Something sank into Justin’s stomach. It was too numb to be called fear. “Tell me what?”
“Caroline.” The duke put a world of forbidding into her name.
“He deserves to know how much William loved him. He needs to know—”
“He already knows that, and it’s all he needs to. You will keep your word. So long as there is breath left in my body, you will bite your tongue.” To punctuate it, Grandfather lifted his cane and then drove it back to the floor. “Are we understood?”
Now her fingers settled over Justin’s and gripped. Hard. “Yes, sir.”
The rock in Justin’s stomach doubled in size. “What? You cannot lead into a subject like that only to abandon it.”
But his aunt merely sniffled and averted her face.
“Grandfather?”
The duke’s hard gaze turned on him, softening only the slightest degree. “It is nothing to worry over, Justin. A woman’s nonsense. No more.”
Aunt Caro wasn’t given to nonsense—she was given to faith, had been the one to teach him to pray, to seek the Father, to always trust in Him. And that place inside where his faith was born quivered now, warning him that whatever this truth was his aunt thought he needed to know, it was far from nonsense.
But it seemed he wouldn’t learn it while his grandfather ruled the house.
Nine
Deirdre scurried behind Mrs. Doyle, her pulse quickening. “Will they stay the night, then?”
Mrs. Doyle snatched a lamp from the stand near the passageway and lit it. “For tea, they said, but I’ll not be caught unawares.” She spun for the stairs that would take them up to the family levels.
Deirdre tucked a stray wisp of hair into her cap, flying up the stairs after her superior. And pushing down her mounting concern. If they were going to prepare more rooms … if tea became an extravagant affair …
“I am sorry you will miss your afternoon off.” Mrs. Doyle must have read her mind. “You may take it tomorrow instead, but we can’t spare you today.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The words came out with nary a squeak. But tremors turned her stomach. Pratt would not be pleased if she missed their meeting. What was she to do though? She would just have to report next time they met that Whitby had a new heiress and ask him to translate the journal. The young lady hadn’t missed it yet; surely she wouldn’t in the next few days.
Lady Berkeley—that was what the earl had told them to call her.
A shudder overtook her that had little to do with the cool draft in the stairwell. “Mrs. Doyle … what do you think of her?”
“It isn’t my place to form an opinion.” The housekeeper pushed open the needed door, and they stepped into a hallway filled with opulent tapestries and ancestral paintings. “Lady Berkeley looks much like the late Lady Whitby—God rest her soul.”
By rote, Deirdre crossed herself. “But …”
“There is no but, Deirdre.” Mrs. Doyle’s voice sounded resigned, though, not chiding. “His lordship has decided. And if I might be so bold …”
The older woman paused—and if she deliberately wasted time, it must be important indeed. Deirdre drew herself up, waited.
Mrs. Doyle leaned close. “This could be your chance for advancement. That Frenchwoman will be leaving tomorrow, they said. Lady Ramsey offered to help her find a maid schooled in Paris, but there is a chance she could ask you to rise to the task instead.”
Deirdre’s throat went dry. How was she to even try for that?
And yet … yet if she could. She would get to take her meals in the housekeeper’s parlor with the upper staff. They would all call her O’Malley instead of Deirdre. She would no longer have to polish all the silver and dust the furniture—her sole task would be seeing to the baroness and her things. Her wage would increase dramatically.
Perhaps then she could get away from her ties to Pratt.
As if he would release her so easily, especially if she served the girl he would no doubt set his sights on. That was too much to hope.
She gathered a smile for Mrs. Doyle. “I shall do all I can, ma’am. But I daresay I oughtn’t to get my hopes up, aye?”
Mrs. Doyle acknowledged that with a movement of her brow, and then she spun toward the bachelor’s wing. “There is little we can do. But I would rather welcome you to my parlor than some pretentious woman from the Continent.”
Well now. Even if she failed to convince her ladyship to take her on, that was something to treasure. Mrs. Doyle’s respect was hard won and worth much. “I thank you for that, ma’am. Truly.”
