A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  “You aren’t paying attention,” Virgil complained. Dropping his battledoor to his side, her son planted his hands on his hips and glared at her.

  Shifting back and forth on her feet, Bridget shoved aside thoughts of Vail and was filled with a new wave of guilt. I’m failing everyone in this. “I am paying attention.” Liar. She’d not seen him for six days now…the longest they’d ever been apart and she couldn’t give him all her focus? What did that say about her as a person?

  “The boy is right,” Nettie called from her spot upon a blanket at the lakeside. The old nursemaid didn’t even deign to lift her head from her embroidering. “You aren’t paying attention.”

  Exasperated—even if they were both in the right—Bridget tossed her arms up. “There is no way you could have noted that. You aren’t even looking.”

  “I cradled you when you were a babe. I don’t have to.” At last, Nettie picked her head up and favored Bridget with a wink.

  Dropping her battledoor, she strode over to Virgil and gripped him by the shoulders. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I was distracted.”

  “Those books,” he groused, kicking the grass with the tip of his shoe.

  “I’m paying attention now. I promise.” She gave him a slight squeeze and, reluctantly, he lifted his gaze. “Another match, please.”

  He set his mouth and then sighed. “Another, match.”

  Bussing him on the cheek, she rushed back and reclaimed her battledoor. Virgil was correct. Their time in London, until she had her hands on that Chaucer, was limited. As such, he deserved her entire focus. “I’m ready,” she called out and he hit that ball and feathers at her.

  Devoting all her attention to the back and forth movement of the ball that they, together, kept in the air, she called out, “Left. Left. Left.”

  Her son darted sideways and, with a backhand stroke, kept the shuttlecock aloft in the air. Breathless, Bridget sprinted over to the ball and smacked it just before it hit the ground. Virgil let out a jubilant cry, cheering her on.

  What if I don’t commit the theft? What if I tell Archibald to go hang and see to his damned thievery himself?

  Frustration slammed into her. She’d risk Virgil’s very life and happiness because of a man she’d known just a short while.

  “Right, right,” Virgil cried.

  Startled back to the moment, Bridget, reached, lunged, and missed. Quickly bending, she slipped the netting under the shuttlecock and propelled it back into place. An early morn breeze caught it and whipped it about the air.

  “That is cheating,” Virgil charged, even as he hit it back. Only, instead of his earlier annoyance, his innocent laughter pealed around the empty grounds of Hyde Park, the sound of his childlike mirth, infectious, and caused a dull ache inside. For there could be no doubt that if her brother followed through with his plans to destroy her and take possession of his son, that all Virgil’s mirth and innocence would, in fact, die. The shuttlecock landed with a noiseless thump in the grass at her feet and she stared blankly down at it.

  “Mama?” Virgil called loudly, bringing her head up.

  Bridget swiftly rescued the ball and feathers, and caught Nettie’s eyes. Worry in their depths, the older woman dropped her knitting and scrambled to her feet. “Why don’t you allow your mother a break for a bit and play with your bilbocatch.” The woman grabbed the wooden cup and handle.

  “Bilbocatches are for babies,” he protested. The reminder that the babe who’d first come to her was now a boy and, would one day soon be a young man, sent terror unfurling in her breast. As he rushed over and launched into an argument with Nettie, Bridget stood frozen.

  Until she’d come to London, she’d existed in this almost make believe world, where Virgil remained an unaging little boy, and she and Nettie carried on with the daily chores about their Leeds cottage. Leaving that life for the first time in ten years, the reality that was life hit her with all the force of a fast-moving carriage.

  Virgil belonged at Eton and then Oxford. He couldn’t stay with her forever. What became of a boy who dwelled on the fringe of the world, a marquess’ unacknowledged bastard, raised by his spinster aunt? For he eventually deserved the truth…and then what? The enormity of the questions continued coming, rolling unto one another, and her breath came in frantic little spurts. The racket slipped forgotten from her fingers as she pressed her palms against her temples.

