Simon’s eyes grew in disbelief. “I am very fond of apple tarts, Your Grace.” Remembering himself, he added quickly, “I would be honored.”
“How gracious!” Lucinda gushed. The duke’s generosity had always been a great kindness. She had begun to question her ability to see this situation to its end, but Thornhill’s actions bolstered her resolve. “Simon, perhaps you should take the book we shared to your room. We shall enjoy it together a bit later. Mr. Vance will send up refreshments.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
As he caught the book and executed another bow, Lucinda cautioned, “Permit the maid to prepare the tea.”
The boy understood immediately, and he smiled largely. “Yes, Ma’am. I will protect Sir Carter’s tea service.” With a joyful skip, the boy hustled from the room.
Lucinda returned her attention to the baronet’s guests. “How may I serve you, Your Grace?”
Thornhill leaned easily into the chair. “I am merely an escort, Mrs. Warren. It was the duchess’s idea to pay a obligation call.” His pronouncement did not bode well for Lucinda. The only other time she had met the duchess had been the evening His Grace used her to make his lady jealous.
“We promised Sir Carter the wardrobe from your father’s chambers for the one he has deemed for Baron Blakehell’s exclusive use. Little did I know, the baronet would spend but one night under his own roof,” the duchess protested with a tone of falsehood. Lucinda knew for certain the woman had an ulterior motive, but she could not name the duchess’s duplicity.
The duke smiled lovingly at his wife. He was blind to her manipulation. Thornhill mildly chastised. “Sir Carter has assumed many of Pennington’s former duties. If you expected the baronet to participate in the refurbishing of his home, I fear you will be sadly disenchanted, my Dear.”
The duchess pouted in the way of women who knew the effect puffing lips had over a man. “I simply wished to know the baronet’s pleasure with the piece.”
Lucinda ventured, “In my experience with the military, few men take note of such finery unless a woman points out the perfection.”
The duke chuckled. “Point made, Mrs. Warren.”
The duchess scowled, and Lucinda suspected her remarks had displeased the woman further. However, the lady said sweetly, “Perhaps, Bran, you would oversee the unloading of the piece.”
“I am certain Mr. Vance…” Thornhill began, but he readily curtailed his response when his wife sent the duke a deathly glare. “It appears, Mrs. Warren, my duchess wishes a private word with you.” He rose easily from the chair. “Do not be afeared, Ma’am. My wife only torments me,” he teased.
“Do not give Mrs. Warren a predisposed opinion of me, Your Grace,” the duchess warned sweetly.
The duke presented his wife a proper bow. “I hold no delusions you have not completed the task previously, my Dear.” With a wink in Lucinda’s direction, Thornhill exited the room, pointedly closing the door behind him.
Lucinda wished to call him back, but she set her shoulders to meet the duchess’s poorly disguised plan. Lucinda repeated her earlier query, “How may I serve you, Your Grace?”
The woman drew herself up in an air of self-importance. “You may begin by explaining your true connection to my husband.”
Lucinda had expected a fit of jealousy. Thornhill’s bride was quite young and likely uncertain of her position in the duke’s life. After all, it was not uncommon among the ton for a man in Thornhill’s position to have several liaisons, but the girl’s tone set Lucinda’s teeth on edge. Instead of responding in a manner to ease Velvet Fowler’s mind, Lucinda’s pride raised its ugly head, and she said snidely, “Perhaps you should direct your question to His Grace.”
The girl’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I am not accustomed to brooking disappointment, Mrs. Warren. Your own conscience, must tell you what I most desire to know.”
Lucinda looked on with unaffected astonishment. “Indeed, you are mistaken, Your Grace. I cannot account as to why you assume something amiss.” She knew better, but it was quite gratifying to have such a beautiful woman think her a threat. Deliciously, she insinuated, “Does your question rest in something His Grace has done to bring you anguish or in your own insecurities regarding your husband’s love for you?”
“Mrs. Warren,” the duchess replied in an angry tone, “you ought to know as Thornhill’s wife, I wield great power, and however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. I shall certainly not depart from that commemoration of my character.”
