The butler paused before a mahogany door, its doorknob a highly polished brass. He knocked then entered. “Your Grace, Mr. Willox has arrived.”
“It’s about bloody time.” The duke’s voice boomed, and he turned around, his hands on his hips as he regarded Henry with the cool blue gaze of a man who had something on his mind.
“Your Grace.” Henry bowed, noticing the butler’s exit from the corner of his eye. The door clicked shut.
“I expected you earlier,” the duke commented, rather than extending a greeting.
“My sincerest apologies. I understood eleven a.m. was the proper time,” Henry replied kindly, not wanting nor needing to make the situation more tense.
“What time is it?” The duke ran his hand through his hair, the gesture making Henry pause, giving the man time to process whatever was spinning through his mind.
“Eleven, exactly, Your Grace.” Henry studied the duke.
“To hell with the time.” He flung his hand in the air then took a seat behind his wide desk. “Sit.”
Henry took on a relaxed manner, hoping to put the duke at ease as he slowly sat across from him.
The Duke of Clairmont paused, folding his hands and leaning across his desk, his blue eyes regarding Henry. “I don’t like this. But I see the merit of it. Let me make myself abundantly clear… Roberta Lamont is a bloody handful, but I love her like she’s my own daughter. She’ll be well enough at GreenFord Waters, but as you travel there, be sure that she is under your protection at all times. Am I understood?”
Henry nodded solemnly. “Upon my word, Your Grace.”
“Very well.” He twisted his lips as he reclined in his chair. “You should also be aware that she isn’t… quite what one would expect. In that is her charm but also her downfall.”
Henry tried to gather some meaning between the words but failed. “Of course, Your Grace,” he replied instead.
“Now, I’m sure that Miss Lamont is eager to begin the journey. I’ll see you in a month’s time.” The duke nodded once. “I sincerely hope you find no evidence in your quest, but Lord have mercy on the mole if you do. I’ve heard good things about you, Mr. Willox. Believe me, if there was anything untoward about your character, I’d be fully aware of it.” He shot an arched glare.
“Understood.” Henry met the duke’s stare unflinchingly. He had no doubt that the man had done his research.
“Off with you now.” The duke dismissed him, and Henry stood, giving a quick bow, and quit the room.
Striding down the long stretch of corridor to the foyer gave him adequate time to think, to prepare. He’d dealt with Napoleon’s spies in the bowels of London; he could deal with an innocent miss with an assumed penchant for fashion and gossip. He’d simply leave her to her own devices and pretend he was alone.
“I shall miss you.”
Henry paused, glancing toward the top of a grand staircase. The duchess was embracing another woman, neither caring about the certain wrinkle in their gowns they were creating by such close contact. Oddly, it surprised him to see such a display of affection and carelessness for fashion. In his experience with the ton, appearance was paramount — in dress and reputation.
“It won’t be long, and it will be grand to visit Bath once more. I’ll sketch the Crescent for you, and I’ll take a ride by Garden Gate—”
“Chaperoned, of course,” the duchess chimed in, releasing the other woman, yet he still couldn’t see her face, only the back of her coffee-colored hair cut shorter than was usual. It was unique, causing his eye to trace down her back to a trim waist.
Henry ducked his head and headed for the door; the last thing he needed was a distraction. He heard their voices echo slightly, but he didn’t give heed to their words, rather, nodded to the butler who was waiting in the hall.
“If you’ll follow me, sir, I have your livery.”
Henry sighed inwardly. He might not be a man of great means, but he was most certainly above a servant. Yet it was part of the job, and he wasn’t one to shrink away from duty.
“Of course.”
In short work, Henry had changed into the bright royal blue of the Duke of Clairmont’s staff and was heading to his carriage. He was about to take the first step down to the drive when he was shoved from behind. Trying to right his balance, he heard a feminine gasp followed by a decidedly unfeminine word.
He found his footing and turned, irritated at the assault.
