‘The two estates joined together would resolve all your problems in one fell swoop,’ Tyler remarked. ‘You could do worse.’
Doran waved the suggestion aside. ‘Don’t be more of an ass than usual, Tyler.’
Tyler, in the process of selecting the appropriate shirt for Doran, gave a negligent shrug. ‘The practicalities have to be considered, is all I’m saying. You appear to have taken a liking to the lady, she’s your immediate neighbour and…well, marriages have been worked for less pragmatic reasons.’
‘And they say romance is dead.’
‘That airy-fairy fluttering heart nonsense don’t last, take it from one who knows, but a shapely body to warm a man’s bed never goes out of fashion.’ Tyler, Doran knew, was speaking from experience. Just ten years Doran’s senior, he had a way with the ladies and never wanted for feminine company. But his was most definitely a love-them-and-leave-them policy. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that this Lady Marlowe may or may not have known who you are, but she seems to have made a favourable impression upon you, and that’s unusual enough to get me thinking about the future. Someone has to keep your estate profitable, and you can’t afford the distractions caused by the dispute over the right of way. The duke won’t agree to get involved with the timber if you have territorial problems hanging over you. He don’t need the aggravation.’
‘Aye, very likely not.’ Doran paused to reflect, wishing he could share Tyler’s clarity of thought over the matter. But then Tyler hadn’t met Lady Marlowe and been gripped with a desire to help her rather than to suspect her motives. ‘If she’s trying to extract money from me in return for the use of that right of way, why is she here begging the duke to help her overcome the demands of her greedy relatives?’ Doran shook his head and absently pushed aside the thick lock of hair that the gesture had dislodged. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Get to know her better then,’ Tyler said, standing ready with the towel and grinning as he watched Doran wash his hands and face. ‘You will anyway, if she’s attractive. You can’t seem to help yourself. But try thinking with your brain for a change and ask her more about her circumstances. If she’s trying to dupe you, she’ll trip herself up sooner or later.’
‘What a charming prospect,’ Doran remarked as he pulled a shirt over his head. ‘But I rather think it’s her husband’s cousin who is attempting to dupe us both. Which means it might be necessary for us to join forces in order to get the better of him.’
Tyler rolled his eyes. ‘What a bore.’
‘Make yourself agreeable to her maid, Tyler, and see what she has to say about her mistress.’
Tyler shrugged, failing to conceal a grin. ‘You set me the most odious tasks,’ he said cheerfully.
It was so unlike Tyler to accept an order without questioning it that Doran sent him a suspicious look. ‘Got your eye on her already, have you?’ he asked, amused.
‘You know me, guv’nor,’ Tyler replied piously. ‘Always a slave to your service.’
‘Ha! That will be the day.’
Doran stood in front of the long glass and tied his neckcloth, adjusting the folds until he was satisfied with the result. His brightly-coloured embroidered silk waistcoat reflected his personality. The world could sometimes be a grey and cheerless place, and he tried to brighten it up in small ways. He slid his arms into the coat that Tyler held out for him, ran a brush through his hair one final time, resigned to the fact that it would fall wherever it liked anyway, and decided he was ready to face the evening ahead.
‘Right, Tyler,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let’s both see what we can discover about Lady Marlowe.’
*
Leona changed her mind three times about which gown to wear for the evening, causing Ethel to finally lose patience with her.
‘The fur-trimmed blue taffeta,’ she insisted. ‘It suits your colouring, it’s very stylish and will keep you warm.’
‘Oh, all right. It will do as well as anything.’
‘It’s not like you to get into such a taking over what to wear.’
‘It’s not every day one dines with a duke. If I want his family to help me I can’t afford to appear unsophisticated.’
‘Nothing to do with the charming Irishman I’m hearing so much about?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I barely noticed him—and anyway, I’m sure he thinks I am attempting to swindle him.’
