“I don't believe a word of it,” Terence answered him with a bark of amused laughter. “You would’ve had competition for the lady's hand if I’d been in London during the Season, my friend.”
Caroline measured the glint in Antonio's eyes, again baffled by her husband’s tinge of jealousy. From what she’d heard, he could take his amours or leave them. Of course, Terence was simply being gallant. She hoped Antonio didn’t take the earl seriously. To smooth over any misunderstandings, she quickly replied, “It’s very nice to have two such handsome gentlemen vying for my attentions. However, I’m interested in spending more time with your books, Terry. I’m not nearly as knowledgeable about aspects of breeding as Antonio is.”
She hesitated, saw Terence wink at Antonio, and felt the tension ease.
“Er, I mean I have much to learn.”
Both men chuckled at her unintentional double entendre.
“Oh, please stop that, you two,” she countered, blushing prettily and stood up to leave. “You’re both beyond the pale.” She left them laughing together.
Chapter 27
Captain Ezra Johnson found a seat in a rear corner of the White Whale. Tim Ryan, the owner, was a man well liked by the seafaring community and landlubbers alike. And Molly's cooking was some of the best to be had on dockside.
Ezra’s cousin, Molly, had worked in the kitchen under Mrs. Ryan’s watchful eye. When Tim inherited the pub from his parents, he courted Molly, his proposal was accepted, and he wed her. The two of them had run the pub for nigh onto a dozen years. They were childless in a country of prolific families, but it was their nature to take in a stray now and then, as they had with Lorena and James.
“Well, Ezra,” Molly greeted her elder cousin. “It's happy I am to see you again. When did you get back in port?”
“The earl had some business for us in Cork,” he answered. “We laid over there for almost a month. Got back to Dublin yesterday after picking up some English nobs in Holyhead.”
“Lookin' for some high-steppin' cattle, are they?”
“No better place to find 'em than at Kilburn.”
At just that moment, Lorena approached Captain Johnson's table with some cutlery and a large mug of stout the captain had ordered. It sloshed over the rim when she put it down. Bending an ear to the conversation between Molly and her cousin, Lorena moved to clean up the spillage.
“Who'd ye bring over this time, Ezra?” Molly inquired.
“Young couple just married. The Duke of Weston and Her Grace, Lady Caroline. He raises some special kind of Spanish horses. Lookin' to buy some stallions from the earl.”
Lorena’s rough skinned hand holding the wet rag abruptly ceased wiping the table. She gasped and dropped a handful of cutlery with a loud clink.
No, you’re wrong! James is Duke of Weston!
Stunned, she was unable to believe what she’d overheard until she remembered James’s will. If she and James were deceased and had no living male issue, the title was to pass to his uncle’s son—the cousin who was born and raised in Spain.
“The Duke’s half Spanish.”
My God! Everyone thinks us dead!
But then, what else could they think? Without means to pay anyone to take a message, Lorena was unable to get word out of Ireland. Because she was frightened, she’d heeded Captain Ryan's warning that most Irish hated the English, especially the nobility. She feared for her and James's safety even if they were thought to be nothing but lowly pub workers. She staunchly believed even the Ryans would turn them out in the street if they knew the truth of their heritage. Then what would become of them? Where could they go? How could they survive? Lorena kept her mouth shut and tried to devise a scheme that would allow them to return to England.
Flabbergasted, she now gathered her wits and listened more closely. Had she heard the man correctly? The new duchess was named Caroline? It couldn't be Caroline Newton. She had married Sir Richard Lockler.
Soon Lorena’s wondering was interrupted by Molly Ryan. “Lorena, lass, Cap’n Johnson’s hungry for some of my fish stew. Would you be gettin' him a good-sized bowl, some bread and cheese to go with it? Don't be sparing the serving size, lass. He's a hungry sailor.” Molly chuckled and slapped her grizzled cousin on a brawny shoulder.
As much as she hated to leave the captain's table as she wanted to hear what other information he might impart, Lorena scurried off to do what she was told.
