Rachel and Jerome reached Royal Elms two nights later. At her insistence, they had made that part of the journey on horseback, leaving Peters and Maxi to ride in the duke’s coach. She loved to ride, and she had not wanted to spend interminable days cooped up in a closed coach while it bounced across wretched, bone-wrenching roads when she could be on horseback. Jerome had clearly been astonished by her request but agreed to it with obvious relief at being spared the trip by coach.
Morgan had left the newlyweds at Parnlee to go to Wingate Hall. He had volunteered to inform Alfred Wingate that his niece and the duke were properly wed. Morgan had assured Jerome that no one at Wingate Hall would recognize him as the highwayman who had lately plagued the area.
He was also commissioned to bring what he could carry of Rachel’s clothes on horseback to Royal Elms and to see that the rest of her personal belongings at Wingate Hall were packed up and dispatched to her.
“You must bring my leather case with you,” Rachel had told her new brother-in-law as they parted. “Please, do not leave that. And ask Benjy the stable hand, to care for the pair of kittens I have hidden in the maze.”
“And do not forget your promise to me, Morgan,” Jerome had interjected. “Gentleman Jack no longer exists.”
It was late when the duke arrived at Royal Elms with his bride. Rachel’s first impression of her new home in the light of a slender crescent moon was of a massive stone palace. Twin cupolas flanked the great pediment of its central block and long, rusticated pavilions extended on each side.
“It is very... grand,” Rachel managed, awed by its size.
“Yes,” Jerome said wryly. “My father did not think the original Tudor house grandiose enough for the Duke of Westleigh, and he had part of it knocked down, then rebuilt it on a larger scale. It was he who added the pavilions.”
Tired as she was, Rachel noticed the subtle change in Jerome as they dismounted and approached the door to the great house. She could almost feel the ducal hauteur and reserve dropping into place like a sharply honed portcullis.
Jerome had sent no word ahead of either his marriage or of their arrival. As a result, their only welcoming committee was a startled, sleepy footman.
Rachel was so tired after two days in the saddle that her first impressions of her new home were confined to its great marble hall, soaring two stories high, its wide marble staircase, and her husband’s bedchamber where she fell asleep the instant her head touched the pillow.
When she awoke the next morning in the massive bed covered in crimson and yellow velvet, Jerome was already up and dressed. Heat curled within her at the sight of his tail, muscular body displayed to perfection in a superbly tailored forest green riding coat and fawn breeches.
She wished that he would come back to bed and make love to her, but he seemed to have no such inclination. Swallowing her disappointment, she asked, “Will you take me on a tour of my new home this morning?”
“I cannot. I am afraid that you must remain in this room today on the pretext that you are too exhausted from our arduous journey to leave it.”
“Why on earth must I do that?”
He came over to the bed and sat down beside her. There was no mistaking the appreciation in his eyes as he looked at his wife, and it generated a little shiver of warmth in her.
“As soon as you emerge, custom requires that I introduce you to all the servants. Although you look lovely in anything, that maid’s simple gown is hardly suitable attire for your debut as my duchess.”
Jerome was right. The servants would be better dressed than she was, and they would be shocked.
He gently pushed a wayward lock of hair away from her face. “I am buying time until Morgan can get here with some of your own clothes. I ordered a hot bath and a breakfast tray sent up for you, and I instructed the housekeeper, Mrs. Needham, that you are not to be disturbed for any reason.” His expression became troubled. “I hope that you can get along with her. She is an excellent housekeeper, but in the past year, she has become dour and contrary”
Jerome, to Rachel’s disappointment, rose from the bed and went over to his chest of drawers where he picked up his leather riding gloves. “Now I must be on my way.”
“To where?” It was unfashionably early to go calling.
“To see Emily Hextable.”
Jealousy ate at Rachel. “Why? Are you that anxious to see the woman I prevented you from marrying?”
