Wyatt frowned at her words. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted reluctantly. "You're right, it might upset her."
"And you'll need to make arrangements with your household," Nia continued, warming to her theme. "A child isn't a piece of furniture, you know. You can't simply pick her up and cart her home without proper preparations. You will need to hire a maid, and a governess, and—"
"You've made your point, Miss Pringle," he said, coming to an abrupt decision. "Very well, I shall come for her tomorrow morning, then. Kindly have her ready by ten o'clock."
Nia paused, not certain what to say. This was the very thing she'd worked for all these months, but now that the moment was finally here she was aware of an odd urge to cry. She tried telling herself it was all for the best, but that didn't help the burning ache in her throat.
"Ten o'clock, Your Grace," she said, blinking to hold back the tears. "If you will please tell your driver to let me out here, I will be on my way."
Wyatt tore his mind off thoughts of his niece long enough to send her a puzzled look. "Let you out?" he echoed with a frown. "Don't be absurd, Miss Pringle. These streets aren't the safest even in the daylight. I will see you home."
The charge of absurdity brought a martial gleam to Nia's eyes. "I am hardly a society miss who must be cossetted and comforted, Lord Tilton," she said coolly, her chin coming up with pride. "My father was an army physician, and I spent my entire life following the drum. London's teeming streets hold no dangers for me that I cannot handle."
Her argumentative tone brought a speculative gleam to Wyatt's dark eyes. "Ah, yes," he drawled, his gaze straying to the gun she was still holding. "I'd forgotten about the pistol. Armed to the teeth, are you?"
Nia decided now was not the time to tell him the gun was not loaded. "As a matter of fact, yes."
"Mmm," he answered with lazy indifference, and then in a move so fast she could not see it, he leaned forward and snatched the weapon from her hands.
"My lord!" she gasped indignantly, making a desperate grab for the pistol.
He easily held it out of her reach, examining it with obvious expertise. "Just as I thought," he replied, tucking the pistol into the pocket of his greatcoat. "I don't know if I should commend you for your bravery or shake you within an inch of your life, madam. Your audacity appears to know no bounds."
"Well, what else was I to do?" Nia defended her actions with a toss of her head. "I'd done everything I could to get your notice, and I was at my wit's end. The pistol was merely to guarantee you would hear me out. I certainly had no desire to actually shoot you."
"A circumstance for which I am most grateful," Wyatt said, trying not to smile. "Again, Miss Pringle, your audacity appears boundless. Are all the instructors at the academy so dedicated?"
She gave a guilty start, her eyes dropping to her hands. Even though he seemed eager to accept Amanda, there was still a small chance he was furious with her. Furious enough, perhaps, to retaliate against the school. She glanced up, trying to read his expression.
"The staff is devoted to our students," she replied carefully, "but I am the only one who climbed into your coach. If . . . if you are displeased, I would prefer that you retaliate against me rather than the others. They had nothing to do with this."
Her willingness to accept responsibility for her ill-advised actions impressed Wyatt. "Somehow, Miss Pringle, that doesn't surprise me in the least," he said, inclining his head with a smile. "If you will be so good as to give me the direction of the academy, I can inform John Coachman. Unless it is your intention that we continue driving in circles as we've been doing for the past half hour?"
Nia shot him a resentful look, hating him for his sarcasm. The notion of defying him was sweetly tempting, and for a moment she almost gave in to the impulse. But in the end common sense prevailed, and she grudgingly provided him with the address. Other than raising a dark eyebrow, he gave no response, and they were soon making their way from the elegance of Mayfair to St. John's Wood, where the academy was located.
To her relief he seemed disinclined to make idle conversation, and she turned her head toward the window, her expression thoughtful as she gazed out at the darkened streets. Now that the matter of Amanda had been settled, she could turn her attention to other concerns, such as how she was going to explain these events to Mrs. Langston. Something told her the headmistress would be less than pleased with her actions.
