Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  Marcus looked up, a black eyebrow raised. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Your cat, Marcus. Mrs. Gooseberry said she stole a huge slab of broiled lamb. That is why, she said, that there were more white beans than necessary in this particular dish.”

  “Esmee has always been remarkably agile,” Marcus said. “I assume she escaped with her booty?”

  “Oh yes, leaving Mrs. Gooseberry to holler and drive Sampson to the brink of overset nerves. He doesn’t like to hear anyone hollering, Marcus.”

  “It’s true. Perhaps it is time for Badger to make his way to the kitchen. He’s a remarkable cook.”

  “He makes an excellent roasted buttock of beef,” the Duchess said, looking at her fork that held some overcooked white beans. “The pastry he makes to wrap the roast beef in melts in one’s mouth. Also, Badger is a diplomat. Would you like him to prepare a meal for you, Marcus?”

  He didn’t look at her, saying into his goblet of rich red wine, “I will tell Sampson that Mrs. Gooseberry needs a respite from the cat and all her machinations. Badger may prepare a buttock of beef for us tomorrow night. She may visit her sister in Scarborough.”

  “She doesn’t have a sister in Scarborough,” Aunt Gweneth said.

  “Then she could benefit from the fresh sea air all by herself,” Marcus said, then shrugged, obviously dismissing the problem. He was the earl, the master here, even though he currently believed himself to have been deposed, dispossessed. Mr. Wicks couldn’t wait to speak to him. He disliked leaving things, no matter for how short a time, in such a muddle.

  The earl didn’t dally over port. Instead, joining the family in the huge drawing room, he continued civil. If he was more quiet, more aloof than he usually was, Mr. Wicks didn’t know it since he had just met the young man. He said finally, at nine o’clock, “My lord, if you and I could please meet for just a few minutes in your library? It is critical to your situation that you understand everything fully.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow, saying very quietly, so that only Mr. Wicks could hear him, “Ah, you mean, sir, that I had no right to send Mrs. Gooseberry to Scarborough? Must I ask permission from you, sir?”

  “No. Please, my lord, come with me now.”

  Marcus shrugged, said good night to the company, and led the way from the drawing room. He didn’t realize the Duchess had come also until he turned to face both her and Mr. Wicks in the library. He said, his voice harsh and raw with fury, “What the hell do you want, Duchess? Get out of here. Go count your bloody groats. Write a letter to the man who was keeping you and tell him to take his congé with Mrs. Gooseberry in Scarborough. Ah, I see, I can no longer afford to raise my voice or tell you what to do, can I? If I offend you, then I will find myself living in a ditch.”

  “I ask you exercise just a bit of restraint. There is a solution. Please listen to Mr. Wicks, Marcus.”

  “Damn you, can’t you ever—” He broke off, shook himself, and sat down behind his desk, his posture insolent. “All right, Mr. Wicks, what more wondrous news do you have for me? Am I to live in the dower house, or perhaps the tack room?”

  7

  “NO, MY LORD,” Mr. Wicks said, looking earnestly at the young earl. “Please, I beg you to listen to me with an open mind. I ask that you forget your anger, your sense of betrayal, at least for the moment. There is a solution, you see, one that perhaps you will not find onerous or distasteful.”

  “A solution to this bloody mess? You mean my dear uncle destroys me then gives me a gun to shoot myself out of my misery?”

  “No, my lord. It involves marriage.”

  “Ah, the proverbial heiress, eh? That’s an interesting key to stick through the bars of my cage. Well, you mean my uncle didn’t forbid my marrying an heiress? How very poorly completed his revenge was, to be sure. So I merely hie myself to London, look over the Cits’ daughters currently up for sale, and make my selection. Then I have her, her blessed groats, and my gentleman’s allowance. It is a charming thought, Mr. Wicks, so charming a thought that I do believe I will shortly puke.”

  “Marcus, please listen.”

  “Duchess, I am very close to smashing that amazingly ugly Chinese vase over there on its damned pretentious pedestal. I understand my uncle was quite fond of it. Yes, I am nearly over the edge. I suggest you take yourself out of here. I wouldn’t want to bruise your—”

  “Be quiet, Marcus. I can’t leave, for this involves me as much as it does you.”