“Forgive me. I… well, I tripped.” Soft brown eyes were apologetic as she gave him a wan smile. “Are you quite well?”
Henry tugged on his jacket, trying to divert himself from the way her gaze seared through him. It was by sheer force of will that he didn’t allow his eyes to flicker to her lips or take a step back to get a better view of the beauty before him. “Quite well,” he answered sharply, too sharply based on the way her arched brows furrowed.
“Ah, I see you’ve met Mr. Willox.” The duke’s voice broke through Henry’s concentration, and he welcomed the distraction.
“At your service, my lady.” Henry bowed, keeping his features schooled into polite indifference as he flickered his regard from the duke back to the woman.
“Miss Roberta Lamont. But you may call me Berty—”
“Berty, for the love of Mary, you cannot—” the duke began.
“If I must be around him during this… journey, I’ll not be forced to hear myself called Roberta or Miss Lamont the entire time. You’re fully aware of how much I detest my full name.” The woman turned to the duke, her hands on her hips, and a spark in her eye that made her even more beautiful.
“Of course, I’ll only be addressing you as Miss Lamont or my lady.” Henry nodded sagely, hoping to keep everything as formal as possible.
Formal was safe.
And he had immediately decided that she was anything but.
“That’s even worse. Call me Berty. I trust that using my Christian name won’t give you the impression that I’m allowing liberties.” She turned to the duke. “Will that do?”
The duke took a deep breath through his nose, his gaze one of frustration and resignation. “Maybe a month isn’t long enough,” he muttered.
“You’re going to miss me. Admit it.”
“No.”
“Because then it makes it more real. It’s quite all right. I know your heart.” Berty gave a pert smile to the duke then wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
Henry watched, curious as to how the Duke of Clairmont would respond. Certainly, he’d not return the embrace— Ah, he was wrong.
The duke pulled Berty in tight. “Damn, I hate it when you’re right.”
“Lucky for you it doesn’t happen often.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Now, let me go and have my adventure.” Berty released her tight hold on her guardian, and Henry pondered on how their relationship seemed more like that of father and daughter — better even.
“Take care of her,” the duke asserted to Henry, and Henry simply nodded, wondering to what he had just agreed.
Heaven only knew.
Hopefully, he’d have little to do with the whirlwind of beauty who was already passing him by and vaulting into the carriage while a footman struggled to assist, his task made impossible by her rapid pace.
The duke waved, a mournful smile on his face before meeting Henry’s gaze. “Good luck.” With that, he went back inside, passing the duchess as she walked out.
The duchess’ eyes were shiny with tears, and Henry walked away to ascend the additional conveyance.
As the door shut, he leaned against the plush seat, sighing. He pulled out his pocket watch. Eleven thirty.
It was going to be a long journey and an even longer month.
He could feel it.
And it had nothing to do with his assignment.
It had to do with the woman in the next carriage.
BERTY GAZED AT the view from the carriage. After two days of travel, she was growing
weary of the silence. Well, perhaps she’d grown weary of the silence the first hour of the journey. Even when they had stopped, Mr. Willox wasn’t much in the way of a conversationalist. The first night they had spent at the Hound’s Inn, she had invited him to dine with her, but he had refused. And when she had met him in the corridor later, he had barely bowed before disappearing down the passageway.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was avoiding her.
But why? He hadn’t any reason.
It was disappointing to say the least. She regarded him in her mind. Tall, broad, classically handsome with a Roman nose and dusty-blond hair. His gray eyes gave nothing away, as if they were made of stone — immovable and cold. But what bothered her was the lack of a smile.
Did the man ever laugh? Grin? Not frown? It was blasted exhausting being pensive all the time! Wasn’t it? Yet in the past two days, she’d never seen any shift in his emotional state; it was as if he was stoicism embodied.
How boring.
Surely there was something beneath the forced calm surface.