  From over the top of the back of Virgil’s head, Nettie caught her gaze. She said something to the boy. He glanced briefly back, with his usual boyish grin. Giving her a wave, he grabbed the bilbocatch, and proceeded to heft the tethered ball to the cup, counting as he went, the sound growing muffled as he walked further and further around the lake.

  Virgil’s attention was devoted to that wooden cup. Nettie came bounding over, with a speed better suited for a woman twenty years her junior. She took up position at Bridget’s side and they stared after the little boy whom they’d both cared for in equal measure over the years.

  “I haven’t seen you troubled like this since the day she showed up with a child at your doorway, my girl.” Virgil’s true mother; a young woman from a neighboring village who’d been cruelly taken advantage of by Archibald. She’d shown up sobbing, in tears, and Archibald had been at sea.

  “It’s because I haven’t been,” she said hoarsely, watching Virgil all the while. A girl of seventeen, she’d been panicked as the woman from a nearby village placed her screaming, crying baby in Bridget’s arms. For all her pleading and protestations, that woman had vanished…and she’d later learned had been found hanging in the parish village.

  “You weren’t made for theft,” the older woman said suddenly, unexpectedly. Somehow, in hearing those five words spoken aloud, it made Bridget’s intended crime all the more real.

  “I was though,” she said bitterly. “You always see undeserved good in me.” And because of it, she’d tricked herself into believing she was different from all the other Hamiltons. “I’m a Hamilton.” That vile surname forever attached to her stung like rancid vinegar on her tongue.

  Nettie swatted her arm. “You aren’t one of them. You never were and never could be. The fact that you’re as bothered as you are, is proof of that.”

  “Feeling guilty and still making a choice to commit a crime, are entirely different things,” she spat. Restless, Bridget wandered to the edge of the lake and sat at the edge where she could best watch Virgil on the opposite side. She registered Nettie’s presence as she claimed a spot next to her. Bridget dragged her knees up and dropped her chin atop them.

  “Sometimes not,” the old nursemaid said with the same naiveté Bridget had shown…before her discussion on Dante’s levels of sin and hell with Vail. “Sometimes we’ve no other choice and we make the best ones we can…even when they are the wrong ones by Society’s standards.”

  “We only say those things to make ourselves feel better,” she said softly. Only, this crime was not one Nettie would carry out…it was one that Bridget would be in complete and rightful ownership of. “At the end of the day, when I do this,” which there could be no denying she would and must. “I’m a thief and history knows the fate of those people.” That woodcarving held in Vail’s fingers with the winged serpent slid forward and she shivered within the folds of her cloak. “And he’ll know as well,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. Vail would know he’d entrusted his collection to a woman whose soul was as black as Archibald’s and Marianne’s. Would such a man rest after she’d made off with that prized tome? Or would he find her and…? Her breath came hard and fast as she forced herself to consider all the horrifying possibilities she’d not thought of before this moment. Aside from Nettie, he’d been the only one to show her warmth and kindness. He’d not treated her as though she were somehow less because she’d only partial use of her hearing and ugly because of an unfortunate mark that marred her skin.

  Nettie placed a hand on her trembling fingers. “This is about more than the theft
,” she stated more as a matter-of-fact.

  Bridget swiveled her head to face the old nursemaid who’d always seen too much.

  With a tender smile, Nettie patted her briefly on the cheek. “You forget that I cared for you the same way you care for that boy over there.” They both looked over to Virgil, engrossed in his game of bilbocatch. “You didn’t birth him, but do you think you could have loved him anymore had you given him life?”

  Bridget’s throat thickened and she tried to swallow. She gave her head a shake. She loved Virgil as her own. She’d nursed him through illness and cheered him along as he’d taken his first steps, and cradled him close when he’d stumbled and fallen.

  “Tell me about Lord Chilton.”

