Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  He made a long-suffering sigh. “I think it will go over better if you assume the role of one of my long-lost relations.”

  “Long-lost . . . ?”

  “Yes, you know, the ones that always appear when someone inherits. Like Harriet, the granddaughter of Mildred, the third cousin four times removed.”

  “You have a cousin named Harriet?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You don’t have to be so grumpy.”

  “I’m never grumpy,” he said annoyed.

  “I don’t think that would work,” she replied. “Someone like that sounds very young and dependent.”

  “Right. I keep forgetting you’re a frumpy, old, independent countess under all that dirt.”

  She refused to respond.

  “What is your age?”

  “I think I’m older than you,” she said quietly, “so that is an impertinent question. And it’s your turn to spill your story.”

  “All right,” he said with false amiability. “I’m two and thirty. A mutt of sorts, and on the outs with the Prince Regent.”

  In her dirty state she felt far more than two years older than he.

  “I’ve been given one month to saddle myself with a young, fertile, rich, aristocratic bride of someone else’s choosing before I’ve a shred of a chance of returning to London, where I belong, instead of moldering away in a rotter of a sea castle, which Prinny wants rebuilt. Oh, and my entire fortune is missing, and the one gentleman I consider a true friend has gone astray, too.”

  “Tatiana,” she replied after a long pause.

  “Tatiana?”

  “If I’m going to pretend to be one of your relations, I’d prefer to be Tatiana instead of Harriet.”

  “You sound more like a Harriet,” he drawled. “And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not battering me with a thousand questions.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  In the end, they settled on the octagonal-shaped dairy parlor of the Mount. Parlor was a grandiose term for what had probably once been a pristine milking barn for the cows of the estate. Only two cows stood in the many stalls. They had agreed it would not do for her to arrive on the back of his horse that first evening and so she would spend the night on a makeshift pallet of old straw while he made his way to the castle.

  After arranging a sleeping place, she sat on one of the milking stools, her small dog in her arms, and tried to battle back a wave of sadness that threatened to break over her in the wash of the light of a single lantern.

  Alone. This was how it felt to be totally and completely alone—cut off from all she had ever known. God, she realized she had absolutely no one to whom she could turn. She had been swimming against a tide of ill-will swelling from the small, tight-knit group of aristocrats’ daughters and wives for the last eight years. Everyone knew her dog was her best friend. Worse, she had isolated herself from her father’s acquaintances to appease her husband. And now she was at the mercy of a gentleman and stranger who could change his mind at any given moment.

  He returned an hour later with a jug of water, bread, cold meats, and strong, hot tea laced with honey. “You do realize how hard it is to walk out of a castle with a midnight picnic without a thousand questions?” He dragged another stool to sit across from her.

  He probably had no idea how important it was to her for him to keep up this sort of banter. She was on the edge of losing her wits entirely. She grasped the tea, the shadows hiding the small tremor of her hand. Time had finally allowed the great weight of the day’s events to rest on her mind. She drained the tea.

  “It’s as I thought. In the past fortnight since she took up residence, Mémé has given notice to all the old servants. So there are only four: her tiresome French cook, her personal maid, a new housekeeper from London who will not last if I have the right of it, and a Cossack footman who will.”

  Roxanne mustered the mask of a sane person. “And who is Mémé?”

  He nudged the cold meats and bread closer to her. “A maiden great aunt. She’s one of those hanger-on relations I told you about. The ones who refuse to disappear into the shadows of your life. Although, I suppose you could say she has her uses. Have no fear. She is blind as a bat. But she has somewhat perfected the art of interrogation.”

  She had the oddest sensation he was watching her carefully as he rambled. She broke off a chunk of bread and gave it to Eddie who swallowed it almost whole. She forced herself to eat a few bites of meat and a little bread despite the fact that her appetite had completely deserted her. She quickly gave Eddie the last of the meat.

  The duke stood up suddenly. “There’s a length of toweling along with the water. Tomorrow you can concoct an amazing story to coincide with your dusty appearance.”

  She shook her head dutifully but could not meet his eyes.

  He continued quietly, “He’s not worth it, you know.”

  Her gaze flew to his.

  “It’s not about that louse,” she said boldly. She didn’t trust herself to continue. But when he refused to speak, she felt forced to fill the awkward silence. “Look, this is about the time of night I usually walk through the rooms of the house . . . checking that everything is as it should be, taking Eddie out one last time, looking at the stars, and, and . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “And thinking about the next day,” she slowed to a stop. She would never tell him that she had also spent those last quiet moments of the evening reflecting on what she could do to improve her husband’s variable moods and the feeling that she was becoming less and less like the girl she had once been. She had tried for so long to ignore that her husband had slowly undermined her vibrant, confident outlook on life. Each week, each month, indeed, each year he had chipped away at her dignity until she had sometimes begun to doubt her actual self-worth. That part had not happened often, only in the wee hours of the night when sadness reared its gray head.

  It was all ridiculous. Everyone had doubts. No one could be happy all the time. And she had accepted her lot in life. But even she would never have anticipated today’s awful events.

  “Look, it’s all going to work itself out,” he said.

