by Jude Knight
The distraction worked, the rest of the party more than happy to talk about their own entertainment rather than the dubious origins of the newest chick in the Winderfield nest. Elias wasn’t mentioned again until they were returning to the house. The party had spread out by then, and Sarah was walking on Colyford’s arm.
Colyford’s voice was stiff and cold when he said, “I had been told that you’d taken guardianship of your brother’s er—love child. Or is he your father’s?”
Sarah shrugged. Few people had asked her outright, but she had developed an answer that avoided lying. “It does not matter, Lord Colyford. He is a Winderfield, as anyone can see by looking him.”
Colyford harrumphed. “I cannot think it suitable, Lady Sarah, an unmarried lady like yourself having charge of a child like that. One would commend the duke for providing appropriate support for such a child, but making the brat the responsibility of a maiden lady is hardly appropriate.”
Sarah was finding the man less attractive by the minute. She didn’t bother asking him what he meant by ‘such a child’; his attitude answered the question. “Elias is my ward, Lord Colyford, not my uncle’s. I ‘took him in’, as you put it. His Grace has been good enough to support my decision.”
Colyford stopped in his tracks and turned to her, so that she had to drop his arm or be indecorously close. He picked up her hands, and gave his most charming smile, softening his voice to coax rather than hector. “Now, my dear, I do not mean to scold you. Of course, at your age, you want a child to care for. That is perfectly understandable. But this is not the way, my lady. You have been poorly advised, I can see. His Grace, while a very good sort of man, does not understand English Society, and who can wonder.”
Sarah, struck speechless by the sheer arrogance of the man, did not reply, and he took her silence as consent, tucking her hand back into his elbow and patting it with his other hand as he led her towards the house.
“You must have noticed that I have been particular in my attentions, Lady Sarah. Or may I call you Sarah, perhaps? I think I have the right to advise you that you must be prepared to give up your ward. Your uncle has the means to keep him, if he so wishes. Indeed, given the example of the Duchess of Haverford, it is a wonder we are not overrun with people of the most shocking origins, all of whom we must treat as if they are worthy of respect. Even marrying among us!”
He chuckled, and patted her hand again, and Sarah contemplated hitting him with it. “Well, Lord Hamner is a fool. The younger Miss Grenford is a better prospect, perhaps. At least we may be permitted to believe her mother to be of a more elevated position, even though of unfortunate morals. And she has been raised as a lady, at least, as has Lady Hamner. They say your little ward was found in a workhouse!
“I must tell you, Lady Sarah, that my wife must be above reproach. I have to think of poor Maria’s daughters, but even were that not the case, I could not bring shame upon my name by taking to wife anyone whose virtue could be questioned. Why, those with scurrilous minds are even now suggesting that you would only have taken the little boy in if the relationship was closer than nephew or brother.”
Sarah managed to extract her hand. “Lord Colyford, I am appalled by your attitude to an innocent child, one whose birth circumstance can in no way be blamed upon him. I can see that I have been mistaken in thinking we might share similar opinions of matters of importance. I wish you well on your search for a suitable mother for your daughters.”
Colyford looked more puzzled than indignant or grieved. “Do try to be reasonable, my dear. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. Everyone knows that. I am not blaming the child, but facts are facts, Sarah.”
“I have not made you free of my name, my lord,” Sarah reminded him.
“Sarah?” It was Drew, striding towards them from the house.
Relieved, Sarah told Colyton, “I have no further need of your escort, Lord Colyton.” She swallowed some of her annoyance and added, “Thank you for being honest with me.” After all, even if that was two out of three suitors gone, at least she would waste no further time on someone so totally unsuitable to be Elias’s new father.
She pushed down the recurring and stupid hope that Nate would seek to be considered for the role. He left. Disappeared without a word. Charlotte had told him he’d have the chance to explain, and she would not make her sister foresworn. I will listen to his excuses, then give him his quittance. That was the wise course, was it not?
* * *
“I will be back in a day or two,” His Grace of Winshire told his niece, the only one of the immediate family in residence. Not that he was leaving her unchaperoned or unprotected; quite apart from the English servants, he had assigned several of his personal retainers to the protection of each of his family members.
Still, he was not comfortable leaving Charlotte in London without himself or one of his sons. His retainers were fiercely loyal warriors, to a man and a woman, but the political and social challenges the Winshires had faced since their return from Central Asia usually didn’t lend themselves to solutions at the point of a sword.
Charlotte stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon, Uncle James, and the next day I am joining Sarah and Drew in the country. I will be well escorted, and you are not to worry.”
“Don’t take any risks, my dear,” he begged her. His blood ran cold when he remembered how she used to walk to the boundaries of one of the worst slums in London with no more escort than her maid and an unarmed footman. Of course, the ragged school she had founded, and in which she taught, needed to be close to where its students dwelt.
She was her mother’s daughter. Indeed, all of the Winshire womenfolk were actively involved in what his dear departed wife, a devout Christian in the ancient Aramaic Church of Persia, would call the Works of Mercy.
“Yahzak will not allow me to go into danger, Uncle,” she pointed out.
