“I suppose. But you won’t have to look far, I’m sure. Just open the door. Oh, and be careful Mrs. Piggle doesn’t topple in on your feet.”
Lady Emmaline’s strange warning had John thinking that the woman still wasn’t very far from a complete breakdown, but when he opened the doors that led into the foyer, it was to see a rather red-cheeked, pudgy woman of an indeterminate age attempting to regain her feet just on the other side of the door.
“You could at least have offered your arm in helping me up, Mr. Grayson,” she complained to the butler, who was now eyeing John as if he was some bit of vermin he’d unintentionally let into the house.
“Let me assume that you’ve heard the news,” John said before turning to close the doors behind him, blocking Lady Emmaline’s view. She’d mentioned a farce, and he sought to spare her the one now taking place in this foyer.
“How can we know they’re dead? We’ve only your word for it. And who are you?” Grayson asked, accused, the moment those doors were shut.
John nearly told him, but then mentally bit his tongue. A duke of the realm and his two heirs didn’t all perish together without repercussions that would reverberate for weeks, if not months. There was enough turmoil at Ashurst Hall at the moment, without him making some grand announcement. Besides, Lady Emmaline might not be as ready to appeal to him for help if she knew who he really was. As things stood now, she could accept his assistance and retain the illusion that she was in charge. John believed she needed to feel in charge, competent.
“I am who I said I was when I arrived here, Grayson. Captain John Alastair, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. I’m also the man who would consider your words an insult to his honor if not for the grief that has just settled over this household.”
Grayson’s chin lowered slightly, the older man seeming to understand that he had spoken out of turn to a gentleman who didn’t take insolence lightly.
“I’ll have one of the grooms ride to the village to summon the vicar. Lady Emmaline will wish for spiritual guidance.”
“Hummph,” Mrs. Piggle snorted, and then quickly covered her mouth as she turned her less than laudatory reaction into a cough. “Suppose someone’ll want the chapel taken out of Holland covers. Ain’t been a Daughtry in there since the last duke was carried in feetfirst. I’ll set the maids to it first thing tomorrow.”
“We all worship the Almighty in our own ways, Mrs. Piggle.” Grayson quelled the woman’s insolence with a stare that would have made any sergeant-major proud. “Lady E. attends services in the village, you understand. His Grace and his sons … preferred to worship our Lord in their own way.”
“You don’t need to explain. I will tell you that I’ll be staying here tonight at Lady Emmaline’s request,” John said, not wishing for any more confidences from the servants at the moment. “See to it that a chamber is made ready for me. My bags are still in the coach, I imagine. I’d like to bathe and change into a fresh uniform before the dinner bell is rung.”
“Oh, laws, Lady E.’s birthday! Mr. Grayson, we forgot. Lady E.’s birthday celebration. And Cook has prepared all of her favorites, and now we’re all at sixes and sevens, what with the duke and those horrid boys drowning and all. Ah, what a misery this day is. Poor little dab. What a misery …”
John cocked a look at the butler. “It’s Lady Emmaline’s birthday?”
“Just as Mrs. Piggle said, yes. She’s had more than her share of birthdays under this roof, that’s what His Grace would always say. He may have forgotten this one, I’m afraid.”
“They’d all still be alive if he’d remembered this one. Excepting he probably would have gone sailing at any rate.” Mrs. Piggle took a step away from the butler as Grayson frowned. “I’m only speaking the truth, you know. I can’t remember the last birthday any of them paid a bit of mind to. Poor little dab.”
John took a step toward the butler. He was beginning to feel rather proprietary toward Lady Emmaline Daughtry. “But we’re not going to forget it, Grayson, are we? Whatever has been planned shall go forward. So, what is planned?”
Mrs. Piggle answered. “Just her favorite meal, sir, and a simple confection she also favors. And all to be served in the main dining saloon, with the table shining with all the silver and candles and such. The staff is quite fond of Lady E.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Piggle. It all sounds lovely and thoughtful. I would ask that another place be laid, as I will be joining Lady Emmaline at table. There’s time enough for the vicar tomorrow, Grayson. For tonight, we will discuss the duke’s death only if her ladyship wishes it. Agreed?”
