Pennington settled a hard gaze on the baron, and Carter smiled to see the stoical Swenton drop his eyes in submission. The authority displayed by Pennington did not come easily to Carter, and he wondered if he could ever replicate the magnificent line of Pennington’s brow in disapproval. “And I have requested the truth of what has occurred in the life of one of my best agents. How may I protect the viscount if I know not the depth of Lexford’s agony?”
Swenton said softly, “I will come to you before the ball.” Again, Carter questioned his ability to do all Pennington did for the Realm members. “Shepherd,” as he and the others fondly called Pennington for his ability to gather “lost souls” and change them into some of the best agents in the world, appeared to recognize what those who served the Realm required most in their lives to know success on missions and happiness at home. For not the first time, Carter wondered if he could accept the life and death decisions Pennington made on a daily basis.
Carter looked on with amusement as Lord Stafford declared, “As I am a viscount, I hold no qualms in signing in Viscount Lexford’s stead. After all, I have met his lady and have witnessed his true regard for the woman.”
The bishop stammered, “I…I require…the lady’s name…for the license.”
All eyes fell on Swenton; he said sheepishly, “Mercy Nelson.”
While the others gasped, Carter placed the pieces of the puzzle together. “Not Mary Purefoy?” he asked.
“Yes to Mary Purefoy, and yes to Mercy Nelson. One and the same,” Swenton admitted.
Worthing questioned, “The missing sister of the marquis’s wife?”
The baron confirmed, “By accident, Hill discovered the girl on the road and rescued her. It is a long, complicated story, to which Lexford has demanded my tight lips. The viscount fears failure and does not wish to appear a fool for giving his heart to a woman who does not return his regard. In truth, I believe the viscount fears being duped, as he was with Susan.”
Worthing ordered, “Finish the bishop’s work, and then we will dine together. We should each own an understanding of the viscount’s pain.”
In the end, Swenton had confessed more than what the viscount had released him to do. It was decided among them that Swenton would accompany the Worthings to Linton Park on the morrow. Swenton had promised to greet Lexford with the special license in hand.
“I pray the viscount does not experience more failure,” Yardley said with real concern. “Lexford appeared quite solemn when he joined Lady Yardley and me at Chesterfield Manor.”
Carter suggested, “We will follow, but with a day’s delay. If Lexford has not known success, send word, and we will remain from Derbyshire. We will permit the viscount time to grieve and to save countenance.”
The others had agreed Carter had chosen wisely. Yardley reasoned, “Worthing and Swenton can tend to Lexford’s bruised ego if he does not manage to prevent his lady from marrying another.”
Although he had suggested they have an alternative plan, Carter did not like all the long faces. “It appears to me, we have taken the negative slant. Instead of saying ‘if,’ I suggest we substitute ‘when.’ We should recall we speak of Aidan Kimbolt, a man who is capable of doing the impossible. I can think of few others I would trust more than Viscount Lexford to play the role of Claudio to claim his Hero.”
Worthing nodded his agreement. “Without Lexford’s unique ingenuity, I would have lost Lady Worthing. I owe the viscount my devotion.” They drank a round in salute to a man they each called “friend.” However, Worthing did add one caution. “We should mention none of this to the marquis until we know the outcome. Godown suffers enough with his wife’s absence. I would not give him false hopes of finding Grace Crowden. I fear the woman means never to return to her home. When Lexford claims Mercy Nelson as his own, then I will inform Godown of the development.”
“What do we tell the marquis of Lexford’s absence if he asks?” Yardley inquired.
“I will think of something appropriate. Likely a half-truth, which is much more effective than a prevarication,” Worthing assured.
The months had passed quickly, but she was no closer to discovering the truth of Captain Warren’s perfidy than she was the day she had opened the door to find the child. Since the invasion of her rooms, Lucinda had taken extra care in securing both the door and the windows. As best she could tell, the only thing missing from the earlier break in had been one of the papers in the small pouch the boy had carried.
Obviously, whoever had intruded upon her quarters had known of the child’s existence and the fact she had become Simon’s temporary guardian.
