Davis laughed at the housekeeper’s description, going so far as to toss back his head.
“It wasn’t funny,” Mrs. Granger said, though she smiled. The woman smiled a full three hundred percent more than had the housekeeper at Castle Kynn. But then, she wasn’t in service to Douglas Kinnaird. It surely made all the difference in the world. “I knew Her Grace was in the gallery, and I cannot tell you how I feared his mum wouldn’t get him calm by then and he’d end up ripping right down the hallway and stomping on her toes, so unhappy was he to be there.”
More laughter twined around the table, and Mr. Child sent his sparkling gaze toward Lilias. “She’s a curious one, isn’t she? I swear every time I turn about, Her Grace is studying some new stone or mantel as if it contains the keys to paradise.”
Lilias returned the smile. In part at thought of Rowena . . . and in part because the butler put her in mind, in some way she couldn’t quite name, of her Cowan. “She was as a girl, aye. But having never been away from home much, she soon learned all the secrets there were to learn in the castle. Must be a bit of an adventure for her, having someplace new to discover.” Away from the iron fist of the Kinnaird—and the threatening shadow of Malcolm.
“Such a sweet young woman.” This came from the dowager duchess’s lady’s maid, Lapham. She toyed with one of the berries that she had proclaimed herself too full to eat, swirling it about in the cream. “It’s no wonder His Grace decided so quickly to wed her. Something about that hesitant demeanor of hers that just makes a body want to pull her close and pat her head.”
Mr. Child snorted a laugh. “Yes, Lappy, I’m certain His Grace wants to pat her head. Exactly the response of a young man when faced with a lovely young lady.”
Lapham slapped at the butler with her napkin—something no one ever would have dared do to McDonnell in Castle Kynn.
Mrs. Granger chuckled. “I’ve certainly been praising the Lord this month that His Grace fell for someone like Her Grace and not one of the many debutantes who have visited over the years and measured the whole place as if fitting it for new drapes.”
Mr. Child looked to the ceiling. “This from the woman who sobbed for a week straight when she heard that the Baroness of Berkeley was betrothed to the Duke of Stafford.”
Lifting her chin, Mrs. Granger obviously fought back a grin. “Well, I didn’t know at the time that Her Grace was waiting for him in the Highlands, did I? Only that the most charming young lady who had ever stayed at Midwynd had got away. That one would have kept us on our toes.”
“That one would have given me a heart attack.” Mr. Child splayed a hand over his chest in illustration. “And His Grace was wise enough to know it and take pity on me. Far better that he chose Her Grace.”
Perhaps it was that perpetual amusement in the butler’s eyes that reminded Lilias of her late husband. The way he could be so serious when facing the under staff or the masters or the public, but was so quick to turn a jest behind closed doors.
“It was her eyes that got him.” Davis raised his glass in salute. “If I hear him reference ‘those silver eyes’ one more time . . .”
Lilias smiled into the laughter. She’d always thought Rowena’s eyes beautiful—but at the castle, where Douglas shared the feature, no big to-do had ever been made over them.
“Ach, no. ’Twas the accent,” Mr. Child said in a fair imitation of it, his gaze drifting for only a split second to Lilias. “There’s nothing like a Highland burr, aye?”
Would it not have been so obvious, she would have pressed a hand to test her cheeks and see if they were as hot as they felt.
Mrs. Granger grinned at her. “I daresay—”
“Mr. Child! Come quick!” One of the footmen—there was a matching pair of them, twins, and Lilias hadn’t yet learned how to tell them apart—burst into the parlor. Was it excitement or horror on his face? “Humphrey has returned—Old Abbott caught him sneaking round the back, trying to get in.”
Because the others all leapt to their feet, Lilias did too, though she hadn’t a clue who Humphrey might be. She turned to Lapham, who was the closest to her. “Who is—?”
“The footman who ransacked the duke’s room while we were away and then took off.” Lapham tossed her napkin to the table and scurried out with the rest of them.
Lilias followed, though more slowly. From the thunderclouds in everyone’s faces, they took it as personally as the duke had that one of their own had betrayed Nottingham.