Another thing which puzzled her was the duke's insistence he was unaware of Amanda. At first she'd suspected him of prevaricating, but his expression when he'd seen the portrait had disabused her of that notion. He'd looked as if he'd just taken a bullet in the chest, and the pain and stunned disbelief on his face had convinced her that he was innocent. Yet, why had the knowledge been kept from him? What could his staff possibly hope to gain by telling him nothing of her own visits and letters? It made no earthly sense.
Across from her Wyatt was asking himself the same questions. He'd been in London less than a sennight, but that didn't explain his staff's neglect in informing him of Miss Pringle's attempts to contact him. His butler's actions were a little less suspect, as a good major domo seldom bothered his master with every caller who appeared on his doorstep. He was even willing to concede his secretary might have been justified in keeping Miss Pringle's letters from him, especially if he thought she was attempting to dun him for money. But that didn't explain his solicitor's actions.
According to Miss Pringle she'd contacted Mr. Elliott, and he'd responded by threatening her with legal action. That being the case, why hadn't he been informed? He was willing to grant his solicitor a certain degree of leniency, but he could not approve of him taking such steps without his permission. First thing tomorrow he would call upon the man and learn the truth. And his explanation had best be damned good.
They continued the journey in silence, each lost in his own dark thoughts. They reached their destination some time later, and Wyatt surveyed the brick building with interest.
"The household appears to be abed," he said, his eyes narrowing as he gazed up at the darkened windows. "Shall we wait until you manage to rousesomeone?"
Nia was annoyed to find she was flushing with shame. "That won't be necessary, Your Grace," she replied, ducking her head as she dug a key from the depths of her pocket. "I have a key to the servant's door."
"How provident," Wyatt drawled, wondering if the administrator was aware of that particular fact. "I will have the footman escort you to the door. It is doubtlessly quite dark in the rear of the house."
Nia opened her lips to refuse, but a glance at his face changed her mind. "Very well, Your Grace," she said, telling herself she wasn't giving in so much as humoring him. "I shall see you tomorrow, then."
Wyatt thought about tomorrow and the niece he would meet for the first time. A niece he'd never have met had it not been for the woman climbing out of his carriage. "Miss Pringle?"
"Yes, Your Grace?" She sent him a wary glance.
"Thank you for telling me about Amanda," he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. "I am in your debt."
The sincerity in his deep vice made Nia pause. "You are welcome, my lord," she replied, inclining her head politely. "Good night to you."
The footman not only saw her to the rear door, but also waited until she was safely inside. Shaking her head at the duke's unexpected gallantry, she quietly made her way up the back stairs to the instructor's quarters. She thought of peeking in on Amanda, but since the little girl shared a room with a dozen other girls, she thought it best to wait until tomorrow. Although what she would say to her, Nia did not know.
In her room Nia removed the black cloak and hung it carefully in her wardrobe. She'd borrowed it from one of the other instructors, and with luck she'd return it before the woman discovered it was missing. Normally she'd never have resorted to thievery, but there hadn't been time to ask permission. Her eyes twinkled as she imagined Miss Smythe's reaction were she to learn her cloak—a gift from h
er father, the rector of Asheford—had been used to fool a footman into thinking its wearer was a common prostitute. Doubtlessly she would swoon with horror and order the thing burned, Nia decided, sliding between her cold sheets with a chuckle.
Despite the excitement of the evening, Nia fell into a deep sleep, rising refreshed and eager to face the morning. After careful consideration she decided to confront Mrs. Langston before talking to Amanda; providing the headmistress didn't order her tossed from the house, she added, grimacing as she tucked her hair beneath her starched cap.
Once downstairs, she hurried to the front of the house where Mrs. Langston's study was located. The door was shut, and Nia drew a deep breath for courage before knocking.
"Come in."
Nia opened the door, a respectful smile pinned to her lips as she stepped inside. "Good morning, ma'am," she said, aware of how hard her heart was pounding in her chest. "I was wondering if I might have a word with you."
"Why, certainly, my dear," Mrs. Langston replied, sending her a surprisingly warm smile. "As a matter of fact, I was just about to send for you. It was all a mistake, you see."
