“That can easily be rectified by accepting the invitation to Brycecomb Hall, my lady,” Christopher replied, intruding on Mary’s thoughts and before she could think of something non-committal and polite to say by way of reply. “That invitation has been outstanding now for—how many years…?”
Mary flushed scarlet, as if the Squire was privy to her thoughts, and so far forgot present company to say under her breath, “You know perfectly well why I’ve been unable to accept such an invitation. Sir Gerald, and your aunt—”
Christopher held her gaze.
“I do believe it was my aunt who extended the invitation.”
“Which Sir Gerald declined on my behalf!”
Christopher put up an eyebrow, as if punctuating his point when he said evenly, “Surely that was well over two years ago now…?”
Mary continued to look up at him, aware Rory was all wide-eyed attention at her side, and fumbled to find an adequate response that would not sound ungrateful, yet knowing she had been thoughtless in allowing the old lady’s invitation to lapse without an adequate excuse to do so. For some reason she had assumed that in permitting Teddy to visit Brycecomb Hall whenever she wished negated her responsibility as a neighbor to make the visit herself. Why, when she was conscientious about her responsibilities with tenants, and with the neighbors in the immediate vicinity of Abbeywood Farm, had she failed to make the journey cross-country to call at Brycecomb? She had no response, and the more she thought about it, the more miserable she became at her thoughtlessness and avoidance of her duty.
The silence stretched long enough for Christopher to be annoyed with himself for putting Mary on the spot, and so said to Rory by way of explanation and hoping to end Mary’s misery,
“My aunt lives in seclusion and rarely has visitors. While she is in generally good health, her eyesight is failing her and, as I am sure you can appreciate, her increasing disability sometimes gets the better of her and she makes for poor company.”
“Yes, I can appreciate her frustration,” Rory stated without rancor. “Until she accepts the way things are and not the way things ought to be, she will remain unhappy.”
“Oh good gracious, my lady, I did not mean—I wasn’t referring—” Christopher interrupted, mortified, face drained of natural color to think he had inadvertently made reference to Rory’s lameness, when that was the furthest thought from his mind. “I meant appreciate in a general sense, never thinking in a thousand thoughts of your—” He stopped himself and made Rory a formal bow. “Accept my apology, my lady. I would never presume to know you so well as to make comment, or—”
“Please, Mr. Bryce, you do not need to apologize,” Rory replied with a smile and a gloved hand to his sleeve. “I knew what you meant, and I did not construe your remark in any other way than what you intended. And to be perfectly truthful, I am glad it is out in the open between us. I do not mind in the least to talk of my infirmity. I was lame from birth, so have never known any other condition. But for your aunt, who was born with perfect sight, the loss is the greater, and thus it is understandable she is suffering, and her moods interchangeable. No doubt Teddy’s visits offer her some respite and diversion from her gloomy thoughts.
“And now, Mr. Bryce,” she added with a smile and extending her hand, a glance at Mary, “you must forgive me if I return indoors. I have walked enough for one morning. But I do hope to see you again very soon. There was talk at the breakfast table that if the rain holds off tomorrow, making a day of it with a picnic. I should like to see more of your beautiful countryside. My grandfather suggested we take in a visit to one of your mills, with your permission, of course. He—Lord Shrewsbury—and Lord Vallentine, were most enthusiastic at the prospect of inspecting a cloth mill. For neither of them, nor I, have been inside one. Grand tells me such mills are the latest marvels of modern manufactory. And as I have a turn for the scientific and the mechanical, I should very much like to see how such places harness the power of water.” She gave a tinkle of laughter. “My husband says my insatiable curiosity is one of my most endearing qualities—No, you stay, dear sister,” she said to Mary when her sister-in-law made motions to join her. “You and Mr. Bryce no doubt have much to discuss, not least the arrangements for the picnic.”