His face tightened, and his demeanour turned cool. “I owe Emily the courtesy of telling her about my marriage before she hears about it from someone else.”
Jerome returned an hour later, grim and silent. From his expression, the meeting with Emily had been unpleasant, but he refused to tell Rachel about it. When she tried to press him, he said curtly, “It is between Emily and me.” He paused, then added in a guilty tone, “She is a fine woman, and it pains me to have hurt her. She devotes herself to good works. I hope you will see fit to follow her example.”
Rachel winced. When her husband measured her against Emily, the paragon of virtue, she fell short in his eyes.
She did not see Jerome again until dinner was brought to their bedchamber. Although he joined her there for the meal, she wondered why he bothered. He was so preoccupied that her attempts at conversation floundered. Was he thinking about Emily?
Finally, Rachel demanded in exasperation, “Will you please tell me what is wrong?”
His head snapped up, and he looked contrite. “I am sorry that I am such poor company tonight. A multitude of problems has arisen in my absence.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I fear I could not have picked a worse moment to go off to Yorkshire.”
“Then why did you go?”
“To save my brother. A huge reward is about to be offered for Gentleman Jack’s capture. It will draw every greedy thieftaker in the kingdom. When I heard of it, I had no choice but to drop everything and go to Yorkshire to try again to persuade him to give up his life as a highwayman.”
“And you succeeded this time.” Rachel wished that he would tell her what arguments he had used to convince Morgan, but he did not. “What problems arose in your absence?”
“I will not bore you.” Jerome ran his hand distractedly through his hair. Rachel noted the weariness of his eyes and the fine lines of fatigue around his mouth.
She lay her small, fair hand on his larger one. “I shall not be bored. You forget that I have much experience dealing with estate problems. Furthermore, you are my husband, and I care about whatever troubles you.” She squeezed his hand. “Please, Jerome.”
He studied her with the oddest expression, as though he wanted to believe her but did not quite dare to do so. Then, he said, “I have widespread business interests, and several of them require crucial decisions. Royal Elms’s steward was taken seriously ill the day I left, and much on the estate that should have been done has not been. In addition, my purchase of another estate adjacent to mine, Stanmore Acres, became final while I was gone. Now I am faced with the task of trying to restore it to some semblance of prosperity”
“If it is in such a bad way, why did you buy it?”
Jerome picked up his wine glass, and his long, lean toyed with its stem. As Rachel watched, an insidious desire to have them toying with something else crept over her.
“Stanmore Acres used to be a fine property when Lord Stanton owned it, but after his death it went to his cousin, a lazy wastrel, who bled it and its people unconscionably to finance his insatiable hunger for gaming.”
“But why did you buy it?” Rachel persisted.
He hesitated, then said bluntly, “I could not tolerate what was happening to it and its people.”
A wave of appreciation for this complicated man she had married washed over Rachel. “What can I do to help you?”
Her question seemed to astonish him. “Nothing, my dear, but I appreciate your asking.”
Jerome takes his responsibilities very seriously and thinks it is his duty to shoulder them all himself.<
br />
Morgan arrived later that night with Rachel’s leather case and a few of her clothes from Wingate Hall. He reported that he had overseen the packing of her remaining belongings and had hired a fast post chaise to transport them to her as quickly as possible. He estimated that she would have them in three to four days.
Rachel asked, “Did you remember to tell Benjy about the kittens?”
For an instant, Morgan had a peculiar look on his face that Rachel could not decipher. “Aye, I did.”
Soon after this exchange, Rachel retired to her chamber. Unpacking her case, she was startled to discover the one nightgown that Morgan had chosen to bring with him was a confection of billowing pink silk and lace.
But when she donned it to go to bed, she was thrilled by Jerome’s expression when he saw her. His weariness seemed to vanish and the sudden hunger in his eyes as he crossed the room to her was unmistakable.
He took her in his arms, and as his lips moved toward hers, he whispered, “God help me, you would defeat any man’s effort to resist you.”
