A Season for Love

  “It’s more of a revolutionary ye are, Bert Tunney, than an honest carter,” Flann declared with feeling.

  “Hush!” Alfie urged. “’Ere comes the watchman.” The three men flattened themselves against the wooden fence, willing their bodies to perfect immobility.

  When the duke’s private watchman, swinging a square-shaped lantern, had made his way through the gardens, apparently unaware of the intruders, the three housebreakers unglued themselves from the fence with audible sighs of relief. “Just the one, you say?” Bert Tunney whispered to Flann McCollum.

  “Aye, the dook’s fair took with his own importance. Who’d dare snabble somethin’ from the great, important Dee-ook of Longville?” said Flann, mimicking the upper crust accent of the ton.

  “Let’s get to it then,” Alfie said, “before y’r fingers grow so old they fergit how to pick a lock.”

  The first part of their plan went well. On the watchman’s next turn through the garden he was surprised and trussed up as fine as a Christmas goose. Or so Bert Tunney pronounced as he observed Flann and Alfie at work. So far, so good. In under an hour they would all be wealthy men.

  As Flann had promised, he was indeed adept with locks. They were inside the kitchen entrance in a matter of minutes. He and Alfie were glad enough to leave the nervous Bert on guard, still complaining about his bleeding leg. The two men stood still, listening for any sign of life. There was none. Cautiously, they moved forward, keeping the lantern dark. Flann had enjoyed another evening of convivial conversation with the footman from Longville House, so the two housebreakers found their way up the servants’ stairs with little difficulty. Alfie could only be grateful that Flann seemed to have a cat somewhere on his family tree, for the Irishman climbed the narrow servants’ stairs as if he could actually see where he was going.

  Alfie followed, torn between determination and doubt. He would, he vowed, stick to the jostle and grab from now on, doing his business in daylight as any God-fearing man should. A trap, this great house, that’s what it was. Yet he could see those jewels—great gleaming things winking at him, urging him on, promising new hope in a new land. Bleedin’ duke had so much blunt he’d never miss them baubles. Not a bit of it.

  Alfie heaved an inward sigh of relief when they reached the upper hallway. After the stairwell, it seemed bathed in light, although, truthfully, there was only the merest glow drifting in from the lanterns surrounding Grosvenor Square. Gawd! Flann was forging ahead as if he actually knew where he was going, as perhaps he did after his night of matching the Longville footman pint for pint.

  Flann paused and snuck open a door a scant few inches. Shaking his head, he closed it and moved on. Then fortune seemed to smile. The very next bedchamber proved to be their goal. The secretaire loomed, a dark hulk against one wall, exactly as expected. Flann had the lock open in a trice. The men grabbed a jewel box each and swiftly backed out of the room, keeping their eyes on the massive bed where the duke lay sleeping, his view unobstructed by draperies unnecessary in the warmth of near summer.

  Not a sound. Not so much as a wiggle.

  They backed into the hallway, softly securing the door behind them. Flann’s heart was singing. Sweet revenge against the Brits, a new start in the Canadas—

  A scream rent the air. A unending series of screams. A wraith in billowing white seemed to fill the entire width of the corridor, barring their passage back to the servants’ stairs. Not that they truly thought a ghost could scream so loudly, but both men, still clutching the heavy jewelry boxes, turned and ran for the front stairs as fast as their legs could carry them. In the corridor behind, Nell Brindley, who only wished to sneak a fine slice of roast beef from the kitchen larder, continued to scream at the top of her country-bred lungs.

  The lock on the great front door would take too long to pick. Flann and Alfie ran down the ground floor corridor, throwing open doors, looking in vain for another exit. The green baize door, they had to find it. And quickly. Now frantic, they doubled back, found the entrance to the servants’ area at last. Hearts pounding, they flung themselves out the kitchen door.

  “Quick! Over the fence!” Bert Tunney called, his broad silhouette hovering with one foot on a sturdy espaliered tree as he clambered toward the top of the wooden barrier on the far side of the garden.

  Flann and Alfie charged toward him, cutting swaths through the close-packed array of late spring flowers. They were close, so very close, to the fence, when a shot rang out.