Before either of them could comment to the contrary, Rory turned and walked off, surprising herself at her ability to rattle on without pause, and all because she had made another startling discovery that was, if that were possible, more astonishing than Mr. Bryce’s uncanny resemblance to the Duchess of Roxton. And that was that the Squire and her sister-in-law were in love. She did not doubt this for a moment.
Rory prided herself on being an exceptional observer of human nature. Her infirmity meant being ignored for the greater part of her young life when attending social functions, because she could not dance. And because she could not dance, she had plenty of opportunity and time to sit watching people. And from watching she learnt a great deal about her fellows, from their nuances, whether they were happy, sad, confused, affronted, proud, and above all, if they were in love.
And while she was convinced the Squire was in love with Lady Mary and knew it, and that her sister-in-law shared the Squire’s feelings, she wondered if Mary had yet made that admission to herself. In the Squire’s company she had a shyness bordering on awkwardness, and when she spoke to him she was unable to meet his eye. As for him, he might make the effort to appear unaffected in Mary’s presence, but Rory saw the look in his brown eyes when he gazed upon her sister-in-law.
She paused at an intersection of paths, and before taking the one that led into the house and out of the line of sight of the couple, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. And there was the Squire adjusting Mary’s shawl. He had stooped to pick it up when it slipped down Mary’s back to trail on the ground, and then fussed with its arrangement so that it would not slip again. And when Mary turned and tilted her chin up at him, they were so close Rory held her breath in expectation of them sharing a kiss; happy to have her intuition about the couple confirmed. But the moment of intimacy was but a second, and the kiss was left unfulfilled when a servant appeared out from behind an arbor and came straight up to them. Mary instantly turned away, head in her shoulder, and took a few steps to put space between them. And he, slower to react and still caught in the moment, let his gaze linger longer than was polite on Mary, only coming to his senses when the servant repeated his message. Rory’s smile broadened at the Squire’s distraction but it fell away when, having been directed to the morning parlor, she heard her grandfather say enthusiastically to Lord Vallentine,
“Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re no fool. Neither is she. You’ve both got pedigrees as long as my arm, so the match will be well-received by everyone. Not least Roxton, who’ll sigh with relief he don’t have to find her a husband; she’s too young to remain a widow. I hope it seals the breach between you, too. Well, you’re both family, and you are his closest cousin when all’s said and done. And family counts for everything with Roxton.” He gripped Evelyn’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Heed my words, m’boy—marriage to the Lady Mary is the best decision you’ve ever made. Congratulations.”
BY THE TIME Christopher was ushered into the morning parlor, the two noblemen were alone again, Rory having been fetched by Teddy to see what she had packed in her trunk for her stay with her grandmother in Cheltenham. A servant was set at the double doors so the three men would not be disturbed, and when Christopher declined a cup of tea or coffee, Lord Shrewsbury came straight to the point.
“So, Squire Bryce of Brycecomb Hall, Lord Vallentine tells me he would trust you with his life. That’s high praise indeed, given the two of you only met t’other night. But you’ve always presented as a loyal servant of the Crown, so I’m inclined to agree with him. That means I trust you, and trusting you means what I say in this room remains here, between us. Lives—many lives, perhaps thousands of lives—depend upon it. Your own fine neck into the bargain. Do I make mysel
f clear, sir?”
“As clear as a cloudless blue sky, my lord,” Christopher replied evenly. “Though why Lord Vallentine should trust me I know not, because I have yet to form a firm opinion of him.”
“Ha!” Shrewsbury looked to Evelyn. “You were right. Boorishly truthful.”
Evelyn sipped at his cup of tea before saying nonchalantly, “Which is why we’ll trust him.” His blue eyes looked the squire up and down, and then he said something that stunned Christopher. “And because, as you said so yourself, sir, family counts for everything and our squire is family—of sorts…”
Christopher was slow to respond because he was marveling at the transformation of Abbeywood’s resident ghost. Gone was the mane of wild gray hair, which had been tamed with pomade and tied back off Evelyn’s clean-shaven face with a big white satin bow. Without a beard, the nobleman’s face was even leaner, if that were possible, his nose longer, and his chin heavier. And now that his body was no longer lost in the folds of one of Sir Gerald’s large nightshirts, but fitted in a suit of gray velvet trimmed in silver thread, it became apparent there was not an ounce of fat on the lean frame. If there was one phrase to sum up Evelyn, Lord Vallentine, it was sartorially elegant.
