The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel)

by Carie, Jamie

  “Careful.” John came up close behind her, bringing up the rear. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Alex frowned at him. Why was he being so annoying and smothering?

  “Oh, Tomas!” They could hear Ana’s wail.

  A little farther and then Alex saw it too. One of the rafters had fallen on the boy, trapping his leg under its heavy weight. He held the stick over his head with one outstretched arm toward the window. He had somehow managed to break it and get the flag out of the small hole. What a clever boy.

  “Mommy,” Tomas’s voice rasped. “Daddy, help.”

  John sprang up from the ladder next to Alex. “If you’ll take one end of that beam and lift, I’ll get the other side.”

  The father, pale but determined, nodded and made his way around the hole in the floor toward the broken beam. With a big breath he wrapped his arms around it.

  “We have to lift at the same time to keep the weight from shifting on his leg. On three.”

  “Wait, I’ll help!” Alex ran to John’s side and wrapped her arms around the beam, determined to lend what strength she could, while Ana knelt next to Tomas, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks.

  “One, two, three,” John counted. They heaved the beam up and over him, lowering it on the other side of the narrow space. His mother wrapped her arms around him, both of them crying.

  “His leg must be broken,” Alex whispered toward John. “We’ll need a splint and a litter to carry him out.”

  “Yes, but not yet.” The father rushed to his son’s side and gave him a drink of water, cradling his head in his big hands. “Tomas, Tomas, are you in terrible pain?”

  “Only when I move it,” he said the brave words, but tears streamed from his eyes.

  “Tell us where to find a doctor, and John and I will get help.”

  The parents exchanged worried glances but Ana rattled off where to find him. “Hurry,” she said to Alex and John.

  Alex began to pray, crying out in thanksgiving with her whole being, as they made their way back from the church. “Tell anyone we see, John. Let’s have the whole village come to help get him out safely.”

  John gave her a brief kiss on top of her head. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “It was God’s grace that led us to him.”

  “Yes, but you found the flag. Alex, we would have never been looking for that or known what it meant if you hadn’t found that clue. I think your parents would have been very proud today.”

  She didn’t reply to that, only hurried down the street. But it was a warm and pleasant thought, gaining her parents’ approval. It felt good to use her talent for good. And maybe John wasn’t lacking all faith. He had faith in her at least and that might be a start. She should be more patient with him. She could teach him about God and how to pray. Couldn’t she?

  Chapter Six

  Gabriel leaned over and retched into the bucket beside his cot. Not much came up. Bad thing, that. Very bad indeed. He fell back onto the thin pillow with a groan, closing his eyes against the dizziness that had beset him since the moment they’d set sail.

  Being back on board a ship wasn’t his favorite thing in the best of circumstances, but since his affliction sailing had turned into a rack of torture—the spinning room when he opened his eyes, the dizzy, nauseous, seasick horror of it all. The soldiers had even stopped tying his hands together and guarding the door, knowing he was too weak and sick to leave the cot.

  One of them, a youngster named Mick who was still wet behind the ears and looking out of sorts in his red-coated uniform, came into the tiny room. Gabriel blinked hard, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to see what Mick was holding. It was a small bowl, must be dinnertime.

  He didn’t know how long they’d been on board the HRH Imperial, but it seemed like forever. The trip from Ireland to London should only take a couple of weeks, though. Had it only been weeks? They must be getting close. Dear God, let me last until then, I beg You.

  Mick sat on the room’s only other piece of furniture, a spindly wooden chair, and scooted close.

  “I just vomited up your last bowl, Mick. Don’t think I’m ready for another just yet.” Gabriel squinted up at the lad, waiting for a response.

  As usual Mick ignored his gloomy predictions and dipped the spoon, holding it to Gabriel’s lips. God help him, thirty-two years of age and being spoon-fed like a baby. If his enemies could see him now. He took a few sips and then fell back on the pillow.