And they said only Scots had such allegiance to their clan.
The group spilled into the kitchen, where the aging steward held a protesting young man in a chair by the scruff of his neck.
Mr. Child headed straight for his office. “I’ll ring the constable.”
“I’ve rope to hold him until he gets here.” The other twin footman—or the same one?—bent to tie the lad’s legs to those of the chair, amidst some colorful cursing from the captive.
Old Abbott looked about to box the boy’s ears. “Watch your tongue, you fiend, there are females present.”
As if a thieving traitor had such sensibilities—and he proved it by spitting on the floor, in the direction of Mrs. Granger. “Let me go, ye ol’ badger. I’ll not talk—not to you, not to no constable, not to no one.”
“You will if you know what’s good for you.” Mrs. Granger huffed—and made a show of stepping directly on the spittle on the floor. “To think that we fed you, clothed you, accepted you as one of our own. Didn’t His Grace even send extra home to your family last Christmas, when he heard your mum hadn’t enough for a goose?”
The lad’s eyes burned—but not with the life most of them here boasted. No, it was a dark fire in them. One Lilias had seen often enough to recognize. He sneered. “Oh, yes, a fine Christmas goose they bought too. Surely that kept them from wanting all the rest of the year. All thanks to the duke’s eternal generosity.”
This time Old Abbott did deliver a cuff to the lad’s ear. “You’ll speak with more respect of your betters, boy. And it isn’t his title that makes him so—it’s his common decency. Something you are surely lacking. To stoop to thievery—”
“I didn’t steal nothing. And well you know it.” Yet it wasn’t disappointment now in his gaze, or shame. Certainly not shame. ’Twas . . . victory.
“And did you come back to try to remedy that?” With her hands on her hips, the tall housekeeper struck an imposing figure indeed. “Or are you daft enough that you meant to beg your job back?”
He didn’t shift, didn’t lift his chin, didn’t try to square his shoulders—which were now rolled back, his wrists being bound behind the chair. Yet somehow defiance settled upon him like a cloak. “Humphrey Umstot doesn’t beg.”
Old Abbott folded his arms over his chest. “Then why are you here? To find whatever it was you were looking for before?”
Humphrey didn’t answer. Didn’t twitch. Just curled his lips up in a mean little smile that curdled the cream in Lilias’s stomach.
Trouble had come to call. And she hadn’t a clue how to protect Rowena from it this time.
Brice had no idea how he’d managed to lose his wife this time. He’d been determined to keep her hand firmly on his arm all evening, but for when they were in their seats. And he certainly hadn’t needed the whisper from his mother or sister to tell him to do so—though they’d taken it upon themselves to give said whisper anyway. As if he couldn’t see for himself that the usual Brighton and Hove visitors and residents hadn’t received Rowena all that warmly.
Jealousy, Mother had said with a nod.
Pure viciousness, Ella had pronounced.
Some combination thereof, he had decided. And he would have been happy to have stayed home of an evening instead of taking part in the usual post-Season engagements that had peppered their autumns and winters in the past.
But Rowena had vehemently objected, had insisted that their routine wouldn’t be disturbed for her sake. That Ella ought to get to enjoy this first year she cou
ld take part in such events.
If Rowena would stand as straight and speak so boldly with silk on her shoulders and jewels around her throat as she had that morning in her day dress and old, worn shoes, then no young lady in Sussex would ever dare speak ill of her.
Dash it all, where was she? He’d only stepped out for a minute, to find the lavatory. And Ella had given him a nod to assure him she would take over the watch. So why was he seeing Ella’s brilliant red head without the soft brown curls that should have been by her side? It was one thing for Ella to lose herself every time she took a turn but quite another for her to lose his wife when Ella herself hadn’t so much as budged from the aisle between the two blocks of chairs set up for the recital.
“The best soprano I’ve heard since Collette Sabatini was touring England twenty years ago,” an older gentleman said as Brice brushed past.
“At the Royal Pavilion,” a lady was saying to a different group, swishing her fan in front of her face. “Tomorrow.”