Berty grinned to herself. It would be delightful to find out! It was a mystery that brightened the whole outlook of the journey! Adventure, exploration, and mystery. It was getting better all the time!
As if on cue, the carriage took a fork in the road that was vastly familiar; it was the road that would take them to GreenFord Waters. How long had it been since she’d last visited? She thought back over the past few years and all the events within. The last time she could remember visiting was for the house party where Lord Graham had proposed to her older sister, Bethanny! Her face bloomed into a smile as she remembered the way he’d commandeered a parlor game of charades and acted out his proposal in front of God and everyone.
It had been simply magical.
And brave, since he’d risked the wrath of his best friend, the duke — who had expressly told him that Bethanny was off-limits.
Some risks were worth taking, and that one certainly qualified!
The carriage lurched slightly, and Berty watched as the large stone structure of the duke’s country seat rose above the hill. Thick, lush woods covered the hillsides and created a rich green backdrop for the imposing manor. As they approached, a fountain bubbled in the circular drive, and a sense of home washed over her like a spring rain.
Taking a deep breath, she hesitated till the carriage stopped, then she opened the door, waiting impatiently for a footman.
Mr. Willox alighted from his own conveyance and glanced about before focusing on her. His frown deepened as he appeared to search for another person to assist, and when he found none, he made his way over to her and offered his help.
“May I?”
Berty took his hand and descended the steps, almost falling when he released her abruptly.
She turned to him, narrowing her eyes, but he was already walking away. “Why even bother?” she muttered. Straightening her shoulders, Berty took in her view of the beloved Tudor-style stone manor, with its glorious arched entryway and overall imposing nature. It was an odd juxtaposition of strength and power coupled with the familiar comfort of a place well-loved and filled with fond memories. With a quickly returning smile, she climbed the stone steps rapidly as a footman opened the door for her.
Mrs. Pott, the housekeeper from the duke’s residence in London met Berty with a warm smile and a somewhat stiff curtsey. “Miss! So thankful you’ve arrived! I’ll have your things brought up to your room directly, and I’ll get you set with some tea and biscuits. You’re surely famished.”
Mrs. Pott fussed over her like a mother hen, and Berty basked in the warmth of her affection. Though a servant, Mrs. Pott was a treasured friend, akin to an old spinster aunt. Carlotta had divulged to her that upon hearing Berty was to visit GreenFord Waters, Mrs. Pott had all but insisted that she be the one to travel there first to organize the house. Of course, she’d gone about it in a fashion that made it seem as if the duke had come up with the idea all on his own, but that was the way of a servant who had been around since her charge was in leading strings. Mrs. Pott had departed a week before, and Berty was decidedly thankful for a familiar and kind face, especially when she had been forced to regard the stony expression of Mr. Willox for the past few days.
Englishmen were known for their lack of emotion, but he certainly took the charge far too seriously.
“Up to your room, miss! ‘Tis the same one you’re accustomed to using when in residence.” Mrs. Potts gave a stiff smile and all but waddled off toward the kitchen.
She grinned as she took a moment to watch Mrs. Pott’s departure. As the woman disappeared around the corner, Berty started toward the grandly curved staircase that boasted the most delightfully arched banister that she had often wished to ride down. It was a pity that every attempt ever made had been foiled, but such was life. Berty lifted her skirts gently as she took the polished stairs one at a time, a sharp contrast to the way she’d skipped several at once when a young child. Her gloved hand slid across the surface of the banister as she made her way to the top. As she took the last step, she paused at the balcony overlooking the foyer. Memories continued to flood her. Hadn’t she and her sister tried to duck below the rail and spy on the duke and Carlotta? How many countless times had they been caught running to the stairs in a mad dash from the nursery after their studies? With each breath, it seemed she was inhaling recollections from a more innocent time, and it filled her with a sense of peace.
A sensation that had long been eluding her.