Grayson nodded. “Agreed, sir. And I will inform the staff. Her ladyship should not have to worry her head about a thing, not if we can be of assistance.” He frowned, hesitated and then added, “The new duke will be here soon enough, if he’s not dead, too.”
“And who might this new, perhaps deceased duke be, Grayson?” John asked, anxious to get back to Lady Emmaline, who probably shouldn’t be left alone with her grief for too long.
Grayson sighed. “The most unlikely person, that’s who. The late duke’s brother’s son. One Rafael Daughtry, and a captain serving under Wellington. I cannot imagine anyone less suited for the title.”
“And don’t be forgetting the mother,” Mrs. Piggle said, rolling her rather bulging eyes. “There’s one would make a stone statue blush, what with her outlandish ways. We’re to be taking orders from the likes of her?”
“Shush, Mrs. Piggle. That will be quite enough.” Grayson turned to John once more. “Forgive us, sir, the both of us. We’ve had quite the shock. We’ve known the late duke ever so long, and the boys since before they were born. And then, of course, Lady Emmaline holds all our hearts. It’s … it’s a trying time. But we will overcome it, sir.”
“Then you’re all finished with being shocked now, aren’t you, and from this moment on you will all do whatever is in your power to assist Lady Emmaline during this trying time—without further comment. Am I correct? Very good.” What a poorly run household this was, John thought. He’d never met the Duke of Ashurst or his sons, but he felt fairly certain he had nothing to regret in not making their acquaintances.
At last, the butler seemed to pull himself together. “Yes, Captain. I’ll see to having your bags taken up to the west wing and a bath called for. I’ll have one of the footman escort you directly. Dinner is at six.”
“Thank you, Grayson. But before you do that, please summon Lady Emmaline’s maid to her and explain that I will rejoin her in an hour.”
“Yes, of course. And again, Captain, our apologies. We will strive to draw ourselves together and carry on.” The butler put his hand to the small of the housekeeper’s broad back. “Come along, Mrs. Piggle. I know you can’t wait to be the one who tells everyone the terrible news.”
John looked at the closed doors to the main saloon, part of him wishing to rejoin his hostess, while another part of him longed to be out of his uniform and sunk in hot soapy water to his chin. Bathing aboard ship was always a spotty thing, and he was sorely in need of not only soap and water but clean linen and even a razor.
He should have stopped at an inn along the way from Shoreham-by-Sea and made himself more presentable, but he’d believed time was of the essence, that news of the duke’s demise—as Lady Emmaline had termed it—must be brought to his estate as quickly as possible.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to just step back inside the room for a moment, to assure himself that the woman was still as bravely stoic as she’d been since first hearing of her now vastly altered family situation.
Giving in to his curiosity, if that was the proper term for it, he opened the door only slightly and peered toward the couches set in the middle of the large room.
Lady Emmaline was no longer seated on one of the couches.
John stepped fully inside, casting his gaze around the room, only to discover that it was empty of all but its furnishings.
Where could she have gone? A quick glance
toward the French doors told him that the rain was still coming down hard, so she wouldn’t have gone back outside into the gardens.
Then he noticed another door in the far right-hand corner of the room, and he approached it quietly, to see that it was slightly ajar.
“Lady Emmaline?”
“Yes. One moment.”
He stepped back from the doorway and she joined him in a few moments, as promised, a new look of determination on her beautiful face.
“How do I best get a message to Paris?” she asked him without preamble. “Or at least to France. I think Rafe’s in France.”
“Rafe. Your nephew?”
Lady Emmaline nodded. “Yes, my nephew. He has to come home, doesn’t he? Ashurst Hall cannot be without its master.”
“You should not be alone here, no. I would suggest a personal courier, ma’am. Perhaps a former soldier? A Bow Street Runner? It’s an orderly turmoil now that Bonaparte has retreated to Paris, but it is still turmoil, and will be until the man officially abdicates.”
