The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  Hadrian Bothwell lowered his tired frame into his favorite of the two wing chairs, poured himself a third cup of tea, and propped his feet on the hearth. He downed the tea in a few swallows and set his mind to thinking about the three little lambs of his flock—a lamb, a ewe, and a ram, technically—who resided at Rosecroft. He considered his obligations to each of them, as pastor (though that was stretching it a bit), friend (stretching it more than a bit), suitor, and potential stepfather. The duties and considerations tangled up, crossed, and tangled up some more, until Bothwell’s chin came to rest on his chest, and slumber claimed him.

  ***

  St. Just glanced up at the clock in his library and scowled. He’d spent the last hour reading his mother’s letters, something that had become like a regular devotion. He frequently tucked one or two of them in a pocket and took them out at odd times of the day, reading over and over what he’d already memorized. On this day, it was particularly comforting and yet also poignant to have his mother’s words in hand. He folded up the last three letters, tucked them into an inside pocket, and mentally tried to prepare himself for what he faced.

  His next task was to take Emmie back to the cottage and see her settled there. He’d return to Rosecroft for dinner and face a very unhappy Winnie, and possibly a less than sympathetic Val. By this time tomorrow, he would likely have heard Emmie had accepted Bothwell’s suit, and there was not one damned thing he could do about any of it. Better she marry the vicar than disappear to parts entirely unknown in her quest to see Winnie well settled at Rosecroft.

  “Have you said good-bye to Winnie?” St. Just asked when Emmie came bustling into the front hallway.

  “Winnie is not very pleased with me,” Emmie said. “I think she’s purposely hiding, and if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon have the leave-taking over with.”

  “You checked in her room?” It wasn’t like Winnie to avoid a confrontation, but he wasn’t keen to search the entire house only to spend another hour drying tears and losing arguments.

  “I did,” Emmie said, her expression miserable, “and the stables. I assume she’s hiding in the music room with Val, who will no doubt be better company than I.”

  “As you wish.” St. Just picked up the one ancient used-to-be-black valise that held the last of Emmie’s personal effects, and offered her his arm, then handed her up into the gig. It had held off raining, snowing, sleeting, or whatever ugliness the sky portended, but the clouds were lowering threateningly.

  “Appropriate weather for the occasion, don’t you think?” St. Just remarked as he secured the valise behind the seat.

  Emmie glanced at the sky and grimaced. “I suppose.” She kept her eyes forward as St. Just climbed up beside her and took the reins.

  “You can still change your mind, you know,” St. Just said softly. Emmie glanced at him, as if to decipher whether the offer was about going back to the cottage, marrying Bothwell, or rejecting St. Just, but she just shook her head.

  He clucked to the horse, and they made the short, unhappy journey in silence. Emmie waited until he came around to hand her down, and if she hesitated a moment before putting her hands on his shoulders, then hesitated even longer before stepping away from him, St. Just declined to comment.

  “So you’re here,” he said, when he’d set Emmie’s valise down in her front hallway. “Let me get your fires going, at least.”

  “I was…” Emmie looked around as if she hadn’t seen the house before and rubbed her arms. “I was going to get the teapot on. Will you have a cup?”

  “Emmie…” He regarded her with a frown, not sure what the kind thing to do was. At his hesitation, she looked ready to beg, so he capitulated. “One cup, but if we’re going to that bother, let me put Caesar in a stall and see Roddy is settled in while I’m at it.”

  “One cup.” Over which, she looked inordinately relieved.

  While she bustled in the big kitchen, St. Just put the horse into a stall with hay and water, scratched the mule’s furry forehead, and lit fires in the downstairs parlor and up in Emmie’s bedroom. He’d never seen the room before and found it pretty, feminine, and welcoming. Emmie’s bed was huge and so adorned with pillows and shams and skirts and lace it looked like a giant bonbon.

  Closing the door behind him and wishing he’d not seen that bed after all, St. Just came down the back steps to the kitchen.

  “You’ve been home only a few minutes, and something already smells good.”

