“More schedules? And all this over a baby. Just a baby.” Gantry shook his head and entered the house.
It wasn’t “just” a baby.
It was all that was left of Busick’s cousin, Colin Jordan, the man who’d been like a brother to him before wealth and women and war came between them. Was it Busick’s fault his line was to inherit the dukedom? Or that he and Colin fell in love with the same beautiful women?
Well, that part probably was Busick’s fault. Before war sobered him, there wasn’t a pretty face he’d refuse. His position and inheritance garnered many offers.
His cousin gave him no credit for falling out of false love quickly. The last heiress disagreement birthed a ten-year silence. Then, when trouble befell Colin, there was no one for him to turn to but Markham.
If Busick hadn’t been nursing his injuries, he would’ve come to his cousin’s aid, apologized again, and stopped the man from giving in to despair. Too many of his fellow veterans wrestled with the same fatal decision.
Thoughts souring, Busick shifted and turned to view the estate. Torches highlighted the enormity of Hamlin as his men took positions along the walls of the perimeter.
The young footman stood at the gate leading to the surrounding park. Busick swiped under his chin, a final signal sent to his guards to allow LaCroy safe passage.
The swinging motion of his arm whipped up that familiar scent. A milky, slightly soapy, slightly sweet fragrance permeated his greatcoat sleeve.
It was unforgettable.
The perfume of a mother and babe. His top officer, a studious young lieutenant brought his wife and newborn to the Iberian war front.
A mistake, a costly one.
But LaCroy probably had a wife, a woman nursing her child. “Good for you.”
Sullen, more than a conquering warrior should be, Busick entered Hamlin, then rested under the massive wrought iron chandelier. The limbs of the light carved in the ornate style with ribbons and filigree, towered above like an octopus caught in a crystalline net.
Lifted high by ropes and pulleys, the chandelier was brilliant, brighter than the sun, illuminating the ice-blue walls of the hall.
Blue?
Not stark white? Hmmmm.
He brushed the irritation from his mind. “The man who lowered the chandelier and lit it, an extra guinea is yours.”
None of his men answered, and the reward didn’t stop the grumbles uttering from servants his soldiers had roused from their beds. These men—stocking caps, unshorn beards, and slouching postures—all lined up, being given severance, then let go.
No loyalty problems. None.
Busick passed them, his pace slowing as he reached the nook of statues by the stairs. It had been ten years since he’d last seen the three enormous marble warriors, classic Roman soldiers bearing armor and sharp spears.
A curse jumbled with his titled name made Busick look to the line of terminated servants. “Did someone call?”
A portly fellow jerked away from the soldiers. Unlike most of the others, he was dressed in a silver livery and wore a powdered wig like LaCroy.
“Yes, Your Grace. It was I.”
Busick signaled to his men to allow the grump forward. “You are?”
“Charmers, Your Grace. I worked for your grandfather. I’m the butler now.”
This man Charmers was not charming but frumpy in his wrinkled clothes. “I don’t remember you.”
“I was the undergardener for your grandfather.”
“Well, with the unkempt lawn, I suspect you’ve been busy in the house?”
“It’s been snowing a lot, but Colin Jordan appointed me to be inside. I’m glad you’re here. There’s too much waywardness happening. I hope you’ve come to put things in order.”
To know Busick’s grandfather, the late Duke of Repington, the man knew Strathmore scandals. So, what type of order did he seek?
The pacification of an invalid father?
The firm hand offered by Grandfather?
The wild antics surrounding Mother?
“Your Grace?” The gardener-turned-butler stepped closer and swatted at Busick’s coat, brushing off white powder. “I heard you’d been mighty hurt in Badajoz or San Sebastián.”
No more hurt or broken than Busick’s surviving men. His soldiers looked resplendent in their cranberry regimentals. Unless one stared, one couldn’t see the missing arm or fingers that his valet’s padding hid.
“Badajoz. You’re dismissed.”
