Blythe’s frown grew. “He is on good terms with many people. He is wanted everywhere. I cannot understand it.”
“Well, not by me.” Mercy shut the terrace doors quickly. “Come, let us take breakfast together. Cook wanted to try out a new dish. Hopefully, it has not been ruined by Anna’s tardy departure.”
Although Blythe moved along with her through the abbey, there was a stiffness to her posture that Mercy did not like. No doubt her feelings were still prickling over Shaw’s rather obvious intentions. She would be preparing yet more sternly worded lectures on the subject of a duchess’ responsibility to observe the utmost propriety. Mercy was all too aware of her responsibilities in that regard, and she was failing most of them quite deliberately.
They sat down in the morning room, a cozy space for just the two of them, and enjoyed cook’s decadent breakfast. The one thing Mercy whole heartedly enjoyed about being a duchess was how terribly spoiled her tastes had become. With a well-supplied pantry, Mercy’s cook was a genius.
When no lecture was forthcoming immediately, Mercy thought it safe to resume conversation on another matter. “What are your plans for the day, dearest?” Mercy asked as she patted her napkin to her mouth, replete after a sumptuous feast.
Blythe shrugged and set her fork down after barely touching anything on her plate. “There is nothing at Walden Hall that requires my supervision today. I had not thought to return till the afternoon, unless I am in the way here.”
Mercy sighed in relief. She and Edwin wouldn’t be left alone just yet. “Then you will stay and, if I can convince you to remain tonight, I will be a very happy woman. It has been an age since we stayed up late as we did as girls. Remember how mama used to get so cross at our late night giggling?”
“We should have listened to her better. She meant the best for us and now we have the lines on our faces to reveal our age. If I had a dau—” Blythe’s words stuck in her throat suddenly. Her mouth sealed tight over her unfinished wishes.
Poor Blythe. She had been married the longest, and had nothing to show for her marriage now. She had lost her husband when she’d lost her son to a terrible fever that had swept the district. Even after these two years of widowhood, it was a subject that always changed her mood. Only Edwin’s company seemed to jolly her into a better frame of mind.
Blythe dragged in a shuddering breath. “What are your plans today?”
“Well,” Mercy stood and drew Blythe with her. “I thought we might visit the library, find a horrid novel each, and spend the day alternatively reading and playing with Edwin. Could we do that?”
The idea of lounging safely tucked away in her son’s playroom was vastly appealing. If Blythe could be convinced to remain idle in that room, and not fuss over Edwin too much, she might never think about her problems again today.
Blythe frowned. “We can do anything you wish, Your Grace. This is your house.”
“But you are my sister, so we will both decide on the entertainments of the day.” She carefully tucked a stray lock of her sister’s hair behind her ear. “I do not like to order people about, I most especially dislike that you think I should be bossy with you. What would you prefer to do, Blythe?”
Blythe smiled suddenly. “What you propose is perfect. I should like to spend time with Edwin very much. He is such a dear little lad.”
Mercy held in a sigh of relief. “Good. Let’s see what Hamilton & Gambrill Booksellers have sent to us. It was a very large crate that arrived yesterday, wasn’t it?”
Blythe smiled, too.
Yet, as Mercy sorted through the stacks of books arranged in the library for her perusal she could not help but wonder what thoughts swirled inside Blythe’s mind. Blythe had once been a daring, vivacious, and determined young woman. Out of all the Hunt girls—Mercy, Blythe, and their younger sister, Patience—Blythe had married first at just sixteen years of age. She had accepted a proposal of marriage from the darkly handsome widower, Lord Venables, a man seventeen years her senior. The match had set tongues wagging in decided shock. Despite all the whispers about the match, Mercy had liked Lord Venable because he had doted on his second wife quite sincerely. He had enjoyed a good laugh with their family, too. But Blythe did not laugh now and Mercy fervently hoped that the woman she once was still lurked beneath her grief.
Selections made and arms stacked with new entertainments, they retreated to Edwin’s playroom.