  “I tossed a little cinnamon in the steamer. Your tea?” She handed him a mug, not a teacup, and gestured to the bench near the hearth. “The kitchen fire was lit this morning, so this room is probably the only one truly warm.”

  She sat on the bench, leaning back against the wall, and he settled silently beside her. They sipped tea—the universal antidote—and listened to the fire, to the clock ticking, to the end of what might have been.

  “You’ll be all right?” St. Just asked, setting his empty mug aside.

  “I will.” She spoke around the fingernail she was nibbling. He rose, thinking to get the hell out of the kitchen so the poor woman could cry in peace and perhaps leave him to do the same.

  “St. Just.” Emmie lurched to her feet and wrapped her arms around his waist. Much more slowly, almost reluctantly, his arms came around her. He wanted to offer words of comfort, but his throat was constricted with misery; so he just held her, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness and fragrance of her for the last time.

  “Hold me,” Emmie whispered desperately. “I shouldn’t ask it, and you’ve every right…”

  “Hush,” he murmured, his hand circling on her back. “I’ll hold you. It’s all right.”

  She cried silently, much worse than any of her previous, noisier outbursts, and all he could do was hold her. There was no comfort to offer, not to her, not to him. No soothing white lies, no polite fictions to murmur. There was simply sorrow to be borne. When she was quiet in his arms, St. Just walked with her back to the bench and again sat beside her.

  “I can’t help but think, Emmie”—he held her hand between both of his—“if a path is this difficult, perhaps it’s the wrong course.”

  “Nonsense.” Emmie wiped her cheeks with his handkerchief. “This can’t be any more difficult than much of what you and every other soldier has faced. It’s just…”

  He waited, wondering if now, now that her decision was becoming a reality, she would finally talk to him.

  “I’ll miss her.”

  Three true words, but they bespoke a lifetime of sacrifice and heartache.

  “She’ll miss you,” St. Just replied, “as will I. I’ll send Stevens over tomorrow to see if there’s anything you’ve forgotten, anything you need.”

  Emmie nodded but closed her eyes for an instant, and he knew she was absorbing his warning: He would not be coming around like an orphaned puppy, making excuses to take tea in her kitchen and further torment them both. He owed her more than that, and he quite frankly could not have borne the knowledge he was lusting after her even after she’d committed herself to Bothwell.

  “Farewell, then, Emmie Farnum.” He raised his hand and cradled her cheek. “Be happy.”

  “You,” she said, turning her face into his palm, “you be happy, too, St. Just. You deserve to be happy, and… thank you. For everything.”

  Those were good words to part on, or as good as any. He grabbed his cloak from a peg and prepared to go out the back door to hitch up his gig—and get on with his stupid, miserable life—when a loud banging came from the front hallway.

  “Are you expecting callers?” he asked. Darkness had fallen in the short time they’d tarried, making it unlikely anybody was out socializing.

  “Of course not,” Emmie said, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her to the front door. Val stood on her porch, bundled up against the cold but breathing heavily.

  “Valentine?” St. Just raised a puzzled eyebrow.

  “Come in.” Emmie drew him into the house by
his wrist, but it was still several moments before Val could catch his breath.

  “Can’t find Winnie,” he said between panting breaths. “I thought she was up in her room, avoiding you.” He nodded at Emmie. “Once you’d left, I went to look for her. Didn’t want her to… be alone.”

  “Take your time,” St. Just said, mentally cursing the child for her dramatics. “She’s probably visiting Scout in the stables, or in Emmie’s room, where nobody will think to look for her.”

  “No!” Val said, frustration ricocheting in that one syllable. “I had Steen organize the staff; we searched the entire house, Dev, even the attics. We searched the carriage house, the stables, the cellars, everywhere. There’s no sign of Winnie or Scout.”

  “Oh, God.” Emmie’s arms wrapped around her middle, and she abruptly looked small, lost, and on the verge of collapse.

  “Come into the kitchen,” St. Just told his brother. He slipped an arm around Emmie’s waist and kept her anchored against his side. “We’ll sort this out, Emmie. She can’t have gone far on foot, and she had sense enough to take the dog. He’ll at least leave a trail and make plenty of noise.”