  Mick pulled something from his pocket that looked like a gnarled piece of wood. He held it out to Gabriel and made a chewing motion. “Ginger.”

  Gabriel longed for the old irritation at being treated like an imbecile. Mick obviously had figured out he was deaf and so had likely the rest of the ship, but he was too weak to care. He reached for the root instead and brought it to his nose. It smelled pleasant enough and now that he thought about it, he had read somewhere, long ago, that ginger could help ease an upset stomach.

  He took a little bite and wrinkled his nose at the strong, spicy flavor. “Can’t you make it into a tea or something?” he barked, but he didn’t spit it out. If it would help the constant vertigo and nausea go away, he would try anything.

  Mick’s lower lip jutted out and he nodded as if thinking it over and deciding it was a good idea. He held up a finger and then hurried from the room. “Put some sugar in it,” Gabriel rasped after him as loud as he could.

  He lay back, closed his eyes, and chewed on a tiny piece, thinking he just might die of this if the ginger didn’t work. Then it wouldn’t matter if Alexandria married that Lemon fop or not. He grimaced and turned on his side, trying to block out the ache in his heart at the thought of losing her to John Lemon.

  An hour later, he was able to sit up and sip the ginger tea Mick brought him. It was helping, a little. His stomach was not revolting, and the tea and the broth he’d drank earlier stayed down. He was beginning to feel like he just might make it through this—thanks be to God!

  A dull roaring had begun in his ears, but it was manageable and brought a ray of hope. The last time his ears had changed, he’d regained some of his hearing. The fact that bouts of vertigo actually helped his ability to hear didn’t make much sense compared to what the doctors had come up with, but just the possibility that he might someday discover a cure and even have a semblance of his hearing back made his throat ache with longing for it.

  The next day Gabriel was able to shuffle onto the deck for some fresh air. He stood blinking into the cloudless gray sky, concentrating on breathing deeply. The captain came up beside him and squinted to look up at him. “London tomorrow,” he said twice, overly enunciating the words. Gabriel just nodded and wished he would go away.

  While he was eager to get off this floating nightmare he was not eager to see the regent. Would they let him freshen up beforehand? He’d lost weight, a stone or two, and hadn’t had a shave since they’d boarded. Nor a bath. After all the sickness and cold sweats, well, he was sure he hadn’t smelled worse in his life. And his clothes. They hadn’t exactly let him pack a bag before throwing him aboard. Would they let him send for his valet and fresh clothing? What he really needed was Meade.

  Thinking of Meade made him glare at the captain. Would Meade discover what had happened to him? He knew his secretary well enough to know that he would turn over every stone trying. But when would he be able to board a ship to London? It might take weeks before he sorted it all out. “I would like to be taken to my town house to prepare for my visit with the regent. Can you at least give me that?”

  The captain looked him up and down, the decision wavering in his eyes. He gave a slow nod, then turned and marched away. Clever man. The captain knew if the regent pardoned him, a show of kindness after this ill treatment might not go unnoticed. He was hedging his bets and it was something Gabriel pla
nned to use to his advantage.

  FIVE DAYS HE'D BEEN HOME.

  Five precious days of resting, recuperating, and reconnaissance gathering. It appeared the captain hadn’t done him any favors after all. The news hadn’t reached them yet in Dublin, but Queen Charlotte was dead. London was a black shroud of mourning—windows darkened, the people draped in black. She had died November 17, the year of our Lord 1818, at seventy-four years old in residence at one of her favorite places on earth: Kew Palace with its lovely gardens the queen had tended herself over the years.

  The old king was in deep mourning—blind, deaf, lame, and insane (at least that was the word), and fading away. No one really knew how much the king even understood about what had happened. The prince regent had been at his mother’s side and, to Gabriel’s knowledge, didn’t have any idea as to the missing manuscript and all that was going on with Alexandria.