“Auntie Bly, Aunty Bly,” Edwin called as he ran across the room, all arms and wildly swinging legs. “Did you not go home today?”
Blythe dropped her books and scooped Edwin up into her arms. “There you are my little duke. How could I leave you for long?”
Edwin kissed her cheek noisily and then wriggled to get down. “Come see what I did. Wilcox said I was very clever and even helped me knock down the tower we built. He’s genius.”
Mercy rolled her eyes at her son’s language as he dragged Blythe away to the far side of the chamber to admire the messy corner of toys. He was growing up so fast that she could almost see him grow out of his clothes.
Blythe set her hands on her hips, foot tapping. “That is a mess. Clean it up, Your Grace.”
Edwin’s eyes widened but then he stomped his foot. “No. I’m still playing.”
“Now, Your Grace. You cannot expect others to clean up everything after you.” Blythe gestured to the toy-strewn floor. “You can play without making a mess. Be good for your mother.”
Edwin peered at Mercy from around his aunt. “I am being good, mama.”
Mercy grinned. “I can see that. But you will tidy them up later, won’t you, and not rely on Wilcox to do it? The butler has other work than cleaning up after one messy boy.”
Wilcox was indispensable. But Edwin was coming to rely on him too much. Her son shuffled uncomfortably. “Do I have to?”
Mercy nodded. “Later.”
Edwin reluctantly nodded and then dropped to the floor to return to his play.
Blythe crossed the chamber, picked up her books, and chose one. “You spoil him.”
Mercy settled on the chaise and lifted her feet to the cushions so she could stretch out comfortably. “He is my child to spoil. I will be the one to decide what needs to be done, and when, Blythe. Which book are you going to read?”
“I picked up Fabulous Histories by Miss Sarah Trimmer. I want to see if it will be suitable for Edwin’s studies,” Blythe murmured. “I think he needs educating rather than spoiling and allowing him to make a mess from such a young age is setting us all up for trouble. One day you will see that I am correct.”
One day, with luck, Blythe would have her own family to fuss over again. That day could not come soon enough for Mercy.
CHAPTER THREE
Leopold did his best to settle his nerves as he set off for the abbey alone. This time he would not be denied the information he sought. This time he would argue until he received exactly what he had come here for. He followed the road until he reached the entrance to Romsey, pausing as a grand carriage rattled through the vast gates. The occupants scowled at him, but Leopold was used to the ill-mannered guests of the Duke of Romsey and put them from his mind easily.
As he resumed his ride, a hundred memories assailed him. He held his mount to a walk as he rode along the tree-lined drive. So many memories—good, bad, and wavering in-between. The stream where he’d fished as a boy with his brothers, defying the old duke’s wishes, was choked with reeds. He gritted his teeth. Of all the old duke’s many edicts, presenting a formidable image to society at large was high on his list of expectations. Did the duchess have no sense of duty?
He broke from the trees and pulled up sharply. Before him, the abbey rose like a sinister beast, glowing golden now in full sunlight with the imitation of purity. Leopold knew better. The home of the Dukes of Romsey was nothing short of evil.
At least the forecourt was presentable to travelers. He rode up to the building and swung down from the saddle. His mount, no doubt frustrated by t
he less than energetic ride, pawed at the gravel drive until Leopold laid his gloved hand over his nose. “Steady. We’ll be free and run against the wind as soon as we’re done here.”
When no groom arrived to take his horse, Leopold dropped the reins, stalked up the short flight of steps to pound upon the wide doors, and then returned to his horse to wait. The doors creaked open and he turned only his head to pin the butler with a stare designed to show his displeasure.
The old man blinked. “Master Leopold?”
“Wilcox.”
Leopold continued to stroke his horse until the startled butler summoned grooms. Their mode of dress, when they finally arrived, fell so far below the expected standard of formality that he scowled at them.
