The Duke's Refuge

by Lorri Dudley

  She didn’t remember hearing any thunder last night, but she could very well have slept through it. Her stomach sank. “Does that mean they tossed my trunks into the sea for no reason?”

  “Some storms plow through, others simmer awhile and gather strength.” Harrison held his cup out to the footman, who filled it with steamy coffee. “If the captain didn’t put some distance between his ship and the bad weather, they may not survive. Even though the rain hasn’t started, the sea has turned wild and dangerous.” He consumed a big bite of eggs.

  Still irritated, Georgia muttered under her breath, “Do you live here?” At least she thought it was under her breath, until he swallowed, swiped his napkin over his mouth, and turned to face her.

  “Fredrick asked Max and I to join him for meals, and it’s become a regular habit.”

  Georgia nodded and reached for her teacup, hiding her embarrassment behind its rim.

  Harrison ate another bite and leaned back in his seat so he could drink in the beauty seated beside him. Dried off and well rested, she looked angelic with a crown of golden curls pinned up on top of her head. Her alabaster skin now had a pink tinge that heightened her cheekbones. Whether the color came from their sunny ride yesterday or from the embarrassment of getting caught with such a sharp tongue, he couldn’t tell.

  Fredrick’s gaze wandered around the room. “Where’s Max?”

  “He’s seeing Hattie about some treats.” Harrison sipped his coffee. “And showing off his new friend.”

  “A new friend?” Fredrick’s eyebrows arched above the rims of his glasses.

  As if summoned, Max ran into the room. “Uncle Fred. You gotta see this.”

  Georgia’s face grew taut. He’d expected her to be annoyed by his presence. In fact, he got a good chuckle this morning merely thinking about her indignant reaction when he strode in for breakfast. And she didn’t disappoint, but he hadn’t expected her reaction toward Max. She watched his son with wary curiosity, as if she’d never been around a child before. He also noticed her stiffen when Max called Fredrick “Uncle.” For all her haughtiness, she appeared threatened by a mere boy of eight years.

  Max ran to the open window behind Georgia and whistled. A large bird flew onto the sill. Its head was covered in blue feathers, its back green, and its underbelly a bright red. Georgia twisted around in her seat for a better look.

  The bird opened its beak and squawked.

  Georgia jerked backward with a loud gasp, bumping into Harrison’s shoulder. Max stared at her with bright eyes and said, “It’s all right. He doesn’t bite. Look, he’s tame.” Max turned to the bird and said, “Say hello, Oscar.”

  Oscar opened his black beak and let out a loud squawk. Georgia leaned back over the chair’s arm until her head almost rested on Harrison’s chest. He inhaled her scent. She smelled like the springtime breeze that had wafted the fragrance of the rose garden through the windows of his country house in Kent.

  The bird tilted its head, studied her with one eye, and squawked, “Hello.”

  Georgia flinched as if bitten. Her position exposed the soft, graceful curve of her neck. Harrison folded his hands against the temptation to trail his fingers over its smooth surface.

  Max flipped Oscar a bit of biscuit, and the bird snatched it out of midair. He gobbled up the treat and shuffled his weight from one foot to another as if anxiously awaiting another.

  Lady Pickering clapped her hands, and Fredrick said, “Well, I’ll be.”

  Max held up another treat. “Now, say Max.”

  “Hello.”

  “No, not hello. Say, Max.”

  “Hello.”

  “No, you dumb bird, say Maaaaax.”

  “Maxwell,” Harrison’s sharp voice called out. “Mind your mouth.”

  Max’s head dropped. “Sorry, Papa.”

  Oscar let out another squawk, followed by, “Dumb bird.”

  Aunt Tessa’s mouth dropped open, and the room fell silent. She closed it with a snap and then released an inelegant snort. That was all it took. Fredrick threw back his head and let out a contagious guffaw. Harrison couldn’t hold back either, and soon, they were all rolling with laughter. Everyone but Georgia, who chuckled, but kept a wary eye on the parrot as if it might bite off her nose.