When they reached the guest rooms, they had no more time for conversation. Lord Abingdon’s room was still made up—thanks be to heaven—and they set to work on the one next to his for the duke. Beatrix and the other under-maids were seeing to rooms for the dowager ladies and Lord Cayton, but sure and Mrs. Doyle would not delegate the task of a chamber for the duke himself.
They worked in efficient, precise silence and then hurried back downstairs. When she saw that the family lingered in the great hall, Deirdre slid into the shadows to wait for them to head to drawing room or parlor. The front door stood open, the line of footmen visible on the steps. His Grace must be having a difficult time exiting the carriage.
The baroness stood by Lord Whitby, her hand resting lightly upon his arm. The pretenders had tried to cling—though his lordship never allowed it for more than a few seconds. They never carried themselves as this one did, either. Fluid grace, it seemed, but with an undertone of pride.
Nothing would be the same again. Unless Lord Whitby changed his mind, this overconfident, self-assured princess would be the new mistress of Whitby Park.
Deirdre’s gaze slid over to Lady Regan. She didn’t look upset, but she always kept her emotions in check, always strove for peace. Lady Melissa was the one more likely to shout her opinion for all to hear, and she at least watched the newcomer closely. Perhaps she would issue a warning to her uncle.
Though just now both young ladies seemed far more concerned with the young men in attendance. Lady Melissa’s gaze latched onto Lord Cayton when he entered. Lady Regan kept sending sidelong glances to Lord Thate.
Deirdre sighed. At least Pratt wouldn’t care anymore who Lady Regan fancied.
Turning her eyes back to the blonde, Deirdre watched her loose his lordship’s arm and step forward when Lord Abington entered with the duke. The chances of the lady wanting her for a maid were slim as waistlines in a famine. But she had to try. Even if she didn’t like the girl, even if she hoped Lord Whitby soon saw reason and booted her out, she owed it to Mum to try.
The family exchanged words with the visitors. There was bowing and curtsying, and they all paired off. And though she was more interested in the way Lady Regan flushed when she slid her hand into the crook of Lord Thate’s elbow, Deirdre focused her gaze on Lady Berkeley and Lord Abingdon.
The baroness didn’t just rest her hand on his arm, she gripped it. And he didn’t merely cover her fingers with his own, he clung to them. The look they exchanged—charged was the only word that came to mind.
By sheer force of will, Deirdre kept her eyes from narrowing. They must be more than friends, those two. And oh, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell Pratt that the new heiress was already in love with another.
As they moved in the wake of the others, Deirdre caught the young lord’s quiet, “Are you still angry with me?”
Lady Berkeley’s chuckle was low and taut. “Oui. But I will overlook it for now.”
He said something else, but he had shifted into the language her ladyship’s maid had spoken last night. She again picked out a few words she recognized as French, but the cadence was wrong.
Whatever he said, her ladyship’s face went serious. She answered in English. “My aunt has arranged for some sport—archery and croquet. Assuming the rain holds off and Lord Whitby can convince your grandfather to stay after tea, we will all have a lovely, relaxing afternoon together.”
Lo
rd Cayton and Lady Melissa partially turned around to share their enthusiasm with that plan, but Deirdre kept her gaze forward and her face clear as they passed by. What did it mean that this girl called Lord Whitby by his title, though she already greeted Lady Ramsey as Aunt Mary?
Deirdre didn’t know. But she would keep her mouth shut … and her eyes open.
Brook shook her head, unable to think up what secrets Justin’s family could be keeping from him. “The reason for the rift between your father and the rest of them, I should think. But as for what it is …”
She had always wondered at what had caused it. It must have been more than William’s penchant for gambling. But Justin had never known, and she hadn’t been well enough acquainted with his father to ever ask him.
Justin sighed. “Grandfather forbade her from telling me. And though I keep trying to convince myself it is likely just some old argument that makes little sense anymore, they both are—were, in Father’s case—so adamant about the secret being kept.”