Although he could rebuke them aloud, he saved his breath. His silence would have a greater effect than voicing his displeasure. That was the only useful trait he had adopted from the Duke of Romsey. Word of his presence would spread like fire on dry parchment until every servant knew that a Randall had returned. One who, while known for his even temper, would expect the same standards as the past Dukes of Romsey themselves.
As they led his horse away, Leopold turned to Wilcox. At least here was a man who held to familiar standards. And although the loss of Wilcox’s hairpiece was a departure from previous tradition, Leopold couldn’t be sorry for it. As boys, he and his brother, Oliver, had debated whether Wilcox had hair beneath his powdered wig. It was good to see Oliver’s obsessive calculations about hair loss in grown men had been proved wrong in this instance. Wilcox still had a good head of iron-grey hair on display. Oliver had calculated that Wilcox had been bald.
“Sir, it is good to see you return.” Wilcox ushered him inside with a wide grin. “Welcome home. Welcome home. No doubt you wish to pay your respects to the young duke and his mother.”
Leopold glanced around the entrance hall, pleased that the space remained how he remembered. In the long years of his exile, this was the one part of the abbey featuring the last good memories he retained. It was the last place he’d seen his family all together before the old duke had separated them.
“If I could request an audience with Her Grace I would be most obliged.”
The butler took his hat, gloves, and greatcoat before leading him into the blue drawing room. “I will inform Her Grace that you have returned.”
“Thank you, Wilcox.”
The butler pulled the doors closed; leaving Leopold alone with the grandeur that was the Romsey’s formal drawing room. Leopold hated the chamber. Last time he’d stood here in near darkness he’d made a bargain with the devil himself. A bargain that, despite the sweetness of the moment, had sickened him for the deception he’d become a party to.
He glanced up at the walls and let his gaze rest on the old Duke of Romsey. The portrait of his father’s cousin held pride of place above the grand hearth, smiling with deceptive smugness. How often had he seen that self-same smile aimed at him?
More times than he cared to remember.
At the far end of the room hung another portrait, a new addition to the chamber since his last visit. His second cousin, the late Edwin Randall sat in regal splendor on a throne like chair—the very image of health and vigor. A pity reality hadn’t matched the portrait. Edwin, the fifth Duke of Romsey, had not enjoyed a long tenure as duke or the best of health. In fact, given the precarious strength of his heart, it surprised him that he’d lasted until his heir arrived. But—since he’d not produced another son before his early death—that meant Leopold was next in line for the title.
The thought didn’t please him. He wanted none of the pomp and certainly none of the intrigue that went hand in hand with the title. He had wealth enough to last a lifetime and wanted nothing from this place but answers.
He shifted his gaze to the woman holding an expressionless newborn child across her knees. The current duchess appeared a formidable woman. Dark haired and grave in manner. He hoped the child, named Edwin after his father, received a glimmer of parental affection from her. Or perhaps, as often was the case with the Duchess’ of Romsey, she left the care of her child in the hands of capable servants.
Poor child.
Edwin Randall, the sixth Duke of Romsey, had Leopold’s pity.
He’d never be as free to laugh as Leopold and his brothers and sister had been. Perhaps that was the benefit of not being the heir. Leopold’s childhood had been a happy one—loud and rough rather than refined and sequestered in this place. But Leopold was incredibly curious about young Edwin’s health. Did he have a weak heart like his father, too?
Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall and he turned toward the door. After a moment or two of hushed consultation outside a woman swept in—flanked by two footmen and a darkly dressed attendant.
The Duchess of Romsey shocked Leopold to his core. Where he had expected haughty civility, he sensed uncertainty. Where he expected grave regard, he sensed youth and unease. This was the Duchess of Romsey?
He risked a quick glance at the portrait. The artist had only captured the tiniest portion of the real woman and Leopold hastily produced a courtly bow to cover his surprise.
When he took a step forward, her two footmen moved to stand between him and the duchess. The action told him all he needed to know. The old duke had poisoned her mind toward him and his family. Getting what he wanted from her might take some time. “Your Grace, forgive me for not calling on you sooner. My affairs have kept me abroad much longer than I anticipated. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your husband and his father. It is a great loss to the family to lose both of them in so short a time.”