  “Really?” she said with more emotion. “You don’t have to placate me with false promises. They don’t ring true, especially sitting here in a dairy. ”

  “Well, you’ve got one thing in your favor.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You’ve suggested you’ve got the wherewithal to make your own way and that’s half the battle. Although how you’ve managed to keep it out of your husband’s pockets . . .”

  She should know better than to trust this elegant stranger, with his warm brown eyes, disquieting good looks, and the aristocratic tilt to his head. She was a fool—an old fool. “My father never trusted my husband. But, he wanted the best for me, and so he agreed to the immense dowry.” She paused and continued quietly, “Lawrence always expected me to inherit a vast sum when my father died since I was his only child. Yet my father managed to hide the majority of his wealth.”

  The duke raised his eyebrows. “And you know where it is.”

  She looked away.

  “No. That’s right. You shouldn’t tell me. Shouldn’t tell anyone.” He smiled with just a hint of wickedness. “But why not just take the blunt and pack yourself off. Begin a new life, assume a new name, Tatiana?”

  “I am not leaving Cornwall until I find out why he did it.”

  “Fair enough. But just remember there are to be no duels, no scandals, and absolutely no daggers. The Prince Regent would have my head on a platter. Besides, my liver will suffer.”

  “You really are French, aren’t you?”

  Chapter 3

  Alexander Barclay, the ninth Duke of Kress had not done Mémé justice in his description the last evening. At least that is what Roxanne decided within precisely one minute of meeting the elderly Comtesse de Chatelier.

  As Roxanne faced the beaut
iful older woman in the grand salon of the Mount, it was hard to account if the countess possessed fifty or seventy years in her dish. Her jet black hair, dyed without a trace of gray, was pulled back so tightly in an elaborate coiffure that not a wrinkle could be seen on the porcelain complexion of her forehead. Only her eyes, blue as Roxanne’s own, were odd, as they were fixated on a distant point above Roxanne’s shoulder when she addressed her.

  “I see,” the comtesse said with immense doubt dripping from each word. “You are Mildred’s great-granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Et bien, dites donc. And who is this Mildred? I’ve never heard of a Mildred dans la famille.” She turned her vacant eyes toward the duke.

  “Of course not, Mémé. You only remember your side of the family. My father had a step grandmother. She was great grandfather Nicholas’s second wife.” A glint of amusement sparked from his deep brown eyes.

  “No. I most certainly kept account of all the relations and even know the relations of all our friends.” The comtesse elegantly pleated her gloved hands in her lap. “Well, are there any more of the famous Mildred and Nicky’s great-grandchildren to contend with? Or are you the only one, child?”

  Roxanne cleared her throat. “Madam, I am not a child. And no, there are no others. They all, um, died in a terrible, terrible carriage accident this past spring.” She should have prepared better. She definitely shouldn’t have used the same lie again if Mémé’s sour expression was any indication.

  Silence invaded the room like an army in wait.

  “Such a coincidence,” the comtesse said acidly.

  Roxanne swung her gaze to Alex, who rolled his eyes skyward.

  “Coincidence?” Roxanne mumbled.

  “Yes, that Alexander’s uncle, the eighth duke, and his entire family perished in a terrible, terrible carriage accident this past spring as well. And your own carriage broke an axle and sent you flying, too. Who knew carriages were so flimsy on this awful island?”

  “Island, ma’am?”

  “England,” Alex murmured, a small smile playing about one corner of his lips. He obviously enjoyed watching the raking as long as he was not over the coals.

  The older lady was not going to win this game, Roxanne thought. “Actually, I think it is a testament to the horrid condition of the roads and toll ways in our great country. I do hope our newly elevated relation,” Roxanne looked toward the duke, “will take it upon himself to deplore and condemn the rutted, and ofttimes muddy roads of England in the House of Lords at the very next opportunity.”

  Alex stopped smiling.

  “You have many opinions for someone who has arrived without invitation.” Mémé turned to her great-nephew. “Well, as long as you are not passing her off in an effort to force another one of those loathsome creatures on me again.”

  Roxanne stifled a cough.

  The duke laughed and his brown eyes looked in Roxanne’s direction. “Companions. She doesn’t care for them. Lord only knows why.”

  “Companions are for doddering old women who talk only of knitting shawls and la vieillesse.”

  “Mémé,” the duke stepped in, “give over. Harriet, the housekeeper shall show you to your room and shall send up a bath.”

  “Harriet?” Mémé said. “I thought her name was Tatiana.”

  “It’s Tatiana Harriet,” Roxanne quickly smoothed over. “Actually, my family always called me Taty.”

  “But her pet name is Hettie.” The duke obviously couldn’t resist the game.

  “And your dog?”

  “Is Eddie.” She instantly regretted giving her dog’s real name. Then again, the interview had gone so poorly, at least she would not get stuck in one more lie.

  “I like dogs. He may stay outside,” the comtesse stated contrarily. “How long are we to have the pleasure of your company, then?”

  The Comtesse de Chatelier changed subjects almost as quickly as her lofty great-nephew.

  “My dearest cousin has been so kind to invite me for as long as I like.” She did not add that Eddie would not sleep outside.

