The air might be clearer out this way and the fields greener, but this was where Blackford lived and that made it rotten.
He dismounted outside the one and only posting-house, aptly named The Sinking Ship, and left his horse with the waiting ostler, a boy of no more than eleven or twelve. If he was going to find a carriage in this middle-of-nowhere village, the posting-house would be the place to ask.
A loud bang reverberated around the village.
Cal’s heart leaped into his mouth. ‘What the hell was that?’ He sought signs of an attack. His wounded knee started to give way and he to press a hand to his horse to keep himself upright.
The ostler squinted up at him, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘It’s just a farmer popping a couple of rabbits.’
‘Right.’ Cal forced his knee to straighten and take his weight again. Just a farmer. Shooting rabbits. Of course. This was the country after all. Goddamn country!
‘You good, sir?’
‘Aye, of course.’ He wiped a hand over his mouth, where sweat had gathered on his top lip, then tossed the ostler another coin.
Inside, a hush fell over the diners as Cal shrugged off his greatcoat and stamped his feet to rid his boots of excess mud, then he shoved his shaking hands into his pockets.
Mismatched tables littered the taproom. The grimy windows let in very little natural light and the candles had dripped tallow over all the tables. Everything smelled of burned fat.
He ordered food and found an empty table.
‘You’re not from around here.’ A gentleman stopped by his table. He smiled down at Cal, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his catskin waistcoat.
‘Nay.’ Cal focused on his meal, waiting for him to leave. He wasn’t in a very charitable mood. He was still a little clammy, and his gaze seemed determined to jump continuously towards the door as though Boney and his army were going to come sailing into the taproom at any moment. Maybe he should have requested a table in the private parlour.
‘A Scot?’ The catskin pulled up a chair.
Calum preserved a weary silence, choosing not to grace that question with an answer.
‘Never mind my forwardness, sir. It’s my unofficial job to keep an eye on any strangers we have passing through. Although’—his eyes roamed over the cut of Cal’s mud-splattered jacket and looked impressed—’you’re not exactly the normal type of visitor we get.’
‘You the local magistrate?’ He very carefully kept his voice clean of his childhood accent. He was tired, otherwise he wouldn’t have made such a slip already.
‘Ha! Nothing so sinister. Dr Audley. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The catskin stuck out his hand, confident his unorthodox introduction couldn’t be unwelcome, an idea that likely originated from the same place as his ridiculously flamboyant lace shirt cuffs. He was by far the most exuberantly dressed man in the establishment. His clothes would have given poor Owen nightmares for weeks.
Then again, his eyes were rather glassy and his speech slurred. This catskin wasn’t so skilled at holding his drink.
He pulled his chair even closer, completely unfazed. ‘Look, I didn’t want to say anything but you’ve kind of got everyone on edge.’
Cal met his gaze, refusing to break the tension. The other man had started this conversation; he could damn well finish it.
‘Those are really quite impressive burn scars? Get them in the war?’
Still Cal held motionless.
‘I served too.’ He pulled back a little of his cravat to reveal a small, shallow scar about half the length of Cal’s smallest finger. He had to squint to see it.
Still, service was service. ‘Navy,’ Cal acknowledged grudgingly.
‘Army for me. Spain. So, what’s brought you to our small corner of the world?’
‘I’m looking for someone.’ There was no way Cal was going to tell this busybody—even if he had been a fellow man-in-arms—about Gwen. ‘Baron Blackford. You know of him?’
‘Blackford, sure. He’s in here most days.’ He jerked his head towards the back of the taproom. At a glance, there appeared to be a gambling table, with cards and dice and coin and men with that look of desperation they always seemed to wear when they’d lost their wages to vice. ‘Although I can’t say I’ve seen him in here for a while. Apparently his sister went missing, the minx.’
‘Er?’ Cal raised a single eyebrow, preserving a calm composure.
‘Blackford’s gone crazy looking for her. He’s even offered up a reward. Whoever uncovers her whereabouts gets twenty pounds.’
‘A considerable sum.’
