“I wish I could be as certain as you, Mme la Duchesse. I wish I did not have to disturb you, and could resolve the matter with Roxton. But that is not possible.”
“Why? Why not speak to my son?” Antonia demanded. She had managed to get herself to the window seat and put her face to the cool breeze that came in off the lake. “Do you not agree it is strange this M’sieur Lucian he would want you to bother me and not my son?”
Dair remained silent, bracing himself for what he had to ask her to confirm, made all the more difficult if his suspicions about the origins of his cousin’s lack of appetite proved correct. He had watched her turn up her nose at foods she had readily eaten in the past. Most telling of all was her aversion for her favorite beverage, coffee, and her new-found preference for tea, a drink she usually abhorred. It was as glaring a sign as any that she was suffering from morning sickness. And while he was mildly shocked that a woman of his cousin’s age was with child, he knew it was not unusual. He was also secretly elated for her and her new duke. A baby was always welcome, and he knew this one would be all the more precious to the newly-married couple, particularly as the Duke of Kinross was without a male heir.
“If I could disturb the Duke with this, I would. But the piece of information M’sieur Lucian entrusted to me, to prove his identity, is for your ears only. He does not want it mentioned to the Duke, and when you hear what I have to say, you will agree it is best kept between us.”
Antonia sat back in the window seat and regarded Dair with her clear green eyes. She remained silent a moment and then lifted her hand off her silken lap, as indication he could continue with whatever it was he had to say; she would no longer offer any protest. If all that was required was for her to verify or dispute this M’sieur Lucian’s story, then so be it. The sooner the better. She was sure she was about to be ill at any moment.
“Only five people are aware of the details of this disturbing incident—six now, counting me. Two of those six are no longer with us: Monseigneur, and a Mr. Robert Thesiger. The others, Roxton—Alston as he was known then, M’sieur Lucian and, quite obviously, you, were the only family members present on the night of Harry’s birth.”
Mention of her sixteen-year-old son Henri-Antoine had Antonia sitting up, face suddenly white, but she remained mute, and so Dair continued.
“I won’t distress you by going into explicit detail about the incident, although I can, if required. M’sieur Lucian expressed the regret that he had not gone to your aid, at the very least dragged Alston away. But he, like his companions, was very drunk. Despite his impaired faculties, and the passing of the years, he was able to give me a vivid account of the events of that night. He described to me the shocking behavior of your eldest son, who accused you of being a whore and that the baby you had almost carried to term did not belong to his father. He dragged you out of the house and into Hanover Square whereupon you went into an early labor, and it was only the Duke’s timely return from Parliament that saved you and the baby. The nature of Harry’s early birth was the reason he suffered crippling episodes of the falling sickness when younger—”
“C'est assez! La mémoire est trop douloureuse! I cannot. Please. Alisdair. You will not say another word about it. Now—or ever. C'est compris?”
Dair was beside her on the window seat and had hold of her hand before she had stopped speaking, but not before the tears began coursing down her white cheeks. He quickly fished out his clean linen handkerchief from his frock coat pocket and gently put it into her hand.
“Never. I give you my word. I would not have distressed you for the world, believe me, but I could not confront Roxton with—”
“No. You were right to come to me. Julian he must never know that you know. He has lived with that night and its consequences every day of his life. Me I still think he has not forgiven himself, even if his father and me we did so a long time ago. He still blames himself for his brother’s early malady. But who is to say Henri-Antoine might have suffered from the falling sickness regardless of the circumstances of his early birth. The physicians cannot. But still he Julian blames himself.” She grabbed Dair’s hand hard. “You will not say a word to Shrewsbury. Promise me.”
“Not a word. I only need to verify the identity of M’sieur Lucian with you, and Shrewsbury will be satisfied with that.”
Antonia let out a sigh of relief and nodded slowly. “This M’sieur Lucian, it must be Evelyn… I—I am pleased he is alive but… How could he be so cruel and unfeeling as to allow his parents, Monseigneur, me, his family, to think him dead all these years? Does he know his parents are both dead? That Monseigneur, too, is no longer with me?”