“I beg your pardon?” Christopher replied, coming out of his preoccupation to finally hear Evelyn’s words about family. “I have no idea what you—”
“Oh don’t try to deny it! Not after I’ve just praised your bluntness to our Spymaster General.” Evelyn scoffed. “Besides, you’re easy to read. You’re shocked, not by the facts, but that I would know about your parentage at all.”
“Know?”
Evelyn threw up a lace-ruffled hand. “Have it your way. Though perhaps I should give you the benefit of the doubt, living remote as you do from society and never having met the legitimate members spawned by your sire. Except, of course, for dull Gerry, who for all his puffed-out-chest-pride at being a Cavendish looked nothing like ’em. He was the spit of his frumpish mother. Whereas you—ah! No one can deny you’re Cavendish spawn.” When Christopher’s hands clenched, he sat up, blue eyes sparkling with triumph. “So you do know I’m talking about your family connection to—”
Christopher cut him off and addressed the old man, “What has this conversation to do with the Crown, my lord?”
“Come now, Mr. Bryce, there is no cause for offence,” Lord Shrewsbury stated with a patronizing smile. “His lordship voiced the connection with the best of possible intentions. Your base parentage, while unfortunate, is not something that hindered you in the past, while you were living abroad, or here in this rural pocket of England. Indeed, from what I’m told, you’ve made the most of your rural roots. Huzzah to that, I say! And you are to be commended for remaining within your own sphere, and not, as many of your bastard brethren have tried and failed, to toady up to illustrious relatives to own to a connection that cannot be yours by right.”
“If you sent for me to insult me, then this conversation is at an end,” Christopher stated. “I would rather waste my time listening to Mr. Audley’s strictures than converse about people I know not the first thing about.”
“Don’t you insult my intelligence!” Shrewsbury cut in coldly. “I know all about you. Everything. I was best friends with Sir George—your sire. I also knew your mother—intimately.” He held Christopher’s gaze and dared to smirk. “Aye, biblically. If you didn’t have a great look of a Cavendish, I’d claim you as one of my by-blows. So let’s not mince words, or facts. You may not be acquainted with the Duchess of Roxton personally but you cannot deny the connection. You are related by blood, however polluted. She is your half-sister. And because you are related, and because she is married to the premier duke in the kingdom, and because blood connection, family, loyalty to kin, is everything, you will assist us in our endeavors to ensure her duke’s honor and reputation are not compromised, and she not distressed. Do I make myself understood?”
If the Spymaster General hoped to intimidate Christopher he was to be disappointed. He may have been able to unsettle him with such bully-boy tactics and mention of his bastard blood when Christopher was much younger and less sure of himself, but not today. And this was not London, and he was not a member of Shrewsbury’s club or social circle; nor did he care to be.
Here in the vale no one had ever seen a duke, least of all met one in the flesh, and none could claim to be kin to one, however diluted the blood connection. And it was the good opinion and respect of these people that Christopher cared about. Being a benevolent landlord and a fair employer to those who toiled on his lands and worked in his mills was almost as important to him as the three females in his life whom he loved: Kate, Mary, and Teddy. He owed no man his allegiance except his sovereign. His connection by blood to noble men and women he had never met was of little consequence. It only mattered if it mattered to his mother. And it only mattered if Mary and her daughter were affected by anything that caused the Roxtons, and thus them, the slightest distress.
“You think because I have a tainted blood connection to the Roxtons that is enough for me to want to help maintain the Duke’s unsullied reputation?” Christopher jerked his head in Evelyn’s direction. “He may trust me with his life, but he seems to have misread my nature if he advised you I could be threatened or appealed to comply, all because the Duchess and I share the same despicable sire.”
