Heartless

by Jaimey Grant

  Returning her gaze to the bluebird previously forming beneath her fingers, Leandra smiled at the memory. Liza’s excitement had known no bounds.

  Leandra was sure the local gossips were positively agog with all the castle activity. Besides the summoning of the local seamstress, milliner, and staymaker, outdoor servants were hired in droves, any man, woman, or child who desired employment. Within the few weeks of her husband’s absence, Leandra transformed the castle grounds. She turned no one away, finding something for each person to do, even those whose physical limitations made labor difficult. It was no surprise to her when those from further off began arriving, all pitiful, all desperate, and all seeking help. Leandra remembered her own brief moment of desperation, those hours after her brother and stepmother threw her into the streets, and was unable to turn any of them away.

  Adding to the indoor staff meant she could fix all the misnamed salons that dominated her new home. Whoever heard of making the Blue Salon gold and orange or the Green Salon crimson? The resultant confusion probably entertained the duke to no end. As Leandra inspected every room in the vast castle, she made notes of what to change and what could stay. Upon entering the Egyptian Salon, she immediately turned around and never entered it again. How she despised that particular affectation!

  Leandra soon found herself at loose ends but that didn’t last long. She’d given up on winning over the townspeople, settling for the good opinion of the estate farmers instead. When several learned a master of sorts was in residence, they swooped in on her with complaints, demands, and requests ranging from new farm equipment to new houses.

  One man even requested a wife. The little scullery maid shyly volunteered for that particular post and Leandra was satisfied to note that the man was only too delighted with the pretty girl. That was the easiest problem she had come up against to date.

  Leandra tried to handle every tenant’s problem to the best of her ability and limited experience but she felt at a distinct disadvantage and wished that her husband were there to relieve her of some of the responsibility. At times, when things were particularly hectic, she felt a surge of anger at the man who had given her his name and then so insensitively abandoned her to fend for herself in a social station of which she knew nothing, among complete strangers who made their distrust and antipathy apparent.

  Hence, her relief was immense when Derringer’s secretary arrived to lend support and knowledge where necessary. She was so grateful for his timely arrival that she failed to realize that her husband had sent the man specifically to help her. Had she thought about it, she would have been touched by the duke’s unusual show of concern.

  Now, nearly two weeks after her husband’s departure, Leandra sat in the morning room and stared through the window. She wore one of her new gowns, a charming creation of white sprigged muslin with cherry red ribbons at the high waist and along the hem and tiny puffed sleeves. A matching cherry ribbon was threaded through her curls, which were arranged into a loose chignon, a few wayward tendrils escaping to frame her face. She wore no jewelry since she had none, but Liza had taken a length of the leftover ribbon and tied it around Leandra’s slender throat. Her feet were shod in delicate slippers of white silk embroidered with tiny red roses. She wondered if her appearance would be pleasing to her husband.

  His birthday had passed, the All Hallows Eve celebration had passed, and still she received no word from him. She hoped he was well.

  She’d spent the past three days with Mrs. Stark learning all she could about her husband and trying to understand why he was… well, the way he was. Every new piece of information was surprising, shocking, depressing, or so completely unbelievable that Leandra wondered if she had fallen into a Gothic novel. She listened in awe to the housekeeper’s stories as the woman went about her duties.

  “Master Hart was only six when his mama died, God rest her soul,” Mrs. Stark began. “The poor lad had no sooner stopped mourning his mother than his father passed on as well. He was a duke then and his uncle moved right in and tried to be the duke himself. No, Alice, not there. Here. Where was I? Oh, yes, Master Hart’s uncle. He wasn’t so bad as his wife, let me tell you. She was a greedy shrew. She made the young master’s life miserable.”

  Mrs. Stark paused to show little Mary, the new scullery maid, what she was doing wrong. Leandra was pleased to note that the housekeeper was more of a mother to her underlings than a stern taskmaster. In the new duchess’s opinion, a happy and well-contented worker was a more efficient worker.

