Her Best Friend, the Duke

by Laura Martin

  She was so preoccupied that her advice, while offered freely, was not offered with much thought, and Eliza took exception. “I beg your pardon! I’ve hardly eaten a thing since I’ve arrived in Alucia. At every meal the queen looks at me as if she disapproves of everything I do! I’m afraid to do anything, much less eat,” Eliza complained. “They’ll all be looking at me. They’ll be waiting for me to do something wrong, or speculating if I’m already carrying the heir. You cannot imagine how much interest there is in my ability to bear an heir.”

  “Well, of course!” Caroline said cheerfully. “You’ll have to be a broodmare, darling, but after you’ve given them what they want, you may live in conjugal bliss for the rest of your days surrounded by wealth and privilege and many, many servants.”

  “They won’t all be looking at you, Eliza. At least half the room will be looking at your handsome husband,” Hollis had said with a wink.

  Caroline was once again jolted back into the present when the archbishop lifted a heavy jeweled chalice above the heads of Eliza and Prince Sebastian. Surely that meant they were nearly done? Prince Sebastian took Eliza’s hand, and they turned away from the archbishop, facing the guests with ridiculously happy grins on their faces. They were married!

  Hollis turned, too, and even from where Caroline sat, she could see Hollis’s dark blue eyes shining with tears of joy. The guests rose to their feet as the prince and his bride began their procession away from the altar. Rose petals rained down on the couple and their guests from above. The little flower girls fluttered around behind Eliza like butterflies, flanking her train as they followed the couple down the aisle. Prince Leopold offered his arm to Hollis, and she beamed up at him. Caroline felt left out. Hollis and Eliza were near and dear to her heart, the closest thing to sisters she’d ever had, and she longed to be with them now.

  Eliza and Prince Sebastian floated past Caroline and Beck without any acknowledgment of them. That was to be expected—the two of them looked absolutely besotted. They were so enthralled with each other, in fact, that Caroline fretted they’d walk into any one of the marble columns that lined their path.

  Oh, but she was envious, filled to the very brim with envy. In England, she rarely gave marriage any thought except on those occasions Beck complained she ought to settle on someone, anyone, and relieve him of his duty. But he didn’t really mind his duty, his protestations notwithstanding. Caroline rather suspected he liked having her underfoot. So she flitted from one party to the next, happy to enjoy the attentions of the many gentlemen who crossed her path, happy with her freedom to do as she pleased.

  But looking at Eliza, Caroline realized that she did indeed want one day to be in love with a man who would be as devoted to her as Prince Sebastian was to his bride. She wanted to feel everything Eliza was feeling, to understand just how that sort of love changed a person.

  Prince Leopold and Hollis passed by Caroline and Beck. Hollis’s face was streaked with happy tears. Prince Leopold happened to look to the guests as they passed, a polite smile on his face. His gaze locked on Caroline’s—well, not locked, really, as much as it skimmed over her—but nevertheless, she smiled broadly. She began to lift a hand but was suddenly jostled with an elbow to her ribs. She jerked a wide-eyed gaze to her brother.

  “Stop gawking,” he whispered. “You’ll snap your neck, craning it like that.”

  Caroline haughtily touched a curl at her neck.

  Beck turned his attention to the procession. The king and queen were passing them now. Beck leaned toward her and whispered, “He’s a prince, Caro, and you are just an English girl. You’re indulging in fairy tales again. I can see it plainly on your face.”

  Just an English girl? She very much would have liked to kick Beck like she used to do when she was just a wee English girl. “Better to dream in fairy tales than not dream at all.”

  Beck rolled his eyes. He stood dispassionately as the archbishop and his altar boys followed the king and queen.

  Just an English girl, indeed.

  Copyright © 2020 by Dinah Dinwiddie

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Making of Baron Haversmere by Carol Arens.

