by Betina Krahn
Sarah’s buoyant mood evaporated as she spotted a black coach-and-four by the front doors and a driver and footman unstrapping baggage from the rear of it. Lord, from the volume of luggage, someone expected to be entertained for quite a while. Dread started to pool in her stomach.
When she reached the kitchen, she found the staff in a tizzy. Cook was bustling in and out of the pantry, taking stock and worrying over both luncheon and dinner menus, while Ned was issuing orders to open a guest room and admonishing the servants to move faster. Listening to and acknowledging their sensible plans with nods, she soon sailed past them and raced up the servants’ stairs to the upper hall.
There was a commotion in the main hall below, voices and the sound of boots tramping across the venerable marble and onto the stairs. Red’s western twang billowed up to her, clearly under duress.
“I was busy sortin’ things out, Lizzie, fer God’s sake. An’ you didn’t send word to me about Frankie’s baby.”
The other voice belonged to her mother. “Redmond, you knew I was worried sick—how could you not write or send me a message about what is going on?”
Mama. Upset and demanding to see her . . . demanding an accounting of Red’s mission . . .
Frankie’s baby must have been born or she wouldn’t have left London. Now she was here to sort out her daughter’s situation and unmask this “imposter” who threatened her son-in-law’s title and estates. It occurred to Sarah that not once in all her dealings with Arthur had he asserted a claim to the title. In fact, he’d been hesitant to admit to anything besides being born at Betancourt and being Ashton’s brother.
This was going to take some explaining.
She slipped past footmen lugging trunks and bags, and kept Mazie and Dolly between her and the stair railing so she wouldn’t be seen. The bathing room nearest her bedchamber was empty, and she quickly washed and then slipped back to her room to dress. She donned a presentable cotton day dress and had barely finished buttoning the cornflower-blue bodice when there was a series of sharp raps on her door. She called out “Just a moment” as she began to gather her hair into a sedate chignon, but the door flew open.
There in the hallway stood Elizabeth Bumgarten in her silk traveling clothes, wearing a stylish high-crowned toque and a grim expression.
“My poor girl!” She hurried across the room to embrace Sarah in a crushing hug that conveyed both worry and determination. “Are you all right? What has that beast done to you?” She thrust Sarah back to arm’s length and inspected her thoroughly.
“What beast?” Sarah slipped out of her mother’s grip and seized her hands to keep them from repeating that frantic hold. “Mama, I’m perfectly fine. Didn’t Uncle Red tell you what’s happened? How Arthur has returned?”
“Redmond is hardly a reliable source, even when he’s not drinking,” Elizabeth declared. “Are you certain you’re well?”
“Yes, I’m healthy and all is well at Betancourt. You should see the changes I’ve made. I cannot wait to show you around.” She put on a cheery face, pulled her mother to a seat on the chaise by the window, and resorted to a tactic she had long since adopted to deflect her mother’s curiosity. Questions—lots of them—ones Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to resist answering. “But first, tell me all about Frankie’s baby. Boy or girl? When was it born—why didn’t you send word? We’ve been frantic with worry. How much did the baby weigh? What did they name it? Is Frankie all right?”
Elizabeth blinked under that barrage, but quickly reoriented. She unpinned and removed her hat, set it aside, and began with, “A boy. So there is now an heir. Born five days ago. Fairly big—eight pounds even—with a head of dark hair, just like his father’s. Frances is doing well . . . refused a wet nurse and insists on doing the business herself.” She sniffed as she removed her gloves. “Personally, I think she’s overdoing it. I mean, I nursed you girls, but that was a case of needs must.”
“What is he like?” Sarah asked, truly interested. “Is he cute as a button?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Elizabeth dismissed the possibility with a royal wave. “Newborns all look like little old men . . . red and squalling, the lot of them . . . Oliver included. But give them three or four weeks and they turn pink and cute on you. Merciful Heaven, you should hear the viscount go on about how exceptional he is.”
Elizabeth paused for a breath, then realized she had just been diverted from her primary concern. “Back to this miscreant who claims to be Arthur.”