Leona sat at the window, watching the swirling snow. It was full dark outside now, but there was enough illumination from the lanterns left burning for her to see the deteriorating weather conditions.
‘I have never known such a violent storm,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘The roads won’t be passable for days.’
‘There are worse places to be stranded,’ Ethel replied practically. ‘Anyway, I’m more concerned about this Irish fella you haven’t noticed and the way in which Yaris is trying to swindle him. Stroke of good luck him turning up here. Is he as personable as they’re saying below stairs?’
‘Oh, I suppose he’s charming enough in that typically easy way the Irish have about them, but I get the impression that he doesn’t completely trust me. Well, I suppose one cannot blame him for that.’ She lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. ‘In his situation, I would be suspicious of me too.’
‘It is the devil of a coincidence you both turning up here.’
Leona bridled. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’
‘Didn’t know there were sides to be taken,’ Ethel replied. ‘I’m just pointing out what he himself must be thinking.’
‘Yes, I suppose it will seem as odd to him as well. However, I look upon it as a fortuitous opportunity to get the upper hand over the Yarises. They couldn’t possibly have anticipated my coming upon Mr Conroy and our comparing notes. We ought to be able to use this chance meeting to our advantage, I’m just not sure how.’ Leona tapped the index finger of her right hand absently against her chin, shuddering when a gust of wind hurled gritted snow against the windowpane, misting the glass. ‘At least not yet. Anyway, I shall go out of my way to convince him of my integrity, and you can help by influencing his man in our favour. Presumably your paths have crossed below stairs.’
‘That they have. Larger than life, so he is, and as charming as you claim his master is. He’s complaining of a head cold but I think he just wants to have the maids running around after him.’
‘There’s your opportunity then. You’re good at making infusions that ease congestion.’ Leona grinned when Ethel didn’t raise any objections. Older than Leona, she was still a handsome woman who possessed the ability to turn heads. She was ordinarily hard to please, but Mr Conroy’s man had obviously made a favourable impression. ‘You can aid my cause by helping to convince his master that I am an injured party just as much as he is.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Ethel said grudgingly. ‘Come on now, you can’t sit there all evening dreaming up schemes. Although I must say that it’s good to see you in better spirits.’
‘I never seriously expected that Frankie would remember me, or that the duke would take up my cause. Such important people sparing me the time of day is encouraging.’
‘You won’t help things along if you’re late going down and keep them all waiting.’
Ethel’s warning had the desired effect. Leona stood and raised her arms so that Ethel could unfasten her gown. Half an hour later she was clad in warm blue taffeta trimmed with ermine at the neckline and cuffs. Ethel had tamed her hair into a flattering style with long spiral curls dancing around her face. She had remained largely indifferent to her appearance since coming out of official mourning. She declined all the invitations other than those she couldn’t afford to ignore for fear of giving offence, so there seemed little point in constantly titivating herself. She wanted to discourage any potential suitors, and had no intention of appearing to be on the prowl for another husband.
But tonight she had set herself the task of impressing Mr Conroy—purely as a means to an end, of co
urse. With that objective in mind, she had pulled out all the stops in an effort to make it appear as if she had made no effort at all. Leona glanced at her reflection and noticed a brightness in her eyes that had been absent for a long time. There was a touch of colour in her cheeks too that was not the product of rouge. A delicate fluttering in her stomach made her feel as if she was emerging from a long hibernation and in a way she supposed that she was. This was the first time in over a year that she had looked forward to any sort of social engagement.
Making a favourable impression upon Mr Conroy would not be as easy as Ethel supposed. Beneath all the charm she sensed the keen intellect of a resourceful man who would not be easily taken in. Fortunately, Leona possessed a competitive nature and never backed down from a challenge.
*
Amos returned to the suite of rooms that had been his since he’d achieved maturity. He had shared them with his wife Crista during their eight-year marriage, before she had been so cruelly and brutally taken from him by an assassin’s bullet almost two years before. She had stamped her own personality on those rooms, turning them into an intimate haven where she and Amos made love, talked endlessly, told one another absolutely everything and could be sure of privacy in a vast household that was never free of guests.