  The Making of Baron Haversmere

  by Carol Arens

  Chapter One

  London—third day of spring, 1890

  Lady Olivia Shaw kept a tight hold of her five-year-old son’s hand even though he was capable of keeping pace beside her. This early in the morning fog swirled along the path, twining eerily among the tombs of Kensal Green Cemetery.

  Naturally she did not expect a vaporous spirit to slither into view. That was nonsense.

  What was not nonsense was the possibility of there being a thief—or worse, a kidnapper—lurking in the mist. Yes, any mother with an ounce of caution would be aware that a man of evil intent might be listening to their footsteps and waiting to pounce.

  Perhaps she ought to have waited until the fog lifted and there were other mourners to keep company with.

  Of course she could not have. Her appointments for the day were a few too many as it was. In order to visit her late brother’s grave, it must be done at this early hour.

  With all her family aboard ship to America, the running of Fencroft fell to her and she intended to do a first-rate job of it.

  If only birds would awake and sing, the mood of the place would improve dramatically. Birdsong had a way of brightening any situation, of cheering the bluest heart.

  ‘Mother...’ Victor wriggled his fingers from her grasp ‘...you are holding too tight.’

  She gazed down at her only child, pinned him with a stern look, then reclaimed his hand, gripping it even more firmly.

  ‘Perhaps so, but you do have a habit of disappearing, my boy. If you pull such a stunt here, I’ll have the devil of a time finding you.’

  If she could have, she would have left him back at Fencroft House in the care of his governess, but he no longer had one. The lady had up and married without warning and left Olivia at a loss.

  ‘I miss everyone,’ Victor said, dragging his feet, which indicated he was about to express a complaint. ‘Why did we not go to visit America with them?’

  ‘Because it is a very long way across the Atlantic Ocean.’ She could scarcely credit that her sister-in-law, Clementine, had taken her fourteen adopted children on such a journey. ‘They will be gone for a long time. Someone must stay behind and see to the affairs of Fencroft.’

  Poor Victor was naturally bored and lonely.

  ‘But there are cowboys in America!’ Add envious to bored and lonely.

  He yanked his hand from hers yet again. Where was her adorable toddler? The one who wanted nothing more than to gain his mother’s approval? Left behind somewhere between his fourth and his fifth birthday, she supposed.

  Oh, but he was a handsome child. She cupped his upturned face in her palm. His wavy blond hair and his sky-blue eyes were quite her undoing. She would be for ever grateful that he looked nothing like her faithless late husband.

  It was his uncle, Oliver—Olivia’s twin—she saw blinking up at her.

  ‘You would only be disappointed if you met one, Victor. Cowboys are not the bold heroes you read about in your storybooks.’

  ‘Yes, they are, Mother. I know it!’

  Around a bend in the path a stone angel kneeling in prayer at the foot the Fifth Earl of Fencroft’s tomb came into view. How odd that it appeared to move when fog whorled about cold damp marble.

  It was only good common sense that made her certain it was a trick of shadow and mist that made the wings appear to tremble. If she did not know better, she would think they were about to unfurl and take to the heavens.

  To fly away suddenly, just as Oliver had. But it had not been so sudden, really. Her brother had been sick for most of his life. It only seemed sudden because he had been laughing and smiling over a game of whist—and
then he was just gone.

  ‘Here we are.’ She knelt, placing the bouquet of roses she carried at the foot of the tomb. ‘Would you like to say something to your uncle?’

  ‘Where is he?’ Victor frowned at the sculpture. If she knew her son at all, and she did, he was wondering if his uncle had somehow turned into a marble figure.

  ‘That is not him. Uncle Oliver is in Heaven.’

  ‘Then why are we here? Ought we not go talk to him in Heaven?’

  ‘That is not how it is done. We talk to him here and he hears us there.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said with a nod. ‘Good morning, Uncle. I miss you. I suppose you know all your dead neighbours by now. Might there be any cowboys here I can talk to?’