“I think you should meet him straightaway and judge for yourself,” Sarah said, rising and helping her mother up. “Or perhaps you’d like to freshen up first, after your long carriage ride?”
* * *
Earlier, in the other wing, George heard the commotion outside and went to the window of his room, overlooking the entry court. A coach-and-four. A ton of baggage. As he watched the aged butler shuffle out to greet the occupants of the coach, his scowl deepened. The woman who exited the vehicle was not only familiar to him, she was the last person on earth he wanted to see at the moment.
Elizabeth Bumgarten had met Arthur previously, and if she confirmed what the old man said—that the wretch was truly Arthur—his plan to be named conservator of Betancourt could be set back months, even years. He had to find a way to undermine that identification.
* * *
After freshening and a change of garments, Elizabeth insisted on meeting “that imposter” straightaway. The fact that her daughter and her brother both vouched for his identity meant little when held against the fact that her dear son-in-law now enjoyed what was once the man’s title. She declared that she had information from “a most exemplary source” that this “would-be-Arthur” was a conscienceless wretch bent on beguiling Sarah and enriching himself at Betancourt’s and Ashton’s expense.
As it happened, that “exemplary source” was standing in the parlor when she and Sarah came downstairs. George Graham wore no coat, his freshened clothes bore faint stains, and his boots—though newly polished—had abrasions that marred the leather. His hair was combed so that it fell over his head wound, and he stood straighter and smiled at the sight of Sarah’s mother.
“Mrs. Bumgarten. What a relief to see you here.” He limped across the parlor to take her hand and make a bow over it. “I have been so concerned. And Miss Sarah”—he took Sarah’s hand, though it wasn’t offered—“I must thank you for your hospitality. I was so exhausted last night, I fear I would have fallen off my horse before making it to an inn.”
“It was the least I could do, George,” Sarah said, watching the play of recognition between her mother and the slippery baron.
“George?” Elizabeth bristled at her use of the baron’s given name. “Really, Sarah, I had no idea you and the baron were so familiar.”
George answered for her. “I have visited with your lovely daughter several times. When I learned that her horse had been stolen, I devoted myself to recovering it. I brought it back to her last night, and I fear I was in something of a state. She graciously insisted on tending my injuries.” He lifted his hair to reveal the shocking cut on his forehead.
“Sweet Heaven!” Elizabeth gasped. “Are you all right, Baron?”
“I sustained minor wounds while recovering Sarah’s Fancy from that beastly gang of thieves.” George lowered his gaze as if too modest to recount his own heroism. “But with Sarah’s care, I am recovering. And seeing you, my dear Mrs. Bumgarten, lifts my spirits immeasurably. Now that you are here, matters will be sorted quickly.”
He drew Elizabeth’s hand into the crook of his arm and led her toward one of the pair of settees that flanked the fireplace. Sarah was left to trail behind, watching George’s charm find a target in her mother’s eagerness.
“And how do you know the baron, Mama?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know. The question was ignored as Elizabeth took in his limp and grimace of pain as he lowered himself to the settee beside her.
“Are you certain you should be up a
nd about?” Elizabeth asked George, genuinely concerned.
“How like your daughter you are, ma’am, so full of compassion.” He patted her hand. “We Grahams are of hardy stock, and I find I cannot lie abed while there are foul forces afoot at Betancourt.”
“Foul forces?” Sarah inserted. “Which are those, George?”
“These villainous thieves and outlaws, Miss Sarah.” He smiled at her as if he knew her challenge. “Though there are other threats, closer to home.”
“Heavens!” Elizabeth looked to Sarah with alarm. “I’ve heard nothing of thieves and outlaws abroad here. Why haven’t you called the authorities?”
“The authorities know, Mama. The constables are spread thinly in the county and are doing their best to prevent further loss and destruction.” She rose, drawing impeccably mannered George to his feet. “Meanwhile, Arthur has employed additional security for Betancourt and is seeing to the problem personally.”
George’s face tightened around a humorless smile aimed at her.
