“My purse is fine, but I saw your unkempt lawn, the unplowed paths. I’ll shovel without your help. I could offer you a coin or two if you told me where to contact Lionel’s mother.”
Markham’s eyes widened. “Could always use one of your coins, but I’ll not bring that woman back here. She dangled the boy over the upstairs railing. She’ll hurt the mongrel before the estate is settled.”
Dangled? And everything was settled, wasn’t it?
Or was Markham still trying to wrangle a way to control Hamlin?
Busick clasped his finger on the flintlock handle. “I’ll take up settling the estate with Mrs. Jordan when I find her.”
“She’s dangerous, Duke.”
“Aren’t all women a little dangerous?”
Markham shoved his hands in his pockets. “This one nearly killed the baby. That child is all that’s left of Colin.”
His cousin’s uncle was a lot of things, mostly evil, but he’d do anything for Colin. The woman might truly be a danger. He’d sort things out eventually.
“Busick Strathmore, the Duke of Repington, you’re still in your prime. You should be courting the socialites of London, not out here in the country with a baby. You and Colin both were popular with the ladies. A child will get in the way.”
“Courting is not currently on my schedule.”
Yes, that was an appropriate salve to Busick’s ego, as opposed to the coddling or repulsion he’d face with his present injuries. He’d never saddle a woman with a sick husband. He’d never turn a wife into a nurse. “Finish your cravat. Leave Hamlin with some dignity. And shame on you trying to deflower a servant.”
“She’s a comely nanny, but her mood changed unexpectedly. But trust me, the flower has been off the bloom of that woman for years.”
Markham folded his arms, making his bottle-green waistcoat appear more wrinkled. “See, nephew. We can get along like old times. We—”
“I’m not your nephew. And I’m done playing games. I found you. I’ll find Mrs. Jordan.”
“But, Duke, your cousin’s creditors are also mine. They’ve expectations. I spent all my money hiring a staff to care for Lionel. Surely some generosity is warranted.”
“I’m sure you’ll explain everything to your debtors when they catch you. Perhaps they’ll be moved, but not me. Go. Follow your staff—”
“Auug. Help! Help!”
The high-pitched scream came from the hall.
Busick grabbed his crutch. A lady was in trouble. Could his men have found Mrs. Jordan?
He pushed past Markham and went into the hall.
Standing under the grand chandelier, he peered up to the second landing and saw a woman swinging a poker, screaming.
Gantry started up the stairs. “You there, be careful.”
“A ghost! It’s a ghost. I saw him this time.” The young woman tossed the iron but kept moving backward.
Busick charged the stairs, his gaze switching like a pocket scope from how close her foot was to the first tread, then back to the drawing room door. Markham hadn’t followed.
The girl teetered, then lost her balance, flipping and flopping all the way down the burgundy carpeted steps. She rolled and stopped at Busick’s crutch.
The viscount ran down and picked up her arm.
Markham appeared. He moved quickly and crouched beside her. “Mrs. Kelly, revive, woman. This is the nanny.”
Gantry released the nanny’s wrist. “She’s alive. I feel the blood coursing.”
The breath Busick held in his chest began to flow. Powering backward to give the fallen girl air, he pointed his fingers to his troops, summoning two of his men. “Go investigate. More conspirators may be afoot.”
Two soldiers marched up the stairs.
Busick glanced down at the woman as Gantry helped her sit. Her eyes had a glow. Some of the girls of the Season used belladonna to add highlights to their eyes. In large doses, it could make a person subjective. Was Markham up to his old tricks?
Mrs. Kelly’s wits returned, and the petite blond bolted up.
“What happened?” Markham asked. “Are you much hurt?”
She clutched the man’s waistcoat. “I saw it this time. Not just noises or strangeness. I saw it with my own eyes. It looked like a shrouded man. In the shadows. My own eyes. I saw my late husband’s ghost. He’s sorry for all I’ve lost.”
Markham put an arm about her, but she swatted away.
“Mrs. Kelly, you’re in shock from all the soldiers in the house. This uproar is caused by you, Repington. Apologize, Duke. She’s obviously frightened by one of your gun-wielding men.”