  Max flipped Oscar another biscuit. Satisfied, the bird flew off into the trees.

  As the laughter died, Georgia righted herself. Harrison cleared his throat and wiped the palms of his hands down the side of his thighs. “I have work to do, but I didn’t forget about riding over to the pier to discover what washed up overnight.”

  Georgia perked up at the mention of her lost items. “Yes, my trunks.” She surveyed her aunt and father. “Aunt Tessa and I shall be ready to leave shortly.” She turned with a jaunty tilt to her chin and a devastating smile.

  He blinked at its brilliance. Georgia was using her charms on him to make certain he didn’t back out. Being away from London must have left him susceptible to feminine wiles. He stood and jammed his chair back under the table.

  Lady Pickering waved her hand. “No, no, I’m staying. These old bones are done being jostled about. I’ve traveled too much lately. I’m going to stay right here and enjoy the warm air.”

  All eyes turned toward Fredrick.

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit overly tired from all the excitement yesterday. I won’t be of much service riding out.”

  “Jenneigh will have to come then.”

  Her father shook his head. “Today is caning day, and everyone is needed in the fields. Even Hattie and Jenneigh will go out to help.”

  “But I’ll need a chaperone.”

  Her father smiled. “You’ll find the rules of society are less strict out here.” He turned to Harrison. “And my friend here knows he has a Higher Power he must face if his intentions become less than honorable.”

  Lady Pickering, her voice eager with enthusiasm, said, “Fredrick and I are going to have tea on the porch overlooking the ocean. He mentioned that, now and then, you can spot a whale jumping.” Her face radiated her excitement. “Imagine, a real whale.” She waved her hand again. “No more travel for me. You two run along. Mr. Wells, I trust you’re an upstanding gentleman and my niece is in good hands?”

  He nodded. “Of course, Madame.” If he laid one finger on the self-righteous chit beside him, God would surely strike him dead for hypocrisy. Both Fredrick and Lady Pickering continued to watch him with the same sparkle in their eyes, and suddenly the entire conversation seemed strange. Were they up to something? They appeared eager to send Georgia off unchaperoned.

  “Very well then,” Lady Pickering continued. “You may go.”

  “But Aunt Tessa—”

  “Don’t dawdle. The man is obviously ready to depart.”

  Harrison stared at Fredrick, who shrugged, and then at Georgia. At least she had the decency to flash him an apologetic look.

  Chapter 7

  ….Let us not dismiss the fact that correspondence from the Duke of Linton has been sparse, and may have been forged. Upon inquisition, the Captain of the Aberdeen spoke of a pirate raid. The duke’s seal may have fallen into wrongful hands. If this holds true, then it is my duty to save the ducal title from being usurped by an imposter.

  —From the Viscount of Ashburnham to the Prince Regent, George IV

  Harrison leaned back against the wooden seat as he and Georgia bounced along the dirt road. Once again in close proximity, he was struck anew by her appearance. Her alabaster skin reminded him of the first snowfall back in England. Fresh and clean. Yet, he’d already glimpsed the controlled fury boiling under the surface.

  His own hands and forearms were tanned from the tropical sun. England seemed like another world, yet here they were sitting side by side, socialite and provincial.

  Maybe he should brush up on his polite banter? He racked his brain for a suitable, yet enjoyable, topic for such a female. “You’ve got your cap set for the Earl of Claremont?” he asked. “What do you plan to do
as a countess?”

  He watched her eyes light up. “Oh, the typical. Plan menus, oversee the staff, host parties, and the like. I may even join a committee to build a hospital, or an orphanage, or something.”

  “Is yours a love match?”

  “We are the match of the season.” Her tone suggested he should know this already.

  “How so?” He bit back a smile. Baiting her was too easy. God, forgive me.

  She glared at him as if he was a simpleton. “Because we come from good families. He’s from the Greenhill line. His father was an earl, and his first cousin is of royal lineage. Even my sisters are jeal—er—approve.”