  “So his grace was forced into the role early in life,” Leandra murmured. “How terrible for him. How did his mother die?”

  The housekeeper’s lips pinched in at the corners, her eyes darting away from Leandra’s. “I reckon that would be for the master to tell, your grace.”

  Leandra let it drop but placed it in the back of her mind to ask her husband when he returned. “How did his father die?” she asked instead.

  “That was a strange thing, if you ask me,” the older woman replied, head shaking as her brows drew down into a V. She handed a bucket and brush to Hannah, one of the upstairs maids, then stood there and silently stared at her feet for a few moments before finally raising her eyes to meet Leandra’s hazel gaze. “He died in a boating accident, they do say, but I have my doubts.”

  “Are you saying it wasn’t an accident, Mrs. Stark?”

  The housekeeper glanced around uneasily. “Perhaps we should continue this in private, your grace. I wouldn’t want to frighten any of the maids with my opinions.”

  “Very well,” Leandra acquiesced. “Will you take tea with me?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that, your grace!” the woman exclaimed, one hand flying to her ample bosom in melodramatic shock.

  “Whyever not?”

  “Well, it just ain’t done, your grace.”

  Leandra gave her a sympathetic look. “Have you noticed any of my actions these past two weeks as things that are ‘done’ by duchesses, Mrs. Stark?”

  The housekeeper smiled reluctantly at that. “No, your grace. I would be honored if you would take tea with me in my sitting room,” she offered. “There is less chance of interruption there.”

  “So be it,” the duchess smiled.

  6

  What she had so recently learned about her husband left Leandra feeling distressed, helpless. She hated that feeling.

  She had finally, somehow, gotten Mrs. Stark to divulge the huge secret about Hart’s mama’s death—Leandra had begun to think of him as Hart without even realizing it. The late duchess had been found on the second floor landing, her neck broken. It was the night footman who found her, according to Mrs. Stark, but Hart had been an odd little boy ever since then. He refused to speak and when his father had favored him with any sort of attention, Hart did everything in his power to hide until his papa lost interest.

  Mrs. Stark told her the little duke uttered not a word until his father’s body was brought in to lie in state in one of the spare family bedchambers. Then he was suddenly a happy child who asked all sorts of questions and demanded attention from the Starks and several of the other servants.

  Until his uncle showed up with his wife and children in tow. Hart’s uncle took over Derringer Crescent as if he were the duke and not the seven-year-old boy with the sad dark eyes. His aunt was a shrew with pretensions above her station. She believed her husband should be the duke and took every opportunity to let the little duke know it, too.

  The staff had taken to protecting the tiny peer after one of the grooms reported to Stark that the lad’s saddle cinch had been cut and it was only a coincidence that a stablehand had caught it before saddling Hart’s pony.

  The older of Hart’s cousins, Martin, now acted as his secretary. It was this man that Stark announced at that moment, jolting Leandra from her reverie.

  She looked up with a wary smile and studied the handsome man. With his waves of golden hair and great blue eyes, he was the exact opposite of her husband. His pale ski
n and the meek expression on his pleasing countenance furthered the contrast. He smiled hesitantly and bowed.

  “You are my husband’s cousin?” she murmured, a slight disbelief coloring her words.

  “Yes, your grace.” His voice was as pleasing as his appearance, soft and gentle with a slight huskiness.

  Leandra set aside her needlework. She stood and moved across the room, holding out her hand when she neared. “I am Leandra. Please call me Merri since we are related now,” she offered with a charming smile.

  The man smiled back and took her hand. “I am Martin, Hart’s secretary, at your service. Merri.” He studied her for a moment and then flushed when he realized that he still held her hand. “I apologize,” he murmured in embarrassment. “I was wondering…may I ask you something that may be considered impertinent?”

  “Certainly.” The duchess clasped her hands in front of her and waited.

  “Why do you ask me to call you Merri?”