Gantry shook his head and walked back to the line of servants he was dismissing, continuing to hand each a guinea as they left. “These are delaying antics, Your Grace.”
Light hair tumbling from a hastily done chignon, she turned to Busick. “No. It was the ghost. Tell him, Markham, about the ghost. About the things missing. The noises.”
The man looked as if he’d sobered up. He shrugged. “Mrs. Kelly is the child’s nanny, Duke. You’re terminating everyone else, but she should stay. She can care for the child.”
With the alleged caregiver babbling about ghosts, Busick shook his head. Young women were trouble. Young, confused women more so. Nothing but old matronly women would be employed, that’s what Hamlin needed. “Your position is terminated. I need no one spewing nonsense near my ward. Guards. My friend Lady Shrewsbury has rented a house about two miles away. Take Mrs. Kelly there. Tell her the Duke of Repington sent you. She’ll take you in and make sure you are cared for.”
The woman went with his soldiers and pulled away from Markham when he tried to claim her arm.
When the doors had shut behind them, Busick pivoted and watched his men opening and closing doors of the bedrooms on the second floor.
“Repington, you should let me at least stay until morning.”
“No. Be gone. Guards.”
Another of his men advanced upon Markham. The soldier’s flintlock was pointed at the fool’s head.
“This isn’t over.” Markham pointed his bony finger in the air. “If you get too ill or tire of baby duty, send for me.”
“See him to the edge of the property. Don’t come back until he’s out of firing range.”
The door didn’t slam fast enough behind the fiend, but Busick knew this wasn’t the last of him. The man was bad at many things, except revenge.
A strong baby’s cry filled the hall.
“Your baby, Your Grace,” Gantry said.
They both moved toward the stairs, but it seemed a hundred treads lay between them and the nursery on the third floor. The urge to recall Mrs. Kelly pressed, but the viscount had started up the steps.
“I’ll take care of this, this time.”
Feeling a smidgeon useless, Busick watched his friend go forward. “Tomorrow, we’ll get new hires, Gantry, you’ll see. This is best for the safety of the child.”
“If you say so.” Head shaking, the viscount reached the third floor and disappeared down the hall.
When Busick turned to his soldiers, one saluted. Another looked tired. They hadn’t done intensive duties in months.
“Take turns keeping watch, men. I promise we’ll have Hamlin normal and running well by week’s end. And we will return to military precision as well.”
That wasn’t a command but a promise. One to his men and to himself. After a fast salute to his major, Busick made his way back into the drawing room. He scanned the area, looking to see if Markham had smuggled out a Hamlin treasure.
Everything was in place, even the crystal decanter of brandy.
Moving slow, he walked farther inside and tweaked the mirror, which had become crooked.
Odd. Did Markham try to take this huge silver frame with him?
With a shake of his head, Busick pushed his friend’s coat and sank onto the sofa cushions, elevating his good leg over the edge. Deeply sighing, he relaxed and let the strain of the chase fall away.
When he opened his eyes again, Gantry stood near, dangling a baby. “Your Lionel, Duke.”
Busick sat up and took the boy in his arms. He was small with a big head and a toothless smile. A panic went through him feeling the boy’s little heartbeat against his waistcoat. “What am I to do? I mean thank you, Gantry.”
His friend smirked. “I’m sure there is some wisdom on your list from your lady friends on how to soothe a wide-awake child.”
“Yes, of course. Hello, Lionel. I’m . . . Repington?”
Gantry went to the door, his head shaking as if it would wobble off. “Good night, Duke. Master Jordan.”
Unwilling to give the viscount the satisfaction of knowing that being alone with the baby was a tiny bit unnerving, Busick proceeded to hold Lionel as if he cradled a snug blunderbuss flintlock, one that had been freshly oiled and cleaned. But this one smelled a little stale. He must need more oil.
“We’ll hire help, Gantry. As soon as morning arrives, we’ll send out inquiries.”
