Edward turned excitedly back to Spencer. “No, suppose she isn’t, Spencer. Suppose her father, irritated in the extreme to have her show up on his doorstep so soon after her, uh, departure, has already booked passage and left with her to return her to England? Wouldn’t that be calamitous?”
“I’ve thought of that.” He hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He reasoned it out now. “I assume, in that case, should he arrive at Wetherington’s Point, he will not be daunted by my absence—”
“Or by Fredericks telling him you’ve come here to fetch your bride.”
Dear God, the possibilities were endless. Spencer frowned, thinking about it, putting himself in Mr. Redmond’s place. “No. Mr. Redmond doesn’t … daunt easily in my experience with him. A man who can amass an even greater fortune while being aligned with the losing side of a war would simply leave her at Wetherington’s Point with a warning for her to stay put. And then he would return here.”
“In which case our trip here will have proved to be pointless.”
Spencer eyed Edward meaningfully. “For some of us it already is.”
Edward was again oblivious to insult. “Here’s something else.”
Even Mr. Milton and Hornsby groaned. Spencer almost had, too. “Well, go on, Edward, what is it?”
“Suppose your lovely wife is here and she’s come home with a ridiculous story that you abused or neglected her and she’s only just escaped being locked up in a tower? If so, we could be riding right into a situation where we’ll all be shot on sight.”
No one said a word. Spencer wanted very much to tell Edward just how ridiculous his theory was, but found he couldn’t. Victoria very well could have done just that.
“Well?” Edward asked.
“Well what?”
“Well, Spencer, what should we do in that case?”
“In a word? Duck.”
Edward cuffed his higher-ranking cousin’s shoulder. “You’re going to get us all killed, man.”
Spencer ignored the attack on his person and spoke pointedly. “My dear cousin, I have known the moment in the past several weeks in which that very idea held great appeal for me.”
Mr. Milton and Hornsby stared wide-eyed like scared owls at their employer. Spencer merely raised an eyebrow at them. Let them worry. In truth, though, a prick of conscience had assailed Spencer, telling him that the neglected-wife version Edward had just outlined could possibly be proved. But neglectful only in the amount of time he’d spent with her since their wedding. Certainly, the woman, his duchess, had every gown and bauble and indulgence her heart desired. He’d seen to that. Spencer’s masculine pride suffered a bit with the realization that even those luxuries had been paid for with Victoria’s dowry.
Damn it all, he was tired of riding his own back with that truth. Why couldn’t he allow it to count with himself that he had, in exchange for the bailout of his duchy, settled on the young woman a lavish wedding, an honorable six-hundred-year-old title, and instant respectability? That was the bargain brokered with her father, that and his fidelity to the man’s daughter, a clause to which he had thus far adhered. He wondered if she could say the same thing since she’d been back in Savannah. Spencer shook his head and exhaled a sigh.
“Are you quite all right, Your Grace?”
Spencer focused on his motherly valet’s ruddy and dewlapped face. A concerned expression rode the older man’s features. Still, Spencer wanted to shout: Surely you jest, man. You’ve experienced every bump in the road and high wave at sea that I have. No, Hornsby, I am not fine. I am, in fact, not certain I will ever be fine again. But thank you for asking. However, what he actually said was, “Yes, thank you, Hornsby. I’m just tired.”
“Spencer, old man, I’ve thought of something else.”
Completely deadpan, Spencer said: “And I feel certain you will tell me what it is, Edward.”
“She could not be here at all, you know.”
“She’ll be here.”
As if doing so helped him think out loud, Edward wagged a finger at Spencer. “Not necessarily. She might not have contacted her family in any way since she left England. She might have booked passage to Savannah but, once she arrived here, she then immediately departed for somewhere else … with, ahem, someone else. So her family could be none the wiser. If that proves to be so, you will be in the humiliating position of arriving unexpectedly at the Redmonds’ front door, your hat in your hand, and bearing the wonderful news that their daughter is missing.”