  She glanced at Alex who winked. It appeared she had passed the test.

  “We shall see,” the comtesse said, her aquiline nose high. “As soon as you attend to your toilette, I shall give you un petit tour of the interior rooms that have not fallen to ruin. Shall we start with the armory? The former monks appeared to be much more bloodthirsty than most religious I know.”

  The duke shrugged his shoulders in a fashion only a Frenchman could manage. It should have looked silly. But it did not. Roxanne was certain his constant casual disinterest was merely a veneer for a force of character he took great pains to hide.

  The question was, why did he try to conceal it?

  God only knew why he was allowing another willful female into his domain. Surely he was destined for sainthood for taking on Mémé, although he’d never really had a choice in that corner. His French great-aunt had kept track of his whereabouts better than the three-legged hunting dog of his youth. And the moment good fortune had struck by way of the dukedom? Why, Mémé had installed herself at St. Michael’s Mount without even a by-your-leave. Actually, he had thought she would do very well there, tucked away in the south of England never to be seen or heard, while, he, the proud ninth Duke of Kress, took London by storm as he had always wished to do. Bloody hell, he despised the seaside.

  But then, his plans never came to pass. Ever. Not once in his entire godforsaken life had luck stuck by him longer than a day or two. And after, invariably, disaster struck twice as hard.

  It was the reason he worried about allowing Roxanne, the probable Countess of Paxton, into his ruin of a castle. He had no reason to doubt her, yet he would rather avoid any part of her domestic debacle.

  But there was something about her. After she had washed away the gray clay dust, she was actually quite pretty. Her glossy hair had gleamed many shades of gold in the stream of light from the bank of windows. And the rare poetry of her features—her fair complexion and vibrant blue eyes, especially—charmed him. Oh, hell, it had nothing to do with her appearance—he’d had dozens of simpering blue-eyed, blond females hang on his every ridiculous utterance.

  He knew what it was about her. Her courage. Her relative cool-headedness despite her ordeal. Every other female he knew would have at least had a fit of the vapors or clung to him like a flea on a dog. She had pluck, this one. That small, shriveled chivalrous part of him wanted to help her exact justice; but that larger part of him, that wiser and older survivor by-the-skin-of-his-teeth, told him to keep her at arm’s distance. Roxanne had the blunt to take care of herself and would be departing the Mount within a week, if he had to place a bet on the outcome.

  Alex walked around the perimeter of the ancient castle lost in thought. While the base of the stone structure appeared sound enough to withstand the end of the world, it was only the uppermost tiers that needed repair. That said, there was one side, the southeastern exposure, which had suffered the worst under the constant assault of the elements. He had not the slightest idea how long it would take to repair the great pile, nor did he want to become involved for he was determined to leave the horrible clean air of the country for the lovely dank stink of Town as soon as humanly possible. He would hire an overseer, and leave him to the task of rebuilding this haunting vision from his childhood.

  In the meantime, he would entertain a house party full of noble milk-and-water misses and their parents before being forced to single out the most docile one to marry, all to appease His Majesty so he could return to his beloved life in London. And leave his future duchess to entertain herself in the wilds of Cornwall.

  As he climbed up a small grassy hill on the western slope of the estate, a young man suddenly appeared at his side, and fell into step with him without a word.

  Alex stopped to face him. “And who may you be?”

  “John Goodsmith, Your Grace.”

  “And what are you doing here?”

&nb
sp; “Introducing myself.”

  The young man could not be more than seven and ten, although it was hard to tell given the state of his ragged clothing. “I see. And do you live in one of the cottages below?”

  “No, sir. I’m a bit of a hermit. We’re standing on my dwelling.”

  Alex looked down and could see nothing more than the small hill of grass. He scratched his jaw.

  “Would you like to see it, sir?” The boy’s eyes crinkled with enthusiasm, but Alex could also see a tinge of anxiousness, too.

  Alex walked down the small slope and came ’round the front to spy a small door built of ancient wooden planks.

  “How long have you lived here, John Goodsmith?”

  “I was born here, sir. My father passed on five years now. We always kept the chickens well enough for the residents of the castle, and earned our keep that way.”

  The boy had a noble slope to his brow and nose, and a pleasant enough countenance. “And you’re asking my permission to carry on, is that it?” Alex wondered how many other ragtag assortment of personages he was going to have to take on.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I thought my great-aunt had dismissed all the servants.”

  The boy hung his head until all Alex could see was his long deep chestnut hair.

  “I’m not really a servant, Your Grace. My family has lived here for as long as the Mount has existed, I think. My father said our relations watched the Archangel Michael appear from the heavens above and throw down a bolt of lightning to make the granite rise from the sea.”

  “So she couldn’t find you, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sighed. The boy was educated, which was odd. His cultivated voice gave him away. “Well, as long as you tend the chickens well, as I’m sure you will, who am I to take the home away from over a thousand years of Goodsmiths?”

  The boy’s smile and dimples lit up his face. “So I may stay?”

  “Just keep out of sight of the comtesse, and keep her cook happy. Best prepare for the onslaught, too.”

  “Sir?” The boy pushed his locks away from his face.