Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke

by Tessa Candle

  Tilly, who had been oblivious before, suddenly realised how much this happy event meant to the elderly servant. She truly loved Lydia, and the new baby was more important in her eyes than any princess of the realm.

  Ole Maeb sniffled. “She has not yet delivered the afterbirth.”

  Tilly almost fainted at this mention of more delivery. She did not think she could endure it. But Lydia received the comment serenely, smiling and nodding at Ole Maeb. Then she returned to happily cooing at her daughter as though there were no one else in the world.

  Watching this vignette of maternal complacence, Tilly understood the great universal fascination with the theme of mother and child, pervasive in the world's art. It preceded the Catholic obsession with Mary, which only built upon it. Its origin was from time out of mind, and it presented Tilly with a mystery she could not comprehend. She only viewed it from the outside as a curiosity under glass, or as a delicacy appeared to a child with her nose pressed against a sweetshop window.

  Tilly shook her head to dispel such thoughts, slouching back and groaning. “Afterbirth, eh? I believe I shall require a drink.”

  Lydia bestirred herself from admiring her baby and chuckled. “Oh, poor Tilly! Has this ordeal been too exhausting for you?”

  Chapter 28

  Rutherford rose slowly and turned to face the woman who had a hunting rifle pointed at him. His jaw dropped. She was unbelievably beautiful. She was tall and willowy, with luscious black curls, perfect ivory skin, beautifully curved ruby lips, and penetrating blue eyes. Except for the eyes, and the fact that she pointed a gun at his heart, she was beautiful in a way completely opposite to Tilly.

  He smiled wolfishly at her. “Truly, madam, I am sorry for the intrusion, but is it really necessary to point a gun at me?”

  She looked suspiciously at him. “You are a gentleman?”

  “Despite recent evidence to the contrary,” he drawled, “yes, I am.”

  Just then Molly whined, and Rutherford squatted back down to attend her. Another puppy had appeared. The others were already settling in by her nipples.

  “What is your business here?” The woman's voice wavered at the sight of the puppies.

  Rutherford did not turn, but petted Molly to soothe her and replied snappishly, “What does it look like my business is?”

  “It looks like your business is invading other peoples' homes.”

  Rutherford huffed. Why was this woman so fearful of him? What ill-intentioned person brings puppies along to assist them in their crimes? “I apologize for the intrusion. My only excuse is that my pointer here began birthing her pups, as you see. I needed to get her somewhere warm and secure. They are early.”

  She paused before replying. “Truly? And no one sent you here?”

  “No, I found my own way while taking a walk in my uncle's forests. Who would have sent me?” The young lady—and she did speak like a lady—clearly had some enemy.

  “Your uncle?”

  “Bartholmer.” He noted that she had ignored his question.

  There was a pause. “If you are his grace's nephew, what is your name?”

  Rutherford turned to look up at her incredulously. “I am not sure I wish to make your acquaintance, though I suppose under the circumstances it is unavoidable. But my name is Rutherford. What is your name, pray, if it is not impudent of me to ask?”

  She relaxed and lowered the gun’s barrel to the floor. “My apologies, Mr. Rutherford. I am Mrs. Colling. I rent this cottage from your uncle.”

  Rutherford laughed then. “So you are Mrs. Colling.” He was sure his uncle had called her Miss Colling. “My uncle spoke of you. Though the impression he gave was certainly much more bookish and much less gun-wielding. And, if I may add,” Rutherford gave her a sceptical look, “he omitted to mention how beautiful you are.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know that look. Because of my face, I must be after your uncle's money and title, I suppose.”

  Rutherford found her forthright way of speaking refreshing, but that did not mean she wasn't a fortune hunter. “Are you?”

  “No, I am not.” Her beautiful lips pressed flat, but could not entirely lose their curve. “His grace is a kind and lonely old man who is terribly sick. I read to him because it gives him some comfort, which also comforts me. That is all.”

