by Mary Balogh
Could she?
Could she? She was the Duchess of Dunbarton, was she not?
THE DUKE OF MORELAND was at breakfast in his London home on Cavendish Square when he was informed that her grace, the Duchess of Dunbarton, and the Earl of Merton were in the visitors’ parlor, requesting a moment of his time on a matter of some urgency. His duchess had joined him only a few moments before.
It was early. The duke was due at the House of Lords later and always liked to spend an hour with his secretary, discussing the business of the day, before he went. The duchess was still being dragged from her bed at an unholy hour each morning by a ravenous eight-month-old son, who had not yet learned that there were far more civilized hours at which to demand his breakfast.
They both appeared in the visitors’ parlor long before Hannah could establish a satisfactory route to pace. She had changed her clothes since arriving in London a few hours ago, but she had not slept. She would have come and banged on the duke’s door long ago if decency had not prevailed. The Earl of Merton had been good enough to arrive back at Dunbarton House a good ten minutes earlier than he had promised.
“Stephen,” the duchess said, hugging her brother warmly, though she did look at him and then glance at Hannah with some curiosity.
“Duchess? Stephen? Good morning.” The duke looked keenly from one to the other of them.
Hannah did not wait for any further preliminaries.
“You must help Constantine,” she said, taking a few steps closer to the duke. “Please. You must.”
“Con?” The duke’s eyes came fully to rest on her—blue eyes in a narrow, dark-complexioned face with an austere, autocratic expression. So like Constantine and yet so unlike. “Must I, ma’am?”
“Constantine?” the duchess said at the same time. “Is he in some trouble?”
“A man is going to be hanged in Gloucestershire,” Hannah said, feeling out of breath, as if she must have run all the way here instead of riding in the earl’s carriage. “And Constantine has gone to save him. But he will not be able to do it. He has no authority. You do. You are the Duke of Moreland. You must go there too without delay and help him. Oh, please.”
It all seemed perfectly clear to her.
“Elliott,” the Earl of Merton began, but the duke held up a staying hand.
“Vanessa,” he said without taking his eyes off Hannah, “would you be so good as to have coffee brought in for the duchess? And for Stephen too, my love. They both look as if they must have just arrived back from Kent and have not breakfasted.”
“I will have some toast fetched too,” his duchess said as she left the room.
The duke took Hannah by one elbow and indicated a chair close by. She sat down heavily.
“Tell me about the man who is to be hanged, ma’am,” he said. “And his connection to Con.”
What had she said already? Probably not nearly enough. She had wanted to be as brief as possible so that he could be on his way to Ainsley Park without delay.
“He stole some chickens,” she said, “because he was afraid Constantine would be disappointed in him for leaving the door of the coop unlatched and letting the fox in, but he did not really understand that he was stealing until it was explained to him, and then he apologized and took the chickens back, and they were paid for too, but some stupid judge thought he should be made an example of and sentenced him to hang. Oh, will you go and stop it?”
And where was the controlled, articulate Duchess of Dunbarton just when she was most needed?
The duke’s eyes moved to the earl at the same moment as he surprised Hannah by taking one of her hands in his own and squeezing it.
“Stephen?” he said.
The duchess came back into the room.
“The property Con purchased in Gloucestershire,” the earl said, “was apparently bought at Jonathan’s urging, Elliott, to house unwed mothers and their children. Since it began, it has expanded to include handicapped people—both physically and mentally—and other people who find themselves rejected by society. I gather they are trained to find meaningful work elsewhere. The man in question is mentally handicapped and is inordinately fond of Con by the sound of it. He was responsible for losing some chickens to a fox, so he went and took some other chickens from a neighbor to replace them. It probably seemed logical to him. But he was arrested, and even the return of the chickens and a money payment in addition and an abject apology have been unable to save him from being sentenced to death.”
“Is it possible?” the Duchess of Moreland asked, her eyes wide with shock. “Can a man hang for something so trivial?”
“The law is not often applied as strictly as it might be,” the duke said. “But sometimes it is, and the judge is quite within his rights.”
Why were they all wasting time talking?
Hannah dragged the dregs of her dignity about her and wished she were not so tired or her mind so addled.
“Constantine loves those people,” she said. “He has devoted much of his adult life to them. If this man should be hanged, he would surely be destroyed. He would find a way of blaming himself. I know he would. Though I am sure he would tell you that he does not matter at the moment but only this poor condemned man. You have a quarrel with Constantine, Duke, and he with you. But quarrels are petty things at such a time. A man’s life is at stake. Your influence can save him. I am convinced it can. I know my duke’s influence would have saved him, and in many ways you remind me of him. You have a presence, as he had. Will you please, please go to Ainsley Park?”
He looked steadily at her.
“I cannot make or change the law of the land, ma’am,” he said.
“But the sentence for such a crime is discretionary,” she said. “You said so yourself a few moments ago in so many words. The sentence could change. He does not have to die for taking a few chickens, especially when he did not even fully realize that he was stealing.”