  Fredrick had mentioned a sisterly rivalry. Was this match more about proving her worth to her sisters, or for status, or love? He’d paid for her passage. He had a right to understand her need to rush back. So he dug deeper. “Being the match of the season doesn’t imply a love match. What is it you see in the earl? What’s his best quality?”

  Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her long lashes blinked over aquamarine eyes. She floundered for something to say.

  “His…um…the way he, ah…” her words faded into silence, which only seemed to enhance the clip-clop of the horses’s hoofs and the twitter of birds flying from tree to tree. Even the distant waves crashing on the shore could be heard in the interim.

  “He’s handsome, and—and he says such sweet words of flattery.” She paused. “Oh.” Her chest puffed with pride as if about to announce Claremont had singlehandedly defeated Napoleon. “He seats a horse well.”

  Harrison couldn’t hold in the laugh bubbling in his chest.

  She rounded on him. “Truly, it’s none of your concern.”

  He struggled to get his laughter under control. “Merely making conversation.”

  “Then you should stick to pleasantries or…discuss the weather.”

  “As you wish.” He peered up at the sky. “Looks like the weather’s going to be hot and humid today with a chance of a blustery sea squall.” He turned in her direction and flashed what he hoped was a spry smile. “Of course, that’s the usual forecast around here.”

  Her lips drew into a tight line as she pivoted on the wooden seat to stare off to the side.

  He stifled a chuckle, and they continued in silence until Harrison pointed inland. “See that little stone steeple above the tree line? That’s our church where Reverend Clark preaches on Sunday. During the week, it’s the schoolhouse where I teach the local children.”

  Georgia turned to face him. “You’re a schoolmaster?”

  He chuckled at the incredulity in her voice. “Indeed. I also own and maintain the sugar plantation next to your father’s, but when the old schoolmaster passed, I saw a need and felt a nudge from God to fill it.”

  “How old was the schoolmaster when he passed?”

  “Eight and twenty.”

  “Eight and twenty?”

  “By old, I meant previous. The poor man died of consumption, too young for my tastes.”

  She nodded and turned to face forward, but not before he caught the horror on her face.

  He berated himself for frightening the woman. “People die in London too. You just didn’t always hear about it in the upper circles. Here on a small island, everyone knows one another, and news spreads quickly.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know about the upper circles in London?”

  “How does one not? Even we lowly islanders still hear all about London gossip.” He emphasized the word lowly to see if she’d protest, but she only shrugged.

  “How many children do you teach?”

  “Six free children and about five slave children. The latter are sporadic. Some come if their masters allow, others sneak over to the schoolhouse when they can or to my cottage house late at night, where I teach them to read by candlelight.”

  Her eyes clouded, and her pink lips briefly parted. “Isn’t that dangerous? Couldn’t you find yourself in trouble for teaching slaves to read?”

  “Why, Miss Lennox, are you concerned for my welfare?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her gaze in the other direction. “No, I’m concerned for Maxwell’s.”

  Harrison grimaced. Max was safe, safer here than with the riffraff in London, where innocents were shot in the streets. An all too familiar pain slashed his heart. Here the islanders knew each other and looked out for one another. True, there were a few rotten apples, but they couldn’t hide on a small island like Nevis.

  Her accusation rubbed him like a burlap bag. He enjoyed teaching, enjoyed seeing the children’s eyes grow wide with excitement when the combination of letters finally switched from symbols to meaning. Also, there was nothing more important to him than ensuring Max received a proper education, even if it meant teaching the boy himself. Max learned history and arithmetic with the free children during the day and aided his father at night helping the slave children trace their letters.

  But Miss Lennox’s concern wasn’t unfounded. Somehow she was perceptive enough to sense the unrest brewing on the island. The landowners’ livelihood relied on the work of slaves. It didn’t behoove them to have their property educated. Unfair as it may be, the more dependent slaves were on their owners, the less likely they were to revolt or run away. During the six years he’d lived on Nevis, tensions had mounted. The land wasn’t producing as it had in the past, and the sugar crop brought in less profit per pound. Landowners pushed their slaves harder and harder, and scuffles erupted on multiple occasions.