James had recently returned from the stables, having finished what chores Timmy assigned him. He was seated at the large kitchen table quaffing a mug of ale when Lorena went to ladle out the stew. “James, James,” she said, whispering in urgent tones. “I just heard some news. Molly Ryan's cousin, a Captain Johnson, brought news that the Duke of Weston is here to purchase some Irish horses. Oh, James, it must be Sebastian's son. He’s been made duke in your stead because everyone thinks we’re dead, James. We must find a way to reach him and tell him who we are, and that we’re alive. Do you understand me, dearest? If I can convince your cousin, we can go back to Kent…home to England.”
“Home?” James asked, his puzzled expression tearing Lorena’s heart in half.
James had accepted Lorena as his wife when they were stranded in Dublin. However, he didn’t remember—or couldn’t remember—anything before them being rescued. Since then, a deep depression had overtaken him. As yet Lorena found no way to bring him out of it. He’d regained his speech but spoke little to her or anyone else. He’d always been a quiet man, but now he seemed to lack any vibrancy, any sort of animation, as if work-a-day life in Ireland was enough to keep him dour and miserable.
Lorena tried reminding him of their aristocratic background and upbringing, of how they lived before the accident. She even described the hunting lodge in Scotland where they were vacationing. James listened patiently to her but nothing sparked his interest or recollection. When she mentioned Joshua, he became agitated and cut her off with a sharp reprimand, insisting he knew nothing of a boy with that name. He cursed emphatically and said she’d made up falsehoods to confuse him.
Returning to the taproom with the captain's food, Lorena cocked an ear, lingering next to his table.
“Will ye be stayin' dockside for a while now, Ezra?”
“Only another day or two, Molly. The duke and duchess will be comin' back from Lord Kilburn’s keep very soon. I'm to take them back across the sea to Holyhead. Their men and equipage are waitin' fer 'em at the King's Inn.”
Lorena couldn't believe her good fortune. Now that she knew the duke was expected, she’d watch for the Landoon coach, the earl's equipage sporting his crest. Somehow, she must speak with Sebastian's son and convince him who she and James were.
Dare she hope they were finally going back to England?
* * * *
It was time to start back to England. The ton would soon be notified that he and Caroline were wed. The tabbies would have a field day speculating why the wedding had been kept secret. Well, let them speculate, Antonio thought. Caroline and he wouldn’t be spending much time in London; there was too much to do at Westhaven.
Antonio couldn’t wait to have Caroline training in Haut Ecole with Carlos. She was an extraordinary horsewoman. He believed that with time she’d become as accomplished as Briella in airs above the ground.
Ah, yes, Briella, his hoydenish sister. To all appearances, their grandmother had managed to transform her into an English lady. But Antonio knew better. Briella remained his fiery little sister beneath all that town bronze. He wondered just how long she could keep it up without disgracing herself and their family’s good name.
He wondered, too, if Don Alphonso had been able to persuade the mentors at The Spanish Riding School in Vienna to accept her as a female trainee. If so, Briella would be the first. She had vowed never to marry until she accomplished her goal. Thinking back, Antonio remembered she hadn’t favored any of the prospective suitors who swarmed around her during the Season. Not even Hal. What would she do, he wondered,
if she couldn’t continue her equestrian pursuits? Briella always needed a consuming interest; otherwise, she’d get into all sorts of trouble. Antonio made a mental note to have a talk with his sister when he and Caroline returned to Westhaven Hall.
* * * *
The Landoon coach was waiting at the entrance to the keep. The Thorndyke baggage was loaded, and the coachmen and outriders were ready. Terence Kilburn was genuinely sorry to see them leave and told them so.
“It’s been my great pleasure to meet you, Caroline,” he said as he bowed and kissed her hand. “And, Tony, I consider it an honor to claim you as a friend.” The men shared a firm handshake.
“I speak for Caro, Terry, when I say so, too. We look forward to seeing you as soon as your schedule permits…either in Kent…or perhaps, in Spain.”
“So be it then, Tony. I’ll keep you informed as to my whereabouts. Rest assured I’ll take good care of the colts you’ve chosen. Don’t fail to ask my coachmen or Captain Johnson for anything that makes your traveling easier. Adios, amigos. Vaya con Dios.”
“Adios, Terry. Hasta luego.”