“But . . . But . . . Your Grace.”
“You’re dismissed. Get back in line or forgo your severance. Markham will be tossed out shortly. You can follow him. His household might need you.”
Busick powered across the hall and stormed into the drawing room. He rested a moment perched at the door, his eyes soaking in more changes. A pianoforte with an exotic olive patina sat in the corner where a suit of armor once resided. A new sofa and a sideboard completed the design.
New furnishings as well as a yellow paper treatment on the walls?
If he didn’t know how his mother, Lady Bodonel, loathed Hamlin, he would’ve thought she was here, readying Hamlin for one of her legendary parties. The notion burned his gut, stirring up feelings he’d rather forget.
Moving deeper into the room, Busick’s opinion changed. This was far too elegant and sedate for his mother. The light corn-silk yellow pattern of faint fleur-de-lis, the sea-blue chairs and matching sofa were warm, not ostentatious.
The drawing room would make an excellent base for his headquarters. Here he’d plot war tactics, instruct his ward, and maybe even plan a triumphant return to the field.
The Peninsular War still raged.
Napoleon hadn’t surrendered.
Strategists were needed as much as foot soldiers.
Winded, his arm going a little numb from strain, Busick made it to Grandfather’s desk and dropped like a rock onto the chair. He rubbed his palm along the rich claret-colored cushion of the newly sprung seat, then whipped out his pocket watch. Twenty-three after eleven. He was late, missing his adjusted schedule by three minutes.
Annoyed at himself, he laid his head back in the chair. He was still learning how not to fatigue so easily. Tiring tacticians were of no use to anyone.
The door slammed shut.
The viscount marched into the room, fists pumping.
Like a magician’s cloak, Gantry shed his dark chocolate cape, whirling it in the air before sending it flying to the sofa. It looked like one of his mother’s watercolors, the brown earth lying upon the blue sea, missing only nakedness—scantily clad sailors or mermaids.
“I can’t believe this, Duke.”
Busick should stand for his friend, his fellow officer, but his back wasn’t going to allow him to move fast, not if he wanted to be of use, not laid up and ailing in bed. “What has happened? Has Markham escaped? My ward?”
His friend undid the belting of his hilt, and his sword dropped to the floor with a clang. “No, the blackguard hasn’t escaped, and the baby seems well, a might scrawny for three months of age.”
“Scrawny? I knew Markham couldn’t be trusted. But if the boy is alive, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
The sneer on Gantry’s face could freeze the air and any of the rumored apparitions that walked Hamlin’s two-hundred-year-old grounds.
“I’ve a guard on the nursery. No harm will come to Lionel Jordan, but your uncle Markham . . . Well, I found him attempting to seduce the governess. The woman locked herself in the closet with some fit of hysteria. He’s getting dressed. They’ll both be down shortly.”
Markham couldn’t be trusted with anyone, let alone female servants. A man of honor couldn’t bed women in his employ. Servants needed to be safe, their wages based on the proficiency of duties, not whims or sexual favors.
Busick slammed the desk. “Lecherous Markham is always up to no good. Is the woman unharmed?”
“Yes. Something other than Markham naked gave her a fr
ight. The widow was upset, mumbling about her lost husband’s ghost, not the fiend’s tampering.”
“So you didn’t interrupt them?”
Gantry shook his head.
His friend had a special talent of interrupting couples engaged in the fleshly congress. And the fellow had suffered greatly from his second wife’s flirtations and her rumored infidelity.
The viscount went to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. “Your uncle is innocent of ravishing the governess, this time.”
Busick tapped his thumb along the deepest scar on the writing surface of the desk. “Markham’s not my uncle. He was Colin Jordan’s uncle from his father’s side.”
“Yes, your poor father and your cousin’s mother were siblings.”
“Correct. I’m no part of Markham. The ‘uncle business’ was to curry favor, since Jordan and I lost our fathers early, but the man is no good and has always been no good. Association with him leads to schemes for money or leisure.”
