by Olivia Drake
“Scandal doesn’t become you, Radcliffe. I would have expected such disgrace of William, but not of you.”
Her regal glare had reduced many a smooth-tongued statesman to babbling incoherence. Only with effort did Kent keep his gaze steady.
“As for you, Mr. Carleton,” she said, turning to Emmett, “why would you not bless this union? Your daughter has made a brilliant match, far better than could be expected for a commoner.”
“I... I had another man in mind for her... ” His words trailed off as she fixed him with a cool stare.
“This feud,” she went on, with a wave of her ringed hand, “can yield nothing but more detestable gossip. I shall not tolerate it. I command you both to settle your differences.”
Given no choice, Kent nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Looking overwhelmed, Emmett mumbled, “As you wish.”
Victoria reached into a pocket of her voluminous gown and drew forth a sheet of stationery. “Mr. Carleton, I understand from your daughter’s note that you’ve disinherited her. How deplorable that a man of such wealth would condemn his only child to poverty.” She arched an eyebrow. “As a token of your good will, I should like you to grant her a suitable endowment.”
Emmett shot Kent a murderous glance. “I knew Radcliffe was after my money.”
“I didn’t marry Juliet for money,” Kent said quickly. “And I knew nothing of her request. I seek only the right to live with my wife in peace.”
Emmett snorted in disbelief. “That is a lie—”
Victoria silenced him with a cold look. “Your daughter has wed a duke. Will you leave her without the means to support her position?” Lifting the note, she studied it for a moment. “She seeks the betterment of the Radcliffe tenants. Houses wanting repair, a crippled girl in need of an operation. Quite an admirable goal for so young a duchess, don’t you agree, Mr. Carleton?”
Kent veered from the peak of pride to the depths of humility. How badly he’d underestimated Juliet.
“I... yes, ma’am,” Emmett said.
A rare smile imbued her homely face with unexpected charm. “Then we shall expect this settlement to be generous. I would never consider knighting a man who would disown his daughter.” Folding the note, Victoria turned to Kent. “And financial security will grant you the time to occupy your seat in the House of Lords.”
Chagrined, Kent said, “Of course, ma’am.”
“Excellent. We expect every Englishman to do his duty.” She sent Emmett a piercing look. “And without delay. Salamty sejao.” With a wave of her pudgy hand, the queen dismissed them.
Go with peace. Kent sardonically translated the Hindustani. Peace was impossible with Emmett Carleton following so close behind.
The instant the door shut, Emmett growled, “You conniving bastard. I should have expected you to go crying to the queen.”
“I’d like nothing better than to toss your cursed money back in your face.”
He uttered a snarl of impotent fury. “You plotted this. You tricked my Juliet into marrying you to get your greedy hands on the fortune I earned.”
“The fortune you swindled from my father.”
“Liar! Your father couldn’t manage a penny without losing a crown. God, the thought of you with my Juliet! You badgered her into writing to the queen.”
The misinterpretation galled Kent. “She’s my Juliet now,” he snapped. “And you badger far better than I. It was your hounding Emily over buying Dreamspinner that drove her to take her own life.”
Rage darkened Emmett’s face. His broad chest rose and fell rapidly. “You dare imply—” Drawing back a fist, he started to lunge.
“Gentlemen?” An impassive footman appeared with their hats.
Emmett froze; his arm dropped to his side.
As Kent accepted his hat, a dark instinct overpowered him, prodded him into a taunting smile. “Goodbye... Papa.”
Papa... Papa... Papa...
Emmett Carleton splashed straight whiskey into a tumbler. Tilting back his head, he gulped down the alcohol, his parched throat working. The drink failed to expurgate the tormenting memory of Juliet’s voice. Papa... Papa...
“Mr. Carleton.”
He swung around to see Dorothea scurrying into the library. His chest squeezed. In her face, still exquisite despite her forty-two years, he saw echoes of Juliet’s youthful beauty. God, he missed his daughter.
“Potter told me you’d returned,” Dorothea said breathlessly. “Why didn’t you come tell me about your interview with the queen? Did she indeed dub you a knight?”
Crystal clinked as he refilled his glass. “No.”
