“Fidgeting,” Clara said. “When you were a boy you squirmed when faced with something that made you uncomfortable. You still do it. Explain to me why caring for her makes you so ill at ease.”
“I don’t care for—I mean, I do care for her. A lot. Some. As a friend. She—As a friend.”
“Do you love her, Marion?”
“No! I mean, no,” he said more quietly. “I just told you that she and I are friends. Really close friends, and nothing more.” He clenched his jaw, wondering if his tangled explanation made any more sense to his aunt than it did to him. Dammit, why couldn’t he understand, what it was he felt for Goldie?
At the tortured look in her nephew’s eyes, Clara almost laughed. “I see. The two of you are…really close friends. Then you shouldn’t have any objections to our moving in with you. You don’t have any, do you?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
Clara smiled lovingly. “No, I don’t imagine it would.”
* * *
“Ladies don’t have legs,” Lucille tried to explain.
Goldie stood in front of her bedroom mirror and lifted her dress. She looked at her legs, then cast a bewildered look at Rosie, who was watching the scene from the bed. “What do y’mean we don’t have legs?”
“Nor do ladies speak of them,” Clara added.
Goldie scowled and wrinkled her nose. “Is there somethin’ nasty about legs?”
“And we cover them with underwear,” Lucille said.
“We don’t, however,” Clara began, fingering her reticule, “speak about underwear either.”
Goldie’s frown deepened. “If we don’t have legs, how can we cover ’em with underwear?”
“An’ ’ow the ’ell can we walk without legs?” Rosie ventured, glancing at her own pair.
Lucille hid a smile from Clara, then twisted her bracelet.
“I won’t talk about underwear, though,” Goldie promised. “I don’t have any to talk about.”
Clara gasped. “Young lady, are you telling us that you wear nothing at all under your dress?”
Goldie felt embarrassed and wished Saber were with her. But ever since his aunts had arrived a week ago, they’d been intent on keeping her separated from him. “I—Can we call Saber up here, please? Just for a few minutes?”
“Into your bedroom?” Clara asked. “Certainly not!”
Goldie cast her gaze downward. “I’d wear underwear if I had any, but I’ve never had enough money to get any.”
“Oh, you poor, dear child,” Lucille clucked. “You may be sure that Clara and I will see to the matter straightaway.”
“I ain’t got none neither,” Rosie chimed in hopefully.
Clara sighed, sat in a high-backed chair, and folded her hands in her lap. “And when a lady sits, she does not swing her feet as you have the habit of doing.”
“When she enters the room, she will choose the straightest chair in it,” Lucille elaborated. “She lowers herself into it slowly and gracefully. She does not sprawl in it, but keeps her back stiff, her shoulders back. She never crosses her legs. Her feet are together and flat on the floor.”
“But you said we didn’t have legs,” Goldie pointed out, baffled. “If we don’t have legs, we don’t have feet, either, right? Besides that, when I’m sittin’ in a chair, my feet don’t reach the floor.”
“Maybe ya could jest sit right on the floor, Goldie,” Rosie suggested. “Then yer feet could be flat on it.”
Clara looked at the urchin and felt tender pity. Addison, having gotten permission from Saber, had given Goldie’s address to the trustworthy girl, and now Rosie visited on a regular basis. She was company for Goldie, and every time she came, she brought along some small gift for Clara and Lucille. A bunch of wilted flowers, a package of needles, a few rolls...whatever she’d been able to procure. Clara could not find the heart to disapprove of her. Rosie, though hard on the outside, was a kind and gentle person inside, and that made all the difference to Clara.
She gave Rosie a benevolent smile, then turned back to Goldie. “And barnyard activities are not suitable for conversation,” she continued. “Modesty is the word to remember, Goldie. Remember that, and all else will fall into place.”
“Modesty,” Goldie repeated, deliberating on the exact meaning of the word. “Before I met Saber I was modest as modest can be. So modest that I was ashamed of my own body. But Saber—”
“There is no need to explain further,” Clara interrupted, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Lucille and I understand your meaning. But in the future, Goldie, please do not discuss your body. Most especially with Saber,” she added, her brow rising.