“He does. He told me a little of his history. He asked that I pass this on to you, in the hopes that you will have a better understanding of him and perhaps one day forgive him—”
“He is an imbecile! Why would I not forgive him? He is my nephew.”
Dair laughed and then became serious again, saying quietly,
“He did not tell me how this came about, but he spent many years incarcerated for crimes against the Russian Imperial state. He lost all contact with the outside world. When he was finally released, he was a broken man, and then had no wish to make contact with anyone, particularly his family, on whom he had brought great shame. He believes his parents were better off mourning him than knowing what he was and what he had endured at the hands of Empress Catherine’s secret police. But that and much more is for him to tell you in his own words, and in your presence, once he is returned to England, and has your permission to contact you.”
“But of course! Again he is an imbecile. Why would I refuse him? Julian too, and Deborah, they will welcome him home, I am certain of it. And please, you will allow me to break the news to them, n'est-ce pas?”
Dair pressed her hand and made her a bow.
“Of course. M’sieur Lucian will be overjoyed at the news. And now I will leave you in peace. I am already late for my interview with Lord Shrewsbury—”
Antonia’s moist eyes lit up. “To seek permission to marry my goddaughter, yes?”
Dair nodded, strangely overcome with emotion at her enthusiasm.
“To discuss your nephew’s return to England, and,” he couldn’t help blushing, which Antonia thought delightful, “to ask for Rory’s hand in marriage. I admit I am more than a little nervous at the prospect.”
“Eh bien! But, mon cher, it is surely a mere formality as Rory, she is of age.”
“Formality, it may be, but it makes the task no less difficult. Rory loves her grandfather dearly, and thus his approval is necessary.”
“He will not refuse you! How could he? Why would he?”
She hopped off the window seat and put her arm through his. Halfway across the carpet she turned and stuck out her hand in farewell, and when he bowed over it, she pulled him down to kiss his forehead and to touch his cheek.
“You will come and see me later, after your return, and tell me all about it, yes? I will be awake, I assure you.”
How could Dair say no to such enthusiasm? Nor could he wait to share with Rory how happy her godmother was with the news of their betrothal.
“Mme la Duchesse, M’sieur le Duc, he has come,” the butler interrupted, and sent two footmen into the sitting room, one to clear away the tea things, and the other to put in its place a heavy silver tray holding coffee pot, coffee cups and saucers, and a plate of almond biscuits.
One whiff of the heady aroma of rich dark coffee was all it took.
Antonia clapped a hand across her nose and mouth to stifle a heave, snatched up a handful of her silk petticoats, and dashed across the room to disappear behind the folding screen.
TWENTY-SEVEN
T HE DUKE WATCHED, jaw slack and green eyes wide, as his mother ran from him, two of her attendants in her wake, to disappear behind the folding screen in the corner of her sitting room. Her lady’s maid then proceeded to berate the two footmen, not caring who was in the room. The servants turne
d frock coat tails and fled back from whence they came, cups and plates rattling on their silver trays. The butler watched, just as astounded as the Duke, but in a different way. His face above his white cravat was puce, aware he had just committed a faux pas from which he was certain he would never make a recover. Michelle raged at him and called him an idiot, for had she not told him coffee was now banned from Mme la Duchesse’s presence? The butler tried to argue he had no choice. After all, it was M’sieur le Duc who had ordered the coffee, and who was he to deny a king in his own domain? Michelle retorted she did not care if it was Louis King of France wanting a café au lait with her mistress, he could go hang! It was only with these words out of her mouth that she realized the Duke was standing beside her, and with a quick curtsy and mumbled apology she, too, turned and fled behind the screen.