  “But it’s so cold,” Emmie whispered. “Cold and miserable, and she’s so stubborn. She won’t realize how dangerous it is to take a chill. My aunt died after taking a chill.”

  “Hush,” St. Just said, putting both arms around her waist. He stood with his chin on her crown, letting her absorb what warmth and strength and calm he had to offer, even as he continued to learn what he could from Val.

  “When was Winnie last seen?”

  “At about nine of the clock. You had just gotten back from your ride, and she went into the music room to practice, according to Steen.”

  “That was this morning,” Emmie said, tone aghast. “And all this time, I was trying to pretend she was just being difficult.”

  “She’s being difficult, all right,” St. Just muttered.

  “There’s more,” Val said, glancing meaningfully at Emmie, who was still bundled against St. Just’s chest.

  “Spit it out,” St. Just said. “We’ve no time to waste.”

  “Stevens says there’s a set of tracks heading down that path you broke along the stone wall behind the stables. Not Winnie’s, but Scout’s. In the lee of the wall, there’s still some snow, and that’s how he first noticed the pattern. Scout went that way recently. The mud is soft after yesterday’s weather, and Stevens knows the dog’s sign.”

  “So Winnie has headed into the woods,” St. Just concluded. “She’ll be out of any wind, but the temperature will drop sharply now that it’s dark.”

  “Oh, dear God…” Emmie’s face, pale to begin with, became ashen. “She ran away to the pond once before, and it’s beginning to freeze. I saw it just two days ago on one of my trips over here from Rosecroft. If she thought it was solid enough to play on, she could have fallen in.”

  St. Just stepped out of Emmie’s embrace to retrieve his cloak. “Val, you go back to Rosecroft, because Winnie might have found her way home. Take the gig, and take Emmie with you. If Winnie does turn up, it’s Emmie she’ll want to see.”

  “I’m not going to sit in your kitchen sipping tea,” Emmie said, chin rising belligerently. “Not while you stumble around in those woods until you’re lost, too.”

  “I know where the pond is, Emmie,” St. Just said as calmly as he could. He pulled a lantern off the wall and checked to see it had oil.

  “You don’t know those woods as well as I do,” Emmie shot back. “And there’s no moon, and, Devlin, I can’t just do nothing. This is my fault…”

  “It is not your fault,” St. Just replied more sharply than he’d intended. He lit a taper from the stove and used it to light the lantern. “The child has wandered before, Emmie, but as God is my witness, she will not wander again. Please go with Val.”

  “I will not,” Emmie replied, crossing her arms and reminding St. Just strongly of the little girl they were so worried about.

  “Very well,” he conceded, unwilling to waste more time arguing, particularly when Emmie was right. “Val, get you back to Rosecroft, on foot if you’d rather not spend time hitching up Caesar. Emmie, have you a firearm?”

  “I have an old horse pistol. Why?”

  “So I can signal if we find her. Val, two shots, spaced well apart. Keep somebody posted outside so they can acknowledge with the same sign. You’ll find the key to my gun cabinet in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

  “Two shots,” Val said, “spaced well apart. You’ve got a good half-dozen horses that can be saddled, and men set to searching. Shall I get that under way?”

  St. Just shook his head. “Not yet. With the leaf carpet still thick in the woods, tracking her will be difficult enough without a half-dozen horses tromping all sign underfoot. Let’s see what Emmie and I find first, but one shot will mean organize the search party. Acknowledge that with return fire, as well.”

  “Got it,” Val said, leaning in to kiss Emmie. “We’ll find her, Em. The entire house is praying for her safety, and she does have the dog.”

  “Right. Sir Scout. Thank God for that.”

  “Baron Scout,” St. Just corrected her, pulling her toward the back hall with one hand, lantern in the other. “But after this, I’ll give the damned dog my bloody earldom if he can keep that child safe. Bundle up. It’s colder than hell out, and I suspect it could start snowing at any moment.”

  “Not snow,” Emmie murmured, donning the second of two cloaks, gloves, and a scarf that covered her ears as well as her mouth.