Yahzak was commander of her personal guard. A good man. Winshire had shared with Yahzak the latest inconclusive reports that made him so edgy about leaving Charlotte behind in London.
He hadn’t told Charlotte, not wanting to alarm her. In the back of his mind, he could hear his wife’s dear voice, scolding. Or perhaps it wasn’t Mahzad but Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford and once his dearest love. Both strong-minded women would insist that knowledge was power and ignorance risk. They were right, of course.
“Charlotte, there may be no cause for alarm, but we have reports to suggest that the former Lady Ashbury and her brother did not leave England. Our cousin the Weasel may have been sent off with a couple of decoys to disguise the fact they are still in the country. Possibly in London. When we took Wharton down, we knew another villain would rise to the top. But we now believe that one of the main contenders for mastery in the St Giles slums may be Wharton in a new guise.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. Wharton and his sister had carried out several attacks on the Winshires in the past two years, culminating in a kidnap attempt that had ended in a pitched battle where they were defeated and sent for trial. “And Lady Ashbury?”
“If our identification of Wharton is correct—it is currently based on a similarity of physical type and certain unpleasant personal tastes that I will not discuss with a lady—then he runs a gambling hell that is associated with a brothel. The woman in charge of the brothel is always masked. But she could be Lady Ashbury.”
He shrugged. It was all conjecture. His investigators were exploring leads, looking for proof.
“Be careful, Charlotte,” he said again. “I do not expect trouble. Even if it is them, they are wanted on capital crimes. They would be foolish to attack us again and disclose their identities.”
“Hatred can make people stupid, Uncle James,” Charlotte said, wisely. “And they hate us. I promise I will be careful.”
6
Since all he could do about Lady Sarah was wait for her to return to London, Nate bent his mind to serving in the Ashbury Clinic,
and was pleased when an interview concluded with an invitation to volunteer. He contracted to make himself available during the day on two days a week and for one evening, his need to keep his activities secret from his father prohibiting a deeper commitment.
Libby accepted his explanation of a regular commitment without comment. His father assumed he had set up a mistress, and expressed himself pleased that the boy had normal appetites. Nate avoided looking at Libby, who was present for his father's remarks, and managed, he hoped, not to show his disgust.
The thought of being the profligate that his father apparently expected made Nate feel ill. His faithfulness to his first love, at first almost inadvertent, had become an established habit. Despite his conviction that he had lost her, some hope must have remained, for the guilt he felt when he was tempted to stray had been enough to reinforce his virtue. Now, the knowledge that Sarah was alive and unattached—the sight of her, even though she fled from him—these were enough to drown the least morsel of desire for any other woman. His father would not be pleased, but Nate could not consider another wife.
The clinic work was interesting—they saw it all—knife wounds, broken bones, illnesses that swept through the slum. On his first evening on duty, he and the resident doctor, James Blythe, were called out to a woman labouring with child in a small tidy flat on the outskirts of the worst of the slum. "By the time we are called," warned Blythe, "it is usually too late."
This time, though, the father had run for them early when the midwife had turned up too far gone with gin to be of any use. It was not the woman’s first child, and it was a relatively straightforward breech presentation. Nate managed to turn the child, leaving the three children she already had with a living mother, provided childbirth fever didn't take her. He stopped the husband in the hallway of the tenement block, as he showed them to the door, and suggested continence, but he didn't need his colleague's muttered remark that it would be of no use.
"You'll do," said Blythe, as they walked back to the clinic. "Don't go into the slums without taking a porter, but you can deal with any other calls tonight on your own. Wake me if you have any problems, but otherwise, I'm for bed when we get back."
Nate nodded, pleased that he'd passed whatever standard Blythe had in mind. "I will." He continued to scan the darkness beyond range of Blythe's lantern. His travels had taken him many places where a moment's inattention in the darkness would get a man killed.
Was that a moan? He hesitated for a moment, and the sound came again—a brief whimper, choked off, as if the sufferer was afraid to make a noise.
On the steps of the building they were passing, in the shadows, a bundle of rags suddenly shifted away from the light, groaning at the effort. Nate took a step closer, one hand on the dagger he carried in his pocket. It must be a person. A small woman or perhaps a child.
Blythe laid a hand on his arm. "Have a care."
"Don't be afraid." Nate addressed the person on the steps. "We are doctors. We want to help you." He took a step closer as Blythe raised the lantern.
The rag bundle lowered the arm behind which it was hiding, and wary hazel eyes glinted in the flickering light.
Nate crouched, just out of arm's reach, his hand still on his dagger. "What's wrong?"
"It's me leg, in't it." The voice was young, and—even though strained with pain—laced with belligerence and bravado. "Me ribs, too. I fell."
Blythe drew nearer, the lantern light showing a thin dirty face covered in scrapes and bruises.
"We need to get him to the clinic," Blythe said. "I'll fetch help. He shouldn't be moved without a stretcher."
He handed Nate the lantern and hurried away.
"We are doctors from the Ashbury clinic," Nate explained. "We'll take you there and have a look at your injuries." Definitely male, from the clothing. It was good quality clothing, too, from what he could see through the dirt. Quality, and little worn.