“I would imagine any judge’s argument might be,” he said, “that a man who can steal without even realizing it is a dangerous man who is very likely to reoffend, perhaps even to hurt someone in the process.”
“He did it because he loves Constantine,” she said, “because he could not bear to disappoint him over the incident with the fox. Can you tell me he deserves to die?”
“I am quite sure he does not, ma’am,” he said. “But—”
“Will you not go for Constantine’s sake?” she asked him. “He is your cousin. He was your friend until, as he put it, you behaved like a pompous ass and he behaved like a stubborn mule.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I should be thankful,” he said, “that he paints himself in as unflattering a light as he paints me.”
“Elliott,” his wife said, coming across the room to lay a hand on his arm, “you must go. You know you must. If you do not, then I will, and you know very well that if I go I will have to take Richard with me so that he does not starve to death, poor baby, and Belle and Sam will need to come too so that they will not feel abandoned by their own mother. Besides, my influence would be of no more account than the Duchess of Dunbarton’s. Less, indeed. She has a far more forceful character than I have.”
“My love,” the duke said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips, “you are being absurd. But you have made your point. Con needs me at last, and I will go to him. Doubtless he will punch me in the nose for my pains and we will end up looking even more alike.”
“I’ll go with you, Elliott,” the Earl of Merton said.
Hannah looked at him in surprise.
“Cass insisted even before I had a chance to ask if she would mind terribly much if I went,” he explained.
Hannah jumped to her feet as a footman stepped into the room bearing a large tray.
Oh, please let them not all sit down now to breakfast.
“I’ll go home directly,” the earl said, “and pack a bag.”
“I’ll come for you in one hour’s time,” the duke
told him.
And they both left the room.
“Food is probably the very last thing in the world you feel like,” the Duchess of Moreland said. “But have some toast anyway. I am going to have some. I had scarcely sat down for breakfast when you arrived.”
She was pouring two cups of coffee as she spoke.
“I am so sorry,” Hannah said, “to cause all this trouble.”
“I am unaware that you have caused it,” the duchess said, setting a cup and saucer down beside Hannah and going back to the tray to fetch a plate upon which she had set one slice of buttered toast, cut down the middle. “Do you love Constantine?”
“I—” Hannah began.
“That was an ill-mannered question,” the duchess said with a smile. “Let me rephrase it as a statement. You love Constantine. I have seen it coming all Season. I have even felt a little sorry for you.”
Hannah stared at her as she bit into her toast.
“I love him,” she admitted at last. “I am sorry you do not. He said he did something to hurt you soon after he got to know you.”
“He did,” the duchess said. “And it was pretty nasty. It was meant to embarrass Elliott and humiliated me instead. It was really very childish, but men can be childish sometimes. Oh, and women too, I suppose. I refused to accept his apology. I judged him unforgivable, and I have lived with the guilt of that ever since. But by the time he apologized, I believed him guilty of far worse than the mischief in which I had been caught up. Elliott has been wrong about that, has he?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “But only because Constantine was too proud and too stubborn to explain.”
“Men rarely take the easy way out,” the duchess said. “Though sometimes they do when they raise their fists and go at each other’s noses and eyes instead of talking like civilized beings. I sometimes think the power of speech was wasted on men. Oh, dear, I do not always have such a low opinion of them, I promise you. May I refill your coffee cup?”
It was empty, Hannah realized. She could taste coffee, though she had no memory of drinking it.
“No,” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank you, but I must go. I have other urgent business this morning, and I must not hold you back from being with your husband for a short while before he leaves. Oh, how I wish I could go with him and the Earl of Merton. But I would merely delay them.”
“Yes.” The duchess smiled. “And it would not be at all the thing, even for the Duchess of Dunbarton. Elliott can be very autocratic when he chooses to be, Duchess. He will not easily take no for an answer in Gloucestershire. Neither will Stephen. He is sometimes mistaken for a meek, even perhaps a weak man because he is so amiable and looks so much like an angel, but he can be an avenging angel when he chooses to be. He will do it for Constantine’s sake.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said.
The duchess walked to the door with her and then realized that her brother had taken the carriage. But Hannah would not allow her to call out another conveyance.
“I will walk,” she said. “The fresh air will do me good, and there is a pleasant breeze.”
The duchess surprised her by hugging her tightly before she left.
“You must come and have tea with me one afternoon,” she said. “I will send an invitation. Will you come? I have always wished I knew you better.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said. “I would like that.”
Where was he now, she wondered as she hurried away toward home. She did not doubt he had traveled through the night, stopping only for toll gates and a change of horses. She had warned her coachman to expect a nonstop journey. Would they be there by now? Or was he still on the road, wondering if he would be there in time, wondering if he could save his protégé?
And how soon could she decently present herself at St. James’s Palace, requesting an audience with the king himself?
Would he see her?
Would he even be allowed to know she was there?
But of course he would grant her an audience. She was the Duchess of Dunbarton, widow of the Duke of Dunbarton.