‘I know. The sop actually won at cards.’ The catskin shook his head with a laugh. ‘After all these years, he finally found some Irish luck.’
‘And he’s willing to spend all his winnings on finding his sister?’ What did Geoffrey want with Ellie? The man was obsessed.
‘Not just Ellen. He wants that dumb girl too. Guinevere. Blackford’s face almost turned purple when he found out they’d gotten away. He was in here ranting and raving.’ He pulled a flask from his pocket, opened it with long-practiced ease and gulped down a mouthful, with a furtive glance towards the barman.
If he wasn’t drunk from dawn to dusk, Cal would be very surprised. God help his patients. ‘Why do you think he even cares about finding them so much? Wouldn’t he be glad to be rid of them if he was having money problems?’ Geoffrey hadn’t exactly struck Cal as a family man.
The catskin’s eyes narrowed and he pulled away from Cal. ‘Why exactly are you looking for him?’
‘No reason concerning yourself.’
He gave Cal a blurry-eyed once-over. ‘Ho! You know where is she.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m thinking you’re not interested in twenty pounds.’
‘Not particularly.’ Cal returned to his dinner.
‘She’s not worth your effort, friend. She’s gotten herself into trouble before. A disgrace to her parents.’ He was grinning like a fool, relishing the power a little information gave him. ‘Of course, I can’t tell you what she did. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’ And he patted his breast pocket, jiggling a couple of coins.
‘Tell me.’
‘Not likely. Unless…’ He patted his pocket again. ‘I reckon you’ve got more money than anyone round here. How about helping out a former soldier?’ He laughed again. The snide jackass.
Cal ran a hand over his scratchy chin. He hadn’t had time to shave since leaving London. And he certainly didn’t have time for games. He stood, the legs of his chair scrapping along the sticky floor. Pressing his hands to the tabletop, he leaned over the doctor. ‘You want to know who I really am? I’m the goddamn Duke of Woodhal. Now tell me what I want to know.’
‘A what now?’ His month opened and closed. He couldn’t have looked more stunned if he’d been kicked by a fish. Suddenly his eyes widened in shock. ‘Captain Callaghan? The Captain Callaghan? I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Not Captain anymore. I sold out.’ But not before his ship had caught fire, his brother had died and his reputation had been destroyed. ‘And you’ve been disrespected my future duchess.’
‘Crazy Calum.’ The doctor licked his lips, glancing around the taproom. ‘I… That is… Blackford blames Ellen—ah, Miss Burney for everything.’ He spoke quickly and quietly. ‘His gambling and money problems. He says everything changed seven years ago, when…’
‘When what?’
‘I’m not supposed to say. The family made me swear.’
‘When what, Dr Audley?’
‘When Ellen went and got herself pregnant.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Lady Grace Callaghan isn’t one to be kept waiting,’ said Owen, ushering Ellen out the door before him. She’d found him in the dining room reading the boudoir novel with an open mouth, but he’d put the book aside as soon as she’d announced their unexpected visitor.
‘Surely she doesn’t want to see me?’ Ellen looked at him over her shoulder.
Beads of sweat dotted his brow.
‘She couldn’t have come at a worse time.’ Completely ignoring her query, he corralled her into the front room. ‘Grace,’ he said with a formal bow. Then he gestured towards Ellen. ‘This is Miss Burney, your mother’s companion.’
‘So the rumours are true.’ Seated in the very centre of the settee, the duchess surveyed the room as though atop a throne. Her shoulders were so straight even Maggie would have been impressed, and she swept her gaze around the room with a disapproving frown, clearly having decided Ellen deserved no more of her attention. It was quite remarkable the furniture didn’t sink through the floor in shame. ‘I see some things never change.’
Ellen pressed her mouth closed. As a companion, it was not her place to speak unless spoken to. Grace’s own lady’s companion was seated at the desk, the only other seat available. Her hands were tucked neatly in her lap and she was resolutely staring at the Persian rug.
‘Lizzy is resting at the moment,’ continued Owen. ‘But we’ve sent her maid up to wake her, so she should be down in a—’
‘I’m not here to see my mother. I’m here to discuss something with my stepson.’ One of Grace’s eyes twitched at her mention of Calum. Tzar nudged her knee with his nose, his tail wagging feverishly.
