My feet were slow, but I came back, slipped into my chair, took the paper he offered.
Repington’s lips lifted. Dimples definitely showed. A dimple was dangerous on a handsome man.
I looked at the schedule and gasped. Ten o’clock, eleven, one, and more. “An hourly schedule? Sir, you’re serious? A baby sleeps and eats and then relieves himself, and then he does this all again, but with loving hugs and reading to him and brushing his hair and smoothing his little face with lavender. None of these things are on this page. They matter.”
“That’s what you are to do in between these more formal tasks.”
“Raising a baby doesn’t need to be this formal, R-Repington, it needs to be a work of the heart with all the passion a mother can muster.”
His eyes went wide, and he bit at his lip.
I bit mine.
I didn’t mean to call him by his titled name as if we were equals. Or had I? We should be equals when it came to Lionel.
“True, Mrs. LaCroy, but my baby needs all those things and a schedule.”
His? Lionel wasn’t his. He wasn’t. The duke didn’t birth him, didn’t spend months with him in his belly talking to him about seashells and coconuts and dreams, good dreams.
“You have a problem with a direct order, madam?” He handed me the list again. “You can add those mothering things, too, but I thought if I set a time for hugs it would seem a little heavy-handed.”
“No, we wouldn’t want you to seem that way.”
“This is what I want for my Lionel.”
His again? Lionel wasn’t his. I glanced up, ready to tell him what to do with his schedule but stilled.
His face.
The pride in the duke’s face, pride for my Lionel, stopped me, gluing my hands to the seat.
That was the sentiment he’d expressed in the nursery the first day, and it made my eyes sting.
Swallowing lumps and my own pride, I put the list upon my knees. “I’m at a loss for words. You’ve gone above my expectations.”
“I do like amazing people.” The duke’s look was thoughtful, but his smile slimmed to nothing. He glanced at me as if my river of emotions had reached him and swept him away.
He clasped the edge of the desk and leaned in a little. “Comply, LaCroy. I know best.”
No. No, he couldn’t. He was trying to prepare my boy to go to war. To advance him to be less of a concern on the battlefield.
I didn’t want my boy pushed and prodded and made to fit into the duke’s world. I held my breath, counted to ten, then slid the page back to him. “These r-rules are r-ridiculous. It’s not appropriate. Not for a baby.”
The duke sat up from his slouched position. His mouth twinging as if it hurt to do so. He offered the paper again. “I think it is, and it shall be done. My little soldier needs training. You will follow my schedule, all my rules.”
“But—”
“That’s an order.”
I bristled. There was no room in his crisp command for debate or even an extra syllable.
“Mrs. LaCroy, do we understand each other? I heard your thoughts on war, but this is what I want here at Hamlin.”
“It’s still not appropriate.”
“We agreed on a month-to-month engagement. By Jove, you are a difficult one.”
“Now, don’t go calling down your gods on me.”
“What, LaCroy? Jove is an expression for my one God.” He held up one finger, then folded his arms. “Are you telling me that our month-to-month engagement is too long and that I need to find a nanny who understands her place?”
A second was too long when it came to my child. My foolish heart had begun to lead me astray. Thinking of the duke as a substitute father was foolish when he was just a drill master. I’d say anything to stay until I could steal Lionel away. “I understand.”
I took the paper and shoved it into my pocket. “May I go?”
“You may, but this schedule starts tomorrow, Mrs. LaCroy.”
Think happy thoughts, Patience. Demerara, Demerara. Demerara. I offered a salute and headed out the door.
The first opportunity to gain access to my trust documents, I would. All I needed was a chartered boat and a head start. My son and I would be away before the duke succeeded in turning my Lionel into his perfect little soldier.
And before I had to watch the fool man return to war.
CHAPTER 15
BACK IN THE SADDLE
Busick tossed his jet shako upon his head and cupped his eyes as he stepped out of the catacombs. Days of rain ended yesterday, but it didn’t snow. The effort to clear the fields wasn’t wasted.