She looked up at him, her eyes fearful. “Is Rafe in any danger?”
“Hopefully not. But as I said, Bonaparte is still in Paris, and one can never consider the man as being entirely toothless.”
“Oh, dear,” she said as she turned and stepped back into the room she’d just left. She crossed to a small table, the top of which was more than completely covered by what looked to be an open Bible. “I want Rafe to be safe. There’s no question of that. But there is more than just Rafe’s safety that is at stake now.”
John walked over to the table and looked down at the writing on the inside of the back cover of the Bible. “The next in line after your nephew is a real rotter?” he asked, hoping to make her smile.
“Hardly. The next in line after Rafe is nobody. I was certain that is the case, but felt it necessary to check my conclusion by looking at our family tree in the Bible. And there is nobody. The titles, these lands, this estate and others, they would all revert to the Crown. That can’t happen, it simply cannot. Someone must be sent to find him, immediately, and bring him back here.” She laid both her hands on his forearm and looked up into his face. “Please, Captain Alastair. Help me.”
“I will. I promise.” He didn’t know how he would help, but if she’d asked him to move a mountain he would have agreed to that chore, as well. How could he deny this woman anything when she looked at him with those soulful brown eyes?
CHAPTER THREE
EMMALINE SURREPTITIOUSLY TURNED her head toward her left shoulder and sniffed. Maryanne, her maid, had sworn to her that the black gown did not smell of camphor after being packed away in the attics these past half dozen years or more, since her father’s death, but Emmaline was still not convinced.
What she was convinced of, however, was that the gown, never a favorite, was woefully out of fashion. According to her sister-in-law, Helen, it had been out of fashion the moment it had been stitched up by the seamstress in the village, as anyone with any sense knew there was no hope of cleverness to be found in Mrs. Watley’s hamlike fingers. To Emmaline, that had meant that Mrs. Watley had flatly refused to lower Helen’s bodice another two inches for fear that the deceased would take one look at those exposed bosoms and sit up straight in his coffin.
The last time Emmaline had worn this gown (the one with the depressingly ordinary neckline) had been during her year of mourning for her father. That grief, although not overwhelming by any means, had been genuine, as it was difficult to fault the twelfth duke for being the man he had been: rough, gruff and fairly oblivious. Summoning up authentic grief for her brother and his sons was still proving problematic, however, and she’d once again felt a fraud as she’d come down to dinner in this gown.
Emmaline paced the main saloon, unable to settle herself, wondering where she’d summoned the courage—no, the audacity!—to enlist a complete stranger’s assistance in dealing with the repercussions of her brother’s death. But there was something about Captain John Alastair that instilled confidence in him and his ability to, if not make things right for her, at least shepherd her through the next difficult days.
She closed her eyes and thought about him, and the way he’d looked as he’d approached her out in the gardens. His tall, handsome form so splendid in his impressive uniform, his bicorne hat neatly tucked beneath his arm, the slight shadow of an evening beard on his lean cheeks. He’d looked weary, and more than a little nervous, most probably because he was certain he would momentarily be presented with a wildly hysterical, weeping woman.
Emmaline walked along behind one of the couches, lightly running her fingertips over its curved back, and then stopped to look up at the portrait of her father that still hung in its place of honor above the fireplace. Yes, she’d wept when the twelfth duke had died. Why couldn’t she seem to weep for the thirteenth duke and his two sons?
There had to be something unnatural about a woman who would see their deaths as a problem to be solved rather than the tragedy that it was. There had to be something perverse about a woman whose primary occupation since hearing of those three deaths had been to worry for her own future … when she wasn’t peering into every mirror she could find to assure herself she and this horrid gown wouldn’t frighten Captain Alastair when next he saw her.
“Emmaline?”
Emmaline turned in time to see Charlotte Seavers racing into the room, tossing her shawl in the general direction of Grayson, who was now wearing a black armband and a suitably stern expression.
“I just heard the news,” Charlotte said, approaching Emmaline and taking her hands. “Is it true? Harold’s dead?”