The gut-wrenching pain that Amos had felt when he lost the love of his life had torn him apart. He hadn’t thought at the time that he would ever recover from the debilitating agony and the aching hollowness inside. Unable to remain at the Park surrounded at every turn by memories and sympathy, he’d taken himself off and worked as a labourer in vineyards in Italy. The physical exertion had worn him down to the point where he was too weary to think or feel anything at all. He resorted to drinking himself into a stupor whenever the memories dared to break through the barrier he had erected around his heart.
Amos had known that he couldn’t turn his back on his responsibilities indefinitely and permitted himself only so much leeway in which to wallow in self-pity. He had three children who were equally bewildered by the loss of their mother. It had been selfish of him to abandon them but he hadn’t seen any other way at the time. He had barely been able to hold himself together, much less explain the intricacies of sudden death to his young family.
Amos returned from Italy after a year, partly healed but forever broken, to a life that would never be the same. Frankie had thoughtfully had his rooms redecorated in his absence, making it easier for him to occupy them again without the memories tormenting his fractured heart. He still felt Crista’s presence all around him in their private domain, gently berating him for neglecting their children. Those who said time was a great healer were in the right of it, he’d decided since his return. The memories of his wife, though still painful, were welcome now and he found himself conducting one-sided conversations with her departed soul.
He never wanted to forget her.
He kissed the miniature portrait of Crista that he kept beside his bed, then turned his attention to his ablutions. He changed his attire quickly, exchanging no more than a dozen words with his valet, his mind dwelling upon Lady Marlowe’s problems with detached curiosity. He found helping others cathartic. Perhaps there was something he could do to make himself useful. Zach already had too many responsibilities and Amos, with the stud beneath Cal’s capable control, had time on his hands.
Ready with twenty minutes to spare, Amos did what had become a habit and took the stairs up to the nursery floor. Ever since his return from Italy, Charlotte had insisted upon his coming up to wish her goodnight, just so that she knew he hadn’t gone away again. It stirred his conscience every time she clung to him to think that he had inadvertently made her suffering worse. He had been hurting so much himself that he’d forgotten his elder daughter would be feeling the pain too, even if she didn’t fully understand why her mama had been taken from her.
Amos didn’t either, but was as whole again as he was ever likely to be and would spend the rest of his life attempting to rebuild his daughter’s shattered self-confidence. That, he told himself, would make Crista content, wherever she was now.
Amos leaned casually against the door jamb and watched the children sitting cross-legged around Ariana, wide-eyed and totally engrossed as she read them the promised story. They were so absorbed by tales of pirates and buried treasure that for once the boys were not attempting to kill one another.
He felt guilty, disloyal to Crista’s memory, by the increasing amount of time he spent thinking about Ariana. At first he had justified his mild interest in her by reminding himself that he had rescued her and her sister Martina from the desperate men who had smuggled them into England and were about to sell them into prostitution. That made them his responsibility. But his feelings had gradually undergone a marked alteration. Or perhaps those feelings had always been there, buried beneath the layers of sorrow and guilt.
Ariana was a wild-eyed beauty with a fiery Latin temperament and a fierce sense of loyalty, yet she was oddly vulnerable too. He hadn’t lain with a woman since Crista’s death but his thoughts turned in that direction with increasing regularity whenever he was anywhere near Ariana. It was a sign that the healing process was working, he supposed, and that life must go on. But Ariana was no lightskirt, and treated Amos with nothing more than gratitude, respect and the occasional burst of lively irreverence. She never flirted with him and would, like her sister, one day make an advantageous marriage. Amos’s gut twisted with jealousy. The children would miss her terribly.
And Amos would miss her even more.
There, he had made the admission to himself, and the hand of God hadn’t sent bolts of lightning to smite him down for his disloyalty.