She held tight to his arm, studying his profile as he looked out to the breaking waves of the North Sea. Sometimes it mattered less what a secret was than that it was. And right now, Justin needed his family supporting him, not adding more to his burdens. “Ça va?”
He sighed and squeezed her hand where it rested on his forearm, as he had done upon arriving three hours prior. “Je ne sais pas. It is all just … too much.”
Laughter from the gardens drew her gaze back toward the house, where the other young people were engrossed in a game of croquet. Brook had bowed out of that particular game. And after she’d bested everyone in their impromptu archery competition, they had all made a show of thanking her for excusing herself.
Teasing … or were they glad to see her go, if only for a half-hour promenade? She turned to Justin again. His eyes had gone a darker blue, as they always did when he was troubled.
“It seems we both have secrets in our families. Grand-père gave me Maman’s journal before I left. He said she wanted it destroyed rather than letting me see it. He said … he said she thought coming back here would hurt me.”
Justin frowned and led her away from the frothing whitecaps, back down the hill toward the carefully structured shrubbery and the laughing couples on the lawn. “Have you read it? Does it explain why she took you away rather than delivering you to Whitby?”
“I haven’t.” She wanted to tug on his arm, to slow him down, to stay away a little longer. But from the house came the sound of a gong, and the croquet game came to an immediate halt. They must all get inside to dress for dinner. She contented herself with pressing upon his arm. “I promised Grand-père I wouldn’t read it until I was ready to face whatever it told me. And just now … I feel the coward for admitting it, but it is hard enough to accept the simple facts. That he is my father, that this is my home. I want to make my own impressions, not be colored by Maman’s.”
“Wise.” He looked down at her, a smile softening the corners of his mouth. “Curious as I know you always are, direct it now toward discovering this family of yours, not focusing on the past.”
To that, she could only draw in a deep breath and tilt her head in acknowledgment. Soon they reached the indoors and parted ways. Brook tried to catch whatever glimpses she could of the house as she passed through it—a tour had been on the schedule for this afternoon, but the duke’s arrival had put a halt to that plan.
She knew her way back up to the corridor that housed her and her cousins’ rooms, though—and could have followed the sounds of giggling females had she not. Regan and Melissa were turning toward their doors as she topped the stairs.
Regan smiled and waved at her. “After you dress, come in with us to have your hair arranged. It will give us a chance to talk about the gentlemen.”
Brook returned the smile. It had been so long since she could claim any true female friends. She had been in a strange position in Monaco—not quite a royal to rub elbows with the nobles paying court to Grand-père, but too much a one to be accepted by Maman’s former ilk. Perhaps now things would be different. “Thank you. I shall.”
Her smile faded, though, when she caught Melissa’s low, “Regan! How in the world can you be so accepting when …”
Before she could hear the end of the question, their door shut. She told herself to shake it off—it was normal, after all, for them to have reservations. Slipping into her own chamber, she found Mademoiselle Ragusa holding up two of Brook’s new evening dresses, tilting her head from side to side and humming a nonsense verse she had used to sing in their schoolroom. Brook closed the door behind her and gave the woman a grin. “Having trouble deciding which you will wear, mademoiselle?”
The governess laughed and held them both up to her. “I could not tie my corset tight enough. But there are so many pretty things, and all will flatter you. Which tonight?”
Brook joined her, running a hand down the pale green sleeve of one, along the violet beading of the other.
She saw only Grand-père, that indulgent smile on his face as she tried to decide between the two silks, the way he had said, “Obtiens tous les deux.” Get them both. Blinking against the burning in her eyes, she chose the green. It had been his favorite.
Within minutes, she had changed, slid the matching slippers onto her feet, and bade her companion a good evening. Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she made her way to the door her cousins had gone into. She had to pull in a long breath. Pray for fortification. For peace. For … for a connection.
At the first light rap of her knuckles upon the door, it opened inward. Melissa must have been standing there, waiting. Though her smile looked strained, she at least offered it. She motioned Brook inside, shutting the door behind her. Wariness gave way to pure feminine appreciation. “That gown! It’s divine. Parisian?”