"Tell my lady?" the boy begged, though speaking clearly pained him. "Tell her Tony din't run. They took me from 'er garden. Tell her?"
A servant of some kind? "Who is your lady, Tony?" Nate asked. "I'll send a message."
"Saint Charlotte. Her wot teaches here."
Surely, he didn’t mean Sarah’s sister? She was a benefactor of the ragged school on whose steps they stood, but did she actually teach? Before Nate could question the boy, Blythe hurried back with one of the clinic's porters and a collapsible stretcher. They shifted the patient as gently as possible, but he passed out before the transfer was complete. "He told me his name is Tony," Nate reported as they carried the stretcher the hundred yards to the clinic. "He gave me a message for a Saint Charlotte who apparently teaches in that building."
"Lady Charlotte Winderfield," Blythe told him. "She established and supports the school. I expect he's one of her students."
Nate put aside his curiosity, and his elation at another opportunity to see his beloved's sister. He had a patient to treat, but in the morning, he'd convey the boy's message to Lady Charlotte.
* * *
The road conditions delayed the Duke of Winshire’s arrival at his destination, forcing an overnight stop a mere two-thirds of the way through the journey. He and his men travelled with two extra mounts each, which would have meant a seven-hour journey without the rain, the thick mud, and the cold.
Even to be on time for his appointment, Winshire wasn’t prepared to risk the horses, but nor did he want to leave a trail of reports about his travels. They stopped in whatever shelter they could find when the horses needed rest, and camped for the night before the sun set.
They rose early the next day and broke their fast as they rode, but still, it was nearing noon when the church spire that had been described to him first came into sight. Winshire gave the signal to halt, and called for the English-bred horse he’d brought for the last part of his errand. He did not expect to be seen at his destination, but he had been asked for discretion. The Turkmen horses he preferred were distinctive, and would mark him as part of the Winshire household even if no possible observer could identify him as the duke.
“I should be no more than two or three hours,” he told those who had accompanied him. Their commander frowned, but did not reiterate his arguments for accompanying Winshire. Undoubtedly, he or one of his men would follow at a distance, but they all knew how to stay out of sight, so Winshire didn’t care about that.
The farm track to which he’d been directed skirted the village and brought him to the meeting place fewer than ten minutes after he left his guard. As he dismounted, a man came out of the small outbuilding. Did he have the wrong place? Had her plan been discovered?
The man’s words put him at ease. “I’ll look to your horse, sir. You are to go straight inside.” So. She had not come unaccompanied. Of course not, and quite right, too. Though this little lodge was on the fringes of the main estate, it was still isolated, and a likely target for those poor displaced souls, often former soldiers, who roamed the countryside looking for food, shelter, money or people from whom they could wrest such necessities.
Winshire looked around as he knocked on the door. The cottage had been kept in good repair, but nevertheless had an air of abandonment. He was trying to nail down what details indicated it was unloved in when the door opened. He turned to ask to be shown to his hostess, or allowed to wait for her inside until she could see him. There she stood, her warm smile the only welcome he needed.
He could feel his own smile growing in response. “Eleanor.”
The Duchess of Haverford stepped back to give him space to enter. “James. Come in!”
He followed her across a small entrance hall to a cosy little parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth and a tray with a tea set waited on a small table between two chairs. Eleanor took the seat closest to the teapot and waved her hand to the other. “Be seated, dear friend. Would you care for tea?”
Tea is not what I hunger for. For ten years after Mahzad’s death, he had thought himself beyond de
sire, but Eleanor brought it roaring back the first time he saw her on his return to England. Getting to know her again had only increased his longing; she was even lovelier, both within and without, than when they had first met long ago, before her father accepted the Duke of Haverford’s suit for her hand, and rejected that of James, who was only the third son of the Duke of Winshire.
James was forced into exile and Eleanor was made to marry Haverford.
He kept his feelings to himself. If he told her his hopes, and if she shared them, he didn’t trust himself to be alone with her like this without besmirching his honour and insulting hers.
Eleanor was a married woman and virtuous, even if her husband was a monster. Even if the old devil was rotting from within and locked away for his own good and to protect the duchy. James accepted the offered seat and the cup of tea; asked after the duchess’s sons and wards and caught her up to date with his own family; exchanged comments on the war news and the state of the harvest.
“James,” she said at last, “I proposed this meeting for a reason.”
“To see me, I hope. Since Parliament went into recess and we both left London, I have missed our weekly visits to that little bookshop you frequent.”
Eleanor smiled, and James fancied that he saw her heart in her eyes for a moment, and it leapt to match his. But her smile faded and her lashes veiled her eyes. “That, too, my dear friend. I have missed you, too. But there is another matter I need to bring to your attention.”
She grimaced and gave her head a couple of impatient shakes. “It seems I am always muddying our time together with gossip and scandal. I am so sorry, James.”
“One day, I hope we will be able to meet without subterfuge, and for no reason but our pleasure,” James said. The last word was a mistake. He might be old, but at the word ‘pleasure’, his body was reminding him urgently that he was not yet dead.