“I think about it from time to time. You do realize that his situation has not been helped by his complete disregard for society, don’t you?”
“We shouldn’t have to cater to the ton,” said Will dismissively. “They have no comprehension of what we have been through. I do not know Malliston personally, but I know that he suffered in a similar way to me. Wellington is supposedly very fond of him, and had him returned home not long before I was deemed fit to travel, too.” Will wondered if the Duke of Nidderdale would ever shed his disparaging society moniker. It was a shame. By reputation, he was brilliant and liked by those under his command.
“I agree,” she replied. “But sadly, the ton can dictate your quality of life whether or not you want it to. You will not always feel as you do now. It is important to remember that, one day, you will want the warmth of friends, of familiarity and structure. It is not for me to say that you should want a family.” Jane regarded him steadily. “But I do believe you will come to regret this intense isolation.”
Uncomfortable with the nerve she was striking, Will held up a hand to stop her from elaborating further. “We really must return to the more pressing matter.”
“The more recent matter,” she amended with a frown all but visible in her voice, even if her face was composed.
“I still maintain that the woman must go sooner rather than later.” In an endeavor to stem his aunt’s protests, he quickly added, “I will consider the options we may have to address her plight, and I will not make her leave an instant earlier than her health will allow.” He was still a doctor at heart, and it was repugnant to him to truly think of relocating her before she had recovered. “At this point in time, I do not know if she will take days or weeks to heal. I accept the uncertainty.” Will shrugged.
“Thank you, William. You are finally speaking with some compassion.”
With a scowl, he continued. “In the likely event that she continues to obscure her name and home from us, I think it’s probably best that she go to the Sisters of Mercy in Preston. They will take her in, and gladly. If, indeed, she has been ill-treated by a member of her family—or a husband—it could be the best and most respectable option for her.”
Several moments of silence passed while Jane was in deep reflection. “Very well. I agree with your solution, although I do not think it will come to that.” Her eyes took on a distinct, almost devilish glitter.
Ah, she is up to something. Perhaps she is going to try convincing me to retain her as a servant. “And what, pray tell, makes you think so?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” said Jane as she rose to quit the room. “I shall see to breakfast. Do try to get some rest, William. You sound most terrible. It is a wonder the poor woman did not break her silence to protest your surly tone. If that did not drive her to action, then I don’t know what wi
ll.”
Knowing that she jested, Will only shook his head and gave her a warm smile. Jane was always forthright with him, and she was correct. He had been woefully curt. He pondered the situation he now found himself facing.
Could he have rescued a poor soul from the foul treatment of her own family?
The possibility almost curdled his blood. Although its size had dwindled substantially, his own family had been loving. Even his brothers had, in their own ways, been incredibly demonstrative. His father, unlike many fathers in the ton, was by nature a thoughtful and kind man.
And his mother had been a paragon of mothers: she was not generally prone to sentiment, but none of her boys ever doubted her love. Will considered himself to be quite lucky that neither of his parents was distant or a disciplinarian. They were certainly never cruel.
For this stranger to have suffered even theoretical abuse did tug at his heartstrings. Softened by his thoughts, Will found himself bounding down the stairs and through the hall to the first parlor. Weak morning light came through the windows, illuminating a few sleepy maids who had just started their work.
He paused at the parlor doors, raising his hand to knock. But there was no movement, no sound from within, and he nudged the doors open gently.
The nameless woman was sleeping soundly.
She was covered by a quilt he and Jane had secured from one of the cupboards in their haste to warm her. The large chaise dwarfed her form, and her dark hair spread out along her shoulders. Will could not help but appreciate the way it was offset against the brocade.
A plate of covered food lay on the sideboard, untouched. He figured that one of the maids must have brought it only a few minutes ago. He had instructed last night that she be given simple fare, because until he knew for certain what ailed her, he did not believe anything rich would be a good idea. Whatever was on the plate, it would keep until she woke.
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