‘Wood isn’t home at the moment.’
‘Not home? Whyever not? Did he die or something?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Ellen without thinking. ‘Your Grace,’ she added quickly. What a ridiculous thing to say. Calum was perfectly safe and sound. As were Gwen and Maggie and Verity. She resisted the urge to cross her arms and glare at the duchess.
But Grace didn’t even favour Ellen with a glance. ‘His whereabouts matter little to me,’ she said to Owen, her self-composure returning as quickly as it had slipped. ‘What I really want to know is why this house is closed to visitors?’
‘Wood never has any visitors.’
‘But my mother does. And while Society is being turned away at the door, gossip is spreading faster and further around London. It’s the latest on dit, and it reflects badly upon me.’ She flicked an invisible fleck of dust from her skirt. Four years after her son’s death and she was still wearing half mourning.
Where Lady Faye was short and plump, Grace was tall and curvaceous. The weight sat well on her figure and her gown hugged her body in all the right places. She was a woman who knew the power of her curves and she used her size to command the attention of the room.
In that way, she looked more like Calum than Calum’s own blood relatives, with her dark hair and her dark eyes and her widow’s weeds.
‘Lizzy would never do anything intentionally to hurt you,’ said Owen. ‘It’s just that she didn’t come to London to entertain. She came to see her family.’
Grace’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on here, Tattershall? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’ Owen spread his arms out before him in the least convincing lie of all time.
‘What’s. Going. On?’ Grace punctuated each word with deep, angry exhales.
A knot of annoyance tightened in Ellen’s chest, and Owen tugged at his cravat. Only Tzar appeared unfazed. He pressed himself as close to Grace as possible, sitting on her slippered feet—ridiculously fashionable shoes of crimson wool that would probably die of fright at the first sight of a muddy puddle.
Ellen’s own half-boots were decidedly more practical, but beside the duchess’s rich wardrobe, she must look a fright. You look like a down-on-your-lucky lady’s companion, she reminded herself. Which was precisely what she was.
‘Tattershall,’ Grace warned.
‘There’s nothing… Wood’s not home… wedding…’ Owen mumbled, staring at the shiny buttons of his own waistcoat.
‘I’m afraid we can’t offer you tea,’ Ellen said, hurriedly. ‘Our cake is rather tied up at moment. And as Owen said, Lady Faye isn’t receiving visitors at the moment. Although I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you.’
But Grace had frozen. ‘Wedding? What wedding?’ Finally, painstakingly slowly, she turned her full attention onto Ellen. ‘You! He might be a duke, but you do realise that he’s half Scottish and a murderer? What, Miss Lady’s Companion, could possibly have you desperate enough to marry Calum of all men?’
Geoffrey! Ellen plastered a smile onto her face even as her heart started racing. She wanted to wipe that knowing expression off Grace’s face. Calum might be a little grumpy—a little, ha!—but he was also kind and thoughtful, and he absolutely positively wasn’t responsible for Lieutenant Callaghan’s death. Whyever couldn’t Grace understand that? Lady Faye and Owen could. ‘Oh, phiff,’ she said dismissively. ‘Haven’t you heard? It’s a love match.’
Grace rose, dislodging Tzar. The difference in height had Ellen almost despairing. ‘Is this true?’ she demanded of Owen.
‘Y-yes.’ He nodded. ‘Wood can’t keep his hands off her.’
Thank you, Mr Tattershall! Ellen rubbed the back of her neck. Was he bluffing, or had he seen them together?
‘Calum is making the wedding cake himself,’ she added quickly.
‘Now that I do believe. He was always messing around in the kitchen when he was a child. May I assume I’m invited to the wedding?’
‘Of course,’ said Owen. ‘Lizzy wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ll send you an invitation with all the details. It’s only going to be a small, family ceremony with breakfast back here at the house.’
Was it? When had Owen decided on the details of her and Calum’s fake wedding?