A flash of light on fair blond hair caught his eye. Made him freeze. It couldn’t be—could it? He only knew two blondes of that shade, and Brook wouldn’t just show up at a random soiree in Brighton without notice. But surely, surely Lady Pratt wasn’t so audacious.
Of course she was—he knew she was. But if she were in town, he would have heard. He paid people to keep him abreast of such things.
A lady in a peacock green dress shifted out of the way, proving that yes, indeed, it was Catherine, Lady Pratt, on the arm of her brother. Dash it all—and they were talking to Rowena. He sidestepped the people in the aisle, nearly tripped over a chair, but he managed to keep his smile in place. His face clear. His posture casual as he approached. Though it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his gait easy and relaxed as he joined their cheery little group and claimed his wife’s hand.
“There you are, darling. Lady Pratt, Lord Rushworth, good evening—I didn’t realize you were in the area.” He smiled, but they weren’t either of them stupid enough to believe he meant it. And Rowena obviously realized it too, given the way she stiffened.
Rushworth nodded a muted greeting. “Evening, Duke.”
Lady Pratt gave one of her sickeningly sweet smiles. “We just arrived in Brighton yesterday, desperate to get away from all the nonsense over that maid—I’m sure you understand. I, of course, wrote you to let you know that the primary suspect had fled, and . . . well, when I wrote your direction upon the envelope, I thought Brighton would be just the thing to clear it all from my mind.”
She was good—he’d give her that. The perfect intonation to convey both regret over the maid and weariness with it all. Her back remained straight, her fingers didn’t grip her brother’s arm too hard. The only indication of her true purpose that he could note was the way her attention drifted, for just a moment, to the diamond-and-ruby collar necklace Rowena wore.
None of the gems were large enough to be the Fire Eyes. She had never seen them, but surely her parents had told her of their size when they instilled in her the idea that they were hers by rights. He pulled Rowena a few inches closer to his side. “Have we received a letter from Lady Pratt, darling? I don’t recall seeing one—though I have been praying that the tragedy at Delmore would be quickly resolved.”
Rowena sighed. “Aye. I told you about it last week. Or tried to.”
Dread sank in his stomach. Last week . . . she had indeed brought up Lady Pratt—and he had cut her off with a rather frustrated claim that he was tired of hearing about her.
Blast. It was no wonder his wife held herself always aloof. Why had he not listened? The dread turned hard and twisted. Listen. So often he had gotten the impression he must, but he had assumed it a command to listen for the Lord’s whisper.
What if, instead, the Lord’s gentle command had been bidding him to pay attention to what his wife had been trying so hard to tell him? If he had failed to hear her on the simple matter of the resolution of matters at Delmore, what else had he missed? It wasn’t the first time he had misinterpreted the Lord, it was true . . . but it may have been the direst.
He had always prided himself on being attentive. How could he be so with everyone else and fail so miserably with his wife? He was a royal dunce.
Lady Pratt laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, isn’t that always the way with husbands? Our words just drift right over them sometimes.” Her gaze drifted yet again to the necklace.
Brice drew his wife back a step, even as he smiled. Catherine wouldn’t try something so obvious as snatching the thing right from her neck, but he didn’t know how quickly she might be developing subtler plans. Though the diamonds and rubies were also family jewels, his mother had never really worn them, always preferring the Nottingham rubies when a gown called for red. Which meant that no one really knew they were family gems, so Catherine may well think he’d had the piece commissioned to hide the jewels.
On the one hand, it made him glad he’d instead hidden them among the iconic ruby set—and that thanks to his wife’s unpierced ears, they never left her room. On the other hand, it made him wish he’d only draped emeralds and sapphires and topaz around Rowena’s neck these past weeks. He should have known Catherine would show up at some point and see his gifts.
He looked down at Rowena. Shadows drew hollows under her eyes, and her face was otherwise pale. The company? Perhaps, but he didn’t think so. “Are you feeling all right, darling?”
For once, the only thing in her eyes when she looked up at him was gratefulness. “Not really. I’d thought it just a light headache, but I’m afraid I’m feeling quite peaked now.”