  Gabriel paced back and forth across the rug in his elegant drawing room and pondered the possibilities. The queen’s death would certainly delay any conversation he would have with the prince regent. As sad as the queen’s death was, it might just have saved his neck.

  His butler, Hanson, appeared at the entry to the drawing room. He strode forward, leaned over the desk, and wrote on the speaking book.

  Gabriel walked over to read it. “You’ve a guest, Your Grace. The prince regent himself.” His butler looked half frightened to death.

  “Well, don’t keep him waiting in the hall!” Gabriel barked. “I’ll need you to stay and write down what he says if he’ll abide it.”

  The butler hurried away, coattails flapping. How he wished for Meade’s steady presence. He had looked into that too since being home and discovered that his stalwart secretary was well on his way aboard a ship he’d hired, a little schooner named Mary-Ann, probably some fisherman’s long love. It wouldn’t be a comfortable ride aboard such a small craft, but Gabriel could just picture Meade enduring it with those gritted teeth and that calm-eyed surety he had when it came to getting a job done. Especially a job concerning himself or Alexandria. Gabriel expelled a breath with a smile. Meade would do just about anything for Alexandria Featherstone.

  The prince regent walked into the room, chin up and glaring down his nose at Gabriel.

  Gabriel swept into a low bow. “Your Highness, I must first tell you that I am having an affliction with my ears and cannot hear well. My butler will have to write down what you say in a speaking book so we may converse.”

  Gabriel turned to the butler. “See that His Majesty has anything he needs before we begin.” He turned back to the regent, who appeared deep in consideration of this turn of events. “My deepest condolences on your blessed mother, the queen.”

  The regent started to say something and then stopped, appearing confused. He nodded instead and sat on the edge of one gilt-edged crimson chair. It looked to creak under his ponderous weight. Gabriel threw out his tailcoat and seated himself across from the man, wary and watching. As soon as the regent seemed settled and the butler had the speaking book, seated in the chair next to Gabriel, they began.

  The regent started on a long and animated discourse about something that his butler was obviously having a hard time keeping up with.

  Oh, please God, help me. This is going to go badly indeed. Gabriel pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose while watching a bead of sweat trickle down Hanson’s temple. He finally passed the speaking book over and Gabriel tried to read through the scratching lines.

  He says thank you for condolences, et cetera, et cetera. He mentioned something about the Sloane manuscript and your guardianship, et cetera, et cetera. He’s here to check up on it and discover what’s what. More, but I didn’t catch it.

  There was no reason under heaven that Gabriel would tell the regent that his butler had missed most of what his esteemed Royal Highness had said. Time to improvise.

  “Your Highness, might I tell you a story? It’s about this mysterious manuscript.”

  Like a child come to life, he brightened and nodded.

  Gabriel told him of the last six months, trying for his best tone of voice, though he couldn’t know how he sounded, but he tried to let the emotion of the story color his voice as he explained about Alexandria. He told it from her point of view and from a child needing her parents as much as a government needing a manuscript. He told of Hans Sloane’s collection and the hidden mystery that men like the kings of Spain and France had reason to believe could be valuable to their country.

  Then Gabriel glossed over his part, how the regent had appointed him guardian and he was doing his best to complete the task, but Alexandria, God bless her, just wanted her parents found. He painted her more a pretty child than a woman. He painted her like him, the regent. Impetuous, a little reckless maybe but so full of heart, someone who needed guidance and help . . . support.

  “So you see, Your Majesty, while it is of the utmost importance that we find this manuscript before Spain and France do, don’t you think we should also help Alexandria find her parents, dead or alive, so she can put this to rest and go on with her life?”

  The regent sat back, the heavy folds of his boyish face rapt and considering.