Temporary, she thought with an incongruous snigger. “Temporary” would denote a beginning and an end, but no end to her guardianship was in sight. Simon Warren had been with her since shortly after Christmas, and April had arrived in London. “Nearly three months,” she murmured. “Not so impermanent, after all.”
Each day Lucinda had feared a representative from the British government would appear at her door and demand she repay the widow’s allowance provided her as Mr. Warren’s wife. She would have no means to support herself or the boy if that scenario occurred.
In addition, she had come to fear someone meant either her or Simon harm. When the barrels had worked loose from the cart and injured her ankle, Lucinda had thought nothing of it–simply an accident. But then came the break in, which was followed by several bricks dislodging from a rooftop and landing at her and Simon’s feet, as well as the mysterious man she had observed matching their pace but on the opposing street whenever she and the child went about their daily routines. It was with this realization Lucinda had decided to swallow her pride and seek the assistance of the one person she knew would hold great sway in Society and with the government: Brantley Fowler, the Duke of Thornhill.
“May I visit with Mrs. Peterman?” Lucinda looked up from her stitches to find the boy standing before her. She often wondered in moments such as these if she held no maternal instincts. In the few months of their acquaintance, Lucinda had never once hugged the child nor even ruffled his tightly curled hair. She had never mistreated Simon, and she was certain she would defend the boy with her life; yet, every time she looked upon his countenance a twinge of regret stabbed her heart. Matthew Warren had never thought enough of her to permit Lucinda to know the completeness of holding her own child.
“Have you completed your lessons?” she asked devotedly.
“Yes, Ma’am.” He dropped his eyes, a characteristic which irritated her.
“Simon, look at me,” she said more tersely than she intended. “Is there something I should know?”
The boy’s bottom lip quivered. “It is only…I have never…never read from your Bible.”
Lucinda’s frown lines met. “I know so little of your religion, and I did not wish to make decisions for you until we know whether a member of your family will return for you.” The child nodded his understanding, but Lucinda was certain he held no idea of the quandary in which they found themselves. “If you remain with me, I shall have no choice but to bring you into Christianity. I hold no knowledge of Jewish beliefs, but I do know anything outside the Church of England is frowned upon among the British citizenry. I would not have you know the pain of rejection. If I am to continue as your guardian, I must protect you.”
The child’s eyes grew in size. “You do not…you do not despise me?”
Lucinda tutted her condemnation. “Of course, I do not abhor you. You are as much a victim in this madness as I.” Instinctively, she straightened the child’s shirt. “We shall muddle through this together.” She gently flicked a single tear from Simon’s cheek. It was the first time she had seen him cry. “Now, go off and enjoy the tales Mrs. Peterman spins.”
“She is making apple tarts today,” he confessed.
Lucinda wondered how her landlady could afford the makings for apple tarts. Evidently, Mr. Peterman managed quite well with his finances. She smiled easily at the boy. She
had suspected his possessing an underhanded motive to spending so much time with their landlady. “If Mr. Peterman has finished with his newspaper, ask him if I may borrow it.”
Simon declared, “Mrs. Peterman says you are seeking employment.”
“Allow Mrs. Peterman her delusions,” Lucinda returned to her sewing.
When the boy slipped from the room, she murmured. “I just pray the duke returns to Town soon. I am uncertain I possess the ability to keep the boy safe and to maintain my sanity without a ‘knight in shining armor’ riding to the rescue.”
Lucinda had stood on the busy street corner for a quarter hour, attempting to shore up her nerves. She had carefully read the social register for the past few weeks, waiting for the return of the Duke of Thornhill to his London townhouse. A single line of type had reported Brantley Fowler’s presence at Briar House, and Lucinda had wasted no time in sending a note around, requesting an audience with the duke. Thornhill had responded immediately, setting the date and time.