  She stiffened. “What is there to say?” Other than he had a heart bigger than she’d ever believed a nobleman capable. That he’d kissed her and she had hungered to know his embrace again, ever since. “He’s a book collector who sells those antiquated texts for a small fortune.” Bridget curled her toes into the soles of her boots. How very wrong it felt speaking of him in those cool, perfunctory words, when he was a man who cared for his siblings the way her own brother and sister never had or would. And whose embrace had set her afire.

  “Humph.”

  Don’t ask what that little grunt means. Do not ask. She wants you to… “What?” she asked, the question pulled from her.

  Nettie moved her gaze over to Bridget. A glimmer lit the old woman’s eyes. “If that was all the gentleman was, you’d not be blushing to meet the morning sun.”

  Bridget bit the inside of her cheek, hating her cream white cheeks that allowed her not a single secret. “What would you have me say? I’ve been there but a week?”

  “Do you think you’d need more than that to tell what manner of man your brother is?”

  She wrinkled her nose. Point taken. “He takes care of his siblings,” she finally brought herself to say. Bridget looked away from where Virgil played. “He has more than twelve brothers and sisters and he’s resolved to help them all find a stable future.” She implored Nettie with her eyes. “What manner of man does that?

  “A good one,” her nursemaid murmured.

  “Precisely. And I have to steal from him,” she spat, hating Archibald all over again for putting this demand to her and hating herself just as much for being so weak to go along with it. The thundering beat of horses’ hooves sounded in the distance, signifying the end to this stolen moment. She sighed. “We cannot stay here.” Even as she was unknown in London Society, being out with Virgil was far too dangerous. “I have to return,” she said, hating this life of subterfuge, but knowing with the logic she’d always been in possession of that the more time she spent with her family, the greater the risk she put them all in.

  “I’ll go gather the boy,” Nettie murmured.

  Returning to the blanket, Bridget popped open Nettie’s old wood basket carried from the countryside, all the way to London. She placed the battledoor game inside, and, grabbing the grass-stained blanket, stood. She snapped the fabric once and a slight gust caught the lace edges. It fluttered and danced, and then settled back to the ground.

  Bridget made quick work of folding it. Nettie’s words ringing in her mind blending with Virgil’s laughter in the distance, she stared absently out over the grounds of Hyde Park. For a brief time with Vail, she’d allowed herself a week’s time of living a pretend existence. She’d carried on as though she were, in fact, a member of his staff, and had thrilled at every meeting with her employer.

  Today, with Virgil and Nettie, reality had reared its head. The fact that Vail was a devoted brother, a kind employer, and a man of honor and decency didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. Ultimately, in the end, the only thing that could save her son was betraying Vail. And not one week, nor one year, nor a lifetime in his household could change her course.

  She briefly glanced over to where Nettie and Virgil made their way, toward her. Her son lifted his hand in greeting, waving excitedly. Forcing a smile for his benefit, she returned that exuberant gesture.

  There’d been no greater gift in her life than Virgil. And yet for the first time in ten years, she wished her life could have also included a gentleman like Vail Basingstoke, Lord Chilton, in it.

  Chapter 11

  Sunday morn was a day when most members of the ton adhered to at least a pretend civility and decorum. Having been born a bastard, Vail had never been saddled with lessons on the reasons or need for pretend—anything. Nor had he ever cared about how the world viewed him and he certainly hadn’t coveted one of those titles he’d eventually be saddled with anyway. To Adrina Mast, his lack of power, wealth, and title had been all that mattered. And when she’d shattered his heart, his work had given him strength and purpose.

  As such, Sunday was any other day when business transactions were handled and ruthless meetings held. By a rule, the men he dealt with were ones who respected nothing and no one outside of their collections and coin in hand.

  Standing at his sideboard, sipping his brandy, Vail stole another glance at the long-case clock. Forty minutes past six o’clock in the morning. Also, forty minutes later than the agreed upon time for his appointment. Generally, the thrill of an upcoming meeting, and the battle that would ensue over price and then the eventual trading of notes filled him with exhilaration. Particularly a discussion he’d been struggling to make a reality for more than three years now.