The viscount leaned against the door, yawning as if all the air in his lungs had left him in that moment. “I’ll relieve you in a few hours. Don’t crush or drop the boy. And here.” He walked back and handed him a cloth. “You might need this.”
Busick took it and pulled it about the wide-eyed child like a blanket.
Gantry mumbled under his breath something that sounded like amateur. “That’s not for that end. That’s a napkin to dry him when he wets himself or worse. Night, Your Grace.”
Wet or worse? “A waste basin. Gantry, get it from the desk.”
His smug friend did so, putting it close to the sofa, then went to the threshold. “Good night.”
The door shut, and Busick was alone with the boy he’d chased these past six weeks. He lifted him high in both hands. “And so this begins. I’m your guardian, Lionel.”
The boy didn’t cry. He seemed to stare back with wide hazel eyes and long lashes. His light olive face had pink poked-out lips. It was sort of cute, if Busick were to note such things.
He settled the boy in his arms. And right before he could navigate to a more comfortable position on the sofa, the child sprung a leak.
“So it begins, little one. So it does.” Busick took off the napkin tied on Lionel’s bottom and held him over the waste basin.
“First thing in the morning, I’m hiring a woman for your personal care. Your first valet, a baby valet.”
Waiting for the watering to end, he determined that addressing this particular need of the child wasn’t something he’d be good at. “Lionel Jordan, we’ll win this war together. We’ll get you a proper nanny and put you on a schedule. My friends say a schedule is important for proper child-rearing.”
The boy blinked his big eyes, innocent and wondrous.
“We’ll get along nicely, young man.”
With an old nanny serving as the boy’s valet, one who adhered to schedules and rules, there could be no way to fail. Busick patted and dried his ward and purposed to hire one right away.
CHAPTER 6
WHEN WOMEN PLOT
I stewed over an empty cup at the countess’s kitchen table waiting for her to return. The lady’s nephew, the barrister who freed me and Jemina from Bedlam had barged in. Mr. Thackery seemed different than I remembered. I didn’t remember that the medium-build man was about my height. I thought him taller. I suppose everyone looked taller when I was chained to a wall.
He and the countess went for a private conversation.
My hope was that Lady Shrewsbury hadn’t changed her mind and was not currently giving the barrister instructions to recommit me to Bedlam.
The door swung open. Chuckling, she came back into the room. “Thackery is such a dear. He sends his regards and his wishes for you to be diligent and show more care. He worked hard to obtain your freedom.”
Doubt filled me. My stomach fell, and I waited for the words, You’re going back.
I counted to ten, held my breath, but no condemnation came.
In my softest voice, I said. “I just want my son. Tell me how to put my world back together. Tell me how to get my baby from the army you sent.”
Lady Shrewsbury leaned over and clutched my fingers. “I requested His Grace, but Repington, the military man, brought his troops. I told him that Lionel Jordan, his ward, was at Hamlin Hall. He’s your son’s true guardian per the will my nephew uncovered when we researched your identity. Mrs. St. Maur is not the most reliable witness, but she was correct about you.”
“Jemina is a dear. I owe her everything.”
“She is, but let’s focus on you, Patience. Mr. Markham planted false clues and had Repington chasing you and the babe all over England.”
“Repington was Colin’s grandfather, and he’s dead. The man I met tonight is very much alive.”
“Yes, Colin’s grandfather, the fifth Duke of Repington is buried in the family crypt. The sixth Duke of Repington is alive and well, but you must know this, as you met him tonight.”
Yes, he was alive and big and limping. I pulled at my livery, clawing to loosen the binding beneath my shirt. “I did meet him, but as a footman named LaCroy whom he discharged.”
The grand woman shrugged, and Athena gave a mimicking shake. “On a first meeting, you couldn’t stay employed?”
“He terminated everyone citing a need for loyalty, but he did not see through my disguise.”
“Then the rake is slipping. He can usually detect the female presence blindfolded.”
“A r-rake?” I rolled my r, something I did when surprised. “You mean a womanizer? What will he teach my baby? Will Hamlin be filled with scantily clad women?”