“And here I’ve been chattering at you!” Catherine surged forward, abandoning her brother’s arm in favor of taking Rowena’s other one. “Forgive me, Duchess. We can catch up another time. In fact, why don’t you join me for tea tomorrow? I’ll send the direction for the house I’ve let. If you’re feeling better, of course.”
She actually left her a graceful way out of the invitation, which gave Brice pause. Though Rowena offered a polite smile and, after a hesitant glance at Lord Rushworth, said, “Thank you, Kitty. I do hope I feel well enough.”
His stomach went tight. She wouldn’t listen to him if he tried to warn her against going—and why should she, when he hadn’t listened to her? But he had to convince her not to go. Even if she thought Catherine needed help, thought she could offer it, he could surely appeal to her distrust of Rushworth.
He must. He must keep her out of their clutches.
“Go home and rest.” Catherine patted Rowena’s arm and then stepped back beside her brother again. “So good to see you this evening, Duke.”
He forced his teeth to unclench. Forced niceties to his tongue. “And you, my lady. I hope you enjoy your stay in Brighton.”
Her lashes fluttered down, but not before he saw the malicious gleam in her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’m sure my visit will provide everything I seek.”
From anyone else, he would have assumed she meant rest and reprieve. From Catherine . . .
He steered Rowena away. “Would you like to go home?”
“Could we?” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I hate to pull you away from the concert.”
“There will be other sopranos, or this one another time. Your health is far more important.” Seeing Ella still stood where he’d left her, he headed that way. Mother was there too. Perfect. He interrupted the ongoing conversation as unobtrusively as possible, speaking only to his mother. “Rowena is unwell, so we are going home. Would you like me to send the carriage back for you, or—”
“Oh, poor dear.” Mother turned her full attention on Rowena, and her brows knit. “We’ll all go. No point in making Jones drive back out in this rain. Is it a headache?”
Rowena nodded. “In part.”
“I’ll call for the carriage and our wraps.” He lifted Rowena’s hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles before he stepped away. Since she would only let him do such things in public,
he would take full advantage. The moment watchful eyes were no longer upon them, she would turn away with that perpetual sorrow draping her shoulders.
Until the nightmares seized her again, anyway.
Fifteen minutes later they had all climbed into the carriage under the umbrella Jones held for them, and after another half hour they pulled into the drive at Midwynd. Though glad for Jones’s sake that his family had come home with them, he rather regretted the chatter they provided. He had to speak with Rowena about Lady Pratt and Lord Rushworth. And now, unable to have accomplished it on the drive, he would have to see her to her room for the conversation.
Perhaps he ought to wait for morning and pray she was feeling better? No. If she chose not to join them for breakfast, she could well avoid him until teatime. So after they’d dashed into the house and turned over their wet overcoats and capes and hats, he took her hand again. “I’ll see you up.”
She didn’t bother arguing with him, given that he saw her to her door after nearly every outing.
Mr. Child appeared, clearing his throat as he approached. “Pardon me, Your Grace. But Humphrey returned while you were out. Old Abbott caught him sneaking in. The constable has him in custody in town, though my understanding is that thus far the boy has said nothing beyond cursing us all.”
Rowena shuddered under his hand and turned her wan face up to his. “You’ll need to see to this. I’ll—”
“No.” Was that disappointment in her eyes? He added a soft smile. “Morning will be soon enough to go back out. Constable Morris will have it all in hand. Thank you, Mr. Child. Did he cause any disturbance this time?”
“No, Your Grace. Not beyond stirring up the staff, who were all outraged at his audacity. We can’t think what he was about, trying to get back in.”
An excellent question. Another search for the jewels? Was his purpose only to upset them? Was it mere coincidence that he showed up just as Lady Pratt and her brother came to town?
Brice pasted on a smile. “Let us pray the answers are forthcoming—tomorrow. For now, I’m afraid my wife is feeling under the weather, so if you’ll excuse us, I’ll see her to her room. Good night, Mother. Ella.”
The Reluctant Duchess Page 23