‘I suppose that means I’ll have to give you a wedding gift.’ Grace sighed just as dramatically as her mother was prone to doing. ‘I know. I’ll gift you my side of the house.’ She smiled. ‘You’re going to need it.’ And with that she glided from the room in a swirl of mauve skirts, followed by her lady’s companion and one ratty old dog.
The front door shut, and from the hallway came Tzar’s whimpering cry.
‘What just happened?’ Ellen blinked.
Owen wiped his face with his pocket handkerchief. ‘Sweetheart, she didn’t mean—’
‘Yes, she did.’ Two wedding gifts in the space of two days. The beautiful nightgown from the dowager and now half a house. She didn’t know which one to feel more guilty about. It was a lonely, empty half a house that had already seen one broken marriage and was about to be caught up in the drama of a fake engagement.
‘Grace?’ Lady Faye hurried into the drawing room. There were lines on her face from the wrinkles in her pillowcase. Her smile faltered as she looked between Ellen and Owen. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
***
Gwen watched him from across the table through eyes as dark as her mother’s.
‘Are you not hungry?’ Cal nodded to her untouched dinner. ‘We won’t be stopping again until morning, so you should eat something now.’
She looked questioningly towards Maggie. The older woman wrapped an arm about her shoulders, pulling the child closer to her side.
When he’d first set eyes on Gwen, he’d thought Ellen’s likeness strong in her face, and now he knew why.
Ellen only went and got herself pregnant. The doctor’s words raced each other through his mind along with many questions, each worse than the last. It was like there was a storm raging inside him, and Cal was hard-pressed to keep it from showing on his face.
Who was Gwen’s father? Where was he now? Was he still alive? How much did Geoffrey know? Was Gwen illegitimate? Hell, what if Ellen was actually already married?
A lump the size of a large boulder settled in his stomach, and he pushed his own plate of food away.
Is that why she’d refused his offer? Because she was already married.
Ellen. Pregnant.
After his shock announcement the doctor had glanced over his shoulder as though worried Geoffrey might come striding into the taproom. ‘It all happened back when their parents were still alive, Johnathan and Guinevere Burney,’ he continued.
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‘Gwen was named after Ellen’s mother then?’
The catskin shrugged, clearly uninterested in names. ‘I’m still not entirely sure how it happened but it was put about town that the baroness had fallen pregnant and was ill with it.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially, the inside of his collar dampened with sweat. ‘Ellen stayed up at the house for months and months supposedly looking after her mother. Only I know it was Ellen who was actually pregnant because I attended the birth. It was complicated.’ He blinked, memories clouding his vision for a heartbeat. ‘That’s why they called me up to the big house. All the servants had been given the night off. Nobody was ever supposed to know the truth but the family—and then me.’
And now Cal.
‘You won’t tell anyone about this conversation, will you?’
‘Scared of Geoffrey?’ Cal scoffed. The doctor was at least a head taller than that numbskull and an ex-Army to boot.
‘Blackford pays me well to keep my mouth shut.’
‘I see.’ A doctor who was easily bought off. Cal’s estimation of the man sank even further. What other secrets was he being paid to keep? ‘I thought Blackford was broke.’
‘Doesn’t matter how much he loses at the tables, he always makes sure he can pay me on time.’
‘And Gwen’s father?’ The moment the words left his mouth Cal hated himself for asking. He shouldn’t be prying. It wasn’t any of his business. But then again, how was he supposed to protect Ellie if he didn’t know the whole story? She certainly hadn’t offered up the information freely. Just another secret she hadn’t trusted him with.
The catskin shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Doubt it’s anyone local, otherwise it wouldn’t be such a secret. Things like that tend to rise to the surface in a place this small.’
‘And Ellen’s parents: what did they think?’
He shook his head. ‘Her mother was dead in the next room.’
‘What?’ Cal’s mouth dropped open. ‘You mean…’
‘That’s right. Turns out she really was ill.’ He took another swing from his flask. ‘The baroness died the same night Ellen’s daughter was born. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, and word spread that she’d died in labour. Nobody ever questioned it.’
The Unworthy Duke Page 17