Expect something, he had taught her, and it is yours.
She expected to see the king within the next few hours. But she needed to hurry home first in order to garb herself in all her finest armor.
Not a fake diamond was to be in sight this morning. And not the merest hint of any color except white.
CONSTANTINE ARRIVED at Ainsley Park in the middle of a wet afternoon, weary to the bone and unshaven. He found everyone there pale and disconsolate, from Harvey Wexford on down to Millie Carver, the twelve-year-old kitchen maid whom he had rescued from a London brothel almost two years ago just before she was to be offered to the highest bidder for deflowering.
Jess Barnes had one week of life left.
Constantine bathed and shaved and changed his clothes—he did not sleep—before riding to the jail in a town four miles away. Jess looked unwashed but otherwise well cared for. He dissolved in tears when he saw Constantine, not because he was going to die, but because he had let his benefactor down and expected to be scolded.
Constantine took him in his arms, dirt and lice and all, and told him that he loved him no matter what, no matter where or when.
And then Jess smiled sunnily at him and was reassured.
“Everyone sends their love,” Constantine told him. “And cook has sent so much of your favorite foods that you will be fat if you eat them all. I am going to get you out of here, Jess, and take you back home. But not today. You will have to be patient. Can you do that?”
Jess could, it seemed, if Mr. Huxtable said he ought.
Not that he had any choice.
Constantine spent the following day in a futile attempt to get the charges against Jess dropped, to get the judge’s decision reversed, to get the sentence commuted, to get the defense of insanity admitted, to do anything to save Jess’s life and preferably to bring him back home to Ainsley.
Kincaid, his aggrieved neighbor, who had ended up with his chickens and their value in cash, would not look Constantine in the eye but was quite firm in his opinion that the harshness of the penalty was necessary both to remove a vicious evil from the neighborhood and to deter all the other potential threats to their peace and safety that were residing at Ainsley Park. If there was some way he could sue Huxtable himself for reckless endangerment to his neighbors or something else similar, then he would do it. He was still consulting lawyers on the matter.
Most of the other neighbors received Constantine with courtesy, even with sympathy, but none of them was willing to stand up against Kincaid. A few of them, Constantine suspected, were secretly cheering the man on.
A lawyer gave as his professional opinion that the plea of insanity would not accomplish anything since Jess Barnes showed no signs of madness, only of feeblemindedness. He had never denied stealing. He had never denied knowing that it was wrong to steal. There really was no defense, only a plea for mercy.
The judge himself received Constantine politely, even with some hearty good humor. But he would not budge on the Jess Barnes case. The man was a menace to society. The county—indeed the whole country—would be well rid of him when he hanged. The judge might have sentenced him to a few years of hard labor if he had been of sound mind, but under the circumstances …
Well, Mr. Huxtable had been clever in choosing to man his farms and his house with cheap labor and loose women to keep the men and himself happy, but he had to expect that things like this would happen from time to time. They were both men of the world and understood these things, after all.
At home, Wexford was incapable of doing any productive work. If he could change places with Jess, he told Constantine, he would do it gladly. It was all his fault. He had told Jess that Mr. Huxtable would be disappointed in him, thinking that of all things would teach Jess not to be careless in the future. But it had caused all this—and it was not even true. Mr. Huxtable had never been disappointed in anyone at Ainsley except the very few who had lef
t of their own accord, unwilling to work for their keep or observe the few rules that were necessary for the community to exist happily and productively.
Constantine had squeezed his shoulder, but he could give no other comfort.
Everyone else was almost equally upset. Jess was something of a favorite with them all.
By the next morning Constantine was in despair. He could not recall when he had last slept—or eaten. He had ridden in to see Jess again and then ridden home. He did not know what else he could do. He could not remember feeling this helpless ever before.
There must be something.
He remained in the stable yard to brush down his own horse. He heard the approach of a carriage before he saw it. A painful hope caused his stomach to lurch. Was it Kincaid, perhaps? Had he had a change of heart? And would it do anything to change the judge’s mind?
He walked to the gateway and looked out when the carriage was close. He tried not to hope.
It was not a carriage that could be mistaken for any other. There was a ducal coat of arms emblazoned on the sides. The coachman and the footman beside him up on the box were in ducal livery. The whole conveyance must have caused a stir as it crossed the country—and as it passed through the village on the way here.
It was the carriage of the Duke of Moreland.
Elliott’s carriage.
Constantine was too weary to feel any great surprise. He felt only a dull anger.
Elliott had come to gloat.
Though why he should come all this way just to do that he did not try to analyze.
He strode toward the house, just behind the carriage as its wheels crunched over gravel and came to a stop outside the front doors.
The footman jumped down smartly from the box and made off in the direction of the steps leading up to the doors.
“There is no need,” Constantine told him. “I am here.”
The footman turned, bowed, and returned to the carriage to open the door and set down the steps.
Elliott descended to the terrace, and Constantine’s anger was full blown.