Brook smiled. Just thinking of Paris brought the smell of baking baguettes to her memory, and the sound of a lazy concertina. “Oui.”
Regan stepped from behind a dressing screen, her smile calmer but far more welcoming. “Your Lord Abingdon’s jaw will no doubt drop to the floor.” Mischief lit her eyes. “Have you an understanding? You seem so close.”
“An under …” It took Brook a moment to process what that meant. Then she felt the heat scorch her cheeks. “Oh, no. We are only friends.”
“But?” Melissa raised her brows and spun toward the bed, where an evening gown lay waiting. “You cannot be happy with that only. He is nearly as handsome as his cousin.”
Cayton was not half so handsome as Justin. But Brook wasn’t about to argue with a smitten girl. “He is like a brother to me.”
“The best way for a romance to begin.” Regan chuckled and motioned Brook to the seat at the dressing table. “You first, cousin. Deirdre will return in a moment.”
Cousin. Brook sank onto the padded stool and smiled at Regan’s reflection. They were both so beautiful, these cousins of hers, with the rich dark hair that felt like home.
Melissa had disappeared behind the screen. “I wish they were staying more than a night.”
Regan shook her head and stepped to Brook’s side, opening a traveling case that revealed rows of jewelry. “They will be back in a fortnight for Mama’s house party.”
“An eternity. And don’t pretend you didn’t have to stifle a groan when Thate said he would leave tomorrow as well.”
Regan stifled a sigh now and pulled out a necklace dripping crystals. “It hardly matters. Thate never pays me any mind.”
Toying with one of the hairpins on the tabletop, Brook met her cousin’s reflected gaze. It was not so unlike the backstage dressing room at the ballet. Girls were girls. They spoke of men. They fussed and dressed and yearned. She could grin. “Au contraire. He grew quite testy in the car yesterday when talk turned to one of your suitors—a duke’s son. I cannot recall his name.”
“Lord Worthing.” Melissa pronounced it with an exaggerated sigh as she reemerged. “He and your Lord Abingdon are the only two heirs to du
chies between the ages of ten and fifty. Every young lady in London was in a dither when Worthing came to call on Regan.”
“He is a good man.” Regan fastened her necklace, her voice so even, so calm that it was clear he was, to her, nothing more than that. “Of strong faith, which is rare. Handsome. Everything a lady could want.” Her hands fell to her sides, and her gaze bore right through the looking glass.
Melissa appeared at their side and slid her arm around her sister’s waist. “But you have set your heart on an unfashionable young earl who will no doubt go careening into a ditch and get himself killed in one of those cars of his.”
Brook winced—she couldn’t help it. And thanked the Lord her cousin hadn’t said it when Justin could hear and be reminded of his father’s death. Better to focus on Regan and Thate. “La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel.”
“Hmm?” Regan looked down at her, her eyes still a bit distant. “Life is a flower?”
“… of which love is the honey. Victor Hugo.” Such pretty words. But maybe they were just the stuff of novels and poems. Never had Brook seen it play out in reality. Prince Louis refused to marry, and Prince Albert … Grand-père had been unlucky in matters of the heart. He had divorced his first wife well before Brook’s day. Then came Princess Alice. Brook well remembered his argument with her, when he moved Brook to the palace. Such accusations had surfaced then—his paramour, her paramour, problems with his son, problems with her son. They had separated.
Love, it seemed, had nothing to do with anything.
A discreet knock signaled the entrance of the maid. Brook assumed the conversation would shift, but Melissa shook her head and looked at her sister. “But can you be sure you love him? I like Thate, but he is hardly a responsible, dependable man to choose as a husband. If Lord Worthing proposes, you can hardly say no.”
Regan loosed a long gust of breath. “If Lord Worthing hadn’t come calling, everyone would consider Thate a fine catch. It isn’t as though he’s a pauper seeking my fortu—” She looked away, but Brook saw the flush in her cheeks.
The Lost Heiress Page 9