“Scantily clad women? That might be the duke’s penchant in private, but rakes like him go after difficult prey, Mrs. Jordan, not ones who can be bought.” The countess patted her hand. “You’ll need to live up to your name and be patient. Your recklessness is a mixed bag of trouble. That’s what I get for helping your kind.”
My lungs deflated.
The camaraderie and hope I had in my chest for the countess leached. I was again the label of other.
Not once since Lady Shrewsbury rescued me had I been made to feel other. From Markham or the butler, I wore a shield to protect my soft heart. For the countess, a woman I admired, I was bare.
What was left of my pride dropped to the pit of my stomach. “My kind?”
“Yes. Foreigners. People birthed in England have far more caution.”
I ripped off my gloves and looked down at my brown hands. “So, you don’t mean Blackamoor or mulatto?”
With Athena purring in her arms, the countess stood over the table. “Injustice looks the same on all women, the same. You’re a cheated widow made destitute by your husband’s dastardly family. My goal is to restore you and every widow whose been denied her rightful place, like I was.”
Her mouth lifted into a smile, and my heart again saw acceptance, understanding, even love.
“Let’s have tea. Even Demerarans fancy tea. I’ve left you stirring over an empty cup long enough.”
Spicy rum or tangy sorrel punch made from the petals of sweet hibiscus flowers was a favorite drink of my homeland, but warm tea was lovely.
“Mrs. Kelly is here.”
“What? They found your spy? Who will care for Lionel?”
“Calm yourself, Patience.”
After motioning to Athena to sit on her throne, Lady Shrewsbury went to the hearth. She retrieved a pot of steaming water. From a high shelf, she tugged down the lacquered, polished box used as a caddy for tea leaves, fresh ones, not used ones.
The countess brought everything to the table. “The duke sent her to me. He trusts that I will care for her. She was disoriented and fell down the stairs.”
The grand stairs? They were steep but so beautiful when the mahogany balusters and newel posts were polished to shine.
Waving the countess’s hands from the pot, I steeped our tea, then strained the golden liquid into the
snow-white cups.
“My nephew confirmed that the Duke of Repington has not only seized Hamlin but also has made arrangements to stay at Hamlin long-term. I hope the duke trims the lawn in the spring. I hate leasing next to shabbily kept grounds.”
I almost dropped my cup. “Lawns?” I bounced up. “If this man is decent, I should go to him and tell him who I am.”
“It’s not that simple.” Lady Shrewsbury waved her hands, motioning for me to retake my seat, “The duke is not easy. He’s taken Hamlin Hall with an armed battalion and has dismissed the entire staff. He’s not sorting out good servants from bad ones. He’s made one quick judgment. We can’t have him doing that with you.”
“But, Countess, if I go now—”
“He’s a bull, a lusty bull. Bulls are not reasoned with. Their suspicions must be slaughtered, killed with kindness and loyalty.” The countess stroked Athena’s thick fur.
The kitty rolled on to her back as if to demand, Tickle me here. Athena had more control of her life and little body than I had of mine.
“Isn’t honesty the best path, ma’am?”
“Telling him that you infiltrated Hamlin as a manservant will not bode well.”
“But the truth—”
“The truth is not always enough.” The countess sat back, her countenance blanking, her lips becoming nonexistent. “Patience Jordan, why did you abandon your son?”
“I did not abandon Lionel!”
“You’ve never left his side, my dear?”
“Ma’am, you know very well I had no—”
“Answer the question. Have you left his side?”
I looked at the brown liquid in my cup. No help was in there. “Yes, I have.”
The countess leaned forward. “Where did you go when you abandoned your son?”
“I didn’t . . .” I knew what she’d pushed me to admit. I hated it but had to own it. Shoulders drooping, I coughed low. “Bedlam. Almost five weeks to the day I was told my husband committed suicide, I was tossed into Bedlam.”
“If I were my nephew, I’d have my hands behind my back and parade like a prized peacock presenting a winning argument in front of the jury box. I’d press you for the reason you were tossed into Bedlam. Was it a holiday from grief, Patience? An accident? A conspiracy?”
A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby Page 5