Chapter 21
The following morning Rachel put on one of her gowns from Wingate Hall, a lace-trimmed overgown of flowered yellow silk that emphasized her tiny waist. Her cream petticoat was decorated with tiers of Mechlin lace.
The gleam in Jerome’s eye told her he liked her choice, but when he spoke it was in a tone of unhappy resignation. “We must go down and be done with it as quickly as possible.”
“Be done with what?” Rachel asked.
“Your introduction to the servants.” Jerome looked as though he were about to take a dose of bitter medicine.
Rachel struggled to conceal her hurt. Why did he dread introducing her to the servants? Was he ashamed of her?
That thought did nothing for her peace of mind as she descended the broad staircase to the great marble hall.
The servants were waiting there to meet their new mistress. She was astonished to see what an army of them there was. They rather looked like soldiers, too, standing stiffly at attention, their faces grave and uneasy.
They were clearly fearful of what she would be like, and Rachel could not blame them for their apprehension. A new mistress could bring great change, for better or for worse, to Royal Elms and to their lives. She forgot her own nervousness in her eagerness to reassure them.
The servants were lined up in order of their hierarchy within the household with the butler and the housekeeper, who was as dour as Jerome had warned, at the head.
As her husband introduced her to the servants one by one, Rachel managed a friendly comment or a question for each of them to put them at ease.
She wished that she could do the same for Jerome. He obviously hated this ceremony. His ducal demeanour that held everyone at a distance was firmly in place, and she suspected that he was not even aware of it.
Or of the effect it had on his servants. They all clearly respected him, but they were nervous and uncertain in his presence.
One of the last servants in the line was a young girl who hung her head so low that her chin rested on her chest. Even when she was introduced to Rachel, she did not raise her head but only mumbled a couple of inaudible syllables.
At first, Rachel thought the girl, a scullery maid named Jane, was afflicted by abnormal shyness, then she realized that the problem was more serious than that.
Rachel put her fingertips beneath the maid’s chin and gently tipped her face up. It was covered with an ugly, blistered rash.
The girl gasped and flinched away, clearly humiliated. She hid her face behind her hands.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of, Jane,” Rachel assured her. “It looks to be Saint Anthony’s fire.”
“That’s what Cook thought,” Jane said mournfully. Rachel was glad that Morgan had brought her leather case. “I have an excellent remedy for it. I will get it for you.”
“For me,” the girl stammered, “but me’s a scullery maid.”
“But that is an indispensable position,” Rachel assured her. “We could not get along without clean dishes on which to eat.”
A shy, pleased smile tugged at Jane’s mouth.
After Rachel had met everyone, Jerome guided her toward the drawing room. One of the platoon of footmen jumped to open its door for them.
Rachel smiled at him, “Thank you, Paul.”
As the door closed behind them, Rachel turned to Jerome. He was staring at her. “What is it?”
“I am amazed that having just been introduced to scores of servants, you could manage to remember Paul’s name.”
“And I was astounded by the number of servants you employ. Surely you do not need so many, even for a house of this great size.”
“No,” Jerome admitted with an embarrassed little shrug. “But the past two years have been hard ones in Bedfordshire, too. Many people need work, and I can afford to employ them.”
“How very kind of you!” The more Rachel discovered about him, the more convinced she was that she had married exactly the kind of husband that she had wanted. If only, she thought sadly, he could feel the same way about her as his wife.
“Thank God that introduction scene is over. I suspect the servants hate it as much as I do, but it is a tradition.” Jerome smiled approvingly at her. The pride in his eyes made Rachel’s heart sing. “I was impressed by how you managed to say something to each servant in that endless line. I have not that talent. I wish I did.”
“Perhaps if you did not hate it so much, the servants would enjoy it more.”
“What?” he asked blankly.
“I think because you are uncomfortable and reserved they may be, too,” she said with a gentle smile. “Now, I must go deal with Jane’s rash.”