Used to living in an environment that was disciplined and predictable, with well-mannered, soft-footed servants who acted accordingly, regardless if they were in his presence or not, and where his word was law, this chaotic environment was incomprehensible to the Duke. He had never understood his mother, and he found her at best a tiny whirlwind of impulsive gaiety. For a heartbeat, he wondered if she had slipped back into the melancholia that had gripped her for the three years since his father’s passing, what with her new Duke of a few months absent north of the border. And his instantaneous and harsh reaction was to wish Kinross had taken her away with him to Scotland, rather than leave her here within his dominion. The instant this was thought, it was banished, replaced by such guilt that before he knew what was happening he was three rooms away, in a small anteroom off the private dining parlor his mother used as a library.
Dair had taken his cousin by the elbow and led him there. Unlike the Duke, he had found the whole episode amusing, particularly Roxton’s look of total confusion watching his mother flee his presence, and the dramatic reaction of her loyal servants to her predicament. And before the Duke asked the question, he stuck his head out into the corridor and had a footman fetch back the silver tray with the coffee things, reasoning there was now enough distance between them and the Duchess. The Duke looked in need of a strong cup of coffee, if not something stronger. Dair then opened the two windows above the window seat, hoping fresh air would dissipate the strong coffee aroma before the Duchess found her way to them.
“I just set Shrewsbury down at the Gatehouse Lodge, and thought I’d come and see how maman was settling in,” Roxton said for want of something to fill the silence and cover his awkwardness. “I know she only arrived back yesterday—You were welcome to stay up at the big house. Deborah and the children would love to see you.”
“Merci, mon cousin,” Dair responded in French, and was not surprised when the Duke frowned in puzzlement, having no idea he had spoken to Dair in his first language. “The Duchess was kind enough to put me up,” he continued in English. “It is close to the Lodge, which suits Shrewsbury’s purpose.”
“He told me you had matters to discuss… Your recent visit to Portugal…?”
“Yes,” Dair said but did not elaborate, and was glad for the interruption when a footman returned with the coffee pot.
He declined to join the Duke in a cup, itching to take his leave. Yet he did not want to appear hasty or rude, so he waited a few more minutes, reasoning the Duchess would show herself, or the Duke would be called to attend her in her sitting room. Either way, he could then escape to the Gatehouse Lodge and get done the harrowing business of asking for Rory’s hand in marriage.
“Has… Has everything been all right with your stay…?” Roxton asked, hoping his tone was light.
Dair realized that what the Duke was actually enquiring about was his mother. Knowing his upright cousin would have no idea as to the Duchess’s condition, and would never expect in a thousand years such an eventuality to be possible—such was the nobleman’s temperate disposition—Dair decided he needed a little mental push in the right direction. He was also being a little mischievous; wanting to see the nobleman’s face when his brain turned a cog and realized the woman who had given birth to him over thirty years ago, and who had recently remarried, was with child by her new younger husband.
“Perfectly all right. Of course I don’t have to tell you,” Dair said conversationally, “what with four children and another on the way, you must have a perfect understanding of how it is. No doubt the Duchess has had bouts of morning sickness. It is often the way with females in the first few months of breeding, that they inexplicably develop an aversion for those flavors and scents they love most…”
The Duke blinked his incomprehension, but when Dair just stood there grinning knowingly at him, he staggered back, as if he had been struck, such was his shock. Then, without a word, he turned on a heel and strode off to his mother’s sitting room, as if he’d just been told the house was on fire. Dair followed.
“Roxton! Julian! Wait up! Your cup! Give me your cup!”
The Duke stopped, looked down at the coffee cup in his hand, thrust it at Dair, and then yanked aside the brocade curtain, disappearing into his mother’s sitting room. Dair was still smiling at the look of utter disbelief on his noble cousin’s face to the news of his mother’s pregnancy when he was admitted into the small entrance hall of the Gatehouse Lodge twenty minutes later.
Rory was sitting on the next-to-last step of the stairs waiting for him.
THE PRESENCE OF the butler prevented the couple from being anything but politely civil. Dair nodded and Rory, who had a hand to the polished banister, bobbed a curtsy. Yet, the look and smile which passed between them said it all. They were ecstatic, and tense with excitement and heightened anticipation. Both had dressed carefully, wanting the moment to be accorded its proper due. After all, it was not every day a couple got engaged, and in the wider Society in which they mixed, it was rare for that couple to be deeply in love.