“I find it hard to credit that the duke could have much success, since he is deceased . . . lying unmarked and unmourned on some heathen shore.”
“Deceased? I believe reports of my death are wishful thinking,” came a deep voice from the doorway. Arthur stepped into the arched doorway and stood with his feet planted shoulder’s width apart and a steely glint in his eyes. “Cousin George. As always, hanging crepe where none is needed.”
He shifted his gaze to Sarah, then to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Bumgarten. How good to see you again.”
Sarah’s heartbeat quickened at the sight of him.
“You remember him, Mama. How could you not? He was betrothed to Daisy.” She went to take Arthur’s arm and draw him toward her mother.
Elizabeth rose stiffly and stared at Arthur as if trying to reconcile his current appearance with the man she had known years ago.
“I fear Sarah has been drawn under this man’s influence,” George declared, stepping to Elizabeth’s side. “Surely you, who knew the duke well, must see that this man could not possibly be the Duke of Meridian.”
“I . . . I . . . cannot tell.” She stepped closer, then closer still, pulling spectacles from her pocket and donning them. She looked him up and down. “I can see similarities. But he looks so different.”
“I am different, Mrs. Bumgarten,” Arthur said, reaching for her hand. She extended it and he gave her a warm and purposeful smile. “And yet, I am the same.”
“Yes, that expression . . .” Her eyes widened. “It certainly resembles Arthur’s.” She tilted her head one way, then another, examining him at close range. “I believe it may indeed be Arthur.”
Sarah could have jumped for joy. “Of course he is.” She threw her arms around her mother and Elizabeth, in shock, forgot to scold her for it.
“Good God!” George looked ready to burst. “The man is an imposter who must be rooted out.” He looked from Elizabeth to Sarah to Arthur. “And if none of you have the wit or the will to do what must be done to save Betancourt . . .” He limped to the doorway, grimacing, and then paused to finish his threat. “I shall see you in the courts.”
* * *
“I have questions,” Elizabeth declared when the doors stopped trembling behind the baron’s angry exit.
“Of course, you have,” Arthur said evenly. “And I have answers.”
After what could only be called a thorough interrogation, Elizabeth retired to her room for a rest and insisted that Sarah accompany her. As the door closed behind them, Sarah knew she was in for a dose of her mother’s opinion.
“I’ve seen the looks he gives you. He watches you with what can only be called ‘manly interest.’” She seized Sarah’s hand and pulled her to a seat on the chaise. “I insist you tell me, right now, if the baron’s charge of impropriety toward your person is founded in truth.”
“Impropriety?” Sarah blushed in spite of her best efforts to forestall it.
“You know very well what I mean.” Elizabeth scowled.
“Advances.”
“Oh. Goodness.” Sarah told herself her advances toward him didn’t count. “No.”
“Sarrrrah.” That maternal scowl deepened. It was as close to a truth serum as humankind had ever known.
“Truly, Mama, he’s been a perfect gentleman. He may seem quite different from the Arthur you knew, but his character and conduct have been exemplary.”
“Uhm-hmm.” Elizabeth scoured her heated face and found something that roused her suspicion. “And you, young lady, has your behavior been as circumspect?”
“Of course, Mama. I have behaved with the utmost decorum.”
“I am well acquainted with your version of decorum, young lady,” Elizabeth declared. “And I know too well the trouble it has caused. Ripping off your skirt to shimmy down a drainpipe in trousers, the spectacle you caused over that cab driver whipping his horse, that time you visited an orphanage and the matron banned you from ever going back . . .”
“Those children needed to learn to sing.” Sarah folded her arms.
“Dance hall ditties? Really, Sarah, you knew better.” Elizabeth glowered. “Don’t think I didn’t see how you rushed to take his arm at the first opportunity.” She wagged a finger. “You’ve developed a tendre for him. And I will tell you, it won’t end well. He is—was—a duke. A damaged one, with a checkered past and a dubious future. He’s already the talk of London—just ask the viscount.” She paused and her eyes widened. “And his return means . . . Dear Lord . . . Ashton may no longer be a duke.” The shock of that thought drained her face. “Surely not. What a cruel fate for Daisy and her husband . . . to have a dukedom snatched from them just when they’ve begun to enjoy it.”