Goldie felt very confused. Not only didn’t she have legs, she didn’t have the rest of her body either. Needing something of Saber near her for reassurance, she picked up her gold brush from the dressing table, holding it to her breast. “He gave this to me. He’s given me a lot.”
Lucille smiled at the luminous expression in Goldie’s eyes. “What else, besides the brush, has he given you, my dear?”
Goldie looked at both women. “His company. He makes me feel so special. When I’m with him, he treats me so nice. He hardly ever gets mad at me, but even when he does, it’s always for a good reason. And he never stays mad for long. ‘Course now I get mad at him too. I’m not afraid of him anymore, y’see. When I first met him, I didn’t know how to act with him. But as time went on, he made me feel more comfortable. Now I can get madder’n hell at him, and I’m not afraid of what he’ll do to me.”
“Goldie, ladies do not swear,” Clara scolded. “But tell me, child. You don’t fear his anger at all?” she asked, remembering the many people who did.
“Nope. Not anymore. Saber tries to act like a tornado, but he’s really nothin’ but a breeze. And he’s a lot of fun too. At least he is when he’s not in one of his arrogant moods.”
“Fun?” Clara asked anxiously. “How is he fun?” She leaned forward in her chair.
“Well, he likes to play in the mud. He’d never admit it in a million years, but the day we had our mud fight he was havin’ a good time. And he likes to cook. I mean to tell you he can make good bread. If you don’t believe me, just ask him. He’ll talk about his bread for hours if you let him. And sometimes he likes to talk about the things he did when he was a little boy. Things like makin’ dandelion stew and sleepin’ with his mama and daddy when it was thunderin’. But most of all, I reckon, he likes to laugh. I do too. That’s why we get along. I’ll swannee, we’re always laughin’ over somethin’.”
“He spoke of his parents to you?” Clara asked, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“And his childhood?” Lucille asked.
“He played in the mud?” Clara queried, her hand over her heart.
“And made bread?” Lucille inquired, twisting her bracelet.
“And he laughs with you?” Clara continued. “My!”
“It seems that you and our boy have gotten along famously,” Lucille speculated.
Clara stared at Goldie, a multitude of thoughts running through her shrewd mind. She smiled. “Goldie, my dear, Addison has told us about your need to turn Saber into a duke. I wonder if you would like our assistance with that?”
“Do y’all know duke stuff?” Goldie asked anxiously.
“We know good manners,” Lucille informed her, realizing what her sister was up to. “Manners befitting a duke. Ever since we came into Addison’s care, we have had the good fortune to become acquainted with many elegant people. Our contact with them has taught us the proper mode of decorum.”
Clara smiled at her sister’s tales, deciding to elaborate on them. “Once, we even dined with the third cousin of the Duke of Brentford! And what a lovely woman she is.”
“Great day Miss Agnes!”
“So would you like for us to teach you what we know, Goldie?” Lucille asked.
“Yes!” Goldie squealed.
“Lesson number one,” Clara said, “is never squeal.”
“Not even when I’m real excited?”
“When you are excited,” Lucille began, “you may laugh with quiet delight.”
While Goldie and Rosie practiced laughing with quiet delight, Clara rose, examining Goldie with a critical eye. It would take a lot of work, she realized. Many long, grueling hours of lessons. But it could be done, Clara decided, and was determined to do it. After all, the girl who could get Marion Tremayne to play in mud, bake bread, laugh, and speak of his parents was worth all the effort it would take.
And so, Clara mused, while Goldie turned Marion into a “duke,” Clara and Lucille would turn Goldie into a lady.
* * *
From the bedroom window at Ravenhurst, Dane looked out over the estate, his gaze settling on the moonlit village. He could see the thatched roofs of the cottages, but could not make out the Maes’. “Everything is going wrong,” he seethed.
Still glaring at the night-shrouded Hallensham, he thought of Big. The dwarf had returned. How was it possible? Dane raged. And the girl...was she dead?