  “Hold right there!” the Duke of Longville shouted. When the men did not pause, he raised a second pistol and fired. The two miscreants slid to a halt, just inches short of the fence. Surprisingly, Bert Tunney had stood his ground, his boots on the stout espaliered branches, one hand clinging to the top of the fence.

  “Now, listen, guv’nor,” said Alfie Grubbs. “You’ve shot your pops, so you ain’t got nuffin’ left. There’s one of you and three of us—”

  “How do you know I haven’t another pistol?” the duke taunted.

  “Mebbe you do and mebbe you don’t,” Alfie countered, “but ’tis true them’s dueling pistols and they comes in pairs.”

  “Leave the jewels,” the duke declared calmly, “and I’ll not have you hunted down like dogs in the street.”

  “And what do you need with all this?” Flann McCollum demanded with considerable scorn. “Ye’ve got everythin’ a man c’d want in this world. Sure now, and isn’t it better the baubles go to feed hungry bellies than do no good atall ’round your wife’s neck?”

  “If those gems go to feed anything more than your own belly, I’ll be considerably surprised,” the duke retorted. “Come now, don’t be a fool. Put the boxes down.”

  “And what’s to happen to us if we do?” Alfie demanded.

  Behind the duke, lights flickered in the kitchen as Sims, followed closely by two footmen, all holding candles, arrived to provide support for their master. At the same moment the mews gate banged open, and the head groom strode through, the ugly silhouette of a shotgun clear in hands. Flann and Alfie, realizing they could not make their escape while encumbered by the large jewelry boxes, threw them toward the duke, then turned and scaled the fence with all the alacrity of experienced tomcats. But not before Bert Tunney surprised them all by raising a pistol from the depths of his pocket and firing at the Duke of Longville, so perfectly silhouetted against the candlelight.

  Fortunately, the distance was considerable and Bert’s hand unsteady, his aim compromised by the last-minute recollection of what would happen if he killed a premier duke of the realm. By the time the head groom thundered a shot at the top of the espaliered tree, Bert Tunney, impervious to his leg injury, was halfway down the alley, Flann and Alfie on his heels, the three would-be thieves melting into the shadows of the night.

  “You are mad!” Jen told her husband with no roundaboutation. “Standing there, all alone, lit from behind. You might as well have said, “Come, shoot me!”

  “I do not have your military expertise, my dear . . . and, besides, may I point out that he missed.”

  “Papa!” Caroline cried, following the duke and duchess into the drawing room, now dimly lit by a single wall sconce and a three-branch candelabrum, “you keep your dueling pistols loaded! I saw you from my window. You are a true hero.”

  “He is a fool,” Jen continued bitterly. “All about in his head. He might well have been killed.”

  “Brindley,” the duke bawled, ignoring his wife. “Well, girl, where are you? Come here this instant.”

  Nell Brindley crept through the doorway, now clutching a cloak about her. Bare toes peeked out beneath the hem of her voluminous white cotton nightgown. “Yes, Your Grace?” she quavered, managing an awkward curtsy.

  At that moment the Duke of Longville realized he was not much better dressed than his servant. His black silk robe hung open over nightwear just as long and white as Nell’s, and only slightly less voluminous. His feet, also, were bare. How fortunate his pistols had been more read
y for the moment than he himself.

  “May I ask what you were doing in the family hallway, Brindley?” the duke inquired.

  Caroline distinctly heard the clatter of Nell’s teeth before the girl was able to reply. “You see, Your Grace, I . . . well, sometimes I get hungry at night. At home ‘twas always easy enough to go the kitchen and help m’self to a bit of roast, don’t you know? So . . . well, that’s what I wuz doin’, Your Grace. On my way to the kitchen for a bite to eat.”

  “The back stairs are the other way, Brindley.”

  Nell drew a deep breath. “Yes, sir, my lord, Your Grace, sir. But y’see, I . . . those stairs be so dark and closed in. Right creepy they are—”

  “So you took the front stairs . . .”

  “There’s always a bit of light from the lamps in the square, you see,” Nell said, peeping fearfully up at him.

  “Ah, yes,” the duke murmured. His lips twitched. “I take it this is not the first time you have helped yourself to—ah—a bit of roast?”