Hamlin’s grounds weren’t perfect for outdoor exercise, but these were the best conditions he could hope for before more showers fell. The darkening clouds, the musk of rain in the air, meant it wouldn’t be long.
He stretched, shifting his weight between his stump and his crutch, then looked to the balcony for the storm called Patience LaCroy.
She churned these past days, blowing into his mind like a cyclone, overturning tables and breaking up dusty cogs, challenging his commands with her passive resistance.
Pretend passivity.
The woman never complained. She was too smart for that. No, she complied with one-word answers, a yes or a no.
The absence of complete sentences irritated Busick. The occasional sir or begrudged Your Grace made her seem tragic and long-suffering.
That wasn’t her.
Patience LaCroy was passionate and stubborn, and he’d witnessed glimpses of her compassion before he put his foot down. The woman didn’t want him returning to war, but the notion of her coming along, of her being a woman to fight for him and Lionel had been shredded.
She’d not follow him across the hall, let alone the continent. It was folly to think she would. But he and folly were old friends.
One of his field officers approached. “Your Grace, your men will be in position in fifteen minutes.”
“Good. We must begin on time, Colonel.”
The man saluted with his good hand and then marched out to the troops.
Busick squared his shoulders and took a few steps toward the huge platform he’d designed. Gantry had his misgivings, saying the structure was something one would see outside of Newgate Prison to hang offenders.
This construction was needed.
Today’s exhibition with his troops in front of his guests and his nanny would show how far he’d come in his recovery. If LaCroy saw him looking strong, handling his horse, she’d see he was right. All would know he was capable on the field.
Maybe their rapport could improve, and she’d forget about their argument in the drawing room. That was his hope, but women were different than soldiers. They didn’t take commands well, not when they thought they knew better.
He’d forgotten that.
With the last two years focused on recovery, he’d forgotten a great deal, like how he enjoyed challenging eyes and passionate lips not pressed in a frown.
Moving toward the platform, Busick steadied himself and straightened his posture. Today would decide everything, showing his mettle was strong and that he could lead on horseback. He’d return to being one of Wellington’s trusted men.
The viscount leaned against the platform, as a groom, one of Busick’s second lieutenants, held on to a wonderful mount with a dapple-gray coat.
“Repington, your great secret has been completed.” Gantry knocked his elbow into the structure. “Finished late yesterday, built to your specifications. Board by board, inch by inch. Nail count to within two, plus or minus.”
“A two-nail discrepancy, Gantry? Hopefully, it’s overdesigned and won’t collapse. I’ve been told I’m weighty.”
His friend laughed, and Busick circled the twelve-by-twelve platform, touching the shoulder-height boards that served as the flooring he’d walk on once he climbed its steps. “When I’m up on the decking, I can literally stroll into the saddle from the rear.”
“You mean to mount using your horse’s backside? You had me build a rump deck, Duke?”
Busick craned his head, felt his face frowning. “I wouldn’t put it like that. I can also approach from the side. Straddling my mount from the outset will prevent any balance issues.”
With a shrug, Gantry handed him the reins. “If you say so. And without further delay, your fine piece of horseflesh. Also, per your instructions, backside included.”
Trying to remember this was his friend, Busick tugged off a glove with his teeth. He held it there a moment before the leather slipped to the ground. Lowering to retrieve it was tricky. He’d have to balance between his reliable crutch and the mechanical appendage strapped to his thigh.
No falling today, not in front of Gantry or his balcony guests who still hadn’t arrived. Where were LaCroy and Lionel? He didn’t want to begin until they were well ensconced in the chairs he’d set.
Taking his time, Busick sized up the horse and sank his palm into its pewter-colored mane. The coarse hair—thick, tangle-free—was wonderful. It’d been two years since he’d ridden. To have the opportunity to do it again almost brought him to his knees.