Shocked by this possibility, Spencer stared straight ahead, as good as looking through Hornsby. The horrible thing here was Edward could be absolutely right. That scoundrel who had seduced Victoria could have set it all up, and they were even now elsewhere and together. This realization elevated Spencer’s mood to murderous.
“No,” he said aloud and with force, needing to hear himself say it. “She’s here, I know she is.”
No one contradicted him. Spencer again turned his head to look out the side of the carriage opposite from Edward. She had to be here. He could hardly wait to see her, to confront her, and yet he had about convinced himself she was the last person he wanted to see. He indulged himself with a mental image of himself in front of her and smiling and saying, Why, hello, my dear. How nice to see you. I would be the happiest man on earth right now if you would simply go straight to hell. And then he would turn around and walk away.
However, that couldn’t happen. She was his duchess, and she could be carrying his heir. But he did wonder what his wife would have to say for herself and how she would act. Would she be contrite? Tearful? Angry? Rebellious? Surprised?
Surely, not surprised. She had to have at least feared he would find out she had flown and would then follow her. Pride and responsibility dictated that he would. But beyond that, Spencer really could not completely deny that he relished the thought of seeing her again. She was, if nothing else, a passionate woman in all ways, but especially in temperament and daring. He respected very much how she had stood up to him on the day she’d told him her news. Very brave of her. And honest. Spencer grinned. Never a dull moment with her, no matter her sins.
But, if the other man was involved at all, Spencer couldn’t say, despite weeks of time to do nothing else but think about this situation, how he might behave or what he might do. If it proved to be true that she had run to him and he, Spencer, took her home with him, how could he ever trust her again—or be certain she’d stay? He’d heard it said that the seed of doubt, once planted, never lay fallow, but grew in the heart like a thorny vine until it squeezed out any love it found there. Spencer’s mood darkened, bringing a troubled grimace to his face. Damn it all to hell.
Though he rocked along in the well-sprung carriage, with the horses’ tack jingling pleasantly, and with the sweet scent of exotic flowers filling the air, Spencer sat unmoved by it all. Dear God, he was sick of all this mental wrangling. He simply wanted to collect his wife, worry about the details later, and embark immediately on the return voyage home. But the mere thought of another ocean crossing made Spencer queasy. Given the stormy trip they’d all endured to arrive at this coastal Georgia city, he was loath even to see another steamship, much less board one.
Adding to his discomfort, and doing its part to keep his glower firmly in place, was this seemingly interminable ride out to River’s End. They’d already traveled from the raucous and bustling riverfront docks and then through Savannah proper. What a beautiful and orderly city it was, too, laid out around green parklike squares. Still, although they had only disembarked from the steamship and then hopped into this crowded carriage, the day was proving to be one of many upsets. Bearing witness to this was Hornsby, a consummate valet but not a young man anymore, who looked a bit green, and the young and fussy Mr. Milton, who sported an impressive bleached-white coloring.
“If you will forgive me speaking, Your Grace?” Mr. Milton said suddenly, leaning toward Spencer in a respectful imitation of a bow, something hard to execute fully when one
was seated.
Spencer eyed the man impatiently, but with considerably more warmth than he would have shown Edward, had his cousin felt inclined to offer another of his outrageous theories. “Please, Mr. Milton. Proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I was thinking that despite the obvious beauty and charms we have encountered here, I feel more as if we’ve landed on another planet than simply another continent. The people and the language are quite foreign to my eye and my ear. It’s all very strange.” The properly dressed and sweltering secretary sat back and swatted irritably at some huge, flying, buzzing insect that had rudely landed on his cheek. “Heaven help me, I fear I am being eaten alive by these horrid creatures.”
“I expect you’ll get used to it over time,” Spencer remarked evenly, not possessing the least bit of sympathy for the young man’s complaints. Indeed, he’d had nothing but complaints since they’d left Wetherington’s Point for Liverpool and points beyond.