  “No, Your Grace. I mean, yes, sometimes I do get right peckish in the night. A growing girl I am, that’s what m’da says.”

  Slowly, the duke shook his head, his eyes fixed on the Aubusson carpet. “I fear I must refrain from scolding you, Brindley,” he announced. His sharp amber eyes rose to meet her frightened gaze. “Come to my study at eleven this morning, and I will see that you are suitably rewarded. A guinea, I should think. The Carlington jewels are, after all, priceless, and it would seem that you have saved them.”

  “Oo, sir! Your Grace, do you truly mean it?”

  “Off with you now,” the duke ordered. Nell Brindley scampered from the room, so overcome she quite forgot to curtsy.

  “Thank you, papa,” Caroline said. “That was most kind.”

  “I pay my debts,” he told her. “You, too, should go back to bed, Caroline. You have, I believe, been burning the candle at both ends of late.”

  “You do not think they will come back?”

  “I do not. We have rescued the watchman and set two stableboys to patrol in his place. You may retire with confidence of no more disturbances. Indeed, I think I missed the one only by inches and the other by no more than a hair’s breadth. It should be some time before either regains his courage.”

  When Caroline’s footsteps had faded away, Marcus turned to his wife. “I believe we have something to discuss,” he said.

  “You were foolhardy,” Jen snapped. “The jewels are not worth your life.”

  “I was not thinking of the blasted jewels.”

  “Oh.” Jen turned away, steadying herself with one hand on the back of the settee. “I cannot discuss this at the moment, Marcus. I must have time to think the matter through.”

  “That’s what Amy said. Eight years, and she never seemed to find an answer.”

  Jen’s eyes went wide. “I—I am not like that, Marcus. I am usually quite decisive. But the matter of Laurence is so important I cannot allow myself to be swayed by your presence. You . . . you are so strong, so powerful, that you sweep away my good sense. Please, I beg of you, a little time to decide how far I should go to make you understand that you are not always right.”

  Somewhere in her words, Marcus rather thought she had left him a ray of hope, though at the moment his mind was too much at sixes and sevens to pinpoint exactly which words incited a modicum of optimism. Not always right. He had spent a great many years of his life building up the belief that this was not possible. Was this, then, what marriage to Jen demanded of him? A loss of infallibility?

  “Goodnight, Marcus,” Jen said softly, though she did not come near him. “Before retiring, I will thank God on my knees that man was a poor shot.”

  Marcus allowed himself a tiny smile. “You do not wish to be rid of me then?”

  “No, Marcus, I do not at all wish to be rid of you,” his duchess murmured. “Goodnight.”

  Idly, the duke noticed for the first time his wife was also wearing white cotton nightwear, and with that abominably ugly wool robe over it. Women. He shook his head. His duchess was more poorly dressed than his housekeeper. Which reminded him he must send Sims and Mrs. Jenks back to bed, after giving them orders to recheck every door in the house.

  All and all, it had not been such a bad evening. He had defended his castle, almost as if he were one of his illustrious ancestors riding at the head of the king’s army. A much-needed boost to his amour-propre, which had suffered in recent months from his frustration over being unable to mend England’s troubles at home and abroad, and, more recently, from his wife’s rejection. If only Jen would look at him as Caroline had done. Ah, yes, his daughter had looked at him as if he were Wellington himself.

  Marcus sighed and went to bed. But not before cleaning and loading both dueling pistols.

  “Making a cake of yourself, Frayne,” said Mr. Peyton Trimby-Ashford to his friend, who had one shoulder propped against a pillar in the Grantley’s ballroom and a serious glower marring his handsome face as he watched Lady Caroline float by in the arms of Sir Chetwin Willoughby. “If a young lady may not dance more than two dances with one man, ergo, she must dance with others or suffer the stigma of being termed a wallflower,” Peyton added helpfully.

  “I have not had so much as one dance,” Tony retorted, obviously highly annoyed by this surprising iniquity.

  “Slow top, are you?”

  “If you must know,” the viscount said from between clenched teeth, “the duke and I came late to the Lady Harriet’s ball. We sent the ladies ahead while we discussed the events of last night. By the time we arrived, all Caroline’s dances were bespoke.”