Lucinda countered, “And mine is known for both its frankness and its resolve.”
“Though I know it a disgraceful fabrication, I have heard of an alliance between you and the duke,” her companion accused.
“From the duke?” Lucinda demanded. When would she learn? She had heard such accusations previously. Only then the words had come from Matthew Warren. As foolish as it may seem, at the time, Lucinda had secretly celebrated her husband’s hurtful words because they had proved Captain Warren had cared for her.
The duchess declared, “I would not injure His Grace so by demanding the truth from him. However, upon learning of your relocation to Huntingborne Abbey, I instantly resolved on calling upon the household to make my sentiments known to you.”
“If you truly believed such an involvement impossible,” Lucinda said, coloring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of bringing the furniture as part of your ruse.” She knew it would be best if she countered the duchess’s insults with an assumed graciousness, but her temper had brought heat to Lucinda’s cheeks. “Do you mistrust all of the duke’s associates or is only Sir Carter who you believe would foster a tryst with a war widow?” Lucinda asked incredulously, “What could Your Grace propose by it?”
The duchess ignored Lucinda’s dismissal. “As to Sir Carter, the baronet has sworn an allegiance to the duke, and likewise the duke reciprocates; and as to why I chose to come to Huntingborne Abbey, it was to insist upon having such a report contradicted.”
“Your early attendance upon the baronet’s estate,” said Lucinda through tight lips, “will be an authentication of whatever fantasy your mind has conjured.”
“Then deny the report by explaining why His Grace has taken an active interest in your concerns. Deny you have not maintained a relationship with my husband. I know you called upon Briar House in my absence. Can you declare there is no foundation for the rumors?”
Lucinda instantly regretted not having hired Nancy for the day, but she had not wanted the Petermans to know of her destination. She was certain Brantley Fowler held no knowledge of such declarations; the duke would not have taken kindly to his servants speaking openly of his personal business. Neither did Lucinda. She did not fault the young duchess for her confusion, but neither could Lucinda tolerate the girl’s censorious attitude. So, although she wished the ground to open and swallow her whole, she said, “If I were involved with the duke, I would be the last person to confess it.” She stood quickly and dropped a curtsy. “Please excuse me, Your Grace. I promised the boy I would assist him in reading his chosen book. I shall ask Mr. Vance to send in His Grace. Good day, Duchess.” With that, Lucinda strode from the room. So much for your chances of ever returning to Society, she thought as she rushed toward her room. Lucinda’s legs were shaking, and tears misted her eyes. “The duke’s mistress,” she growled as she slammed the outer door. “All my life I have done the correct thing, and what have I to show for it? No one to love me. A husband who preferred another. A father who placed me in danger in Brussels. An uncle who would deny me because of the scandal I would bring to his door. A child I can never love because he reminds me of Captain Warren’s betrayal. And now the reputation of a wanton.”
Carter had reported directly to his office upon his return to London, but his devotion to his position had not driven the image of Mrs. Warren’s countenance from his mind. “Damn!” he growled under his breath as he read the report before him for the
third time. “Not like me.”
“What is not like you?” Pennington asked from the open doorway.
Carter was not in a secure enough position to inform his superior of how an unorthodox female had distracted him. “I thought you at your estate,” he said as a diversion.
“The duchess…” Pennington began before correcting himself with a chuckle. “I mean to say Mrs. Pennington means to order new items for several of the rooms at Fox Run Manor.”
Carter motioned the man into the room. “Are your pockets deep enough to support your lady’s tastes?” he teased.
“To view the smile upon Bel’s lips, I would risk it all,” Pennington confessed.
Unlike his friends, Carter had never entertained the idea of setting up his nursery and knowing love. After all, he was the youngest of their band, and at age four and twenty, he meant to build a successful career before stepping into the Marriage Mart. However, he felt the twinge of regret at not knowing the same type of contentment he observed on the elder man’s countenance. “If Mrs. Pennington’s smile mimics the one displayed upon your lips, then I must admit to knowing jealousy.” Carter reached for the decanter to pour them each a drink. “Godown’s Aunt Bel has been good for your disposition,” he teased.