Traveling together, it seemed, bred not only familiarity but contempt—at least, on the part of his valet and secretary for each other … and Spencer for both of them. He hadn’t known the two men shared a mutual hatred—there was no other word for it—until he’d been forced into close company with them for days on end aboard the steamship. Over time, their constant bickering, in combination with the angry seas, had been enough to cause Spencer to seriously consider tossing one or both of them overboard. Of course, he would have thrown Edward over for good measure, as well. Or even himself. Only good breeding, on the one hand, and strong liquor, on the other, had stopped him. And, of course, the thought of Edward’s mother.
“Oh, I say,” Hornsby drawled, eyeing the bespectacled secretary, “the winged pests do seem especially fond of you, Mr. Milton. They’ve been buzzing around you since we first stepped on terra firma.” The expression on the valet’s fleshy, heavily jowled face became faintly superior. “Myself, I have yet to be accosted.”
Knowing all too well how this little exchange would play out, Spencer wished he’d not packed his pistol in a far-removed traveling trunk, now that he sorely needed the damned thing.
Sure enough, Mr. Milton’s retort to Hornsby was quick in coming. The secretary’s smile, which could only be called sour as he focused on his nemesis, revealed plainly enough how close to being accosted Hornsby was—and not by flying insects, either. “I am certain that the reason you have not been bitten, Hornsby, is because you do not smell good to them.”
Hornsby was not amused. His glower proved this. “I beg your pardon, sir. How dare you—”
“Tut-tut. Do not interrupt me, my good fellow. First allow me to take exception to what else you said. Meaning, there’s not the first thing firma about this terra we find ourselves on. For, despite a few high and dry places, such as this road, I fear it’s all fens and bogs and marshes.”
“Indeed,” Hornsby all but sneered. “A perfect soup for breeding something as hideous as malaria, I’d say.” Mr. Milton’s horrified intake of breath cheered Hornsby considerably. “Malaria. An Italian term, actually. Two words made into one. Mal. And aria. Quite literally, ‘bad air,’ such as that from fens and bogs and marshes.”
“Really?” This was the ever-curious Edward Sparrow. “I had no idea, Hornsby.”
“Oh, yes, sir, it’s quite true. But do you know the symptoms?” He turned to Mr. Milton. “Chief among them are night sweats, a loss of hair, and high fevers. Not very pleasant in the least. And from what I understand, younger persons who are thin and sallow, such as yourself, Mr. Milton, are more prone to it than their older, healthier counterparts.”
Mr. Milton pinched his thin lips together and glared at the man mashed up next to him on the narrow seat. “I think you are making the whole thing up, Hornsby. Especially the part about age.”
“I say,” the outraged valet huffed. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”
At last exasperated, and fearing they would escalate to an all-out brawl that would tip the landau over—especially if Edward decided to egg them on—Spencer warned: “That will be enough. And I mean for the rest of the day. One more word from either of you and I will bodily and cheerfully toss you both out and under the wheels of the dray following us. Do I make myself clear?”
Like scolded children sitting cramped together, their shoulders hunched, the thin, elegant secretary and the heavyset butler stared wide-eyed and quietly across the aisle at their employer, the duke.
“Good,” Spencer added, accepting their contrite demeanors as compliance.
“Excuse me, suh,” Mr. Hepplewhite, the driver, called back over his shoulder. “River’s End ain’t but one mo’ turn ’round the bend in the road up heah. I expect we’ll be there in a moment or two.”
Still eyeing his recalcitrant employees, Spencer said, “Thank you, Mr. Hepplewhite. Not a moment too soon, either.”
CHAPTER 7
Because Spencer had reason to believe, given the possibly contentious nature of his visit, that he might not be asked to stay—or would not do so even if he were—at the truly lovely plantation of River’s End, he’d asked Mr. Hepplewhite and his son, the burly driver of the dray, to wait and not to unload the trunks. Even now, they were watering their horses and engaging in spirited conversation with several black Redmond employees who were obviously men of their acquaintance.
Once inside, Hornsby and Mr. Milton had been escorted by an elegantly dressed elderly Negro man, who told them he was the butler and introduced himself as Virgil, to a separate parlor near the kitchen. There, they’d been assured, refreshments awaited them.