  Rutherford conceded to himself that her voice had the sound of offended honesty. “You will forgive me for being suspicious on this point, but one wonders why a beautiful young lady might hide herself out in the forests of the countryside, instead of enjoying the amusements of London.”

  “And trying to find a husband? I am a widow, sir. Your uncle and I have this much in common: for our separate reasons, we have no wish to remarry.”

  This revelation shocked Rutherford. What an utter waste. So Miss Colling was a widow, eh? There was a lot more to this story. But the arrival of another puppy turned his attention back to Molly.

  Mrs. Colling left again, and a few minutes later was beside him with rags and a bucket. “Do not let her eat too much of the afterbirth. It will make her sick.”

  Rutherford shuddered and grimaced with distaste.

  She laughed at him.

  Chapter 29

  Tilly was exhausted when she arrived home that evening. She ordered dinner in her chamber and flopped down on the Danzig down that transformed her bed into a cloud. Then, as she stared at the various batik images quilted into cryptic pictorial stories on the top panels, Tilly dissolved into self-pity.

  Lydia's baby was born. Both the parents were ecstatically happy. So why was Tilly so dispirited? She did share in their joy—truly. Only the perfection of the moment, their happiness and love was like a persistent little tap all around Tilly's outer shell, and the mournful echo within proclaimed her empty. She could no longer deny it. Her plans to marry Mr. DeGroen could not make her happy, and they were certainly making the man she loved miserable.

  She did love Mr. DeGroen dearly—almost as she loved her own brother. But it was a friendship that could never be what the earl and countess shared. Tilly and Mr. DeGroen would never conceive a child together. Not that Tilly had been especially mad about having babies, but of late she was becoming increasingly aware of a desire to have Mr. Rutherford's baby. It was maddening folly. When, within the schedule of all her machinations, shady businesses and rescues, did she have time for a child?

  A rap came on the door. Tilly thought it was her dinner tray, but her brother's voice summoned her to lift her leaden limbs and propel herself out to see him.

  “What is it now?” She knew she sounded peevish, but she could not be bothered to slap on a smile for anyone.

  Frederick did not even register her crossness and spoke directly. “I have been down to the servant academy to check on things. Mrs. Johnson and her child are gone.”

  Tilly snapped out of her melancholia immediately. “What?! I thought they were being guarded.”

  “Crump thinks they slipped out.”

  “Has Screwe been around?”

  “No. There was a smoky looking lad hanging about. Crump sent him on his way. But Screwe has not been seen.”

  “Ruddy hell.” Tilly began to think where they might have gone, but the truth was she could not think her way out of that labyrinth. This was London. They could be anywhere. She pressed a hand against her mouth. “We must pray that he has not found them.”

  “I questioned everyone about, and no one saw the two leave. They did not have many things, but what they had is also gone—some clothing and a reading primer that the teacher gave Sweep.”

  “That is good.” Tilly sunk into thought. “Yes, they must have left.” It was decidedly better than if they had been taken by Screwe or someone working for him. Still they were in danger and without any protection.

  “There is more, Tilly.” Frederick looked serious. “Forester showed up at the academy looking for a place to stay and assistance to find a new placement.”

  “Forester?” Tilly felt the
blood drain from her face.

  “It seems Lord Screwe dismissed her for no cause at all this morning. Just like that.” Frederick snapped his fingers.

  “Good Lord. He must have sorted out that she had something to do with Clara's escape. But his butler knows Forester was trained in the academy. Do you think Screwe has puzzled out the connection to us?”

  “I hope not. His surmises may not have got that far. Screwe also fired several other servants—upstairs servants all. So perhaps he has not narrowed it down to Forester, in particular.”

  “Perhaps.” Tilly held onto the little hope. Then an idea struck her. “Do you think Clara saw Forester, heard of her dismissal and panicked? She could have believed that if Screwe knew Forester had helped free her, he would be hard on the servant's heels to come and search the academy for Clara.”

  “Quite possibly. But in any case, we must find her and Sweep. I asked Crump to put the lads on alert.”