When the butler disappeared into the study to see if his lordship was ready to receive his guest, they had a few moments alone. Both seized the opportunity. In two strides, Dair was at the foot of the stairs. He caught Rory to him and she threw her arms about his neck.
Dair could not remember a day where he had been as happy as he was on this day. All his past fears about marriage, about ever finding the right woman to share his future, least of all finding a soul mate, had evaporated, and all because of this divine creature in his arms. He had no doubts whatsoever. He hoped the same was true for her. So he was alarmed when, after they had shared a kiss, the smile on Rory’s flushed upturned face dropped into a pout.
“Is—Are you—Is everything all right?”
“I am not sure…You need to kiss me again. I am not convinced I like you without whiskers.”
He stifled a laugh and instantly relaxed, whispering near her ear,
“And here was I affording you the opportunity to kiss a different gentleman… You could then tell me which one you’d prefer to take on your honeymoon.”
She gasped and then giggled.
He held both her hands and took a step backwards to look her up and down. He liked the outfit she was wearing very much. Over a chemise of the finest cream linen, with a wide flounce at the hem and a similar flounce to both sleeves, was a pink-lavender open-robed gown of shimmering silk. It hugged her lithe frame, from small breasts to tiny waist, and opened out over her hips, to display the cream linen underskirts. Her waist-length straw-blonde hair, too, had been carefully dressed, swept up off her face and loosely piled atop her head, pinned, beribboned, and the weight allowed to fall down her back. And her shoes, of course, matched her gown. All in all, she was beautiful and radiant, and just how he imagined a bride looked on her wedding day. He wished they were about to go up before the vicar.
He swiftly kissed the back of one hand, and then the other, as he heard the door behind him open, and let her go, saying softly, “You look so beautiful. Don’t send for another gown. Wear this one to our bridal. The color perfectly matches the sapphire I gave you.”
Rory
beamed with happiness, so much so, her blue eyes filled with tears. All she could do to answer him was smile and nod when he asked,
“Wait for me here…?”
As Dair followed the butler into her grandfather’s study, she sank back onto the step, to wait, unaware she was toying with the unfamiliar, but reassuringly present, pale lavender sapphire betrothal ring.
The meeting took much longer than Rory anticipated. More than once the butler enquired if she wanted him to fetch her a glass of wine or a cup of tea and a biscuit. But Rory was too nervous to eat or drink. She tried not to listen for sounds, and it was impossible to hear voices or conversation, but once or twice a loud burst of laughter penetrated the oak-paneled door. Then there was nothing for the longest time that Rory began to drift off to sleep. It was now very late, and she had had such a big day, a momentous one, spent on Swan Island, that with the darkness of a late night, it was almost as if she had dreamed it.
She was asleep, slumped against the banister rail, when in her dreamlike state, the door to grandfather’s study was suddenly yanked wide and the man she loved strode out into the hall. On his frock coat skirts followed her grandfather. Why couldn’t she wake up? Her head was so heavy. Her grandfather spoke to her, and although she heard his words and instinctively did what he asked, she could not remember exactly what he said. She rose up and he offered her his arm. But when he moved away from the stair, there was her husband-to-be. He was standing in the middle of the hall, and the front door was wide. She wanted to cross the small space that separated them but her grandfather kept her at his side, his hold on her arm, vise-like. It was then she realized she wasn’t dreaming at all. She was wide-awake, and nothing and nobody was making any sense.
ALMOST AN HOUR EARLIER, when the butler had announced Major Lord Fitzstuart to his lordship, Lord Shrewsbury had greeted his best agent as he always did, with affable good humor. He was always genuinely pleased to see the young man, and relieved he had survived his latest assignment unscathed. He knew most of what had occurred in Lisbon from Dair’s coded report, sent as soon as he had disembarked at Portsmouth. He also knew that the most crucial pieces of information would not be in ink but reported verbally. What he most wanted was the name of the double agent within his own Secret Service; a name the Major had gone all the way to Portugal to retrieve.
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