  Gabriel pounced on the moment. “If I could find out what her parents are really looking for. If we could”—Gabriel lifted an elegant hand and moved it to encompass the regent—“we could help Alexandria find her parents if, God willing, they are still alive. You would do anything to bring your dear mother back, would you not? Think of it, Highness. Alexandria is like that, doing anything to bring both her precious parents home—safe and alive. And,” Gabriel nodded sideways, “we might find what this thing is that means so much to Spain. It would be good to know, don’t you think?”

  The regent’s face hardened from compassion for Alexandria to determined ambition. “Yes, I think so.” He rose, looking at the butler and giving quick instructions.

  Gabriel hoped Hanson got it all.

  When the regent left, Gabriel read the note.

  Meet him at St. James Palace tomorrow at noon. He will show you the part of the manuscript they have.

  Gabriel took a deep, shaky breath. He was walking on water now. There would be no turning back from this day’s work, and if things didn’t go well, if this alignment with the regent turned sour on him, well. . . . He put his fingers inside his cravat and pulled it away from his neck.

  Chapter Seven

  The story of Tomas’s rescue spread through Reykjavik like the flow of lava from one of their many volcanoes. An outpouring of love and support for the Magnusson family and admiration for the smart, pretty Lady Featherstone swept through the inn with days of visiting and celebration. Tomas’s leg was broken, but the doctor said it was a clean break that would heal and not the crushed bone that would make him lame for the rest of his life.

  All rejoiced at this news, especially Tomas. He lay propped up by various pillows on the cushioned bench in the main room, receiving his visitors and their gifts of toys and sweets like a young prince. He had been so afraid, pale and weak after two days without nourishment, but now the color was back in his cheeks. His mother hovered, tears in her eyes much of the time, making certain her son had anything he could think to ask for.

  As for Alex, she was treated like a heroine, a personage of awe, an angel some even called her. As the townsfolk visited with the Magnussons, they spent a few moments ogling and thanking the young sleuth from England and her handsome Irish fiancé.

  Even now the room had two families visiting. Alex looked down at the pretty little girl who had come in with her parents to visit Tomas and saw her staring wide-eyed in wonderment. Alex smiled encouragingly at her. The girl took a couple of skipping steps nearer and smiled back.

  “What’s your name?” Alex asked.

  “Asa.” She smiled up at Alex, revealing two missing front teet
h. “And you’re Lady Featherstone. I like your name.”

  “Thank you, Asa. I like your name as well.”

  The little girl reached out and took ahold of Alex’s hand, swinging it a few times, her face nearly bursting with shy excitement. The girl’s mother was talking to Ana and another girl, Asa’s older sister, stood beside her, darting glances at Tomas. The mother was wearing what Ana had explained to Alex was a spaðafaldur cap, and it still gave Alex a start when she saw it, it seemed so odd.

  The woolen cap fit snugly on the woman’s head with a flat, white tail of sorts that had been stiffened somehow and came up and over her head toward her face. Her dress was quite beautiful though, black wool with a few horizontal blue stripes on the bottom. The bodice was red wool that had wide, embroidered ribbons crisscrossing from the waist to the neck. Around the neck was a circular ruff that made a pretty frame for the lady’s face.

  The other women in the room wore similar dresses but less formal hats. Alex liked the tail-cap, a simple woolen cap with a long silk tassel. Ana had jumped at the chance to knit one for her when she’d admired one aloud, and the man’s striped version for John, as one of many gifts of thanks she and her husband seemed determined to honor them with.

  “Lady Featherstone, do come and meet Ila Jóhannsdóttir. She and Phin Jóhannson started our library and might have some information for you. They spoke with your parents while they were here,” Ana said.

  Alex patted Asa on the head and hurried over, nodding in a bow toward Ila. “I should love to ask you a few questions.”

  They all settled around the kitchen table and Ana poured tea. “It would be my honor, Lady Featherstone,” the woman said in a thin voice full of importance and in perfect English. “I am sorry to hear that your parents are missing.”

  “Thank you. I am determined to find them. When did you see them and what sort of questions did they ask you?”