Dora crept out of bed and sidled up next to him, pressing her bare breasts against his back. “Let me make it right fer ya, milord. Ye knows I can do it. Close yer eyes, an’ I’ll be yer Lady Hutchins.”
Dane spun and glared at her. “I will not close my eyes! You don’t understand! The dwarf’s back, and the girl isn’t! It could be that she actually found him, and now they’re after me! It’s possible I might lose everything that’s mine!”
With that, Dane raced downstairs. Once in the drawing room, he proceeded to light every candle in it. He grabbed a bottle of brandy, pacing while he drank. “Something must be done,” he told himself. “Yes, something...”
He passed the piano and set his brandy bottle down on it. Seating himself upon the velvet-covered piano seat, he smoothed his hair, then began to play a strain from a Beethoven concerto. “Remember when you showed me how to play this, my love?” he asked, his eyes closing as his mind filled with memories. “You didn’t want to teach me. Why not? I had to make you. But weren’t you proud of me when I learned to play your favorite melody?”
His fingers stilled upon the keys. “You did so many things wrong, my love. But I forgave you.”
Softly, he began the concerto again, stopping at a certain section and playing it over and over. “William! You know nothing of what has happened, and you’ll be arriving from Cornwall soon! You’ll come here, and they might catch you, too! Maybe they’re already on their way!”
Now he was banging on the keys, seized by hysteria, his chest heaving as he gulped in ragged breaths. “Oh, William, my friend, I can’t let them catch us! I have to protect you so that you, in turn, can guard what’s rightfully mine! I’ll speak to Ferris. He hasn’t killed the girl. I know he hasn’t. I must go to London and do it myself. The girl. Goldie. Bitch! Try and outwit me, will you? Yes, yes, you must die!”
He jumped from the seat, his fists pumping. “Dora!”
Within moments Dora came scurrying into the room.
Dane closed his eyes. Taking her into his arms, he grew strangely calm and contained. “I am leaving for a while, my dear. I have some vitally important business to attend to. But if the villagers know I am gone, they will become lazy. Without me here to oversee them, they simply will not work. My dear, tomorrow I would like you to inform all of Hallensham that I have taken ill. Tell them I am in my bed, but that I will be recovering shortly. Will you do that for me, Lady Hutchins?”
Dora purred and removed her wrapper. “I will milord,” she promised, rubbing herself against him.
“And when I return from my trip, my dear, we will have our house redecorated.”
“Oh, milord! Can we have our bedroom done in crimson an’ white? Ya knows I always wanted it ter be like that.”
Dane kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the woman’s image in his mind. “You’ve changed your decision then? I was under the impression you wanted it done in green and gold. Well, no matter. You are lady of the manor and may choose whatever your heart desires. I have also decided to open the closed bedrooms. All of them will be cleaned and refurbished. It only seems wise to get them ready for our children. I want children. I want an heir.”
Dora nearly fainted with pleasure. “I’ll give ya as many as ya can fill me with, milord.”
“Yes,” Dane whispered, lowering her to the floor and parting his robe. “And we will start now. Here. Tonight, I will do you the extreme honor of giving you my son.”
He pushed into her, burying himself deeply. “I love you, my dear,” he grunted into her ear. “I will always love you, my beautiful Angelica.”
* * *
Diggory took another bite of the potato impaled on his dagger. “Yer not tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t knows, Og. Three people ’ave already tole me they’ve seed a girl wot looked like ’er. She was in a coach a while back. Sleepin’ on the seat, she was. Some bleedin’ nob was with ’er.”
Og shuffled his feet on the filthy floor of Diggory’s room, shivering with cold fear. “But I knows where she lives, Diggory,” he repeated.
Diggory swallowed his potato. “Wot about the blastie she’s supposed ter be with?”
Og bit his lower lip. “I ain’t never seed the midget.”
Diggory wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Tell me again. Everything from beginnin’ to end.”