The four magnificent chestnuts sprang forward at the coachman's signal, and the Landoon equipage began the return journey through the misty greensward of County Meath to Ireland's capital, Dublin.
* * * *
Lorena was on pins and needles. Today was the day the Duke and Duchess of Weston were to arrive back in Dublin. She must reach them before the Killarney left port, or she and James would still be stranded in Ireland. Without certain knowledge, she could only surmise that the aristocrats would leave County Meath early and reach Dublin sometime near noon. As usual, Molly sent James and Lorena to the outdoor market to do the day’s food shopping. Lorena finished those chores as quickly and efficiently as possible. She hurried through her scullery duties so she could be on the lookout for the earl’s coach.
Then she started to worry. What if they didn't pass through St. George's Lane on their return as they had before? She would miss them completely. What if she wasn’t able to speak with Sebastian's son? Oh, what was his name? She fought to remember. Anthony? No, that wasn't it. A Spanish name…
Antonio! That was it. Antonio de las Torres Thorndyke! She remembered him as a dark-eyed handsome youth she’d met when Sebastian and his Spanish wife and family visited England after James's parents died. The Thorndykes stayed briefly at Westhaven then removed to Sebastian's estate, Stanton House, in Berkshire.
Would Antonio recognize her? She looked nothing like the duchess he’d met eight years ago. She looked like a scullery maid. Oh, how could she convince him, once she had the chance that she and James were his cousins? Would he recognize James? With James alive, Antonio would lose the title. Could that be reason enough for Antonio not to recognize either of them? He might just ignore them, disbelieving she was a duchess or James a duke. More likely, he’d think they were candidates for Bedlam.
Dear Lord, please help me, Lorena prayed. I must convince Antonio who we are and beg him to help us.
* * * *
The day started out with a misty rain and continued until mid-morning. The sky was still dull and overcast, but precipitation had ceased. Dublin’s cobbled streets were slick, and the Landoon coachman eased the horses down to a sedate trot as they entered the city and headed to quayside and the Killarney’s mooring.
Turning into St. George's Lane, the chestnuts trotted toward the waterfront only a short distance away. As the coach rolled by the White Whale, a raggedy woman burst out the pub’s entrance and shouted something. The equipage and outriders rode past, unable to hear her over the rumbling of the coach’s ironbound wheels and the clatter of hooves on the paving stones.
Lorena had almost missed them. She was setting up tables for the noon meal when she heard the clatter of an approaching vehicle. By the time she arrived at the front door and wrenched it open, the coach and outriders were almost past the White Whale. She shouted but no one heard, so she ran after the coach. Panicky and gasping for breath, she lost her balance and slid on the slimy refuse lying in abundance on the wet cobblestones. Her feet went out from under her, and she landed hard, scraping both hands and knees, and soiling the ill-fitting gown and apron.
Another stray the Ryans took in, thought Seamus McGee, one of the outriders. This one must really have something against the nobility, because she chased them, shouting and waving her arms. Looking back over his shoulder, Seamus saw the woman slip and fall. The driver slowed the coach and reined the horses around a corner in the direction of the Killarney. By then, the woman had disappeared from sight.
Lorena struggled to her feet and stumbled after the coach, sobbing in alarm when the vehicle turned off the street and onto the docks. The Landoon coachman halted the chestnuts next to a gangplank spanning the murky water from quay to the polished deck of the Killarney. Hearing the noisy clatter, Captain Johnson emerged from below and came on deck to greet the duke and duchess upon their return from County Meath. A thick mist still hung heavy on the waterfront even at this hour; a leaden sky kept the sun from burning off the fog. Shifting, dew-laden air swirled around the sweating, steaming horses, partly hiding them, the coach, and the earl’s mounted cortege. The fog crept across the dock as thick as clouds in some places, thinner like a gauzy wedding veil, in some others.
Scurrying along the wharf, Lorena saw neither the coach nor its attendants. Dear Lord, it can’t be much farther, she thought, straining to catch sight of the equipage through the impenetrable white curtain. She heard no more sounds from the ironbound wheels or the horses’ hooves. They must have pulled up. Oh, where were they? Why couldn’t she pick out the shape of the coach?
And then…there it was! She ran toward it, shouting, “Your Grace! Oh please, Your Grace! I must speak with you!”