“I cannot argue with that statement.” Pennington accepted the glass and sipped the brandy. Then in his typical all-business tone, Pennington said, “I have news of Jamot’s whereabouts.”
Carter set forward with interest. He had hoped to capture the Baloch in order to solidify his position in his section of the Home Office. When his unit of the Realm had returned from their service, Murhad Jamot and Rahmat Talpur had followed to search for the elusive emerald. Talpur had lost his life in Cornwall at James Kerrington’s hands when Carter and Viscount Worthing had staged the rescue of Thornhill’s daughter Sonali. Jamot had managed to escape from the fiasco of Sir Louis Levering’s transportation, from the warehouse in which the Baloch had held Velvet Aldridge, and from the glass cone in Scotland while Marcus Wellston had saved his ladylove, Cashémere Aldridge, from certain death.
With each of those attempts to recover the emerald, Jamot had acted predictably. The Baloch had used an innocent to coerce information regarding the missing emerald from one of Carter’s associates. The fact none of the Realm held knowledge of the gem had not deterred Jamot’s efforts. During those first three attempts at capturing the Baloch, Carter had learned all he could of the man. He knew Jamot to be cagey and clever and lethal–a man without a conscious.
However, since the Baloch had become more involved in the opium trade, or perhaps, because Jamot had become more knowledgeable of English life, their enemy had softened. Of late, the man who had followed them from the mountains overlooking the Persian-Indian border had acted uncharacteristically, and Carter had known the frustration of their enemy’s unpredictable actions.
The Baloch had assisted Lady Godown from her captivity aboard the Chinese ship, and although he had reportedly informed Mathias Trent of Mercy Nelson’s existence under Lord Lexford’s roof, Jamot had risked knowing the future baronet’s displeasure by protecting the girl until Lexford arrived to rescue his future viscountess.
It took a moment for his scattered thoughts to form a question. “And that would be?” Carter asked cautiously.
Pennington sat his glass upon the desk before lacing his fingers across his abdomen. Although the Realm’s leader was of the age to be Carter’s father, he certainly did not look the part. Aristotle Pennington prided himself on staying fit.
“The Baloch spends his time among a group of smugglers along the Suffolk coast. Jamot has been calling himself ‘Black Bounty.’ It appears he has steered cleared of the illegal drug trade.”
Carter remarked, “Whatever Jamot does is immersed in evil.”
Pennington observed, “The war has driven up the cost of fine lace, artwork, and brandy from the Continent.” He lifted his glass in a silent reminder of how they each contributed to the trade. “With the poor crops on both the European front and at home, men have turned to extreme measures to feed and to clothe their families.”
“Jamot has no family,” Carter argued.
“No. The Baloch lost his family when Shaheed Mir declared Ashmita a whore and then turned the girl into one,” Pennington reasoned.
Carter countered, “Jamot should have fought for the woman he affected. It should never have been Thornhill’s place to save the girl.”
“Mayhap.” Pennington finished his drink. “Yet, we both know Thornhill’s decision to save Ashmita also saved the duke’s life. Without his need to give Sonali a decent life, Thornhill might have known an early death due to his immature impetuousness. That incident provided Thornhill a reason to return to Kent and reclaim his title.”
“What do you wish me to do about Jamot?”
Pennington rose easily and turned toward the door. “Send Clayton Bradwick and Swonton Van Dyke to investigate while you resolve Mrs. Warren’s dilemma.”
Privately alarmed, Carter called after him. “How did you know of Mrs. Warren?”