  ‘Victor Shaw!’ Even as she opened her mouth to scold her son, she heard, not with her ears, of course, but rather a faraway echo in her heart of her brother’s laughter.

  Oliver saw humour in everything.

  ‘I’m sure there are no cowboys in Kensal Green.’

  ‘Might be.’

  There was more likely to be a criminal lurking about than a cowboy. She glanced about, wishing her nerves were not so on edge.

  Perhaps she ought to have accepted her carriage driver’s offer to accompany her, but Mr Creed had spent a late night in the stable with a newly purchased horse who was nervous about unfamiliar surrounds. It was only right for him to remain in the carriage and get some rest while she paid her call on Oliver.

  Now though, with the cemetery grounds so damp and still, with shadows that might be hiding—things—she rather wished for his large presence.

  Even knowing, as she now did, that the Abductor who was rumoured to have plagued London recently was not in fact an actual villain, she had been scared by the incident. London was a large and dangerous city. There might still be evil men who would kidnap innocent children—her innocent child, not to put a fine point on it.

  The mother of an adventurous boy could not be too careful.

  ‘I’m going to have a few words with your uncle. You can play nearby, but only where I can see you.’

  ‘May I have a puppy, Mother?’

  ‘What? No, you may not!’

  ‘If I had one, he could follow me and when you wanted to find me he could bark.’

  ‘How would he know—? The point is, you will stay close by while I speak with your uncle.’

  ‘Heaven is quite far off. I do not think he will hear you.’

  ‘Oh, but he will, my dear, with his heart. Hearts hear things that ears cannot.’

  ‘Dogs can hear everything with their ears and mostly cowboys have dogs.’

  What was there to do but shake her head, sit on the bench beside the tomb and laugh inside at his persistence?

  Perhaps she would get him a small pup, after all. Getting him a cowboy was quite beyond her, but a puppy, yes, she could manage that.

  ‘Hello, Oliver,’ she murmured softly, staring at the cross which the angel knelt in front of.

  The marble bench felt chilly, hard and cold even through layers of clothing. She would speak with her brother for a short time and then take her son back to the coach, to warmth and security.

  Really, she ought not to be so fearful. She was sturdier than that. Or had been at one time.

  Life—the behaviour of men, to be more precise—had changed her. The brother she was here to visit being one of them.

  There was Heath, of course. She did trust her younger brother, but he was off to America. Which left her feeling more vulnerable than ever. Until he returned, any problem that arose for the estate would be hers to deal with.

  ‘You left quite a mess behind when you died. I was angry at you for a time. But you needn’t worry. I have forgiven you and it has all been sorted out thanks to the Macooishes from America. Our brother went through with the marriage which you had intended to be our financial salvation—not to Madeline, but to her cousin Clementine. It is because of her that the destitution you left us with is settled in our favour. I cannot imagine why you thought that college chum of yours was qualified to handle the estate funds. Did you know that creditors came knocking upon our doors? Yes, but I did say I forgive you and I will speak no more of it. Everything down here is going rather splendidly for now. Although all the family has sailed off for a holiday in America. And when I say all—well, let me tell you how the family has grown...’

  * * *

  Fog in this cemetery was a different breed of mist than what Joe had grown up with in the wilds of Wyoming. A body would expect London fog to be a more docile sort, citified and tame, but it wasn’t so. Back home the stuff was fresh, cool and moist to breathe.

  This creeping vapour was neither. There was a yellow taint to it that made a man cough if he breathed too deeply.

  He figured it hid a lot of secrets.

  ‘It would, I reckon,’ he said to Sir Bristle. The wolfish dog trotting beside him glanced up, swishing his broom-like tail. ‘It is a graveyard.’

  One which he would rather not be visiting. Wouldn’t be if it were not for the fact that the woman who gave birth to him was laid to rest here.

  Joe’s boots, the leather well worn and feeling more familiar to his feet than bare ground did, crunched the gravel and broke the early morning stillness.

  Reading the names on the tombstones while he walked, he tried to summon an image of his mother. It was a sad thing that he could not.