  The question was so different from what she had been expecting that she laughed. “Is that all? Well, my second name, Cousin Martin, is Merrily, like happy. I prefer to be called Merri. It was what my father called me.”

  “Who was your father?”

  This was the line of questioning she had been expecting. Leandra gestured to the seat across from her own and then sat down. Martin followed suit and waited for her answer with slightly raised brows.

  “My papa was the late Earl of Harwood,” she said softly.

  His brows lifted ever so slightly higher. “I was unaware that Hart was acquainted with your family,” he told her. “Apparently I was wrong,” he continued before she could correct his assumption. “Are you expecting a visit from your family soon?”

  “Merciful Lord, I hope not!” Leandra exclaimed gently. “They did never like me much, you know. I would not know what to do with them were they to suddenly arrive.”

  “Excuse me?” the secretary sputtered in confusion. “Surely your mama will wish to visit now that you are the wife of a duke?”

  “I’m sure my mama would, and she would be more than welcome, I’m sure, were she still alive.”

  “The Dowager Countess of Harwood has died as well?”

  The duchess laughed softly. For some inexplicable reason, she always enjoyed this part of meeting someone new. Perhaps she possessed a cruel streak, an odd desire to torture others with discomfort, the same discomfort she often felt, or was made to feel, when in the company of others.

  Confusion mixed with chagrin and a little disbelief on Martin’s mobile features.

  Leandra refused to feel shame for her parentage. Why should she? It was not her fault that her father had fallen in love with her mother after he was already married. He could have restrained his affection, not made love to a woman who was not his wife, thus fathering an illegitimate child, but it was hardly something Leandra could have prevented. Why should she herself be blamed?

  It was one reason the duke’s staff now boasted three maids heavy with child. Their lovers had fled, leaving them to fend for themselves. Mrs. Stark had always fired the girls when they fell from grace because it was the duke’s instructions to do so. It was the first thing in which Leandra had outright defied her husband. The girls’ troubles had hit a little too close to home for Leandra to be content with their immediate dismissal.

  Not that she had neglected to make it painfully clear that their conduct was unacceptable. They were warned that dismissal was the punishment for any servant indulging in loose conduct. But then, Leandra, unlike the majority of the aristocracy, encouraged marriage among her servants.

  Now she sat staring at Mr. St. Clair as he waited for an explanation that she knew he was not in the least suspecting. Or maybe he was. How was she to know?

  “No, the dowager Lady Harwood is still alive, sir. But she is not my mama.”

  Her eyes fairly bubbled with laughter when Martin’s pale brows all but disappeared into his hair. He goggled at her for all of thirty seconds before he recalled his manners. “Have you had any problems since your arrival?” he asked in a sudden change of subject.

  “It is all right, you know,” she told him gently. “I know that I am baseborn. Hart knows as well. It is nothing I can help and there is no reason to be embarrassed about it.”

  He nodded once, his face flaming.

  “I am sorry, Cousin Martin,” Leandra said sincerely, all traces of her smile disappearing. “I am a beast to tease you so.”

  “You mean you are not…?” he trailed off.

  “Oh, no, I am indeed Harwood’s by-blow, sir.” Leandra cocked her head to one side. “As to any problems I’ve had, they have been many and some quite serious, I’m afraid.”

  “In what way?” His relief was palpable but oddly mixed with concern for her troubles.

  “Well, Mr. Jackson told me that the lower fields are flooded and I honestly know not the first thing to do to solve such a problem. Mr. Owens claims that Mr. Spellman had been stealing his sheep and would not relent until I promised to purchase more for him. Poor Mr. Jeffries lost his wife and child recently in childbed because there is no doctor in Folkestone at the moment. I hired him to work on the gardens since the lonely man was beside himself with grief and he shows a particular talent for landscaping.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Hmm, Lily, the scullery made was replaced by Mary since Lily married Mr. Wilson. He wanted a wife, you see, and Lily was more than willing to take the position. Old Mr. Huber requested a new roof for his cottage and I granted the request. He really is too old to be working. Is there something we can do for him, do you think?”