“But Uncle Red said—”
“Your uncle, bless his heart, is full of bullfeathers. As a duchess, Daisy is the toast of New York society.” She looked off into the distance for a moment, imagining her daughter’s social success. “I just wish I had been there to see that Astor woman eat crow.”
There, Sarah realized, was the key to Mama’s objection to Arthur. Her mother hadn’t a clue what Daisy or Ashton thought of Arthur’s return to the land of the living, she only knew it threatened her own long-distance triumph over New York’s snobbish “400.” As much as she loved her mother, she was not about to let Elizabeth Bumgarten’s pride control her life. What she felt for Arthur Michael Graham was rare and wonderful, and she intended to follow her heart wherever it led.
* * *
Following her heart, however, proved to be significantly harder with her mother constantly on her heels. For the next three days, Elizabeth didn’t let Sarah out of her sight. Under the guise of learning what Sarah had done with the money she had insisted on pouring into Betancourt, Elizabeth haunted her steps and second-guessed every decision she had made about the house, grounds, and working farm . . . including Sarah’s insistence on personally working with the horses as part of their training.
“You simply cannot be out in the sun all afternoon with these beasts,” Elizabeth declared, pulling her own wide-brimmed straw hat lower to shade her eyes. She stood at the fence of the training paddock, watching Sarah sending a yearling around in a broad circle to get him used to a halter. “Just look what it has done to your skin. You have freckles.”
“Some people think freckles are charming,” Sarah responded.
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one likes freckles. Certainly no gentleman.”
A masculine voice from over her shoulder startled Elizabeth.
“I fear you’re not allowing for the wide range of tastes found in today’s young gentlemen.” Arthur came to lean on the fence beside her. “They’re an opinionated bunch, not given to abiding by dictates of fashion. They like to make up their own minds about what is and isn’t attractive.”
“Speaking for yourself, of course,” Elizabeth said with a hint of pique.
“Me? Heavens no. I had the ‘gentleman’ drubbed out of me somewhere south of the Suez.
I’m just a son-of-a-duke now.” He didn’t bother to hide his admiration for Sarah as he watched her fighting down a grin. “Personally, I find certain freckles adorable.”
With a broad smile, he nodded to Sarah, who nodded back before turning again to her yearling. Then he tipped an imaginary hat to Elizabeth and struck off for the stables.
“Infuriating man,” Elizabeth grumbled, then dabbed moisture from her face with a handkerchief. “I should have brought my parasol. I’m going inside for some of that lemonade your cook concocts.” She glanced toward the stables, where Arthur was disappearing into a doorway. “Have your stableman put the horse away when you’re finished, and come join me for some refreshment.”
* * *
Sarah knew exactly what was behind that last command. From the corner of her eye she had seen Arthur enter the stable. Her mother didn’t want her alone with Arthur in the stable. She smiled to herself. Her mother’s intuition was more right than she knew. A tryst wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility. In fact . . .
When she had finished putting the yearling through his paces and allowed him to walk and cool down, she led him to the stable herself and grabbed a brush to get him used to grooming. But she hadn’t gotten far when she heard a low voice from down the alley and paused to listen. She could have sworn it was Arthur. After a few more strokes, she set the brush aside and ducked out of the stall.
She approached quietly and slowed to a stop as she made out what he was saying.
“You’re handsome, true, but that’s not all there is to you, you know. You’re strong and clever—oh, yeah, I’ve seen how you nudge up the latch on your stall door. Eddie complains about how he finds you standing in the alley most mornings. He thinks the stable boy forgets to drop the latch. But I saw you do it this morning.”
She crept to the edge of the box stall and peered around it to find Arthur brushing Fancy. When he paused for a moment, Fancy turned to him and shoved his shoulder. Sarah blinked. She’d never seen Fancy do such a thing. He was insisting Arthur continue brushing him.
Arthur laughed softly and did just that.