  It hurt that he did not recall what she looked like, or smelled like even. What had her voice sounded like singing him a lullaby? He knew none of the things a boy should know.

  All he did know was what his father had told him. Mother was as pretty as a porcelain doll, more angel than woman. Father’s heart had shattered when she died a month before giving birth to their second child. Not of the complications of childbirth as sometimes happened, but of a lung ailment.

  Grandmother Hampton blamed her daughter’s death on Pa. Had he not brought her delicate child to such a damp place, she would not have sickened. It was because of Lady Hampton that Mother was buried here in London and not at the estate near Grasmere.

  Pa always said her grief had been bitter and so he had allowed his wife to buried in London, hoping to give the woman a bit of relief.

  ‘“Evan Green, Viscount Clament”,’ he read, then passed by searching the shadows for the one he sought. ‘“Lady Emily Thornton”—not you either.’

  Pa had told him to look for a standing angel, her marble arms wrapped about a woman cradling her infant.

  ‘Sure are a lot of stone angels.’ The dog huffed a soft woof in apparent agreement.

  Joe passed by no less than a dozen marble guardians keeping eternal watch.

  A small path turned off the wide, central one he strode down. It looked pretty, lined with trees whose newly leafed branches formed a wisp-like canopy in the fog.

  He turned down it. The gravestones here were less ornate than the ones on the central path. Barons did not rate as high as dukes, he’d been told. Growing up, Joe had never paid a lot of mind to life across the ocean. As an adult, cattle ranching took up the greater portion of his attention.

  As interesting as he found London to be, he longed to return to the great open spaces of Wyoming, where the land was as big as the sky, where he could gallop across open ground on his horse, to shout out loud and feel one with the wind.

  ‘What do you think, Sir Bristle? Will we go home by summer’s end?’

  Drizzle caused by the heavy mist tapped the brim of his Stetson.

  The dog shook himself, but did not answer one way or another.

  ‘I suppose it depends upon how long it takes to—’

  Ah, just there. The tomb he’d been searching for loomed suddenly in front of him. He took off his hat, held it in his fist and read the name on the marker just to be sure.

  ‘“Violet Ham
pton Steton, Baroness Haversmere”.’

  He hadn’t expected his heart to weep, but it did. Somehow seeing his mother’s name upon the stone brought tears to the corners of his eyes.

  Being not quite three years old when she died, he could not recall anything about her, but he must remember...her.

  There was not a bench to sit on so he settled on the wet grass beside the tomb. He touched the marble, Sir Bristle pressed close beside him, whining and trying to lick his face. ‘I reckon you were expecting Pa.’

  He didn’t know for a fact that his mother could hear him, but he went on as if she could. It was a thing folks did in a cemetery, speak out loud to the dead. For some reason it seemed right.

  ‘Pa wasn’t feeling up to making his usual trip so he sent me to tend to business at Haversmere.’ Maybe Joe ought to have made the trip to England with his father once or twice, but Pa had needed him to remain on the ranch and keep it going in his absence. ‘He said to tell you not to worry about him. He’s only feeling tired and will pay you a call when he comes next year.’

  A sudden breeze came up, ruffled his hair, then faded as quickly as it had risen. It was the oddest sensation, almost as if his hair had been tenderly stroked.

  ‘Was that you?’ he asked over the lump swelling in his throat.

  It had to have been a trick of imagination, but he did wonder why Sir Bristle suddenly looked up and thumped his tail.

  He’d caught the scent of a squirrel foraging his breakfast, more than likely.

  ‘I wish I remembered you...you and me...together.’

  He sat silently, trying to.

  It wasn’t as if there had not been a woman he called ‘Ma’ for most of his life.

  His father had left Haversmere behind, having been being broken with grief and guilt over his wife’s death. What if the climate had been the cause of it just as her mother claimed? He’d purchased a ranch in Wyoming hoping for a new start.