“I did warn his lordship you would not yield on such grounds,” Evelyn said on a sigh, not the least offended by Christopher’s bluntness. He sat up and set aside his tea cup on its saucer. “I was all for leaving you out of our deliberations, because when all is said and done you’re as stiff-necked as Roxton. Nothing but honor and truth and doing what is right will persuade my noble cousin, and you hold to the same damnably high principles.” He pondered for a moment. “I wonder if such ingrained and stubborn virtue is a consequence of having been sired by unprincipled lotharios? Wanting to compensate for an arrogant and unscrupulous father’s sins and all that… M’sieur le Duc de Roxton, my uncle, was the most insufferably arrogant nobleman to strut the noble stage, and a prize stallion until my sweet aunt reined him in. As for Sir George, by all accounts he knew how to satisfy a woman between the sheets.”
“Is there a point to these vulgar family reminiscences?” Christopher cut in brusquely.
“What I said to his lordship is that in order to have you fall in with our plans, we need to appeal to your baser instincts,” Evelyn continued, as if Christopher had not interrupted him. He wandered over to where Christopher stood just inside the door, and lifted his chin to look him in the eye to say, very low, “You’ll offer us your assistance if only because you’re ears over toes in love—and lust—with Cousin Mary. You’ve wanted to bed her for years—possibly since the first time you clapped eyes on her curvaceous loveliness. But your honor, and the esteem in which you hold her—which is only right and proper—forbids you from touching a flaming hair on her head—or anywhere else.” When Christopher turned brick red, he smiled smugly. “There. You see. I do know you.”
Evelyn then walked away and propped himself on the window seat, crossing his legs and adding in an audible drawl to once again include Shrewsbury in the conversation, “You won’t want to upset the Lady Mary. And she will be, very, if any scandal, any accusations of an untrue or cruel or shocking nature are attached to the Duke, a man she respects immensely. And any scandal that affects the Duke will affect his wife, and his mother, too. Mme la Duchesse is expecting a happy event in the new year—God! I almost fell off m’chair when Mary confided that piece of startling news—and at her age, pregnancy is very dangerous for mother and infant. A scandal involving her son will cause her unnecessary worry and there is a chance she could miscarry—”
“Yes! All right! All right!” Christopher interrupted, exasperated by Evelyn’s theatrical persuasion. “You have my attention and my cooperation. Just tell me what is you want of me and be done with it!”
Evelyn smiled thinly and addressed Shrewsbury. �
�See. He will help us. Or, at the very least, not get in the way of what you propose.”
“And what do you propose, my lord?” Christopher asked.
“Shouldn’t your first question be, of what does the Duke of Roxton stand accused?” Evelyn countered.
“Does it matter? My opinion is of little consequence to the desired outcome.” When Evelyn pouted and pulled a face, Christopher added with a sigh of exasperation, “Very well. I’ll humor you. Of what does the Duke stand accused?”
“Treason.”
SIXTEEN
CHRISTOPHER WAS SCATHING in his incredulous disbelief.
“Treason? Roxton? Never. I might not know the nobleman personally, and I’ll be honest, I’ve not found much to like about him. Admire, yes. But not like. Having had dealings with him these past two years or more, I’ve a measure of the man through his correspondence, and letters written by his relatives to my—to Kate. And there is one thing the Duke is not, it is a traitor to his King and country.”
“And yet his relative, and the brother of one of my most dedicated agents, is a traitor and fled to France before we could capture him! So it is not outside the realms of possibility,” said Shrewsbury. “But you are right to be dismissive. The Duke is no more a traitor to his country than am I. Yet, on the face of it, and because of what he stands accused, there are those within Society who will believe the accusation should it surface. And not only believe it, but his political opponents will demand a trial at the very least. No matter it will be conducted by his peers. All of it will be written up in the newssheets, the damage done. The mob is ever cruel and indiscriminate. But such a scenario I cannot allow.”
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