  She’d at last gotten his full attention. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “She means, my lord, that your uncle allowed you a way out. Yes, you are to marry an heiress and he selected her for you. You need go to no trouble, my lord, you may simply wed with the Duchess.”

  Marcus just stared at him. Mr. Wicks wet his lips, wanting to give more arguments, but the look on the young earl’s face held him quiet. There was blood in his eye. Yet he continued silent. The Duchess, however, as was her wont, was more silent. Absolutely unmoving, her eyes calm on his face. The stillness of her was amazing, and disconcerting. It occurred to him in that moment that her very composure, her unshakable calm in light of these extraordinary developments, was far from reassuring the earl. They were infuriating him.

  Finally, after more minutes than Mr. Wicks ever wanted to live through again in his life, Marcus said with mocking insolence, “Marry her? Marry Josephina?” He looked her up and down, his eyes resting first on her bosom, then lower to the line of her thighs and hips. “Marry someone with such an ugly name? I can’t imagine whispering love words to her, whispering Josephina . . . Josephina. I daresay I would shrivel like last spring’s potatoes, that, or laugh myself silly. Surely it is all a jest, Mr. Wicks. There is a trick here, another blow from my uncle. Come, spit it out.”

  “No, it is no jest, my lord. There is no more. Could you not simply continue calling her Duchess? Surely you don’t find that name ugly, you gave it to her, after all. Listen my lord, you must think carefully about this, there is so very much at stake, you must—”

  “It isn’t just her damnable ugly name, Mr. Wicks. This same girl has ice water in her veins. Just look at her, sitting there as still as a bloody rock. She isn’t even here. She’s probably thinking about her bloody flowers if she’s thinking about anything at all. All us mere human mortals don’t interest her. Someone could come up and put a placard around her neck and still she wouldn’t stir. Birds could probably roost on her head and she still wouldn’t move, wouldn’t acknowledge that anything was even different.

  “By God, she feels more for the roses in her garden than she ever would feel for another human being. I don’t believe so, Mr. Wicks. Not in my bloody lifetime.” Marcus stopped, struck a pose, then added, “Actually, I don’t think she feels a bloody thing for her roses either. It must be their beauty that draws her, their cold beauty, like velvet to the eye. But, by God, you touch the things and you’ve got yourself scarred from the thorns. Yes, I can understand that she would find roses of interest, but a man? Can you begin to imagine how distasteful she would find a man, Mr. Wicks? We aren’t nature’s most splendid specimens. All that hair, our very size, our endowments that—”

  “My lord! Please, moderate yourself. I know all of this is something of a shock to you, but you must recognize that it is a solution, it is—”

  She’d pressed herself hard against the settee in shock, but it was on the inside, deep on the inside. She didn’t allow herself to move, she barely breathed. Ah, but she felt the bitter angry words wash over her and through her and it was too much, it was far too much. And poor Mr. Wicks, trying so vainly to moderate Marcus’s rage, an impossibility, she knew that. He was passionate—quick to joy and quick to anger. But still she hadn’t imagined that he would say such things. But she should have. He was a strong man, a proud man, and now he was a man pushed too far. She simply looked at him, at the ugly sneer that distorted his well-shaped mouth, at the utter fury that held him in its grip.

  Marcus continued, seemi
ngly oblivious of his stunned audience, of the damage he was inflicting, “Can you imagine her in your bed, Mr. Wicks? Do think back, sir. Say, twenty or thirty years. Surely you had lustful thoughts then. Ah, and she is so beautiful, is she not? A glorious creature to behold, not only that face of hers but that body, all tall and slender yet with breasts and hips that tantalize any man unfortunate enough to be looking at her with more than appreciation for, say, a painting in his mind.

  “But can you imagine how she would greet you if you were her husband? She would stare at you calmly, so detached that it is difficult to imagine that she really has substance, aye, she would stare as if you were some sort of rodent that really had no business being even in the same room as her. She would try, however, not to look too repelled. Perhaps she would even give one of her stingy smiles—paltry things, those meager smiles of hers—to show that she was completely aware of her upcoming sacrifice. Then she would calmly march to the bed and stretch out there, on her back, unmoving, probably as cold on the outside as she is within. God, it is a repulsive thought, Mr. Wicks.”