“Magnificent. You’re magnificent. Look at the slope of your shoulder. By Jove, the lines of your legs would make any Englishman jealous. No offset cannons or upright fetlocks. You’re the ride I’ve been waiting for.”
“Do you need privacy with the Shire horse?”
The viscount chuckled again, but the man seemed troubled. The bags under his eyes were thick. He patted the horse’s neck as if it were a fellow soldier. “Zeus is a strong one. You will enjoy him.”
“Zeus.” Busick nuzzled the horse’s nose. “Here, I told LaCroy I had one god and you bring me another.”
“What?”
“Roman mythology. Zeus, king of Olympus . . . Never mind. The horse is fantastic.”
“And coupled with an easy temperament, he’s perfect for today.”
“Easy?” Busick glared at his friend. “You think I like easy or that I need easy?”
Gantry frowned and picked up the glove. “Neither of us is easy, but it would be better if we took the less hardened path upon occasion.”
Thunder clapped in the distance as Busick circled the horse, stepping back to look at Zeus’s hocks and the height of his withers. Shire horses were strong specimens, workhorses, and occasionally horses for war. “Is it winning if it’s easy?”
“We can still win and not make things so difficult. That’s a lesson for me, too.”
“Easy. Difficult. It’s of no consequence. As long as the weather holds and that coming storm delays, I’m winning today.”
Busick looked over Gantry’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of LaCroy coming on to the stone balcony. Did nannies choose the easier path?
Zeus deserved his attention, not the brooding nanny that he needed to impress. Checking the saddle, he tugged on the girth. It was tight. “Time to give this a test.”
Tossing him his glove, Gantry followed him to the steps of the platform. “Repington, you sure you’re ready for this? We could review the troops like we always do, then head in for whatever the ladies have prepared for breakfast.”
With a deep sigh, Busick shook his head and clasped the rail of the stairs. “No. We . . . I’m committed to this path.”
He looked at his haggard friend—pale countenance, disheveled dove-gray tailcoat—and decided to offer more charity. “You haven’t been sleeping. The bags under your eyes could transport supplies.”
“They’re not so big. And I’m hungry.”
“Heartache won’t be solved by eating, Gantry.”
One tired eye shot up as his man shoved his fists into his pockets. “A lot of things can be solved by breaking bread. Or offering compliments and apologies.”
Would complimenting the nanny make things better between Busick and LaCroy? An apology for wanting his old life back—never. But for the tone he used to express his differing opinion—maybe?
Gantry climbed the steps behind him and leaned over the built-in horse pen. “How is this hangman’s platform going to work?”
“Simple.” Busick tugged on his riding glove. “Second Lieutenant, lead the horse to the front of the stall as if you were stabling it and then back him in,” he said to the soldier. “Use a gentle pressure on his reins. Show him his respect.”
The viscount glanced down to the soldier. “Let’s not keep the duke waiting.”
The man hastened his pace, circled Zeus, then aligned him into the structure.
With the flooring surrounding the horse like a dock, it was easy to imagine the Shire being moored into place, like a sailboat. For Busick, it was time for a maiden voyage. “Gantry, you followed my instructions perfectly. I can walk around on three sides, even check the reins again. I don’t have to depend on anyone to ride, I could even back Zeus in myself, tie him off, climb, and mount. Excellent. Most excellent.”
His friend reached the overarching beam. “A hangman’s noose could sit here.” He gave it a pound. “But, no descending rope for you. You’re going to hold on to this traversing board, the guillotine part of your structure, and lower yourself onto the horse?”
Noose? Guillotine? His friend’s doubts weren’t subtle, but they wouldn’t shake Busick’s confidence . . . much. He handed his crutch down to the groom and took a few unaided steps. The strapping at his thigh was tight and rubbed as he moved, but it felt steady. The muscles in his back felt strong and in control.
Good. “It’s not a guillotine for there’s no blade. And yes, I can use my arm strength to hold on to the board and ease onto the saddle. No additional help required. It’s fantastic.”