  “Good. My God, that poor woman. She hardly had a chance to recover from her last ordeal.” Tilly passed a hand over her face. “And if he finds her, things will be so much worse.”

  “Did you know that she was training to dress hair with Miss Grey?”

  “Indeed? No, I have not been back to the academy, and I have been too busy to get updates. That is the profession she chose?”

  “She is apparently already trained and is quite adept. With all the business the Belle Hire gives her, Miss Grey was only too happy for the assistance.”

  Tilly smiled wanly. “That is good news. Now if we can just find her—but wait! Has anyone looked at the Belle Hire? If she knows the place, she might have sought refuge there.”

  She resisted the urge to slap on a black veil and dash out to the Belle Hire. It was maddening, but she could not just go wherever she pleased now. Screwe could have eyes on her, and the last thing she needed was his knowing that she owned the Belle Hire. She certainly did not want him to poke around the place, if, indeed, Clara had fled there.

  “I shall have a message sent to Crats,” said Frederick, with a concerned look at Tilly. “But please do not venture to go there yourself, even in disguise. It is too risky.”

  Tilly sighed. “Very well. But I have picked a dreadfully bad week to stop eating sugar.”

  Chapter 30

  Rutherford hoped the ravages of the cravings did not show, as he walked beside Mrs. Colling along the forested path back to Blackwood Manor. And yet, they were not so very bad, this time. Or, they were bad enough, but Rutherford found them easier to ignore at the moment, for his heart was so full.

  Mrs. Colling had fashioned a great sling for Rutherford to carry Molly and the pups in, so they would be only minimally disturbed by the removal back to the manor. He reached in to stroke the sleepy mass of fur and tails and pet Molly's head. They were so beautiful, his little furry family.

  There was also an extra spring in Mack's step as he walked beside Rutherford. The hound forbore wandering around and sniffing things, as was his habit. Instead he held vigil by the sling, never straying far from Rutherford's side. Rutherford was impressed by his dedication.

  “This is a marvellous contraption, Mrs. Colling.” Rutherford stared in rapt adoration at his brood.

  “The sling you mean?” She was grinning at the sight of him.

  He knew he looked foolish, but he did not care. “Yes. You are quite the genius for having contrived it. I should never have thought of it.”

  “I suppose that is because you are strong. Strong men always elect to do things with their muscles first. Whereas frail young ladies are wont to resort to their wits.”

  He detected that there was a thorn of a slight hidden in the nosegay of that compliment, but Rutherford was feeling too happy to let it tweak his nose. Eight little puppies. He petted Molly again. What a good little mama she was.

  “I should never call you frail, however.” Rutherford recalled, as she must also, that, not an hour ago, she had pointed a rifle at his heart. If he were not in love with Tilly, he might be in some serious peril.

  “These things are all in proportion.” She shrugged philosophically. “But I should add that I cannot take credit for the invention of this sling. As a girl, I often observed farm workers’ wives carrying their babes thus. I imagine peasant women have been doing it for hundreds of years, or thousands.”

  So she had been raised on an estate then. What was a gently raised beauty doing out living rough in the countryside? Rutherford thought the better of asking, and merely chuckled. “This is further evidence of your feminine mind. If you were a man, you would be sure to take credit for it, regardless.”

  Mrs. Colling's expression betrayed that she did not disagree with him.

  When they arrived at Blackwood, Rutherford was advised that the duke was awake and was asking for him. He excused himself to take a half dose of his poison.

  He thought if he could reduce the size of the doses and increase their frequency, he could manage the cravings tolerably and reduce the sleepiness caused by the drug. He thought Tilly would not disapprove of this modification, as his overall consumption did not exceed her prescription.

  Molly and the pups were transferred into a basket, which Sandes lined with a pillow and some folded flannel. The way the proper butler could not help smiling at the furry, squirming balls made Rutherford like him very well. He should never dream of demoting Sandes. Smythe would have to live with it.

  Mrs. Colling elected to wait in the parlour. Rutherford was ushered in, basket in hand, to see Bartholmer, who had been impatiently ringing the bell to summon someone to fetch his nephew, and “To be sure to bring the pups!”