“No?” Surprise slackened her aristocratic jaw. “After all your philanthropic deeds? Oh, my dear! How disappointed you must be.”
“Never mind, Dorothea. It was nothing important.”
“But Mr. Carleton, a man doesn’t receive a summons from the queen every day. Was it a business matter—?”
“I said, never mind.”
Blinded by the need to be alone, he stomped past her and into the hall. He didn’t grasp his direction until he found himself upstairs, standing before Juliet’s bedroom door.
He twisted the knob and walked slowly inside. The room was dim and forlorn, the drapes drawn shut. An aura of emptiness pervaded the air, though the French gilt furniture stood just as she’d left it. The clean aroma of beeswax couldn’t disguise the faint scent of jasmine. Juliet’s scent.
Juliet... ah, God, Juliet. His beloved daughter on whom he’d pinned his hopes and ambitions. The unconventional sprite who’d brought such joy into his life. Stolen by a Deverell. Damn that blue-blooded devil to hell!
Emmett hurled his glass at the hearth. Shards spewed over the white marble; whiskey drenched the empty grate.
His rage vanished beneath a tidal wave of grief. With the slow steps of an old man, he walked to the bed and leaned against the post. Juliet had stood in this very spot the day he’d slapped her...
He passed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Princess,” he muttered. “I’m sorry for driving you away.”
It galled him to think he’d played right into Kent Deverell’s vengeful game. It galled him to think of having grandchildren with Deverell blood. Was she truly as happy as Deverell claimed? What if he spent his spite on her!
No, Emmett assured himself, Kent Deverell’s way was more subtle, more devious. He’d simply neglect Juliet, drive her to melancholy. And there was nothing Emmett could do except what the queen had commanded. At least money of her own would give Juliet the means to protect herself.
Fingers trembling, he reached into his breast pocket and drew forth the filigreed locket. The mantel clock ticked into the silence as he studied the two photographs inside. A revelation struck hope into his empty chest. There was someone at Castle Radcliffe who might be persuaded to watch over Juliet, to telegraph him the instant she showed the slightest sign of misery.
Snapping the locket shut, Emmett stalked to the rolltop desk and sat down, the dainty gilt chair creaking under his weight. Eyes watery, he drew forth a sheet of stationery and began to compose a letter.
Dear Juliet...
Anxiously she scanned the familiar handwriting on the scented paper, the post that Fleetwood had just delivered. Spying the return address, she’d splashed tea onto the tablecloth in her haste to rip open the envelope. She glanced down to catch the gist of the message. Her head reeled in shock as she returned to the opening paragraph and devoured every dismaying word.
From across the breakfast table, Maud craned her neck to see around a vase of yellow tea roses. “Oh, fiddle, I can’t bear the suspense! What does it say?”
“It’s dreadful,” Juliet said, dropping the letter onto the table. “Mama says that Papa received a summons to see the queen, too. That means both he and Kent were at the audience.”
“Egad. Mother didn’t warn me about that.”
“It gets worse. Papa thought the summons meant he was to be conferred a knighthood.”
Slathering apricot jam onto her toast, Maud stared owl-eyed through the gold-rimmed glasses. “He must have been in quite the steam when he learned the truth.”
Juliet’s stomach wrenched. How disappointed Papa must have been. “No doubt,” she said on a sigh. “Mama must have posted the letter before he went to Windsor yesterday afternoon.”
“I wonder what the queen said to them.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Kent should return today.”
“The duke certainly seemed in an ill humor when he left.” Licking her fingers, Maud blinked guiltily. “I do hope I didn’t get you into too awfully much trouble.”
“I’m happy you’re here.” Juliet reached out and patted Maud’s hand. “And the situation is hardly your fault. I’m the one who wrote that letter in the first place. I’m still convinced I did the right thing.”
Toying with her teacup, she tried to focus on the good her money would accomplish for the people of Radcliffe. But her thoughts kept flitting to the dark fury on Kent’s face, to the harsh words they’d flung at each other. She felt a sick stirring inside. Once again, she’d acted bolder than the mousy Emily. She’d gone against his wishes and jeopardized their growing closeness.