“Money and leisure are no vices. Your pockets are flush, and before the war, you had quite a number of leisurely pursuits.”
Busick sat back in the chair, smiling to himself at his history of leisurely pursuits. “Ah, the things peacetime affords a man.” A man steady on both legs. “Yes, leisure has its place. We’ll see how full my dance card becomes once Hamlin is back in order and I’ve fully recovered.”
“Your recovery has been for more than a year, hasn’t it?”
Almost two. “Yes.”
“I’m devoted to you, Duke. You said you were wounded in the Battle of Badajoz. I expected weakness from a poorly set leg, not that you can barely walk. How bad was the break?”
It was more than a broken bone. Much more. “I’m not a complainer, and words don’t change anything. I’ll get steadier now that we are out of the carriages. We’re not as young as we think we are.”
“Duke, you should be off that leg before you walk with a permanent limp.”
“More reasons to be away from Town. Now that we’ve located the child, Hamlin is the perfect place to finish healing. No expectations of social engagements out here.” No visits by his mother and her newest special friend, either.
“You’ll continue to live as a hermit?”
“Yes, particularly since my friends make married life so appealing.”
Gantry tugged at the wilted knot of his cravat. Then he shook free the scarlet ribbon at his back, loosing chestnut locks in dire need of shears. “It has its moments, if there’s trust.”
Gantry sighed, and Busick imagined fire launching from the viscount’s dragon nostrils.
“You and your ward will live here in the country?”
“Of course, and your family seat is not too far away.”
“But my father’s there. I’d rather stay here or return to my sister’s in Bath to collect my girls. I needed to be away. This is a welcome distraction.”
Gantry clasped the wrought iron poker. “Fatherhood, when your personal affairs are in shambles, is difficult. Repington, you sound mighty prepared to be an instant father.”
“Yes,” Busick said. “I’ve planned for the task, strategized every aspect. I’ve conferred with all the women who formerly filled my dance card, the women I’ve allowed others to marry.”
If his friend’s frown drooped any lower, it would burn in the hearth flames. “You did what, Duke?”
“Many of my former conquests are now friends, more or less. Among them are countesses, duchesses, or respectable ladies of fashion in their own right, all with dozens of children between them. You couldn’t buy such wisdom.”
Pressing at his skull, Gantry closed his eyes. “So, each of these doves—they sent advice? Duke, you’re a lucky man. A lesser one would’ve been tarred and feathered.”
“I’ve received mostly warm salutations.” Busick lifted his index finger. “And just one death threat. Jove has favored me.”
“You are most fortunate.”
“I’ve prepared for this child-rearing engagement as I’ve done all my assignments, gathering as much intelligence as possible. My lady friends have been helpful. Even the death threat provided a regimen for exercise if jumping out of a window was a survivable thing.”
“As I said, you’re most fortunate.” Gantry turned and leaned against the mantel. “Your cousin, was he also fortunate with his choices?”
“I don’t know. After our fathers’ early deaths, I had my grandfather’s influence. He had his uncle Markham. If Jordan and I had put aside our differences, and he’d followed me into service, I would’ve protected him. I would’ve—”
His throat dried.
The memory of shutting the eyes of his fallen lieutenant shook him. Busick forced a deep strangled swallow. “I would’ve tried to protect my cousin. What’s done is done.”
“That’s another thing upon which we will agree. The past cannot be changed.” His friend’s voice had become a mash of things that sounded sad, not tightly controlled or spun up like a top. That wasn’t practical Gantry.
“When the guards lead Markham and his companion down, we’ll press him for the whereabouts of Mrs. Jordan, my cousin’s widow.”
“Six weeks Markham had you chasing all over England for her and the child when he had the baby all along.”
“I wonder what he did to the woman?”
“What are you saying, Duke?”
“No mother, unless she’s daft, would leave her child—and never to someone like Markham.”