Spencer hadn’t fared as well. He, along with Edward, the elder Redmonds, and their firstborn, a tall, slender, light-haired man named Jefferson, whom Spencer had just met for the first time, were gathered in a more formal and elegant drawing room, also on the first floor. The pleasantries, if they could be called that under these rather strained and unusual circumstances, had been exchanged. And now, the room was quiet … preternaturally so, for being occupied by four adults, all of whom spoke the same language, or at least a close approximation of the same language, and all of whom had one very pressing but not-yet-present subject in common.
To Spencer’s intense relief, his wife was in residence. And the waiting, now that his quarry was within reach, was, in a word, hell. He cursed the strictures of politeness and convention that saw him and Edward so tamely seated in matching parlor chairs situated across the room from the Redmonds. Spencer’s angry inclination was to rage up the stairs, bellowing his wife’s name as he charged into every room until he damned well found her and had it out with her. But, alas, that was not to be. This was not his home and he had no idea what, if anything, his wife had told her family her reason was for being here. For all he knew, he was the villain and would be shot dead if he so much as raised his voice.
This concern was readily borne out by the Redmonds’ combined and censorious attitude toward him. Their scowls and quietness were oppressive enough even to keep Edward silent. As it was, the stern-faced elder Mr. Redmond stared steadily at Spencer from his perch at the end of the carved mantel mounted above a marble-fronted fireplace that held, instead of firewood, a beautiful array of fresh flowers in a tall vase. Spencer fully expected their beauty to be short-lived, given the pall in the room.
Even the lovely and petite Mrs. Redmond, seated decorously on an upholstered chair close to her husband, sent Spencer unhappy looks. As for the younger Redmond, that tall and dour dandy had seated himself at the opposite end of the fireplace, farther away from his parents than he was from Spencer. What Spencer found most interesting about his hosts and hostess, though, was how they kept glancing—no doubt, they thought surreptitiously—toward the closed doors of the room.
Fed up with silence and subterfuge, Spencer openly allowed his gaze to stray there, too.
“We expect her at any moment now,” Mr. Redmond said suddenly, drawing Spencer’s attention to him.
Well, that had certainly worked. Spencer nodded regally.
“So you’ve said, Mr. Redmond.”
Mrs. Redmond gestured and caught Spencer’s attention. “Are you certain I cannot offer you and your cousin some refreshment, Your Grace? Tea, perhaps? Or coffee? We were just enjoying our breakfast when you arrived, so there’s still plenty of warm, fresh food available. I could have you a nice plate fixed, if you’d like. Something to fortify you.”
Spencer settled his attention on Mrs. Redmond, a softly pretty older version of her daughter. No doubt, he would need fortification before the day was done, but of the sort that came from a whisky bottle. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Redmond, but no, thank you.”
“I could certainly do with a little something.”
Spencer snapped his head to his left, glaring daggers, murder, and lightning bolts his cousin’s way.
“Oh,” Mrs. Redmond said, sounding disconcerted. “I’ll just ring for Virgil.”
But Edward had already got the message. For once, he heeded Spencer’s warning. “No, don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Redmond. You’re very kind. Perhaps another time.”
Mollified, Spencer looked again to Mrs. Redmond, who appeared relieved as she settled herself in her chair. “Well, if you’re sure. It’s just that you’ve come such a long way. All the way from England.”
“Yes, we have,” Spencer said, smiling again. “However, they did feed us on the crossing.”
Mrs. Redmond laughed … a rich, seductive sound that would, no doubt, and God help us all, enchant Edward. “Oh, how well I remember. It’s a horribly long and tiring trip, too.”
“Very true.” The polite small talk raced up the short fuse of Spencer’s temper. He hadn’t come all this way to sit in a parlor and trade inanities. And well the Redmonds knew it.
Just then, Spencer again caught Catherine Redmond nervously glancing toward the closed door to the room. Enough was enough. If they would not broach the subject, he damned well would. “You did say Victoria is here, did you not, Mrs. Redmond? As you said, I’ve come a long way, so you can understand my desire to … see my wife.”
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