Self-consciously, she checked Captain Warren’s pocket watch for the time. She regularly carried her late husband’s watch in her reticule. It was one of the few items she had kept to mark her days as Mr. Warren’s wife. “Time,” she murmured. Matthew never found the time to speak the truth, Lucinda thought bitterly. As she set her shoulders to cross the street, she wondered how Thornhill would take to her report of his old friend. I have no choice, she assured her rapid pulse.
She sidestepped a fresh pile of horse dung while dodging a young gentleman’s poorly driven curricle to step upon the curb before Briar House. It was a magnificent house: plenty of windows to permit the light and warmth of even a weak sun, as well as beautiful columns giving the exterior the look of a Roman theatre. Briar House spoke to the Fowlers’ place in Society. Her breath hitched, and Lucinda chastised herself for the very feminine desire to break into tears again. Her eyes swept the townhouse’s façade. Splendor she would never know.
With a deep steadying breath, she entered the gate and ascended the few steps to release the knocker. In less than a minute, the door swung wide to reveal the duke’s very proper butler. “Yes, Miss?”
Lucinda swallowed hard to clear his throat. “I am Mrs. Warren. His Grace is expecting me.”
The butler’s eyebrow rose as he peered behind her to search for her maid, but it had been more than a year since Lucinda could afford help of any kind. She supposed she could have borrowed Nancy’s services from Mrs. Peterman, but Lucinda did not want her gossipy landlady to know of her destination. Despite feeling very self-conscience, she pretended not to notice the servant’s disapproval. “This way, Mrs. Warren,” the butler said diplomatically.
Lucinda politely followed the man up the stairs and along an elaborately decorated passage. She had attended the Come Out ball for Thornhill’s sister, Lady Eleanor Fowler, and his cousin, Miss Velvet Aldridge, in this house. Now, Miss Aldridge was Brantley Fowler’s duchess, and by all accounts the man’s one true love. Yet, on that one evening, Lucinda had received the duke’s attentions, and although she had been a bit uncomfortable with Thornhill’s sudden adoration, the evening remained one of Lucinda’s favorite memories. A man of worth had revered her intelligence and her good sense. A well-placed gentleman had found her attractive, something Mr. Warren had never done.
The butler tapped on an already open door. “Your Grace. Mrs. Warren to speak to you.” The man stepped aside, and Lucinda entered a very masculine study. Dark wood panels spoke of a strong mind and an unqualified determination, both of which could easily describe the Duke of Thornhill.
The duke rose to greet her. His light brown hair was peppered with strands of gold. It was unstylishly long and tied back with a leather strap. Eyes of darkest chocolate glittered with genuine welcome, and Lucinda breathed a bit easier. “Thank you, Mr. Horace. If you will ask Cook to send in tea.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Brantley Fowler caught Lucinda’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I was pleased to hear from you,” he said easily, “but I admit you have piqued my interest.” Lucinda had always liked Brantley Fowler. The future duke had spent but two months in the same company as had Lucinda’s late husband; and during the brief interval, Fowler and Mr. Warren had renewed their university acquaintance. She was proud to say the young lord had always treated her with respect. She was the daughter of the younger son of an earl, and the future duke accepted her as his equal socially. In fact, once when Captain Warren had found fault with the meal she had managed on the few supplies available, it had been Brantley Fowler who had taken up her defense.
“I appreciate your greeting me on such short notice, Your Grace.” The duke led her to a nearby settee before assuming the seat across from where Lucinda sat. “I beg your forgiveness for my bold gesture.”
The duke frowned. “I would hope you would view me as an ally, Lucinda.” His ready familiarity eased her tension.
The butler returned with the tray. “Mrs. Warren will serve, Horace.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” The butler closed the door upon his exit.
Lucinda dutifully took up the service. This cup would be a treat for her. Her meager funds did not stretch to expensive tea and what Mrs. Peterman served was less than desirable. The duke must have read her mind for he said, “My sister Eleanor’s husband, Lord Worthing, declares he spent seven years of service to his country without a decent cup of tea.”
Lucinda nodded her understanding. “Even on English soil,” she said as a means to define her purpose in coming to Briar House, “many cannot afford the weak mix with which we suffered on the Continent. The military’s idea of tea is less than inspiring, but it would be welcome in many English households.”