Pennington paused to level a steady gaze upon Carter, and Carter felt he had been called before the schoolmaster. “I have known from the beginning of your recruitment to our cause you would be an asset to this organization, Lowery. The same as I know James Kerrington will make an excellent diplomat and Crowden a superior future ambassador, I know your place is here in this office. You have the drive to succeed, but you will fall short of your expectations if you do not extend your lines of information. Entertain politicians and the common folks. Learn whom you can trust and whom to watch. Develop a cache of solid informants. Otherwise, the powers at be will deny you what should rightly be yours.” As he turned away, Pennington added, “I know of Mrs. Warren because as your leader, I am expected to be aware of every facet of your life.”
The duke had sent a note of apology for his wife’s actions, citing the duchess’s emotional state with her impending lying in. He then begged Lucinda’s forgiveness for the misunderstanding, as well as her continued permission for the boy to come to Thorn Hall on Friday. Lucinda wished to hide herself away from the potential scandal, but she had weathered her early exit among Sir Carter’s staff by explaining how the duchess had excused her as Lucinda claimed a megrim. Her taking to her room for some thirty hours following the incident had served as proof of her excuses.
“His Grace will send one of his men to escort you to Thorn Hall,” she explained to Simon on Thursday evening. They had been at Huntingborne Abbey since the early afternoon on Monday, but it had seemed much longer. “I found a box of scraps of material in the attic. Mrs. Shelton assured me I could have free use of them so I have made a gift for you to present to the duke’s daughter.” Lucinda produced a small rag doll from her sewing basket. “I am certain Miss Sonali has those which are finer, but it is all I have which you might share with the duke’s daughter.”
The boy fingered the lace and gold buttons Lucinda had added in hopes of pleasing a child she had yet to meet. “I would suppose any girl would think this a fine gift, Ma’am.”
Lucinda had to remind herself the child had not been with her for longer than a half year. He was so wise for one so young, and she had come to admire Simon’s sweet nature. “Mrs. Shelton says she will assist you in wrapping the package.”
“May I be excused?” Simon asked hopefully.
Lucinda smiled easily. The boy had had a disrupted life, and she wished to provide him a taste of normalcy. “Of course. And do not forget to tend carefully to your ablutions. I would not have the duchess think poorly of you.” Not the way Velvet Fowler disapproves of me, Lucinda thought. She caressed his cheek. “Now, be off with you. You have an important engagement tomorrow.”
She watched him skip happily from the room. The boy clutched the doll as if it were a pot of gold. She prayed Thornhill’s child knew better manners than did the duchess, and that Miss Sonali would not openly mock Simon’s gift. It made her sad to think of t
he possibility that someone would rebuke Simon, and the boy would know pain.
She would never wish the boy to think upon himself as less than desirable. There was so much more for Simon to learn than the crucial boundaries in which Society defined a soul. Family, whether immediate or extended, should never turn its back upon a child. Should never suffocate a child’s hopes and dreams. It was fair for a child not to know approval of his every thought and action, but never fair for a child not to know love.
Since the day the boy had arrived in her life, Lucinda had questioned every decision she had made in his behalf. Some days she would just be satisfied to hear the boy laugh. Like her, the child had suffered a devastating loss. From what little the boy had revealed, Simon had last seen his father when he was two. Lucinda wondered if the boy’s memory was a true one or one borrowed from the adults in his life. She suspected it a ‘”borrowed” one, the same as the child meant to borrow the duke’s remembrances and adopt them as his own.
The boy had reminded Lucinda of her own upbringing. When she was younger, she had thought of her life as one like most in the English countryside. Her parents were minor aristocrats, each with strong pedigrees, and although they were not, obviously, in love, she knew her parents had held the highest respect for each other. She had noted a decided expression of longing on her father’s countenance when he looked upon his wife. As a young girl full of fanciful dreams, she had thought it the look of love. However, after her many years of following first her father and then Matthew, she had learned it the look of lust. She knew herself excruciatingly proper at times, but if someone would simply look upon her–to see the real Lucinda Elaine Rightnour Warren... If someone would look, he would find beneath the quiet reserve, she hid a ready smile, an insatiable curiosity, and unregulated dreams–enough so to find her fascinating–something Matthew Warren had never bothered doing.
Realm 06 - A Touch of Love Page 9