  “She did not save you even one?” said Peyton, much astonished.

  “Nary a one.”

  Mr. Trimby-Ashford frowned, considering the matter seriously, as a true friend should. “I daresay,” he ventured, “Lady Caroline thought you might have spoken up before the ladies left for the ball. Or, perhaps, she is pointing out that you have come to take her company for granted.”

  “Devil take it! We’re family,” Tony ground out. “I do not expect to stand on ceremony with her. Did she expect a waltz to take precedence over housebreakers? She might, at least, have saved me the supper dance.” The viscount’s complaint dwindled to something embarrassingly close to a whine. An even darker scowl lined his face.

  “If you was married,” Peyton suggested, “you could have as many dances as you wished.”

  “No, I could not,” the viscount snarled. “You know perfectly well husbands and wives do not sit in each other’s pockets. I should probably be laughed out of my clubs if I danced with a wife more than once a night.”

  “Speaking of husbands and wives,” said Mr. Trimby-Ashford, deciding this was an auspicious time to change the subject, “I have not seen the duchess tonight. I trust she is not ill?”

  “Jen?” said Tony, his mind still on the dance floor, where Caroline was laughing at some remark by Sir Chetwin. “Truthfully, I am not sure. She simply announced she would not be attending the Grantley’s ball and asked mama to play gooseberry to Caroline and Emily.”

  “Perhaps she is distressed by the housebreakers,” Peyton suggested.

  “Jen?” Tony exclaimed. “My sister was scarcely distressed by Bonaparte’s Grande Armée. I doubt three London housebreakers are going to send her into a fit of the vapors.”

  “Is she?— I beg your pardon,” mumbled Peyton, a blush staining his rotund cheeks.

  “You and mama,” Tony drawled, glancing sideways at his friend. “My dear mother has been atwitter all evening on just that off-chance. But, no, I do not believe I am to be an uncle again any time soon. I rather think the duke and Jen have had their first quarrel, which is, of course, something they must deal with by themselves.”

  Peyton followed his friend’s gaze, which was once again fixed on one particular pair amidst the colorful swirl of waltzing couples. “You could try bribery,” he suggested helpfully. “Discover who has the next waltz with Lady Car
oline and arrange to take his place.”

  “A bit obvious, is it not?”

  “And hanging on a pillar, glaring, simply makes you one of the crowd?”

  “Go away and let me be miserable in peace.”

  Peyton chuckled, clapped his friend on the back. “I must be off. I have the next dance with Miss Bettencourt. And, Tony? Perhaps it’s time you made it clear you have reconsidered your vow not to marry until you are forty.”

  The viscount turned and faced his friend squarely, his eyes bleak pools of blue. “As if that would matter to a young lady who has declared she will not marry at all,” he said.

  For a moment the two young men stared at each other, then Tony turned abruptly and strode out one of the French doors onto the terrace. Mr. Peyton Trimby-Ashford looked after him, heaved a long-drawn sigh of sympathy, then went in search of Miss Emily Bettencourt.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the end of her waltz with Sir Chetwin, Caroline escaped Lady Worley’s eagle eye with the excuse of finding the ladies’ retiring room. Blindly, she made her way through the crowded ballroom, uncertain of where she was going. Away, simply away, from the conversation, comments, sly looks, and giggles from behind young ladies’ fans. How could he? How could he lean against that column and stare at her so? There was not a person in the entire ballroom who had missed the viscount’s display of pique, she was certain of it. His marked attentions were already the on dit of the Season. Since neither she nor Tony had made their views on marriage a secret, some had dismissed their companionship on the basis of family connection. But, tonight, there could be no other explanation for Tony’s conduct than the role of jealous suitor. It was mortifying, Caroline told herself. He did not want to marry. She did not want to marry. Why could not people leave them alone?

  And yet her feet—no, her heart, disregarding her head—had brought her to the tall door where she had caught a glimpse of Tony striding onto the terrace as if the hounds of hell were after him. After a furtive glance around to make sure no one was watching, Caroline turned the knob and walked out into the blessed cool of the early June night. He was still there, standing with his hands flat against the parapet, gazing at the Grantley’s garden, whose colorful beauty was displayed under the light of a dozen or more tall torchères.