"A mistake?" Nia repeated, frowning as she lowered herself onto the chair set before the desk.
Mrs. Langston gave a vigorous nod. "A terrible mistake, and he was as apologetic as could be. It seems we have both been rather harsh in our assessments, which only proves that the Holy Scriptures are right. 'Judge not, that ye be not judged'."
"I see," Nia repeated faintly, wondering what the other woman was talking about. There were times she feared the headmistress's reasoning skills were not all they should be.
"You could have knocked me over with a feather when the maid came and told me he was here. Why, it wasn't even eight o'clock, and everyone knows quality sleeps until noon! I thought it was a joke at first, but when he showed me his card I knew he was telling me the truth. And there was something so . . . commanding in his aspect, so regal. Not that he was in the least impolite, mind. Indeed he could not have been more charming. He—"
"Mrs. Langston, what on earth are you talking about?" Nia demanded, a terrible suspicion forming in her mind. "Who could not have been more charming?"
"Why, His Grace, of course," Mrs. Langston replied, giving her a confused look. "The duke of Tilton. He called upon me first thing this morning."
"What?"
"He's just returned from the country," the headmistress rushed on eagerly. "Apparently his household staff took it upon themselves to write those dreadful letters, and I for one would not wish to be in their shoes, he was that furious. But all's well that ends well, for he cannot wait to meet Amanda. He shall be back for her at ten o'clock. Is that not wonderful?"
Nia sifted through the jumble of words, swiftly reaching the only conclusion that mattered—His Grace hadn't betrayed her. When Mrs. Langston began mentioning his visit, her first thought had been that he'd come to demand she be dismissed. Apparently she had misjudged the man . . . again.
"Wonderful," she echoed, slumping back against the chair. And it was wonderful, she told herself sternly. In a few hours Amanda would have a real home, with an uncle who seemed determined to do his best for her. The teacher in her rejoiced at her pupil's good fortune, but the woman in her was already missing a special little girl.
"I was hoping you would inform Amanda of her uncle's intentions," Mrs. Langston continued in her brisk manner, relieved at how satisfactorily things had turned out. "She is certain to be anxious, and I'm sure speaking with you will help ease her fears. The two of you are quite close, aren't you?"
"Yes, quite close."
"Good, good, I knew I could rely on you." Mrs. Langston's mind had already turned to other matters. The duke had promised a sizeable donation, and she was plotting how best to spend the unexpected largesse. Perhaps she'd have the academy supplied with the new gaslight everyone was talking about, she mused. Candles were becoming so expensive . . .
Sensing her headmistress's distraction, Nia rose and slipped quietly from the room. It was scarce past eight in the morning, so she knew Amanda would be in the great hall taking breakfast with the other children. A sad smile touched her lips as she thought of how significantly the girl's life was about to change. She doubted Amanda would be dining on porridge and watery tea in His Grace's townhouse.
As she suspected, she found Amanda greedily devouring her second bowl of hot cereal and engaging in a heated argument. "And what is this all about?" Nia asked, her voice stern as she bent beside Amanda's chair. "You know you're not permitted to call another pupil an old silly."
"Well, he is," Amanda grumbled, her violet eyes narrowing as she glared at the boy sitting across from her. "He said Napoleon was French. Everyone knows he is a Corsetcan."
"Corsican," Nia corrected, her hand trembling as she brushed a blond curl from Amanda's flushed cheek. "But as he was also emperor of France, I would say Timothy's argument is not without validity. You will apologize, young lady, and then you will come with me. There is something I wish to discuss with you."
Amanda hesitated, torn between the injustice of having to apologize and eagerness for a few minutes privacy with her most favorite person in the world. In the end her desire to be alone with Miss Pringle won, and she heaved a noisy sigh. "Oh, very well," she said, her bottom lip thrusting forward in a mutinous pout. "I am sorry for calling Timothy an old silly . . . even if he is one," she added, shooting her nemesis a defiant scowl.