  Lord Marlborough, an aging earl who had the largest, most revered collections in the whole of England was selling off the contents of his libraries. And he’d decided Vail, regardless of the coin he’d pay, was undeserving of his collection.

  And yet, today, he remained oddly…detached from his appointment with Lord Marlborough. Where he should have his mind cleared, and be running through a script of that exchange justifying why he should receive first look at and right to purchase, instead he remained wholly distracted by thoughts of the young woman he’d fled from yesterday morning.

  Bridget had challenged everything he’d believed to be fact where human nature was concerned. She’d insisted that there were shades that explained away a person’s avarice, greed, and any other vice they were guilty of. It spoke to her innocence. It spoke of a woman who didn’t deal with ugliness and evil and greed. A woman who, instead, on her day off slipped out the front door with a picnic basket and used a hired hack.

  Frowning, he took a long swallow of his drink. Where in blazes had the lady been off to? Or rather…with whom? Those outings, though, usually took place later in the day, invariably occurring between gentlemen and young ladies. Vail clenched and unclenched his gloved hands in a reflexive gesture around his glass.

  His office door opened and he looked up. “He’s livid,” Edward informed him, shutting the door.

  He? He puzzled his brow.

  His brother gave him a droll smile. “Marlborough. The Earl of Marlborough whom you’ve been angling for a meeting with for the better part of three years? I trust you remember the gentleman?”

  What in blazes am I doing? Pondering a maid instead of his meeting. If ever there had been a doubt whom his sire, in fact, was, this was the proof. “Oh, I remember.” The first meeting between Vail and that miserable old bastard had come five years ago when he had set himself apart as one of the most ruthless, knowledgeable collectors. Marlborough had kept him waiting nearly an hour and, all the while, he’d no intention of selling to the Bastard Baron, as he’d spat on Vail’s way out. “He’ll wait another ten minutes,” he said quietly to himself. He was a master of restraint and control in all aspects of his life: from his business dealings to the lovers he took and he’d prided himself on that clear-headedness since Adrina’s betrayal all those years ago. He’d not compromise that for a quick-witted maid who was a master with his collections and proficient in more languages than Vail himself. Just as he’d not compromise his pride for a pompous lord like Marlborough. Ever since Vail had rejected a possible arrangement with the gentlem
an’s eldest daughter, the earl had ended all business transactions between him and Vail.

  “The gentleman insists he’ll wait no more than another five,” Edward warned.

  “Gentleman,” he muttered. There was nothing gentle, refined, or polite about the slender earl who hungered for old texts the way a glutton did prime steak. “He’ll wait,” he said, swirling his drink. Because his pride would not let him leave without ever receiving a proper greeting.

  “I’m not in possession of your usual confidence this time,” Edward countered, shaking his head.

  “He’ll wait,” Vail repeated. They always did. Some of them threatened to walk off, but the madness that gripped them always proved far greater. Vail had discovered that long ago, and had grown his power and his wealth as one of the most renowned booksellers because of it.

  “Your efforts to rile a client are better reserved for when you’re selling. Need I remind you, today you’re seeking privileged rights from the earl?” Edward cast a nervous glance over at the clock.

  If Edward believed Marlborough had any intention of giving Vail the first rights to his collections, then he wasn’t cut of the same ruthless cloth as men like him and the earl. Finishing his drink, Vail chuckled. “I’m always the seller.” He set his glass down on the mahogany sideboard. “That is the difference between me and them. I don’t give a jot for those books—”

  “And Marlborough knows it.”

  “—outside the coin they’ll fetch me,” he spoke over him. Nor was he so much a fool that he didn’t know precisely the reason the old earl had swallowed his pride and waited now for a meeting. For Marlborough, just like Stanwicke, Dunwithy, and every other rabid, antiquated text collector in London, was in want of a book—the same book. The Chaucer up for auction in three weeks’ time had created a frenzy among those gentlemen, eager for that coveted tome…even ancient collectors like Marlborough who was selling off his own works.