“Here now, lass.” One of the men stepped in front of her to block her path. “Where do ye think yer goin’? Ye can't go chasin’ the duke that way. Be off wi' ye now!” He took hold of an arm to restrain her.
“Leave me be! I must speak to the Duke of Weston,” Lorena exclaimed, breathing hard, her voice hitching while she struggled with frustration to pull loose. “Unhand me, you lout. I must see him!”
Antonio and Caroline had mounted the gangplank and were on deck talking with Captain Johnson. They planned to spend the trip below since the weather wasn’t conducive to a sunny sea journey.
Muffled sounds of a struggle on the wharf reached them. The unrelenting fog lay so heavy they could barely make out figures moving on the wooden planks. Finally, Captain Johnson directed his attention to the commotion. Caroline and Antonio turned to go below.
“Ahoy there, Seamus!” the captain called out, stepping to the top of the gangplank where it rested on the deck of the Killarney. “What's goin' on down there? What's all the racket?”
“Nothin', Captain, nothin'. One o' Timmy's helpers is all. Been chasin' the coach since we passed the pub. Says she's got to speak to the duke. Don't worry. We'll take her back to Tim safe and sound.”
Antonio and Caroline hesitated as they heard Seamus' reply. Antonio turned to Captain Johnson. “Is there a problem, Captain?”
“No, Yer Grace. One o' me cousin, Molly's kitchen help says she must speak wi' ye. But don't bother yer mind. Seamus will take her back to the pub.” The captain circled an index finger against his temple, indicating the scullery maid wasn’t totally right in the head.
Caroline paused beside Antonio and the captain. Squinting through the mist, she made out a thin, squirming, bedraggled woman on the wharf at the bottom of the gangplank. Whoever the person was, she fought hard to free herself from one of the earl's outriders, begging her captor loudly between harsh breaths. “Please, you don't understand. The duke is my cousin. I must speak with him.”
The fog rolled back momentarily, and three people near the ship’s railing got a good look at the scuffle going on below. At just that moment, the woman raised her head and reached a hand in supplication towards those onboard. “Plea
se, please, Your Grace…Antonio.” Her plea finally reached their ears. “I'm your cousin, Lorena Thorndyke. Help me!”
“My God!” Caroline’s strained cry burst from her lips as she pushed between the two astonished men and plunged down the ramp to the quay.
Antonio followed seconds later. “Wait! Caroline, where are you going?
“Oh, please,” the slender blond sobbed, falling to her knees on the wet dock. Seamus had released Lorena’s arm but stood ready to grab hold of her again should she make a move toward the duchess.
Horrified, Caroline was rendered speechless. Cautiously, she approached the kneeling woman whose shorn head was now bowed in abject weariness. Her shoulders shook with plaintive sobs, but when Lorena saw the hem of Caroline's gown, she looked up, tears streaming down her once lovely face.
“Oh good heavens! Lorena, is that really you?” Caroline choked out the words in shock, certain it wasn’t possible that this—this person—was her friend and neighbor—the Duchess of Weston.
“Oh, thank God! Caroline, it's me, Lorena! Caro, please help me!”
Antonio was right behind his wife but didn’t understand the garbled words of the disheveled-looking supplicant. “Caro? Do you know this woman? What’s going on here?” His astonished gaze met Caroline’s in stupefaction. “Did I hear she claims to be my cousin’s wife? I find it difficult…”
Lorena had grabbed the hem of Caroline's gown and wouldn’t let go. Seamus was about to pull her fingers loose when Caroline vehemently shook her head at him, dropping down onto the wharf to kneel beside the distraught woman.
“Lorena? Oh Lorena, is it truly you?” she asked, reaching out tentatively to touch her wet cheek and barbered hair.
“Yes, oh yes, Caroline. It’s I. Oh, dear me, I thought I’d never again see a face I recognized. Dear, dear Caro, you must help James and me!”
Finally convinced, Caroline threw her arms around her friend, and sobbed in concert with the agitated woman’s sobs. She held Lorena tight. Both women continued to weep and laugh with joy, although Lorena’s thin body was wracked by violent trembling.
The Reluctant Duke Page 26