  “We’ll find her,” St. Just said as they struck out across the backyard, “and when we do, we’ll take turns hugging her and spanking her.”

  Emmie said nothing, though they both knew if Winnie drowned, she’d require laying out, not spanking.

  “We’ll find her,” St. Just said again. “You pray, we’ll keep walking, and she’ll turn up, Em.”

  St. Just moved cautiously, for the ground was littered with wet rocks now sporting a coat of ice and wet leaves, ready to trip the unwary. Soon enough, they were staring at the patch of blackness that was the pond, once a place of such sunny pleasures, full of memories for both of them, now more ominous than a graveyard.

  “She’s not here,” Emmie said miserably, “unless she’s in there.” She nodded toward the fathomless darkness of the water.

  ***

  Winnie’s teeth were chattering, her fingers and toes were numb, and she’d long since eaten the stale rolls and butter she’d pilfered for her and Scout. Scout’s usual cheerfully bewildered expression had turned to Winnie gently reproachful, and Herodotus looked downright disdainful as he munched his hay in complete indifference to his guests.

  “You almost gave us away,” Winnie huffed at the mule. It had been a near thing when Rosecroft had come bustling into the little stable. Winnie had barely pulled Scout out the back door before the earl had led Caesar to the spare stall. Caesar had known there was somebody behind the barn, but it was Herodotus who’d craned his runty neck over the door and practically pointed the way Winnie and Scout had gone.

  “At least you kept quiet.” Winnie patted Scout, who was wonderfully warm though not the most pleasingly fragrant source of heat. “But, Scout, what are we going to do? I ran away as long as I’ve run away since forever, and Miss Emmie still left Rosecroft.”

  The good baron reserved comment, but his ears pricked up, alerting Winnie to voices coming across the backyard. She put a cautionary hand over Scout’s nose—his cold, slimy, wet nose—and strained her ears to hear.

  “We’ll find her,” St. Just growled, but the rest of his words were swallowed by the cold, dark night as they headed into the woods.

  “Well, good,” Winnie whispered to her dog. “They should be looking for me. Maybe we’ll move to Surrey and live with Rose and Lord Amery. He would talk some sense into Miss Emmie, and maybe even Rosecroft.”

  But for now, it was too cold to think of launching that great adventure.
Winnie was hungry, cold, thirsty, and she had to pee something fierce but was loathe to expose enough of herself to the cold air to get that job done.

  “Come on, Scout.” She crept out of the stables. “They won’t think to look right where they’ve just left, and by morning, the whole parish will know what a nodcock Miss Emmie is. Vicar won’t marry her if she insists on staying with us, and that’s exactly what she should do if she doesn’t want to spend more nights stomping around with Rosecroft in the woods.”

  Brave words, but they did not seem to impress the fragrant baron. Winnie let them into the house through the back door, stealing into the warm kitchen with a real sense of relief. It had been getting too cold out—much too cold.

  “Come on, Scout.” Winnie motioned to the dog. “There’s a fire in the parlor, too.” She rummaged in the kitchen, which had been well provisioned in anticipation of Emmie’s return, and buttered more rolls, fresh ones this time. Scout chomped his out of existence in two bites, but Winnie had to wash hers down with cold milk.

  Within minutes, Winnie was fast asleep, her faithful hound steaming contentedly before the hearth, her dreams sweet.

  ***

  “She was here.” St. Just knelt in the leaves and bracken and mud, and held the lantern close to the ground. He carefully, step-by-step, examined the entire perimeter of the pond then rose. “She might have fallen in from that rock.” He pointed at the place Emmie had knelt to wash her hair months ago. “But other than that, there’s no place on the bank that looks like she might have slipped in. The tracks head off in that direction.” He gestured toward Emmie’s yard. “But I lose the trail in the leaves.”

  “So what next?” Emmie stared at the water as if she expected answers from it.

  “We fire one shot off that horse pistol,” St. Just said, taking her hand and tugging her in the direction of the cottage. “If you have some food, I could use something in the way of tucker, but it looks like it will be a long, cold night.”