I’ll tell you my plans when you return from Windsor.
Grand words, she reflected, as a breeze from the open window scudded the letter against a silver salt cellar. Even were she intent on leaving Kent, where would she go? Her father wouldn’t welcome her, not with the taint of the Deverells upon her.
Slowly she folded the letter and stuck it in her pocket. The truth was, she wanted to remain mistress of this crumbling castle with its shabby furnishings and walls seeping a mildewy dampness. Over the past weeks, this old place had become intrinsically wound up with her love for Kent.
Augusta clumped into the breakfast room, Punjab close behind, his paws clicking on the flagstones. Gordon followed, vagueness on his thin face, his suit in its perpetual untidy state.
“Good morning,” Juliet said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Tolerably.”
The woman headed to a sideboard laden with covered dishes; Gordon shuffled in her wake. The instant their backs were turned, Maud stuck her eyeglasses into the blue holder, then contorted her face into a comically accurate rendition of Augusta’s dour expression. Juliet lifted her napkin to smother a laugh.
Augusta marched to the table, her plate piled with poached eggs and grilled bloaters. The rubbery yolks and soft-fleshed fish increased Juliet’s queasiness. Averting her gaze, she poured a fresh cup of tea and added a dollop of cream.
“Not eating?” Augusta inquired, eyeing the untouched piece of toast on Juliet’s plate.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
The ginger brows arched; then Augusta poured a saucer of cream-laced tea and placed it on the floor. “There you go, my little darling.”
Tail swishing, Punjab settled down to slurp at the liquid, his snorts of satisfaction filling the silence.
Augusta’s hyacinth gaze shifted to Maud. “And you, my lady? Did you find breakfast sufficiently filling?”
“Marvelous,” Maud gushed. “I was just about to sample the kidneys. I need to sustain my strength if I’m to go riding with Henry this afternoon. He seems a man who could make demands on a lady’s constitution.” She joined Gordon at the sideboard.
“Humph.” Augusta chased her spoon after a slippery lump of egg. “I do so dislike seeing good food go to waste.”
Pungent aromas wafted from the dishes Maud and Gordon carried to the table. Juliet sipped at the tea to settle her churning belly. The shock of that letter following the argument with Kent must have upset her more than she’d thought.
Gordon’s gnarled hand fumbled with the silver; his knife clanked to the floor. “Beg pardon,” he mumbled.
Augusta gave a long suffering sigh. “Yesterday’s rain settled into his bones. He had one of his spells.”
“Have you ever tried an infusion of meadowsweet?” Juliet asked him. “It’s said to ease aches and pains.”
“Meadowsweet.” His brown eyes went unfocused behind his thick glasses. “Derived from the Anglo-Saxon medu. In medieval times the plant was used to flavor mead. The flower heads contain salicylic acid—”
“Please, dispense with the lectures this morning,” Augusta said. “Your Grace, the doctor keeps him adequately supplied with proper medication.”
“I was merely trying to help,” Juliet said patiently.
“I’ve got it!” Maud waved a forkful of beef kidneys. “The queen suffers from aching joints. Mother prevail upon Victoria to allow Mr. Deverell access to her own Dr. Reid—”
“Deverells do not accept charity,” Augusta stated. “Lady Higgleston has done quite enough prevailing on behalf of this family.” She paused. “Still, Carleton money will certainly be welcome, if indeed the queen awards the dowry.”
She speared a chunk of silvery fish and popped it into her mouth. Bile rose in Juliet’s throat. She focused her eyes on the vase of yellow roses, but the food smells saturated her in a sea of nausea.
She started to rise, the chair legs screeching on the flagstones. A swimming sensation made her sway. Squeezing her eyes shut, she grabbed at the table.
From a distance came Maud’s voice: “Egad, Juliet! You’re white as a ghost.”
“Are you unwell, Your Grace?” asked Augusta.
“I’ve a remedy for pain, a tincture of opium,” said Gordon.
His voice faded as darkness sucked at Juliet. The firm familiarity of the table evaporated. Unable to catch herself, she plunged into a whirling inky pit.
She awoke to see Ravi looming over her. His dusky features looked solemn, his muddy gaze penetrating.