She released her hold on the banister and started toward the long row of suites that housed the guests. Each door hid deliciously appointed rooms that were fit for the caliber of guest who should visit a duke. Her lips tilted in a smirk as she remembered the few times she and her sisters would use the rooms for hide and seek, only to be scolded severely by Carlotta when discovered.
Though it had never stopped them from doing it again a few days later.
Berty took a slight left and ascended another staircase, this one much shorter and usually closed off if guests were in residence, as it led to the nursery. The stairs ended on a landing where several doors waited. To her left was Carlotta’s old room — the governess’ appointment. It had been a door rarely shut since Carlotta had always been exceedingly affectionate and kind to them. Truly, she had been more of a doting elder sister than a governess. Beside Carlotta’s previous quarters was another door that led to a hall, which held her old room. Mrs. Pott’s had mentioned that she had set it up, and Berty was again thankful to stay in her familiar surroundings, rather than one of the more opulent rooms of the guests. If she were home, she wanted to have her own room!
She bypassed the nursery door and entered the one that led to her boudoir. The air was sweet and fresh. A window at the end of the hall was filtering sunlight, and a gentle breeze added to her delight. Sure enough, as she opened the door to her room, the familiar sights greeted her like old friends. Her pale green bedding was neatly made and accented by a several pillows, one of which she had embroidered herself. Rows of books lined the shelves beside the open window, and her vanity held several combs she had quite forgotten about! It was smaller than she remembered, as often things were when one revisited them from childhood, but it wasn’t any less dear.
A knock sounded at her door, and she spun. “Yes?”
“Miss.” A footman bowed gently followed by another as they brought in her trunks and set them to the side of her room.
“Good afternoon, miss! I’ll set about airing your dresses promptly.” A younger maid Berty hadn’t met before curtseyed smartly. At Berty’s nod, the maid quickly strode to her trunks and began working.
Her nostalgic moment lost, Berty quit her room and decided to see about the tea and biscuits promised by Mrs. Pott. She descended the two staircases much quicker than she had ascended them, a mistake recognized too late. As her feet took the last few steps, she had gained too much momentum, and she clung to the banister to regain her foo
ting, just before slipping down the last two stairs and falling on her backside.
“Drat,” she grumbled, her irritation cut short the by sound of heavy booted footsteps rounding the corner. As she followed the sound, her face heated with a blush as Mr. Willox’s gray eyes quickly ascertained her predicament, and without as much of a twitch in his lips, he offered her a hand.
“Thank you,” Berty responded, trying to maintain her last shred of decorum as she took his hand and stood.
He pulled her up quickly, all but lifting her from the floor in a surprising show of strength. She righted herself hastily, not wanting to further display her lack of grace, and he released his grasp and backed away a few steps.
Odd.
A bit of the hoyden within made her ask the question before she properly considered it. “Are you often wary of women?” She flickered a glance between him and the place he had just vacated.
“Quite often,” he replied dryly and with a slight bow, turned on his heel and walked away.
Berty breathed out a frustrated sigh and shook her head. Leave it to her guardian to find the dullest spy in all of London to accompany her.
She strode across the foyer and into the usual parlor where she and her sisters had often taken tea. The red furniture was still as vibrant as in all her memories, and she took a seat on the settee facing the window that overlooked the northeast of the property.
“Ah, just in time.” Mrs. Pott carried a tray loaded with biscuits and a tea service of floral painted china. “Still no sugar, Miss Berty?”
“No sugar, thank you.”
“I always said you were sweet enough without it,” Mrs. Pott added, winking softly before handing Berty a delicate teacup with steam swirling above.
“Thank you,” Berty replied. It wasn’t common for the betters to thank those who served, but Carlotta had taught them that gratitude was a ladylike quality. As one who had risen from the ranks of blue stockings, Carlotta didn’t look at the servants as beneath her station, and as such, were in rightful need of gratitude from all.
A Hoyden and an Heiress (Greenford Waters Book 4) Page 2