“I and a groom could just hoist you onto the saddle. It wouldn’t be any trouble, and it’s far less risky.”
True, but that would make Busick a burden to others. That would never do. “Why waste a good guillotine?”
“Tell that to the peers of France.”
“Non.” Busick clasped the traversing board. With a grunt, he pulled his torso up to it and then lowered onto the saddle. “See,” he said between gasps. Clutching the pommel, he stayed upright in his saddle. “Zeus, I know this is a unique experience, even for an easy horse like you. We’ll get used to it.”
“What goes up must come down, Duke. And at least it was not unceremoniously done. Good.”
Busick took up the slack in his reins and chuckled to himself. The viscount hated to be wrong. “Everyone, move.”
Gantry leaped down the steps and motioned to the soldier to let go.
Busick steered the gelding forward. “I have Zeus now.”
“You’re good up there, Duke? You sure?”
“How is that even a question? I’ve kept my troops and my civilian audience waiting long enough.”
His friend grasped the horse’s bridle. “You could still practice in private with just me, maybe a few of your most loyal men.”
“Do you think I’m going to fail? I’m not.”
“I’m concerned.” Gantry saluted. “But if you fail, you’ll do it better than any man I know. Keep your head up.”
The horse jerked a little, and Busick felt his abdomen tighten, but he kept his seat. Situating his stirrups, he made his mount circle back. “There’s another reason we have an audience. I invited Lady Shrewsbury. She knows everyone in society. She must know your wife. The woman, whom we won’t talk of, can be found by the countess. I know you miss her. I know you want to make things right.”
“How would Lady Shrewsbury know where to find an enigma?”
“It was the countess’s connections that led me to Markham. Unless Lady Gantry has gone back to Demerara, Lady Shrewsbury can find her. She knows how to locate women from the West Indies.”
Gantry folded his arms. “I haven’t mentioned her much.”
“It’s in the not asking, the not saying, the not sleeping. If you were done with the woman, you’d tell me how awful she is. You’d try to use my connections or your father�
��s to see what can be done to sever things. We have two beautiful widows in our midst, and you haven’t even looked at them.”
“You mean in the manner you gaze at Mrs. LaCroy? How you keep glancing at her even now?”
The way he said it made it sound as if the flirtation was one-sided. It wasn’t. Busick was sure of it. And her not asking—her one-word responses—had to mean something other than stubborn.
They were much better at night.
They didn’t need words.
Just two souls with a common mission. He needed them back to that place, where he felt her support and care. Their situation had to be fixable. One or both of them should be flexible.
He made his horse do another circle, this one tighter and more controlled than the last. “She’s a beautiful woman. She noticed me. And I haven’t been admired in a while.”
“She’s not admiring you. She’s tolerating you. Trust me. I know the difference.” Gantry kicked at a patch of snow. “And if Lady Shrewsbury can find anyone, why can’t she find your cousin’s wife?”
That was a good question.
But the answer was obvious. No good mother would be away from her child. She’d died or she’d gone on with her life. If the answer was the latter, Lionel didn’t need her.
Busick pushed his shako higher on his head. “Perhaps Mrs. Jordan has met a foul end. Markham, or Markham’s and Colin’s creditors have destroyed her. I’ve hired runners, but they’ve found nothing. I’m going to focus everything I have on Lionel. He must be orphaned. I’ll make sure he never falls prey to the Markhams of this world.”
“Especially its prejudices.” Gantry’s head slightly bowed as he spun his wedding band about his finger. “Or the subtle slights your viscountess endured for your sake that you glossed over.”
“Lady Shrewsbury can be useful.” Busick turned his good heel toward his mount and applied a gentle pressure. With taut fingers on the reins, he nudged the horse forward, straight to the balcony. The stone structure looked like a trapezoid with angled stairs on both sides. Balancing to favor his weak leg, he slowed the Percheron and doffed his hat. “Ladies.”
The countess waved a dazzling ostrich print fan. Her serious face changed to lightness.
A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby Page 13