Actually, Leopold didn’t believe their deaths a tragedy for the family. His cousin Edwin may have been as much a pawn as Leopold had been in the old duke’s intrigues, but there had been no love between them. There was nothing about the fifth Duke of Romsey to miss. But to this day he did not know if his cousin had a hand in the fate of his family. The loss of the old duke pained Leopold only because he was the one behind it all. He needed answers as much as he needed to breathe.
“Thank you,” Her Grace murmured softly. “I had not expected visitors at Romsey today. Your arrival is a surprise and has caught us unprepared. I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
Blunt. Leopold preferred plain speaking to honey coated pleasantries. Perhaps he and the duchess could deal well with each other. “It was hardly any time to wait at all. My return is a temporary diversion on a much longer journey. I’ll not be a burden on the estate if that is what you fear.” He glanced at both footmen to show he recognized the attempt at protection. He hoped the duchess could see it was unnecessary. He wanted nothing from her but information.
The duchess frowned and, after a moment of hesitation, signaled her footmen to step aside. Her attendant, a dour woman of indeterminate age, moved to flank her as she swept forward in a rustle of burgundy silk to sit on a wide chair. “Please, do be seated.”
The duchess’ soft melodious voice was another shock to his senses. She was certainly not the woman he had expected to meet. Her voice brought to mind sweaty midnight pleasures— panting, grasping ecstasy that consumed the mind. Leopold brutally pushed those thoughts from his head as he sank into an opposite chair.
A commotion occurred at the door and he turned, noticing the appearance of tea. Such considerations were rare in his presence, but very much appreciated. If the duchess relaxed enough, she might be more amenable to his request. The duchess’ companion poured the tea without uttering a word and he took his cup, taking a sip while he considered how best to deal with her.
The duchess set her teacup upon the saucer with exquisite care and looked at him expectantly. “You mentioned you’d been abroad, Mr. Randall. Might we know how you occupied your time while away from Romsey?”
Leopold glanced at her hands. Despite her calm words, her tense fingers hinted she wasn’t altogether certain he was not about to mount an immediate attack on her person. Blast the Dukes of Romsey t
o hell and back. “I’ve just returned from India. I earn my way as a silk merchant.”
Her Grace’s pretty green eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes, since I left England ten years ago.”
Perhaps unconsciously, the duchess’ palm slid over the silk of her gown. A silk that he’d purchased and sent directly here, if memory served. Only the best for Romsey. The old duke had demanded it as part of their bargain and had kept a strict accounting of their transactions.
Noticing the direction of his gaze, her hands stilled. “You?”
Leopold nodded, but he was uncertain what to make of her interest. By rights she should disdain a member of the family who sullied his hands in trade. But he’d had little choice in the matter. He’d had to survive. He’d had to agree to the old duke’s bargain to ensure his siblings had a similar chance for a good life.
“Thank you.” The duchess glanced up at the woman beside her. “May I present Lady Venables, my younger sister?”
Leopold shifted his gaze to the other woman, doing his best to hide his surprise. The younger sister’s appearance hinted at a far greater age. As he considered her, he realized the darker tone of her gown and the sober expression might reflect a state of mourning. “Lady Venables, a pleasure.”
She inclined her head, but kept her lips pressed together, her expression wary. The mousy haired, reed-thin woman dressed in priggish navy muslin seemed wound as tightly as a bowstring.
Leopold took another sip of his tea and let some of his tension fall away. Clearly all was not as expected at Romsey, but he should not anticipate the worst from these women. They undoubtedly had their own problems to deal with it seemed. Lady Venables might be less than friendly, but he had wrongly anticipated the duchess’ contempt. So far all he sensed was curiosity from her.
“Wilcox mentioned that it has been many years since you’ve been at Romsey. I must confess I cannot recall my husband ever mentioning you. Are you greatly estranged from the ducal line?”
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