  When he’d first arrived on the island, slaves worked his fields hired by the last overseer, but it never settled well with his spirit. He couldn’t treat people who were made in God’s image as property, so he gave the slaves their freedom and paid them wages to work. So far, God had blessed him in this decision, for the sugar cane thrived on his small plot of land.

  It impressed him that Georgia so readily noticed the political tension regarding slaves. There was a mind underneath all that beauty. Hopefully, her awareness was a sign that Great Britain understood also. A month before he sailed to Nevis, England had outlawed the slave trade, but unfortunately not slavery itself.

  Georgia continued to ask questions regarding the island, but he couldn’t shake his thoughts to give more than terse monosyllables. Eventually, she quit trying to converse, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. They passed sugar cane fields with large reeds swaying with the breeze, clustered huts of slave villages, and other settler homes that dotted the outskirts of town.

  Occasionally, he glanced at her, but she appeared oblivious to the lack of conversation. Instead of pouting over his inconsiderate conduct, she studied the people they passed as they drew closer to town. Most were out working in the fields, while some sat on the porches of their single-room houses staring back at the white woman who rode with the schoolmaster. He figured her small, elegant nose would be wrinkled in disgust as they drove through the shanties of the impoverished section of town, but instead, her head was tilted, her gaze steady, as if curious about their way of life.

  They pulled up to the pier where no boats remained docked. The fishermen were still out at sea—another sign that a storm was brewing. The islanders knew well that fish practically jumped into the nets before a storm.

  Harrison watched the palm trees bow their heads and wave their leaves as a bluster of wind swept up the sand. Whitecaps dotted the sea, and large waves smacked the beach like the slap of a gambler’s hands on the table, pulling its winnings back toward the depths. He pulled on the reins and jumped down to tie the horses to a hitching post. The wind filled Georgia’s bonnet like the sail of a ship.

  “Do you want to stay here while I look for your trunks?” He raised his voice a bit so she could hear over the roar of the crashing waves.

  She shook her head, and he helped her down from the wagon.

  As they hiked the path to the beach, Harrison frowned at the dark clouds forming on the horizon. The storm was approaching fast
er than anticipated. They had better make this quick.

  The tang of salt hung thick in the air, and Georgia’s kid boots sank into the soft sand, impeding her walking and slowing her pace. They rounded a tuft of seagrass, and a small African child banged into her skirts. He deflected off her and kept running.

  Behind him flowed a pink chemise tied about his neck, flapping in the wind like a cape. Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth as the child darted up the path. Another child followed, looking like a pink Christmas tree with a petticoat tucked up under his armpits. Not just any petticoat—her petticoat.

  “My things,” she whispered. Her heart twisted, torn between rejoicing that she’d found her belongings and horror that children were using her undergarments as playthings. Her voice rose to a shrill octave. “Stop!”

  They kept running and didn’t look back. Georgia glared at Harrison, but the man wasn’t paying attention. He shielded his eyes with his hand and stared in the opposite direction down the beach.

  Georgia grabbed her skirts to chase after the lads, but more giggles drifted from behind her. She whipped around to find four children laughing and digging through her washed up trunk. It had sunk in the moist sand where the water ebbed and flowed.

  “No!” she shrieked and frowned at her pink gowns floating like jellyfish in the surf. Some lay strewn across the beach.

  “Unhand my things.” Georgia charged toward the group, grazing Harrison’s shoulder in her haste. All four boys glanced up from their scavenging and stared with wide, unblinking eyes at what must appear to be a crazed woman racing toward them.

  “Put them back. Put all of them back.” Her voice cracked from the strain of yelling over the breaking waves.

  Several of the island children tensed as if to flee, but stopped in confusion when she paused and snatched up a pink garment from out of the surf.