A long pause kept Thornhill silent. The air was thick with nerves and unspoken truths. Finally, the duke asked, “Are you among those who cannot afford such luxuries?”
Lucinda had always prided herself on her frankness. She had come to beg Thornhill for his support, and the duke deserved the truth, as she knew it. “I am, Your Grace,” she said more calmly than she felt.
Setting his cup aside, the duke sat forward bracing his arms along his thighs. He cocked his head as if seeing her for the first time, and Lucinda fought the urge to squirm under the man’s close scrutiny. He said with concern, “When last we met, you spoke of a small settlement from your mother and, of course, your widow’s pension. Had I known…”
Lucinda cut off the duke’s offer. “I am not your responsibility, Your Grace, and a pity call was not my purpose this day.”
He jammed his knuckles into the side of his leg. Thornhill held a reputation for rescuing “damsels in distress.” It was one of the reasons Lucinda had sought his assistance. “But what of your parents? Or of the Warrens?”
She cleared her throat and hoped her voice did not betray the chaos rushing through her veins. “My mother passed some five months after my marriage to Mr. Warren. The colonel lost his life in Belgium.” She could not hide the grief, which tugged heavily at her heart. Losing her father had come close to sending her over the edge, both figuratively and literally. She still blamed herself for not protecting him. “I would prefer not to seek the assistance of the Earl of Charleton. The colonel and Uncle Gerhard were often at odds. I would not wish to claim the role of poor dependent.” Lucinda did not think her father’s oldest brother would take kindly to the situation in which she now found herself.
“And the Warrens?” the duke prompted. His words caused her heart to stutter. Every time she thought of Matthew Warren’s betrayal she wished to curse the heavens.
Lucinda schooled her expression. Her husband’s parents had turned from her after their son’s death. At the time, she had not understood the reasons the Warrens had placed distance between them. Captain Warren’s parents had pledged their only child to Lucinda when they were but babes, and the Rightnours had gloried in the connection. She felt the shame for her parents’ hopes. Although she could not say she had loved Matth
ew Warren, she had always held her husband in great affection; they had been friends for as long as she could recall. “Father Warren has indicated I am no longer welcome at Coltman Hall.”
The duke’s mouth formed a thin line of disapproval. “I had once thought Warren’s parents perfect in every way,” he confessed.
Lucinda thought, Perfect in their outward displays, but greatly lacking in essentials. “If you hold no objections, Your Grace, I would care to speak to the reasons for my calling upon you.”
“By all means.” The duke leaned back into the chair’s cushions. “I am your servant.”
The nerves she had earlier tamped down had roared to life again. A thousand frightening scenarios flitted through her brain. Purposefully, Lucinda took another sip of the tea. It really was quite lovely to taste the bitter leaves. Setting the cup on the tray, she caught Fowler’s gaze and held it. “Some five months past, I was presented a most difficult situation. I opened the door to my let rooms to discover a small boy of some five years of age sitting upon the threshold. There were no adults about and upon investigation, no one knew of how the child came to wait outside my quarters.”
“Was there no identification?” Thornhill inquired earnestly.
Lucinda set her shoulders in a stiff slant. She dreaded what was to come, but the duke would accept nothing less than the absolute facts. “Only a note pinned to the child’s jacket.” When the duke did not respond, she continued. “The note announced the child to be Captain Warren’s. By his wife, a woman he had married in ’09, some two years before he returned to Devon for the pronouncing of our vows.” Lucinda kept part of the truth as her own special torment. She did not tell him the complete facts of the child’s mother.
“With whom has the child resided over the past five years?” Fresh despair filled Lucinda’s heart. It was natural for people to assume Simon’s mother had passed before Mr. Warren had taken Lucinda as his wife.
“Simon’s mother held the boy’s responsibility. The first Mrs. Warren met her end shortly before the child appeared upon my doorstep,” she explained with an acerbic smile.
Realm 06 - A Touch of Love Page 5