  Mr. Wicks tried, she gave him that. He cleared his throat, but there was desperation on his face, a tremor in his voice. “Listen to me, my lord, I understand this is all such a shock to you, that—”

  “I would much prefer a woman to run screaming from me than to just lie there and bear all my repellent men’s acts in silence, unmoving, perhaps whimpering like a little martyr, whilst I had my vile way with her.”

  Mr. Wicks cleared his throat loudly, continuing as if Marcus hadn’t spoken. “ . . . and thus, my lord, it makes you a bit resentful, a bit intemperate in your speech, perhaps a bit bitter and—”

  “Bitter, Mr. Wicks? I assure you, sir, that bitter doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling. Resentful? Now there’s a bloodless word I haven’t ever heard applied to myself.”

  “My lord, your uncle wanted the Duchess to be your countess. He wanted his grandchildren to have her blood as well as yours. Surely you can understand that.”

  “Another exaggeration, Mr. Wicks, if not a downright falsehood. My uncle doubtless believed that her exalted blood, in direct flow from his own precious body, would reduce the corruptness of my blood in any possible issue, at least dilute its monstrous effects. Ah, yes, I see from your expression that is exactly what my dear uncle believed.”

  “Marcus.”

  It was her voice, quiet and contained, so very soft, as if she were a nanny wanting to bring her recalcitrant charge back in control. “Marcus,” she said again when he remained silent. “Please try to understand.”

  “Ah,” he said, interrupting her with a negligent wave of his hand. “I suppose you want to wed with me, Duchess? You are willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of your father’s revenge? Forgive me, but I can’t believe that, even though I can see that you’re ready to nod. Not to speak and say yes, but nod, perhaps sigh with resignation, which is quite a feat of emotion for you, but I’m not that much of an idiot.

  “But wait, perhaps I have underestimated you again. Is it that my dear uncle also served you a bit of a turn, forced your hand, so to speak, Duchess? Perhaps your inheritance is somehow connected to all this? Will you lose all your groats if you don’t marry me?”

  “No,” she said.

  He waited, the good Lord knew he waited for her to say more, to say anything to reduce the humiliation of this entire situation, to tell him that she wanted to marry him and it had nothing to do with what her father had done to him, well, it had, but it wasn’t important to her. He waited for her to perhaps scream at him for his vicious insults, for spewing out words surely fit only for street harlots, but she just sat there, staring down at her hands, utterly motionless, like a damned marble statue.

  “She will gain fifty thousand pounds, regardless of your decision, my lord. However, if either of you refuse to wed the other by June the sixteenth of 1814, then your uncle’s family from Baltimore, Maryland, will inherit everything that isn’t entailed.”

  “I see. So the Duchess does have something to lose, quite a lot of something, I would say. What is a paltry fifty thousand pounds compared to being the mistress of an immense and old estate? Yes, wedding with me might be a consideration. Now, if my uncle’s family inherits after June sixteenth, after I’ve gutted the vast Wyndham estate in only a very minor way—just the entailed property—certainly not all that important except for Chase Park, ah, then I’ll be obliged to ask Auntie Wyndham for money to make repairs on anything else that needs to be done on my meager share of things?”

  “No, my lord. Forgive me if I was unclear. I would be the one.”

  “May I know the amount of my allowance?”

  “I believe it to be in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds a quarter.”

  “Two hundred pounds!” Marcus threw back his head and laughed. Deep, black laughter that bubbled up, that made his shoulders shake, that made her hurt so much for him that she wanted to scream, to plead with him to trust her, to know that she would make everything all right for him, but of course, she said nothing, she didn’t know what to say. She had no practice, no knowledge of what to say.

  “Did you hear that, Duchess? Two hundred pounds! This is very close to what I earned per year in the army. Good God, I would be bloody rich, a nabob with a title.” And he laughed and laughed until his eyes teared. “All I would have to do is hold out my hand to Mr. Wicks here. That and hold my head up in society, hell, more important, I would have to look at myself in the mirror.