  The old duke greeted Rutherford, then patted a spot on the bed beside him. “Put that basket down over here so I may take a look at them.”

  A great, child-like grin spread over his face as he petted Molly and the pups. “So this is Molly.” He scratched her ear. “You are a pretty little pointer, aren't you?” Then he turned to behold Rutherford, who could scarcely keep the emotion from his face. “Oh don't get all weepy, my boy. But would you be so kind as to open the curtains. I should like to see the little champions better.”

  Rutherford obliged, and Bartholmer picked up the pups, one by one, examined them and gave them a little kiss—as though he were blessing his grandchildren. Rutherford approved.

  This scene of benediction was interrupted by a rasping cough.

  Rutherford was alarmed and moved quickly to Bartholmer's side. “Uncle, what is the matter? Can I fetch something for you?”

  The old man shook his head, and it became clear that he was not suffering some sort of fit, but laughing. When he recovered himself, he said, “I thought these were supposed to be champion pointers.”

  Rutherford looked affronted. “They are. They shall be. I could have ransomed the prince for the price I paid in stud fees.”

  The old man laughed again, then let out a long sigh of amusement. “I think you may have bought a pig in a poke, William. Look at these ears.” He held up one puppy, and affectionately played with his long, floppy ears. His uncle then pointed to another pup. “The colouration on that one is a bit suspect, too.”

  Rutherford took the disparaged puppy from his uncle and looked at the ears, then cuddled the little darling to his chest. “There is nothing wrong with his ears. He is perfect.”

  Bartholmer's smile was crooked. “Indeed he is. They are all beautiful. But I should not depend upon selling them as champion pointers.”

  Rutherford was horrified. “Sell them? Of course not.” Still, his uncle had a point. He looked down at Mack who sat at his heel, looking, Rutherford thought, particularly pleased with himself. A suspicion formed in his mind. “Well, it does not matter whether they are champions or not. I have plenty of room for twice so many dogs at my estate.”

  “And you may fill Blackwood with as many pups as you like. I always thought those self-complacent peacocks could use a little worrying.” His uncle was cuddling the puppy whose colouration he
had earlier maligned. “I shall stare down from heaven and smile.”

  The thought made Rutherford both happy and deeply sad. “I should hope you would be around for long enough to take on one of Molly's pups.”

  It went against his instinct to offer any of the pups to anyone else. But the obvious joy they gave his uncle made Rutherford think that the duke loved them almost as much as he did. He thought he could part with one, if it would give the man some happiness. If only he were well enough to take Rutherford up on the offer.

  His uncle smiled. “We shall see how my health stands, when the little nippers come to be weaned.”

  The puppy at Rutherford's chest seemed to object to any such idea as weaning, and began to whine for his mother. When all the whelps were safely tucked in and nursing, Bartholmer turned his attention to Rutherford. “So you met Miss Colling, I understand.”

  “Indeed.” It seemed the duke's servants kept him well informed. He wondered if he should disclose that the lady had levelled a gun at him, but thought it might disturb the ailing man. “But she informs me that she is Mrs. Colling.”

  His uncle waved his hand as if that little detail did not matter. “She is quite a stunner, is she not?” The uncle did not even pretend to make this comment sound offhanded.

  “The Widow Colling is unarguably handsome.” He thought he should nip this line of thought in the bud. “If my heart were not otherwise engaged, I might be in some trouble.”

  Bartholmer furrowed his brows. “Are you betrothed?”

  “No.” Rutherford sighed. “But not for lack of trying.”

  “She has refused you, then? Or her parents disapprove?”

  Rutherford had never met her parents, but from the titbits he had gleaned from Tilly, they were entirely negligent as guardians and hardly attended to her at all. “It is, unfortunately, the former. But I have not given up.”

  “Well, far be it from me to dissuade you from your faithfulness to one woman. It is certainly a predicament I can relate to.” He smiled at the memory. “My own wife refused me the first several times I proposed. She was magnificent.”