The arrogant pride on her face put Nia in mind of her uncle. Apparently the two were more alike than appearances would indicate, she thought, hiding a smile as she pulled out Amanda's chair. "That is better," she said, helping her down. "Although we might have done without the last part of your apology."
She led the little girl into the parlor set aside for the staff's private use. After making sure the door was closed behind them, she turned to face Amanda, her heart pounding in her chest. Until now she had no idea that doing one's duty could be so painful, and she could feel tears burning in her eyes. The thought of never seeing Amanda again was agony, and for a brief moment her resolution wavered. She thrust the traitorous weakness aside and knelt beside the little girl who was staring up at her with wide, apprehensive eyes.
"I have something to tell you, sweetest," she said quietly, slipping her arms about Amanda and drawing her close. "It is about your uncle. You see, something wonderful has happened . . ."
While Nia was breaking the news to Amanda, Wyatt was sitting in his solicitor's office, his face rigid with control as he confronted the other man. "Well, Mr. Elliott?" he demanded, his voice dangerously soft. "I trust you have some explanation for keeping my niece's existence from me?"
Duncan Elliott seemed unperturbed by his employer's cold displeasure. If anything, he appeared amused, his manner condescending as he removed his spectacles and began polishing them with his handkerchief. "It is as I have already explained, Your Grace," he said, slipping his glasses back on his face. "Letters such as the ones this Miss Pringle sent are common occurrences for a man in your position. I simply saw no reason to trouble you over something so trivial."
Wyatt's lips tightened in anger. "I'd hardly call my niece's welfare a trifle," he replied coldly. He'd been awake most of the night, and his patience was tenuous at best. The last thing he was in the mood for was his prim solicitor's impertinence.
"To be sure, my lord." Mr. Elliott inclined his head graciously. "Provided, of course, that she is your niece. We've only Miss Pringle's word on the matter."
Wyatt remembered the miniature of the little girl with his brother's blond curls and violet eyes. "She is Christopher's child," he said, his voice firm.
Mr. Elliott's thin mouth quirked in a slight smile. "It is good of Your Grace to be so trusting," he said, stroking a lock of graying hair from his forehead. "Unfortunately I am not so naive. Without proof—"
"Amanda is the very image of my brother," Wyatt interrupted, wearying of the other man's incessant protestations. "That is all th
e proof I require."
To his surprise the solicitor paled, his hand dropping to his sides as he gazed at him. "You . . . you have seen the child?"
"A miniature. Miss Pringle showed it to me, as well as a copy of her birth record and my brother's marriage lines."
"But, Your Grace, that is hardly acceptable proof!" Mr. Elliott exclaimed, his expression imploring as he leaned forward. "I'm not certain what this Miss Pringle may be about, but I urge you not to act precipitously. Until we know—"
"Enough!" Wyatt leapt to his feet, pinning the solicitor with a furious glare. "Amanda has my family's blond hair and blue eyes, and I am more than satisfied that she is my niece. That is all that need concern you."
Mr. Elliott opened his mouth as if to protest, then leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as he lowered his eyes to his tightly clasped hands. When he raised them again there was a look of sly cunning shimmering in their ebony depths. "I trust your lordship will forgive me, but I would be failing in my duty if I didn't point out that not all Perryvales are blessed with such"—he paused meaningfully—"distinctive features."
Wyatt flinched as he sat back down. Dark fury rose in him, but much as he longed to deny the unspoken accusations, he did not. How could he? All his life he had suspected he wasn't his father's natural child, and the solicitor was only giving voice to his most secret fear.
"Perhaps not," he agreed, hiding his anguish behind an implacable expression, "but that is not the case here. One has but to look at the child to know she is Christopher's daughter."
"But you've not looked at her, have you?" Mr. Elliott persisted, raising a hand when Wyatt would have spoken. "I know you've seen her portrait, but portraits can be altered to give the desired appearance. Even if no deliberate deception is involved, one must consider the artist's interpretation of his subject. You say the girl resembles your brother because of her coloring, but so must a hundred other children of the same age. Are they all your brother's offspring?"
The Dutiful Duke Page 3