Rachel went upstairs and came down carrying a bottle and a feather from her leather case. When she asked Jerome the way to the kitchen, he took her there, to the consternation of the cook and the shock of her gaping minions who had never before been visited by the duke.
“Sit down there,” Rachel directed Jane, gesturing at the bench beside a long trestle table in the centre of the kitchen.
When the maid complied, Rachel shook the bottle in her hand, uncapped it, and dipped the feather into it. “Now, this is how you apply it.” She anointed the girl’s face lightly with the aromatic liquid. “You must take care to avoid your eyes.”
As Rachel worked, she was aware of Jerome’s penetrating eyes upon her, an odd light in them. She wondered whether he was displeased because she was ministering to a servant.
“You must do this frequently,” Rachel instructed, corking the bottle, then handing it to Jane. “Initially, it will seem to make your face redder, but you should be well in two or three days.”
When the duke and duchess had emerged above-stairs, Rachel asked, “Are you annoyed that I treated a servant?”
“No! Frankly, I was astonished that you had the inclination to do so, but I was far from annoyed. Why would you think that?”
“Aunt Sophia was nearly apoplectic the first time she caught me treating a servant. She said it was disgraceful.”
“She is the disgrace!” Jerome snapped.
They had reached his bedchamber, and he pulled Rachel inside. “As it happens, my lady healer, I, too, am suffering from a malady—one that I know you can cure.”
“What is it?” she asked, instantly anxious for him. “How can you be so certain that I can?”
“Because you have done so before.” He gave her a wicked, sexy grin that turned her blood to liquid fire. “I have this dreadful swelling. ‘Tis most painful.”
She could feel her face growing hot as she grasped his meaning. “But it is the middle of the day,” she protested.
“You would not want me to suffer unnecessarily, would you?”
Jerome studied Rachel’s lovely, sleeping face on the pillow beside him. Her lustrous hair spilled about her in ebony waves, and her intoxicating scent of lavender and roses enveloped him.
His wife was full of surprises. Who
would have thought such a beauty would show the genuine interest in the servants that she had or would be willing to help that poor scullery maid.
Her pluck had surprised him, too. She had endured the arduous trip on horseback to Royal Elms without complaint.
But what surprised Jerome most of all about his new wife was his own response to her.
He could not believe that he had been so wild for her that he had not been able to wait another moment to make love to her. To do so, he had ignored all the crises and other urgent matters that had accrued in his absence and required his immediate attention.
It unnerved him the way she could make him forget himself, his duties, everything but her.
It had been the same at Wingate Hall after he had seen the dead kittens. The memory sent a shudder through him. He hoped to God he would be able to keep her safe from whoever wanted her dead.
To do so, he would have to play the stern husband and insist that she go nowhere unless she were accompanied by himself, Ferris, or Morgan. His independent, free-spirited wife, he thought ruefully, would not like this curb at all.
Jerome hoped that the wedding present she wanted would be more to her liking. He had dispatched Morgan to London that morning to hire Neville Griffin to learn what he could about Stephen’s disappearance. It would not be easy after all these months, but if anyone could solve the mystery, it was Griffin. He had once directed the Crown’s network of spies. Now he was in business for himself, employing several of his former agents.
For Rachel’s sake, Jerome hoped that Griffin’s findings would be happy, but he feared that Stephen must be dead by now or there would have been some word from him. If Griffin found evidence linking George to his brother’s death, Jerome’s “present” to Rachel would devastate her.
He had given Griffin a second assignment: to discover Sophia Wingate’s background before her marriage to her first husband, Sir John Creswell. She had piqued Jerome’s curiosity. Since he was hiring Griffin, he might as well assuage his own concerns, too.
A little sigh escaped Rachel’s sleeping lips. A sharp wave of desire swept over Jerome, and he fought down the urge to awaken her and make love to her again. Taking her only seemed to make him want her more fiercely.
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