Og nodded. “I seed ’er with Rosie Tetter. She was little, jest like ya said she’d be. She ’ad yellow ’air, an’ she talked strange, like she weren’t from ’ere. Rosie made it all real easy, Diggory. ’Er an’ the girl must be friends. See, I followed Rosie t’other day, an’ she went to a big ’ouse wot’s on the corner o’ Pickerin’ an’ Landon. She walked up the steps jest as calm as ya please. When she knocked, the blonde chit opened a upstairs window, ’anged out of it, an’ was wavin’ ter Rosie. Then Rosie was let inside the ’ouse, she was. It was ’er, Diggory. The girl ya’ve been lookin’ fer. I can takes ya ter where she is.”
Diggory pulled his knife from the potato, wiping it on his filthy breeches. “Why should I do the job when ya can friggin’ do it fer me, Og? It’s a simple job, it is. Do it, an’ bring me ’er body. An’ if ya find the blastie, I want ’im too.”
Og could barely contain his glee. “An’ will ya pay me, Diggory?”
Diggory smiled and ran a finger across the flat side of his dagger. “I’ll pay ya, Og. Ye’ll get exactly wot ya deserve.”
* * *
Saber leaned back against the carriage seat. Though he and Goldie were riding through an elegant part of London, he felt they were safe enough within the closed compartment of the rented coach.
He looked at Goldie, who sat across from him, and tried to remember the last time they’d shared anything remotely related to intimacy. What with the aunties always hovering about, private moments with her were few and far between.
But they were alone now, weren’t they? he reminded himself with a grin. Devising a scheme of seduction, he watched Goldie pat her hair. His eyes narrowed at the sight. “Why do you have your hair like that?” he demanded suddenly.
She turned her face from the window, touching the knot of hair at the nape of her neck again. “It’s called a chignon. You don’t like it?”
“No. I like your curls bobbing all over your head.”
“But this is a proper way for a lady to wear her hair.”
“Who told you that?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.
“Your aunts. They’re teachin’ me stuff about customs and manners. Rosie’s learnin’ too.” She leaned against the window.
“Goldie, don’t press so hard against the window,” Saber admonished. “I realize you don’t want to miss a single detail about the dukish people out there, but if you continue pushing on the glass like that, it’s going to break, and you’re going to fall out into the street.”
“But look at that one, Saber!” she cried, pointing out the window of the carriage as it rolled down the well-kept
street. “Saber, he’s got a pocket watch almost as big as a dinner plate! Great day Miss Agnes, where can we get one of those for you?”
“More importantly, where will we get the money to pay for it?” he teased. Taking great care not to let himself be seen, he leaned over Itchie Bon and got a glimpse of the man Goldie saw. It was Lord Wildon, the Earl of Drakethorne. “Yes, he certainly looks like a dukish man to me,” he agreed, noting Percival Wildon’s imperious swagger. How strange, he mused. He’d been with Percival on various occasions, but had never noticed the man’s overconfident gait. “You’ve never seen me walk like that, have you, Goldie?” he asked uneasily.
“No, you walk normal. Too normal for a duke. I haven’t seen you do the wiggle walk since we left Leighwood. You do hold your chin up like that man does though. And that’s good. It’s a real haughty thing to do. Real dukish, Saber.”
Saber took another look at Percival Wildon. The man’s nose was so high in the air, it nearly pointed to the sky. It irritated Saber to be compared to him, and he made a mental note to keep a firm grip on his own chin.
“There’s another one!” Goldie exclaimed. “I’ll swannee, look at his vest! It’s got pink and purple flowers sewed on it! He looks like a walkin’ garden!”
Saber strained to see the man. It was Lord Ivers, Earl of Wyeth. Geoffrey Ivers, Saber reflected, looked just as vain as Percival Wildon. “That is not a vest. It is called a waistcoat.”
“You wouldn’t ever wear a waistcoat like that one, would you, Saber? I mean, ‘course y’would to be Duke Marion, but in real life would you?”
He remembered he had several elaborately embroidered waistcoats. True, he rarely wore them, but he had chosen to buy them. He’d thought them nice then, but now... “No,” he announced. “I wouldn’t wear anything like that.” Sitting back into his seat, he made a vow to give his colorful waistcoats to charity.
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