He knew that Ariana was still desperate for news of her brother, who had spied for the British during the war but had not been seen since shortly before the girls had been duped into leaving Spain under false pretences. Ariana desperately wanted to believe that he was still alive and Amos had put investigations in hand. It was frustrating how slowly the wheels of international bureaucracy turned and what little information they threw up when they completed their rotation.
Amos had gradually become cautiously optimistic, more as a result of the things he hadn’t been told—the half-truths and evasions—that Raphael might still be alive and plying his trade as a spy. All well and good, but there was no point in getting Ariana’s hopes up until he had definite information. She wasn’t even aware that he had instigated enquiries, and obtaining verifiable information required patience. If Clarence’s opposite number in Spain was half as wily as Clarence himself, getting anything definitive out of him would be nigh on impossible.
Even so, Amos was determined to keep trying.
She sensed his presence, looked up and half-smiled, then finished the chapter and told the children, amid loud protests, that they would have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happened to the buried treasure.
‘Papa!’ Charlotte launched herself into his arms and Amos swung her into the air.
‘Enjoying the story, sweetheart?’ he asked.
She nodded sombrely. ‘Miranda was scared but I held her hand, like Mama used to hold mine when I cried. I’m too old to cry now, or to be picked up,’ she added on a note of pride mingled with mild censure.
Amos laughed, quelling the momentary misery that swamped him when his daughter mentioned her mother. He placed her back on the floor and ruffled her hair. He felt a little overwhelmed by his daughter’s natural inclination to mother her younger sister and sent Ariana a helpless glance as Miranda and Josh belatedly saw him and also launched themselves at his legs. This time he swung Miranda into the air as Josh chattered on about some minor dispute that he’d had with Leo earlier in the day. Since the two boys were always squabbling about something and nothing Amos took his protests with a hefty pinch of salt.
After a few minutes the children’s nursemaid took them away and Amos was left alone with Ariana. She joined him at the window and looked out at the blizzard, the heav
y snow blowing in eddies in front of the lanterns that lit the outside of the house, mostly protected by overhanging eaves.
‘You look fascinated,’ Amos said, watching her rather than the weather.
‘What are these snowballs that the boys are so excited about?’
Amos looked at her askance. ‘You have never had a snowball fight?’
She turned her head and sent him a jaundiced look. ‘We are not accustomed to snow in Spain.’
‘No, I suppose not. Well, there isn’t much to it really. You are required to scoop up snow, pack it between your hands to make it as tight as possible and then hurl it at your adversaries.’
‘Ah.’ The ghost of a smile touched her lips as understanding dawned. ‘No wonder the boys are so enthusiastic. I would imagine that the snow turns icy and can be painful.’
‘That’s rather the point. The girls would probably prefer to make a snowman. Charlotte will show you how.’ Amos felt emotion grip him. It felt wrong to speak so glibly about something she and her mother had done together and which Charlotte had talked endlessly about for weeks afterwards.
Ariana touched his hand briefly but didn’t speak. She understood, he realised. It also occurred to him that she never asked questions about Crista, which meant that she had gained whatever knowledge she possessed about his late wife either from Charlotte or Frankie. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed her company, Amos reflected. She hadn’t been here when Crista was alive, so being with her didn’t evoke the myriad memories that lay in wait to catch him unawares just about everywhere else on the estate.
Yes, that would explain it.
‘You had best go and change,’ he said abruptly. ‘Time’s getting on.’
‘It won’t take me more than a few minutes.’
No, Amos thought, most likely it would not. It was impossible to improve upon perfection. They walked down the stairs together, neither of them speaking, and separated on the gallery. Amos partly resented the fact that he and Ariana couldn’t enjoy what had come to be their customary afternoon rides now that the weather had turned against them. But his conscience reminded him that he had forfeited the right to enjoy anything when he had failed to protect his wife.
On the Duke's Authority (Ducal Encounters series 4 Book 3) Page 6