Baffled, Juliet tried to sit; black spots cavorted before her eyes. “Where’s Kent?”
“The sahib has not yet returned. Lie back now.”
She sank against a pillow. As Ravi moved away to stand sentinel by the door, she took in the faded green canopy of her bed, then the women who hovered alongside. Her skin felt clammy, her stomach unsettled. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Augusta said. “Straight into your chair, thank God, else the hospital fees might have cost us a month’s kitchen money.”
“A genuine swoon,” said Maud, her eyes agog behind the spectacles. “Alas, it wasn’t nearly so picturesque as those bogus faints that Bea Lyndon affected to weasel out of schoolwork.”
Rose placed a cool palm against Juliet’s forehead. “I was coming down the hall and heard the commotion,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “I’ve sent Hatchett to fetch the doctor.”
“Doctor?” Juliet elbowed into a sitting position; this time her head felt steadier. “But I’m perfectly fine. I’ve never fainted before in my life.”
Augusta peered intently at Juliet. “If my guess is correct, Your Grace, I would say you’re breeding.”
“Breeding?” Maud echoed, her nose wrinkled. “Why, of course Juliet has breeding. Her mother is a Beckburgh and her father is one of the richest—”
“Augusta means a baby,” Rose cut in. Focusing unsurprised eyes at Juliet, she added thoughtfully, “Her Grace carries the Radcliffe heir.”
The possibility flabbergasted Juliet. Her monthly time was overdue by more than a week, but she had attributed the delay to the upheaval in her life. Wilting into the pillows, she placed a hand over her stomach and tried to absorb an upsurge of joy.
“A baby!” Maud clapped her hands. “Won’t the duke be pleased! We must order the layette from Paris. I’ll help you start drawing up a list of prospective nursemaids—’’
“Slow down,” Juliet said, laughing weakly. “We should at least wait to hear the doctor’s verdict.”
Fleetwood shuffled through the doorway. Precariously balanced in his hands was a tray with a porcelain teapot. “A tisane, Your Grace. Marigold and honey, Mrs. Fleetwood’s finest restorative.”
Rose took the tray and set it on the desk. “Thank you. We c
ould all use a cup.”
“Fleetwood,” said Augusta, “do stop in the library and tell Mr. Deverell that Her Grace is recovering.”
“Yes, madam.” The old retainer ambled out of the room.
Ravi bowed to Juliet. “Memsahib, please ring if I may be of further assistance.”
As he vanished into Kent’s bedroom, Juliet stared after Ravi and wondered what he thought of Carleton and Deverell blood mingling.
“That foreigner makes me shiver,” Maud whispered, plopping onto the bed. “Why didn’t he go with the duke?’’
“Kent needed him to supervise the start of the harvest.”
Maud fluffed her aquamarine skirts. “Well,” she declared, “this whole place is spooky. Last night I heard the most peculiar moaning outside. Do you suppose there’re ghosts?” She shivered in delicious fright.
“Poppycock,” snorted Augusta. “Most likely you heard the wind whistling around the eaves. Or one of the peacocks crying out.”
As Rose distributed the cups, she cast a sly glance at Augusta. “Or Punjab howling from a bad dream.”
“Punjab never howls.” Despite her icy words, Augusta perched gingerly on a chair, as if she were anxious to stay but uncertain of her welcome. Juliet wondered how the older woman felt, knowing if the baby was a boy, he would usurp Gordon’s place as heir.
“Still,” Maud confided, “I was glad for Miss Fane sleeping on the cot in the dressing room. Heaven knows what poor, unhappy souls haunt these ancient walls.”
Rose sank onto a footstool and studied her tisane. “This family has suffered many tragedies. My own sister was one of them.”
Juliet nearly choked on a swallow of bittersweet tea.
Maud leaned forward so far, she almost tumbled off the bed. “Juliet told me about your relation to Emily. What exactly happened to her?
Rose lifted eyes gone liquid dark with sorrow. “It was three years ago, August eleventh. There’s a door from my mother’s tower apartment leading onto the north parapet. Emily went out there, apparently to get a breath of fresh air. No one really knows how she fell. Kent found her lying on the rocks.”