Gantry rubbed his chin. It held two days’ worth of shadow, but the latest intelligence meant no stopping—riding through the night with minimal changes of horse—if they wanted to arrive and catch Markham.
Busick could only imagine how disheveled his own appearance must be. He would meet inspection tomorrow—shaved, crisp cravat, pressed shirt.
“Duke, you believe Markham has harmed her?”
Busick shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past him to get rid of anyone in his way, but women do leave, too. That’s a possibility.”
Jabbing at the coals like he beat an unseen villain, Gantry kept his back to the duke.
The floating ash of savory hickory cleansed the air like nosegay. It refreshed. Busick needed a refreshing. The past was too raw, unforgettable like the scent of mother’s milk.
“Duke, you went about this invasion of Hamlin like a battle. You wouldn’t have stormed this place with armed guards unless you suspected foul play.”
It felt like war, from the first false clues of the babe and mother’s whereabouts in Scotland, then Bath. It was a battle to outwit Markham.
But Busick wasn’t on the field.
He was in England still recovering, now ready to raise his cousin’s son. “It’s good that Markham kept the boy alive. I’m grateful we’ve taken control.
“Well, you’ve done it. And I must admit this place, Hamlin Hall, is a comfortable house, fashionable on the inside.”
And redecorated.
Busick stretched, sinking deeper into the chair’s new cushion. “Yes. One might even call it a home.”
“Duke, I know you like to win, but we could’ve used the courts and not a garrison of your former infantry.”
“They needed a mission, and the courts take too long. We wait on them to enforce Jordan’s will, and Markham could be careless with this child. To keep me from gaining control, he’d harm the boy, maybe even sell him off. I know Markham. He only cares about himself.”
“And you, Your Grace, you like winning. You need other hobbies.”
“Well, now I have a ward to care for.”
“What is it you win with the baby? Best bachelor father ever?” Gantry stripped off his cravat and tossed it atop his discarded coat. “There’s nothing to win in raising children, everything to lose.”
Busick tried to shift positions in the chair, but it hurt his back too much and would turn the viscount from his moral diatribe to his mother-hen diatribe. “I won’t lose on this. I’m doing what’s right.”
Gantry again leaned against the mantel. “You’re a good man.”
“And you’ve done an excellent job. Go, hurry Markham. The sooner he’s gone, the sooner you can claim a bed, and I can begin my new campaign rearing Lionel Jordan.”
Gantry nodded. “As you wish.”
The viscount left the room, still very much the second-best field lieutenant who’d ever served Busick.
The door remained half-open, and he ignored the grumbles coming from the hall and ran his fingers along the carved leg of the mahogany desk. The initials he and Colin etched hadn’t been removed. A curly script of CAJ; the straight lettering of BGS. The December strange death notification in the London Morning Post followed by a maddening hunt by his solicitors led to this crazy chase.
For Lionel, Busick wouldn’t take any threat for granted. Every time he’d been wrong in battle someone paid a price. When he was wrong about a woman, he received an invitation to her wedding.
For Colin’s child, he would be cautious, good-tempered, even boring. If the war efforts couldn’t use his skills, he’d use them to keep Lionel safe. By Jove, he’d get things right this time, starting with extracting Markham from Hamlin.
CHAPTER 4
THE WIDOW’S GRACE
I clung to a tree trunk watching Hamlin Hall. Perspiration fevered my brow, making a sticky paste of the patches of cosmetic remaining on my countenance. I needed this paint gone. I needed to be plain old me, fresh-faced me.
But there was too much activity at Hamlin.
Guards coming in and out, even crawling through the secret entry via the catacombs.
Yet no carriages had left, none of the duke’s, not Markham’s, either.
“Come down, Patience. We have to go. I kept signaling until the carriages entered the gates. I saw them off in the distance with the countess’s scope.”
“Jemina, they may move Lionel.” I slapped at my thigh pointing back toward the trail, like I was herding goats. “You go to Lady Shrewsbury’s. We both can’t be caught.”
A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby Page 3