  Martin just stared at her, his mouth hanging open. She shrugged and continued.

  “Mrs. Miller complained that her oldest boy was being worked to death in the factories outside Folkestone. Does Hart own them?” She shook her head. “No matter. So I transferred Billy here to be a groom. He earns more money that way and he is in less danger of getting hurt. He has to take care of his family, you know. His papa died leaving his mama with eight mouths to feed. I also hired the two oldest girls to train to be maids. That’s who Mary is, actually. The other is Martha. She works in the kitchens, too. And then there’s—”

  “Lady Derringer!”

  “Yes?” she asked innocently.

  Martin smiled. “Perhaps later we can go over the details. I have been instructed to find out if anyone has been giving you any trouble personally.”

  “Instructed? By whom?”

  His brows rose again. “By your husband, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. Did her husband actually care about her, after all?

  Over the course of the next week, Leandra spent most of her time with Martin St. Clair. She found the man charming and not the least disturbing. It was a relief to not have to constantly look for hidden meanings in his expressions or comments. He made her feel like a lady.

  She was amazed to realize that it was something she had always wanted. Despite her own personal conviction that she was not to blame for her parentage, she couldn’t help but wish that others would treat her with the same respect and courtesy that her papa and now Martin showed her. She had always desired to be treated as the lady she was raised to be.

  He took care of many of the things that she had no experience with but he was careful never to overstep his authority. He bowed to her wishes and was very tactful when letting her know that she was wrong about something.

  The Starks remained mum about the entire situation. Personally, they thought the master should come home and be a husband to the sweet girl he married instead of gallivanting off to God only knew where stirring up trouble and ignoring his responsibilities.

  7

  At that precise moment, the Duke of Derringer was not stirring up trouble, nor was he ignoring his responsibilities. He was sitting at a corner table in a seedy little hedge tavern in Dunkirk near the French coast. He watched the door closely while appearing to be captivated by the noxious brew in his mug. He wait
ed for the arrival of a man named Gaston who, it was said, had word of Derringer’s cousin Gabriel St. Clair.

  Gabriel, who was supposed to be dead.

  Derringer was determined to find his cousin, who’d disappeared at Waterloo. Gabriel was the only family member Derringer would trust with his life. He trusted Martin, Gabriel’s older brother, but Gabriel and Derringer were the same age and had shared much more in the way of adventures and such when they were young. Martin’s serious demeanor and overblown sense of propriety annoyed Derringer, though the man’s managerial skills were a godsend.

  A slight disruption at the tavern door caused several myopic eyes to glance up. Derringer caught sight of a man clothed in a raggedy old French military uniform, no doubt something that earned him many a drink out of pity. That had to be Gaston.

  The man turned in Derringer’s direction and approached. “Be you the one they call Sans cœur?” he asked in a guttural French accent.

  “I am Heartless,” Derringer confirmed in his own perfect French, revealing his aristocratic background. He motioned to the landlord, who brought fresh ale, leaving without a word.

  Gaston sat down across from the duke and threw him a grateful smile before draining his tankard. After swiping his dirty sleeve across his mouth, he spoke in his native tongue. “The man you seek is in Maubeuge. Do you know it?”

  Derringer nodded. “About eighty miles or so southeast of here.” He frowned, shaking his head. Maubeuge was so close to Waterloo. Was it possible Gabriel hadn’t ventured far from the scene of his injury?

  “Aye. Take care, Heartless. There are some French still wanting to overthrow the English and would look on the corpse of one such as you with great delight,” he warned right before he stood to leave.

  A sudden cry of rage rent the air and Derringer’s head jerked in the direction of the door. Gaston looked as well, blanched linen-white and muttered something about French devils and their English friends. Derringer straightened his slumped shoulders and stared at the brawl that seemed to be taking over the taproom. The circle parted briefly, allowing Derringer to see who stood at the edge of the melee, faces lit with savage delight as the combatants darkened each other’s daylights.