Charlotte, who lived on a small estate that bordered Ashurst Hall, was not only Emmaline’s dearest friend. She had also recently been betrothed to her younger nephew, a fate Emmaline had considered worse than death for that beloved friend. Indeed, for the past month, since Charlotte had become betrothed to Harold and she had learned the circumstances behind that engagement, Emmaline had lost any remaining love she’d harbored for her brother and nephews.
“All three of them, yes. It’s over, Charlotte. You’re free.”
“Oh, but I … that is, I shouldn’t …” Charlotte shook her head and sighed. “Surely I’m going to hell, Emmaline. I want to dance a jig!”
“Oh, thank God,” Emmaline said, pulling Charlotte down on the couch beside her. “You’re the only one who understands how I feel, and I don’t have to pretend with you. We can travel to hell together.”
“Perhaps not. Lord knows George and Harold and your brother are already there. Perhaps we’ll go somewhere else. Would you like to see Paris, Emmaline?”
“I know you’re joking, but perhaps we could. It is imperative that Rafe be informed of his changed station as quickly as possible. Would you like to see Rafe, Charlotte?”
The younger woman colored, her eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. “No. I … I wouldn’t know what to say to him. It has been six years. We’re no longer children, are we?”
“He will be coming back here as the new duke,” Emmaline reminded her friend. “You won’t be able to avoid him. And if you were to tell him the truth, he’d certainly understand. Or I could explain everything to him for you.”
Charlotte shook her head. “No, don’t do that, please. He can’t know. I couldn’t possibly look him in the eye once he knew, not knowing what I’d see. Please, Emmaline, let’s not speak of this anymore. Just take this,” she said, pulling off the heavy betrothal ring and putting it in her friend’s hand. “There, that’s better. It was as if I had a small millstone circling my finger. From now on, we shall pretend it was never there, and Rafe never needs to know. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed, although I doubt such a secret will stand for long, not once Rafe has returned.” Emmaline examined the fine Ashurst ruby set inside a cluster of diamonds. “This ring has been in our family for untold generations. How often do you think such a pretty thing was employed to hide an ugly truth?”
T
hey sat silently for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, before Charlotte asked what she might be able to do for Emmaline in the coming days.
“I really can’t be sure. There are no … that is, there is nothing to be laid to rest in the family mausoleum. I suppose, for the sake of propriety, there must be a service of some kind at some point. The few relatives we have left need to be notified. Nicole and Lydia. Oh, dear. You know whom else that means, don’t you?”
“Helen,” they said at the same time, and then Emmaline smiled.
“I could say I sent a letter off to London and it became lost in the post?”
Charlotte nodded, not quite suppressing a smile of her own. “The post has been notoriously erratic recently, hasn’t it? Why, by the time your letter arrived in Grosvenor Square, it could be whole days after the service, and with the Season already begun. No one could expect Helen to leave Mayfair in the midst of the Season.”
“Least of all Helen,” Emmaline pointed out, her smile widening, until the two of them dissolved into guilty laughter, which is how Captain Alastair discovered them a few moments later as he entered the main saloon.
“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”
Emmaline wiped at her moist eyes and looked up at the captain, who appeared bathed and shaved and positively resplendent in his brushed and pressed uniform. “Oh, no, no. Miss Seavers and I were … we were just reminiscing about a family memory. Captain, may I introduce you to my dear friend and neighbor, Miss Charlotte Seavers. Charlotte, Captain John Alastair, who was kind enough to personally inform me of … of the tragedy.”
She quickly explained the man’s continued presence to Charlotte, and his generous offer to help her wade through the necessities that must be dealt with in the coming days.
“Captain, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to my friend,” Charlotte said, holding out her hand. He bowed over it elegantly, Emmaline thought. And then Charlotte got to her feet after only one quick, interested look at Emmaline, saying she was needed at home and must leave. “My mother is not quite well,” she explained to the man. “I only stole a moment to sneak here once the rain stopped, to see how you were, Emmy.”
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