  “Perhaps I could stand outside his office, join a line of beggars, and look properly humble and subservient whilst my hand was out, my expression set in modest line, my eyes downcast, so that he would give me my allowance and perhaps not accompany the guineas with a lecture on how not to be wasteful. I would wear those woolen mittens with the fingers cut out so that I could better snag the groats he tosses to me. I wouldn’t want to lose any of my grand allowance, now would I?”

  “Actually, my lord, your allowance would be an automatic thing, the funds sent directly to you each quarter.”

  “Ah, so Mr. Crittaker would see my allowance and see to its disposition. Good God, I forgot about Crittaker. Is he still to be my secretary? Surely one as poor as I has no need of a gentleman’s secretary. Well, Mr. Wicks?”

  “Your uncle was very fond of Mr. Crittaker, my lord. His wages are to be taken care of for so long as he wishes to remain with you here at Chase Park.”

  “To be taken care of,” Marcus repeated slowly. “What an interesting sound that all has. Like your mother was taken care of, Duchess. How you were perhaps taken care of in that cozy little cottage of yours in Smarden. I see then that it is just if I wish to do anything, change anything, that I would find my place in the beggar’s line.”

  She waited, her hands now fisted in her lap. She stared at them, at the white knuckles, and forced them to open, to calm, for if she didn’t, her belly would certainly cramp into awful pain and she would be ill.

  Then he said, his voice raw from all his laughter, “Well, Duchess, are you willing to carry through with this damnable charade? Will you wed me and become my countess? Are you ready to save me from this endless ignominy? Are you ready to suffer me in your bed and bear countless little boy babies who just might look like me rather than you? Did my uncle leave a provision for that, Mr. Wicks? Any male child that looked like me would be disinherited? God, that’s a revolting thought, isn’t it? What if they had my temper, my fits of emotion, my hairy body? What if they resembled me rather than you, Duchess, the most soulless creature I’ve ever met?”

  She opened her mouth, yes, now she would tell him, but he suddenly yelled, “No! I don’t want to hear your mewling protests, all very calmly stated, I’m sure. Actually, Duchess, I wouldn’t wed you if you held the last loaf of bread in all of England and I was starving. What man would want to bed such a cold-blooded bitch, despite her newfound legitimacy, despite her groats? Not I, madam, not I. I’m not as scheming as your fathe
r. Actually, Mr. Wicks, I have just decided that the earldom will become extinct upon my death. I wonder if my bloody uncle ever considered that eventuality.”

  “Your aunt Wilhelmina has two sons, my lord. Were you to die with no issue, the eldest son, Trevor Wyndham, would inherit the earldom.”

  “Trevor? Good God, that name is as absurd as hers. Trevor. Is he effete, Mr. Wicks? Does he mince and waggle his fingers, wear patches on his cheeks? Does he chatter and giggle? Does he pad his calves to make them fill out his trousers? Does he have buckram wadding in his shoulders to make him manly enough? By God, Trevor!”

  “I truly don’t know the character of your aunt Wilhelmina’s offspring.”

  The earl cursed, but there was little heat in it. Then, very slowly, he smiled. “No matter. Let a fop be the next earl. Let him mince about in the House of Lords. Perhaps he’s even a pederast. If he is, I shall have a painting commissioned of him and I will place it next to my uncle’s. The two of them can visit each other for all eternity. And I, well, I shall have two hundred pounds a quarter. Fancy that—I will be rich. These past ten months of playing a role that didn’t at all suit my character will soon be forgotten. Count on it, Mr. Wicks. This precious earldom is already becoming a faint echo in my mind.”

  He strode then from the library, not looking back, still laughing that raw black laughter.

  Mr. Wicks looked down at her, shaking his head. “I had not expected such excess, such vehemence, such a lack of measure.”

  “Marcus always spoke his mind when he was a boy,” she said, her voice dull in its acceptance. “I have just never heard him speak it as an adult. He’s gained fluency and tenacity. He’s gained more range. It was something I always admired in him. Of course, Marcus always belonged, he was a true Wyndham even though he refuses to accept that he was. He could be angry, outrageous in his behavior or just plain sullen if the mood struck him.” Yes, he’d always belonged until her father had done him in.